“My therapist was saying,” is a phrase that just rolls off of my tongue nowadays. It used to feel like taking a tampon out of your purse at the dinner table before excusing yourself to the restroom. Everyone knows it’s a thing you may need at some point, but people don’t really want to know when or why you need it. The response to my openness as a southern black woman who regularly sees a therapist was once met with rapid blinks of surprise, and sips from drinks as the person looked away. However, as of late people in my circle are more interested in my experience seeing a therapist, because they want to see one themselves, but don’t know what to expect.