On Teachers’ Day, I Wrote to My Therapist Instead

Devika Majumdar

Sep 01 2025

<div class='bc_element' id='bc_element1' style='width:auto;padding:5px;max-height:100%;'><h2 data-start="106" data-end="140">A Different Kind of Teacher</h2> Teachers’ Day, September 5th. The day our timelines fill with gratitude posts and old photos — sepia-toned memories of blackboards, chalk dust, and that one teacher who changed everything. But this year, I didn’t write to any of them. I wrote to my therapist. Not because my teachers didn’t matter — many of them did. But because my therapist taught me the things no teacher dared to. She didn’t hand me a syllabus or grade my performance. She gave me something else: permission. Permission to unlearn. <h2 data-start="655" data-end="707">We Were Taught, But Not Always What We Needed</h2> Growing up in the Indian diaspora, we learned many things with precision — the periodic table, the Pythagorean theorem, the exact sequence of steps to follow at Diwali puja. But we weren’t taught how to sit with sadness. We weren’t taught how to say “no” without guilt. We weren’t taught how to be angry without being “ungrateful.” We weren’t taught to forgive ourselves for failing. In classrooms, we were model students. At home, we were “good kids.”But inside, we were exhausted actors — fluent in compliance, strangers to authenticity. <h2 data-start="1268" data-end="1321">Therapy as the Rebellion of Learning Backwards</h2> When I first sat in therapy, I expected a fix. I thought it would be like tuition. I’d come in with a “problem,” and leave with “solutions.” I imagined worksheets. Diagrams. Homework. Instead, I got silence. And slowly, I learned that therapy is not about fixing what’s broken. It’s about understanding what was wired into us too early, too deeply — and asking if we still want to live that way. My therapist became the teacher I never knew I needed. She didn’t correct me when I spoke. She didn’t praise or punish. She just listened.And that alone was radical. <h2 data-start="1897" data-end="1937">Unlearning the Curriculum of Pain</h2> In school, we were rewarded for endurance. For swallowing discomfort. For never complaining. We learned:<ul data-start="2045" data-end="2224"><li data-start="2045" data-end="2071">-You don’t cry in public.</li><li data-start="2072" data-end="2106">-You don’t question your parents.</li><li data-start="2107" data-end="2174">-You don’t talk about depression, or panic, or intrusive thoughts.</li><li data-start="2175" data-end="2224">-You definitely don’t say “I think I need help.”</li></ul>But in therapy, I was given a new textbook — one where vulnerability was not weakness, but wisdom. Where “I don’t know” was a valid answer.Where healing wasn’t linear, and that was okay. I was unlearning everything I had been praised for — stoicism, obedience, self-sacrifice — and realizing that these weren’t virtues. They were symptoms of survival. <h2 data-start="2589" data-end="2627">When Healing Becomes a Pedagogy</h2> My therapist never claimed to “know better.” She didn’t hand me advice. Instead, she asked questions no teacher ever did: “Who taught you that you’re only worthy when you succeed?” “What would happen if you let yourself rest?” “Do you even like the life you’re working so hard to maintain?” It was uncomfortable. Sometimes, painful. But it was also liberating. For the first time, someone was helping me rewrite the script I’d been following all my life — the one that said love must be earned, silence is safer, and burnout is the price of belonging. <h2 data-start="3197" data-end="3246">Not All Teachers Stand in Front of a Board</h2> This is not a dismissal of educators. Many changed my life. But this Teachers’ Day, I’m expanding the definition. A teacher is anyone who helps you see the world — and yourself — more clearly. It could be:<ul data-start="3456" data-end="3745"><li data-start="3456" data-end="3511">-The uncle who told you that failure is not shameful</li><li data-start="3512" data-end="3575">-The auntie who shared her story of leaving a toxic marriage</li><li data-start="3576" data-end="3649">-The stranger in a Reddit thread who gave you language for your trauma</li><li data-start="3650" data-end="3698">-The partner who held you when you broke down</li><li data-start="3699" data-end="3745">-The therapist who guided you through the fog</li></ul>And yes, it could be you — when you learn to parent yourself better than anyone else ever did. <h2 data-start="3848" data-end="3898">A Letter I Didn’t Post, But Needed to Write</h2> I didn’t send my therapist the letter. I didn’t need to. It was enough to write it. To acknowledge that the most powerful lessons of my adult life came not from institutions, but from intimacy. From quiet rooms. From long pauses. From someone saying, “That makes sense,” and meaning it. So if you’re reading this and therapy has taught you more than school ever did — this Teachers’ Day, light a candle. Not just for the gurus and guides. But for the healers. For those who taught us how to live when living itself felt too hard.</div>

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