My first experience in therapy as a young child wasn’t what you might picture today. Therapy in the ’80s was a different world, shaped by the shadow of the McMartin Preschool scandal and the grip of the Satanic Panic. These fears changed the way therapists approached abuse, casting a skeptical eye toward children’s voices and overlooking the realities many of us faced. I was sent to talk about the abuse I endured from my uncle, but instead of feeling understood, I was met with confusion and a repetitive, detached line of questioning that missed the heart of what I was going through.

The therapist kept pressing, asking me over and over what I thought I might have done “wrong” to deserve the abuse. It was like they assumed I blamed myself or that I believed I had somehow caused it. But I didn’t. Even as a kid, I knew what was happening was wrong. I didn’t need to convince myself not to feel guilty; I needed someone to see what was happening and help me find a way through it. Instead, I sat there, answering the same questions, with the therapist telling me not to blame myself. It was as though they were trying to force guilt or shame on me that I never had.

All the while, I lived under my stepfather’s rule, a man who used a belt to maintain control and fear in the house. He set the tone of power and intimidation that permeated everything. I wasn’t given a safe space to be a child, and the therapist I met couldn’t see beyond the standard script. Their failure to listen left me feeling even more isolated, yet another person I couldn’t trust to know the truth of my life.

Looking back, being so young and misunderstood in a space that was supposed to help is strange. It’s taken years to find a way to heal and find my own voice in a world that’s been quick to silence it. But I’m grateful that therapy has changed since those years, becoming a place where being heard and understood is more than just a hope. For so many, that progress makes all the difference.