How Do You Know If Therapy Is Working? (Even When It Doesn’t Feel Like It Is)
Somewhere between Session 3 and Session 8, a very specific thought tends to appear:
“Is this even helping?”
“Shouldn’t I feel better by now?”
“Why do I feel worse?”
Let me say this clearly.
Therapy is not a straight line.
It is not a painkiller.
It is closer to physiotherapy for an old injury you forgot you were compensating for.
You have been walking with a subtle limp for years.
You adjusted.
You coped.
You functioned.
Now someone is gently saying, “Let’s look at that.”
And when you start using muscles you’ve ignored for a decade, they ache.
That ache does not mean it’s failing.
It means you’re engaging something that has been offline.
So how do you know therapy is working?
You react differently.
Not dramatically.
Subtly.
You pause instead of snapping.
You breathe before replying.
You say no — even though your stomach flips when you do.
That pause is regulation.
Regulation is change.
You feel more.
This one confuses people.
You might cry more.
Or notice anger where you used to feel numb.
Or suddenly realise how tired you’ve been.
Feeling more is not regression.
It is thawing.
If you have been bracing for years, softness can feel destabilising at first.
That does not mean it’s wrong.
It means your nervous system is expanding its range.
You start catching your patterns in real time.
You notice the over-apology.
The urge to fix.
The instinct to disappear.
The moment you abandon your boundary.
And instead of unconsciously repeating it, you think:
“Oh. I’m doing it again.”
That awareness is not small.
You cannot shift what you cannot see.
Your relationships change.
This is often the most confronting part.
As you become more honest, some relationships deepen.
Others become uncomfortable.
When you stop people pleasing, not everyone applauds.
But therapy is not about becoming easier to handle.
It is about becoming more aligned.
And yes.
Some weeks therapy feels expansive.
Other weeks it feels messy.
You talk about your dog.
You cry about something that seems insignificant.
You leave unsure what just happened.
All of that can still be movement.
You are allowed to ask your therapist,
“Is this normal?”
You are allowed to feel impatient.
You are allowed to want progress.
But if you notice even small shifts —
more breath,
more honesty,
less automatic reaction,
more steadiness —
then something is changing.
Healing is rarely cinematic.
It is often quiet.
It is in the pause before the reaction.
In the boundary you hold.
In the night you sleep slightly better.
You are not doing therapy wrong.
You are building capacity.
And capacity takes repetition.