For a long time, being a psychotherapist was not just my job—it was my identity. It shaped the way I saw people, how I moved through the world, and how I understood myself. But after years of giving so much of myself to the work, I made the painful, complicated, and ultimately necessary decision to step away from clinical practice. This wasn’t a spontaneous burnout or a midlife detour. It was a slow unraveling. A quiet realization that the system I had worked so hard to function within was no longer sustainable for my health, my spirit, or my future.

Here’s why I stopped.

1. 

Burnout That Ran Deep

Burnout in this profession is almost a given, and yet no one really talks about how chronic and consuming it can be. Therapy is intimate, emotional labor. It’s not just about listening; it’s about holding. Holding pain, holding hope, holding silence, holding complexity. And often, holding it all alone. Week after week, I found myself sitting with people’s trauma, fear, grief, and rage—and no space to release my own.

Burnout wasn’t just exhaustion. It was a depletion of meaning. A quiet resentment toward a job I once loved. I began dreading sessions. I stopped looking forward to client breakthroughs. I felt numb, then guilty for feeling numb. That’s when I knew I couldn’t keep going.

2. 

The Invisible Work and Lack of Appreciation

Therapists are often the quiet lifeline for others. But who holds the therapist? Much of our work happens behind the scenes—writing notes, coordinating care, dealing with crises, responding to emails at 9:00 p.m.—and none of that is ever seen, much less appreciated. Clients, colleagues, and even systems expect our availability, our compassion, our neutrality.

But rarely do they ask how we are.

There is a fundamental invisibility to being a therapist. We’re expected to be steady, selfless, and always okay. Over time, that invisibility turned into a painful erasure of my own needs, boundaries, and humanity. I gave and gave until there was nothing left.

3. 

Insurance: A System That Undermines Care

Working with insurance companies was one of the most demoralizing parts of being in private practice. The endless paperwork. The denials. The clawbacks. The arbitrary limitations on care. The way a faceless system got to determine how long someone “should” be in therapy.

I often had to fight to get clients the care they needed. And when I did get paid, it was often months late—or not at all. I spent hours on hold, chasing payments for sessions I had already given my energy to. It became clear: insurance companies were not built for healing. They were built for profit. And therapists were disposable within that system.

4. 

The Financial Reality No One Talks About

Therapy is often assumed to be a “safe” career, but the financial reality tells a different story. Even in private practice, especially when taking insurance, the pay is inconsistent and often inadequate. After rent, licensing fees, liability insurance, continuing education, and taxes, what was left over often didn’t reflect the value—or difficulty—of the work.

We are trained extensively. We hold advanced degrees. We manage life-threatening crises. Yet we are often paid less than the people referring clients to us. I found myself questioning how I was supposed to support others when I was constantly stressed about supporting myself.

5. 

The Emotional Labor of Demanding Clients

I’ve worked with beautiful, insightful, resilient people. But I’ve also worked with clients who pushed every limit I had. Therapy is a unique relationship—boundaried, one-sided, and emotionally intimate. It attracts people who are hurting, yes, but also sometimes those who are manipulative, aggressive, or entitled. We are taught to remain “neutral,” but neutrality doesn’t erase the emotional toll of working with someone who drains you.

There were days I left my office shaking, crying in the car, feeling like I’d failed. Like no matter how much I gave, it would never be enough. The emotional labor became too much to carry without enough support, compensation, or recognition.

What Now?

I still believe in therapy. I still believe in the courage it takes to sit in a room and be vulnerable. But I no longer believe that being a therapist has to mean sacrificing yourself. I stepped away to preserve what was left of my own wellbeing. To listen to the quiet voice inside me that whispered, you don’t have to live like this anymore.

I don’t know what the future holds. Maybe I’ll return in another form—consulting, writing, teaching, or just showing up for people in smaller, quieter ways. But I do know this: choosing to step away was an act of reclaiming my life. And I hope that, by sharing this, another therapist out there feels less alone if they’re considering the same.

Because we deserve to be well, too.