I’ve been in this field long enough to know that therapy isn’t always calm conversations and gentle breakthroughs. Early in my career I experienced things like chairs, urine, shoes, and hot coffee being thrown at me. I can’t even begin to explain all the verbal insults I received as a young clinician or explain the homes I would see clients in while working in the community BUT I never expected that one day, my own therapy office—the space I worked so hard to make safe for my clients—would become the scene of an assault.

It happened in the middle of a session. No warning. No buildup. Just sudden violence. The details don’t need to be replayed, but I’ll tell you this: I was hurt, I was shaken, and in that moment, the walls I had built between my work life and my personal life collapsed.

She was arrested. I thought that meant there would be justice. But after more than a year in a state mental institution, the court ruled her incompetent to stand trial due to mental illness. The case was closed. No conviction. No real closure.

I tried to move on. I told myself this is the cost of working in mental health. But then, recently, she came back into my life in the most gut-wrenching way possible—by trying to sue me and have my license revoked.

Read that again. The person who attacked me—who was never held accountable—was now painting herself as my victim.

When the complaint came in, my body reacted before my brain did. My heart raced. My hands shook. I could smell the same scent in the air that day in my office. Trauma doesn’t care if it’s been years—it’s still in the room with you.

The licensing board eventually dismissed the complaint. The lawsuit went nowhere. But that didn’t undo the damage. The process forced me to defend myself against someone who had already stolen my sense of safety.

This is the part most people don’t understand about being a therapist:

We are trained to hold space for other people’s pain, but no one teaches us what to do when their pain turns into violence. No one prepares us for the secondary wounds that come later—legal threats, false accusations, professional investigations that leave you feeling like a criminal for surviving.

Lessons Learned

1. The System Won’t Always Protect You
   I believed the legal process would bring closure. It didn’t. The person who hurt me walked free—not because she was innocent, but because she was deemed incapable of standing trial. The system didn’t hold her accountable, but it still allowed her to target me later.
2. Trauma Has a Long Memory
   Even after I thought I’d moved on, the legal complaint brought everything back. The body remembers, whether you want it to or not.
3. Boundaries Are More Than a Professional Tool—They’re Survival
   In private practice, the responsibility for safety—physical, emotional, and legal—falls almost entirely on you. You are the building, the staff, the security, and the liability. When something happens, you face it alone.
4. This Was My Breaking Point
   I’d been feeling burned out for years—by insurance battles, isolation, and the constant emotional demands of the work. This incident wasn’t the only reason I left private practice, but it was the final push. The moment I realized the risk wasn’t worth the reward anymore.
5. Choosing Yourself Isn’t Quitting
   Leaving private practice wasn’t giving up. It was refusing to sacrifice my safety, sanity, and livelihood for a profession that too often leaves its providers unprotected.

I still believe in the work. I still believe in people’s ability to heal. But now I believe in protecting myself, too.

Sometimes the bravest thing a therapist can do isn’t staying—it’s walking away.