She was a sales manager. Ordinary. The kind you don’t notice — not in the office, not on the subway, not even at parent-teacher meetings. Early forties. Short dark hair. A calm gaze. A tired smile by 9 a.m. Married. Child in preschool. Life — like so many others: office, reports, family duties, Friday exhaustion. Nothing remarkable. And perhaps that was her greatest talent — invisibility. Until she decided to step into the light.
Then — everything changed. She enrolled in a distance-learning program. Became a “therapist.”
These days, people throw that word around like confetti at a corporate party.
“I’m a therapist.”
“I’ll help you heal your trauma.”
“You’re a victim of manipulation.”
“You need to close your gestalt.”
Instantly. Based on three words in a DM. No diagnosis. No history. No silence — just bright labels and ready-made answers. As if the human psyche were a crossword puzzle, not a labyrinth.
Some, of course, actually know what they’re doing. They’re rare. But they exist. They don’t shout about themselves in Instagram Stories. They don’t promise healing in three sessions. They listen. They stay quiet when it matters. They don’t push. They don’t “rescue.” They simply — guide. Their work isn’t about power. It’s about trust. Patience. Helping someone find their own way out — not because they were told to, but because they felt: “I can.”
But then… there are others.
I worked with one of them for four years. Let’s call her I. Over time, I learned to predict: when she’d switch into “I’m always right” mode, when she’d start applying pressure, when she’d turn a discussion into a hunt. Especially when it came to men, women, relationships, “who’s to blame.” Disagree? Her eyes would narrow. Her voice — soften. Her arguments — sharpen. She didn’t want to understand. She wanted to win. And the longer the argument lasted, the more she resembled a predator — not just eager to win, but determined to make you feel your defeat. To break yourself into pieces. Apologize. Agree. Disappear.
Now, I. is a “therapist.” And she’s bringing her “wisdom” to those who need it most — the ones who’ve lost their footing. Who don’t believe in themselves. Who came for help… not judgment.
Imagine: you walk in carrying pain. Anxiety. That nagging feeling that “something’s wrong.” And she meets you with calm certainty: “You’re a victim. You’ve been used your whole life. You need to cut all ties. And start with me.” No silence. No space. Just a ready-made script — and you, cast as the protagonist being rescued. From whom? Yourself? The world? Your past?
This isn’t therapy. It’s a transfer of power. From the vulnerable — to the self-proclaimed “all-knowing.” And the scariest part? It works. Because a hurting person doesn’t crave truth. They crave a savior. And if no real professional is nearby, they’ll take the one who shouts loudest: “I know how you should live!”
We learn in school. Then university. Then — life. Real psychology should teach us: to think for ourselves. To make decisions. To not fear pain. To stop hiding behind borrowed diagnoses. But instead — we often seek out those who say: “It’s not your fault. It’s everyone else.” And that feels so comfortable. So warm. So… dangerous.
Because real help isn’t about “I know how you should live.”
It’s about: “I’m here. You’re not alone. Let’s figure this out — together.”
It’s slow. Unsensational. Doesn’t fit in an Instagram Story.
But it works.
So who are these new “therapists”?
Saviors?
Judges?
Or just people who found a way to turn someone else’s pain into their own source of significance?