On Grieving the Loss of the Therapist Who Helped Me Heal
April 19th will mark one year since my therapist, Linda, passed away.
I first connected with Linda after finding her profile on Psychology Today in October 2020. Though I’d considered therapy before, it felt easier to ask for help under the veil of pandemic stress.
When Linda asked about my life, I told her the usual plot points with a mostly cheerful attitude—acknowledging the hard stuff but brushing past it quickly, inserting bits of humor that usually earned a smirk or a laugh.
But Linda didn’t laugh. Instead, she asked, “Why do you smile when you talk about such painful things?”
I froze. My smile dropped. It felt like she had broken the fourth wall. Like I’d been found out without even realizing I’d been hiding. I was terrified—my script had been ripped out of my hands, and suddenly I was onstage alone, every light on me. What now?
But also, I was relieved. I felt seen. And even though it was uncomfortable, I knew she was on the right path. I was in good hands.
We worked together on and off for the next three years. Though I’m not sure she would have identified as a relational therapist, I never had to guess what she was thinking. Linda didn’t beat around the bush. If she had a question, she asked it. If she had an opinion, she shared it. She openly identified as a feminist, a supporter of creative Judaism, and progressive politics. That gave me permission to bring those parts of myself into the room, too.
Without saying the words, she made it clear I could feel everything, on no timeline but my own. A typical session often included some tears and a bellyache from laughing. With Linda, I learned to drop the script—what I thought others expected of me, what I expected of myself. And in return, I let myself feel the full impact of her care. She told me she was proud of how much I’d grown and that she believed I was a true addition to the field of social work. Because of our work, I was able to believe her.
When Your Therapist Dies: Coping with Complicated Emotions
Toward the end, she let me in on her health struggles—the demoralizing hospital visits, the lack of advocacy, her frustration with her body, and eventually her heartbreak over not being well enough to continue practicing.
When I learned she had passed, I felt alone in my grief. No one in my life had known her. I hoped there might be a funeral or a memorial so I could mourn her with others who loved her. But her friends shared that she had asked not to have a service.
Navigating Ambiguous & Complex Grief
In The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion describes a kind of grief in which the mind clings to the illusion that one’s thoughts or actions can undo death. In one moment, she stops short of donating her husband’s shoes—believing, irrationally, that he’ll need them when he returns.
I knew Linda was gone. But I still had moments where I believed she’d be back. That she was just in the hospital again, getting tests. That soon she’d be home and we’d reconnect.
Her death left me questioning what it means to lose the person who bore witness to your growth. How do we measure change in ourselves when the person who saw us change is no longer here?
Is My Grief Valid? Questioning the Right to Mourn
And still, I wondered: Did I really have a right to grieve her? After all, ours was a paid relationship. A professional relationship. One focused on me. In my more painful moments, I asked myself, Did I really know her enough to mourn her? In my more fearful ones: Had I been foolish to feel so close to her? And would I ever know whether it was genuine, or just the illusion of closeness?
How Ritual Helped Me Process Grief
It was around this time that I began attending services at a progressive Jewish spiritual community. I’d mostly gone to feel a sense of connection after moving back to Los Angeles from Seattle. But I found myself drawn especially to the Mourner’s Kaddish, the traditional prayer recited in memory of the dead. It’s said during the first eleven months after a death, and then annually on the person’s Yahrtzeit, their death anniversary.
I remember approaching the smaller group gathered at the front of the room, being asked to share the name of the person I was grieving. We said the names out loud, put our arms around one another, and made space for the people we’d lost.
I went home feeling conflicted. It felt good to remember Linda, especially in a way that honored her traditions and beliefs. But the thought crept back in: Was my mourning disingenuous? Was I harming others by claiming grief I didn’t earn?
That same week, I received a package. Inside was a candle in a soft pink candle holder and a note:
“Sarah,
A Jewish tradition is to light a 24-hour memorial candle on the anniversary of the death of those you want to remember. One of Linda’s last wishes was that each of “the people whom she felt close to (if they want to)” use this candle holder to light a memorial candle on April 18th, the eve of the anniversary of her death each year.
She thought of you as one of the people she felt close to. She will miss you
”
In that moment, the questions quieted. I had my answer.
I began saying her name in services, remembering her again and again. There were weeks when it was hard to go up. But having a ritual gave shape to my grief. It changed my relationship with it. I felt peace knowing I’d be invited to bring her into the present again and again. That she wouldn’t be forgotten. That I could carry her memory with me in whatever way felt right.
Carrying On: When a Therapist’s Legacy Shapes Your Work
The last time I was asked my relationship to her, I said, without thinking: “My friend.” And I realized that this had been true all along.
Didion writes, “I could not count the times during the average day when something would come up that I needed to tell him. This impulse did not end with his death. What ended was the possibility of response.”
That impulse lives on in me, too. I imagine it always will.
But now I know that I am part of her legacy. There is a direct line between how she worked with me and how I work with my clients. In many ways, this is how we carry those we lose. They are gone, but the ways they shaped us remain.
So if you’re in session with me and I say the hard thing directly, or you feel the pressure leave your chest, or maybe you find me a little funnier than usual— That might be Linda.
If this work feels meaningful to you, know that she helped shape it.
Sarah Barukh, ACSW, the eldest of four, was shaped by her responsibility and deep familial bonds. She is a sister to a brother with high needs autism, which has given her insight into caregiving, advocacy, and the complexities of family dynamics. Sarah is exploring her Ashkenazi and Mizrahi Jewish identity through Reform Judaism, finding meaning in tradition, culture, and community. She is also personally familiar with the emotional and practical challenges of supporting a loved one through serious illness, and has struggled with anxiety since childhood, which gives her a personal understanding of what it means to live with and work through it. She is engaged in social justice and organizing, with experience in political campaigns, labor organizing, and collective action.
In her spare time, you can find her checking out way too many books from the library, sweating it out at Dance Church, getting lost on a new hike, singing at the top of my lungs in the car, and FaceTiming with the people she loves who live too far away.
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