The Group I Didn’t Want Changed Me
A Therapy Story I Didn’t Expect
“Vulnerability is not winning or losing; it’s having the courage to show up and be seen when we have no control over the outcome.” — Brené Brown
I’m parked outside a nondescript therapy center, hands clamped on the steering wheel like I’m about to gun it out of there. My brain’s in overdrive—“This is too weird, too open, too much”—and I’m half a second from bailing and pretending I never signed up. (Who needs breakthroughs when you’ve got a couch and solid Wi-Fi, right?) I’m the guy who’d rather grunt my feelings into a podcast over facing strangers—yet here I am, roped into this wild group therapy gig.
Ever been there? That moment when you know something might do you good, might shake things loose, but every instinct’s yelling, “Nah, I’m good”? That’s me, idling in my car, staring at the door like it’s a gauntlet I didn’t sign up for. I’m private—think, “Don’t ask me about my day unless you’re my bf” private—and this? This was about to flip that upside down. A group therapy. A process. A leap I wasn’t completely sold on.
But I didn’t peel out. I killed the engine, muttered something sarcastic, and walked in. Kicking and screaming inside —but I went.
So there I am, stepping into this room—legs moving, brain hollering, “Abort mission!” It’s a circle of chairs, a handful of strangers—mostly, except one of my best friends, one of the therapists, and another I’d met before. The rest? Wild cards. I’ve spent years orchestrating groups, teasing out insights, and loving that dance—I’m good at it. But this off-the-grid therapy thing? This wasn’t me calling the shots—I was in the crosshairs, a different beast.
Even with one of my friends there, my walls shot up—taller than usual. I slid into a chair, arms crossed, scanning the room like I could outmaneuver the inevitable. The facilitators’ “welcome”—his included—barely cut through my static: “This is not my thing.”
I’d told them upfront—“I’m here, but I’m not sold on this group deal.” Straight talk, no fluff—I’m used to setting the tone, not playing guinea pig, friend or not. I figured I’d tough it out, keep my guard up, and maybe prove this wouldn’t crack me. But resistance is sneaky—it’s loudest when teetering on something important. So I stayed—skeptical, half in, waiting to see if I’d outsmart myself.
Midway through, I’m still in that circle—arms half-crossed, coaching mindset on autopilot, analyzing the room like a team I’m about to rally. Then it happens: someone speaks up and reveals something personal—not rehearsed, polished, raw. It catches me off guard. “Wait, this isn’t what I signed up for.” Or maybe it was, and I’d been too busy guarding my vault to notice. Suddenly, these strangers weave a narrative I can’t ignore.
I listened, and it hit differently. Their stories weren’t noise—they mirrored mine. Hearing it live, unscripted, from people I hadn’t vetted? That was a gear shift I didn’t see coming.
It’s like stumbling into an X thread where someone drops a bomb, and you’re nodding at your phone, “Yep, been there.” Except this was face-to-face, with no filters and no mute.
Why do we think we’re the only ones wrestling with our mess?
I’ve coached enough to know better, but hearing it in real-time—unpolished, unguarded, snapping something into focus—threw me.
It’s the session before the deep dive tomorrow—music hits, and now we’re dancing, with no warm-up, and we're straight in. (Icebreaker? Part of the process?) I love a rhythm—give me a club or party, and I own the floor—but this? Sober, in a circle of strangers? That’s a different tune. I’m moving—half-smirking, half-wincing.
Then it shifts. The music softens and slows, and my edges blur. I’d have laughed this off earlier—me dancing in this context?—but I’d bet on sticking it out. Here, with these people—some grinning, some locked in—I ditch the need to steer. That’s when it hits: this dance, this sound, it’s wiring me for tomorrow’s experience—chaos to ride, intimacy to lean into, a rhythm to trust.
We’ve all got our groove. Mine’s usually controlled. But here, music filling the space, moving with strangers who’d soon see me unfiltered? That pried me open—not fluffy, just genuine. Someone says, “This is wild, huh?” I nod—because it is, and I’m in it. That dance wasn’t just weird—it was a crash course in letting go. I’d need every step for what came next.
By now, I’m deep into it—these strangers aren’t strangers anymore, and it’s not just the dancing. It’s how they show up—peeling back layers I didn’t expect. Everyone’s hauling something—stress, doubt, fear—but here, it’s bare. No highlight reels, no filters. Just us, messy, human, and loving, very loving.
Scroll X is a parade of wins—new jobs, big smiles, curated lives. But strip that down, toss in a weird dance and a room where no one’s posing, and it’s us— overlapping in ways I never thought. Turns out, rawness binds us.
Fast forward to the last session—I’m lighter, trading laughs with these people I once sized up like a hostile boardroom. The music faded, the weirdness settled, and I’m marveling at how I got from gripping the wheel to this. (It wasn’t a straight line to the finish.)
I’m still the guy who’d instead grab a drink than bare my soul, but something’s shifted. Not because it fixed me—but because it showed me options. It’s like spotting a hidden door in a room you’ve paced forever—a way out, or deeper in, your call.
That dance, those glances, the mess we brought? It rewired me—quiet, honest.
You’ve got that shot, too—stare down what you’d rather dodge and see what it says. I fought this group thing tooth and nail, every step, every sway. But it didn’t just crack me open—it gave me a lens to see myself sharper, clearer, better.
Turns out, the win’s not the fight—it’s what you build when you stop swinging.
Book Recommendation: How to Change Your Mind by Michael Pollan
Want to dig deeper? Michael Pollan’s How to Change Your Mind unpacks the science and soul of psychedelics—think of it as a map for the wild ride I stumbled into and where it can take you next.