“ “I've always been independent.” “I don't like having to depend on anybody.” “I learned a long time ago that I can only count on myself.”  “I don't need anyone.” Usually, when someone says these things, I understand what they mean. They are often telling me about their strength, and how they have learned to solve problems, take care of themselves, pay their bills, raise their children, survive difficult circumstances, and keep moving when life gets hard. There is a lot to admire in that and also, something else. Tiredness. The person who is proud of being independent is exhausted. The person who says, “I don't need anyone,” is lonely. The person who insists, “I'll handle it myself,” is quietly overwhelmed. And the person who believes needing someone else is a weakness may have built an impressive life while simultaneously making it very difficult for anyone to get close enough to share it. This is where an important distinction becomes useful: Autonomy and independence are not the same thing. In fact, healthy psychological development generally requires autonomy without requiring isolation. We can become increasingly capable of directing our own lives while still needing other people. We can make our own decisions without believing we have to make every decision alone. We can have boundaries without building walls. We can become responsible for ourselves without becoming responsible for everything. In other words, growing up does not mean graduating from relationships. The Myth of the Completely Independent Person We love the idea of independence. Being self-made, having pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps, with no help at all is aspirational for many people. As appealing as this idea is, there is also something deeply unrealistic about it. We human beings are profoundly relational creatures. We are born extremely dependent. Babies do not calmly announce, “I've got this,” before making their own breakfast. They require someone to feed them, comfort them, protect them, and change them. And then, as we grow, we become capable of doing more things ourselves (even though 12-year-olds will complain differently). We learn to walk. We learn to feed ourselves. We learn to make decisions. We eventually learn how to drive, work, manage money, navigate relationships, and hopefully operate a washing machine without turning everything pink. That increasing capacity is part of healthy development, and the interesting thing is that we are not actually becoming independent in the sense that we no longer need anyone. We are becoming autonomous. And those are very different things. So What Is Autonomy? Autonomy is essentially the ability to direct your own life. It involves developing a sense of agency: I can think, choose, decide, act, take responsibility, and live according to my values. An autonomous person can say: “This is what I believe.” “This is what I want.” “This is something I don't want.” Autonomy is not about never listening to anyone. It is about being able to listen to others without surrendering your ability to think and choose for yourself. A teenager who eventually learns to make decisions without asking parents about every minor detail is developing autonomy. An adult who cannot make a decision without getting six opinions from friends, family, coworkers, Google, Reddit, AI, and possibly the cashier at Target may be struggling with autonomy. There is another possibility that is often not thought about. The person who refuses to ask anyone for advice because “I don't need anybody” may also be struggling with autonomy. Why? Because autonomy does not mean doing whatever I want without anyone else's input. It means having the capacity to make thoughtful choices while remaining connected to others. It means that other people's opinions can matter to me without becoming the authority over me. That is a much more mature form of freedom. This distinction matters because both extremes can look similar from the outside. One person constantly asks everyone else what they should do. Another refuses to ask anyone anything. Both may have difficulty tolerating the uncertainty that comes with making a choice. One gives away too much authority; the other refuses to receive anything. Healthy autonomy sits somewhere in the middle. Independence Can Become a Disguise Independence is not inherently unhealthy. There are times when independence is exactly what we need. A young adult needs to learn how to manage money. A person leaving an unhealthy relationship may need to establish financial independence. Someone recovering from an overly enmeshed family may need to develop more separation. A person who has always depended upon others to solve problems may need to practice solving some problems themselves. Those are healthy movements toward greater autonomy. The problem comes when independence becomes an identity rather than a skill. “I am independent” can quietly become: “I don't need help.” “I don't trust people.” “If I need someone, I am weak.” At that point, independence stops being freedom and starts becoming self-protection. Too much self-protection can be remarkably convincing because it can start to look like strength. A person may appear confident, capable, and completely put together while privately thinking, “If I let anybody see how much I actually need them, they might leave.” So they don't ask, they don't lean in, and they don't disclose. They become very good at carrying their own backpack, and eventually, they wonder why nobody ever offers to carry it with them. There is an important question underneath all of this: “Am I independent because I am capable, or because needing someone feels unsafe?” Those can look remarkably similar from the outside. The difference is what happens when help becomes available. The Strange Freedom of Needing People One of the things I have noticed in therapy is that people sometimes confuse dependence with connection, and they are not the same. Dependence says, “I cannot function without you.” Connection says, “I can function, but I don't have to do everything alone.” A healthy marriage is not two completely independent people living parallel lives under the same roof. It is also not two people who cannot function without each other. Instead, healthy marriage involves two people who are increasingly capable of being themselves and increasingly capable of belonging to one another. They can say: “I need you.” “I disagree with you.” “I can handle this myself.” “I'd like your help.” Those statements are not contradictions; they are, however, signs of maturity. The goal is not to eliminate dependence. The goal is to develop interdependence. Interdependence means that I remain a whole person while recognizing that my life is connected to yours. Your struggles affect me; my choices affect you. Your strengths contribute to me; my strengths contribute to you. Sometimes I carry you; sometimes you carry me. And occasionally we both sit down because apparently neither of us has any idea what we are doing. This is one of the places where autonomy becomes especially important. If I cannot be myself without you, I am not truly free. But if I believe I must always protect myself from needing you, I am not particularly free either. Interdependence allows both people to remain persons while still belonging to one another. The Desert Fathers Had Some Strong Opinions About This The early Christian monks who went into the Egyptian desert were not exactly poster children for modern independence. They left behind ordinary society to pursue a life of prayer, discipline, and simplicity. Yet one of the things they discovered was that simply getting away from other people did not eliminate the problem of the self. Apparently, you can move to the desert and still bring yourself with you. Who knew? (Clint Black did, but I’ll let you find that song for yourself.) The Desert Fathers frequently warned about what they called self-will—the tendency to assume that our own desires, judgments, plans, and preferences should govern everything. Abba Dorotheos of Gaza wrote extensively about the danger of clinging to one's own will. His teaching was not that a person should stop thinking or become a mindless follower. Rather, he saw the surrender of self-will as a way of becoming less enslaved to the constant demand that reality conform to our preferences. That idea has an interesting psychological parallel because there is a difference between saying: “I can make my own choices.” and: “Everything must happen according to my choices.” The first is autonomy. The second may simply be control trying to look like autonomy. The Desert Fathers understood something psychologists continue to encounter: sometimes what we call freedom is actually our attachment to having things go our way. I want the relationship to work this way; I want my spouse to understand me; I want my children to make the choices I think are best…. I want life to cooperate. Good luck with that. One of the great challenges of maturity is learning that autonomy does not mean controlling reality. It means learning how to respond to reality with freedom. Wisdom Is Found in Relationship Wisdom is portrayed not simply as having information but as something worth seeking, receiving, and living by. The biblical tradition repeatedly presents wisdom as something that requires humility—the recognition that I do not already know everything. That is important because autonomy without humility can quickly become arrogance. We can become so committed to making our own decisions that we stop allowing anyone to speak into our lives. We don't need advice, or correction. We don't need community and don't need anyone to challenge us. Eventually, we have achieved the magnificent freedom of being wrong completely by ourselves. The wisdom tradition offers a different vision. A wise person remains capable of receiving because they listen, seek counsel, recognize their limits, and understand that other people may see something they cannot. This does not eliminate autonomy. It strengthens it. Because the autonomous person can hear another person's perspective without automatically submitting to it or automatically rejecting it. They can say: “That is worth considering.” Or: “I understand what you're saying, but I don't agree.” Both responses require freedom. In this sense, asking for advice can actually be an act of autonomy. I am not handing you my decision. I am allowing your perspective to become part of the information I use to make my decision. There is a difference between surrendering responsibility and accepting help. Boundaries Are Not Independence Sometimes people hear “you need boundaries” and interpret it as “you need to stop needing people.” That is not what healthy boundaries mean. A boundary says, “This is where I end and you begin.” It does not say, “I don't need you.” In fact, good boundaries often make relationships more intimate because they create enough safety for honesty. I can tell my spouse that I am angry without attacking them. I can tell my parent that I disagree without cutting them off. And perhaps most importantly, I can remain connected to you without becoming you. That is autonomy. A boundary creates differentiation, not disconnection. It allows me to say, “You are you, and I am me,” while still being able to say, “And we matter to one another.” This is also why autonomy and connection are not opposing goals. In a healthy relationship, the ability to remain distinct can actually make closeness safer. I do not have to disappear into you in order to love you, and you do not have to disappear into me in order to love me. The Person Who Never Asks for Help There is a particular kind of client I have seen repeatedly over the years who is competent and manages everyone and everything around them. If there were an Olympic event for carrying too much while insisting everything is fine, they would have several gold medals. Eventually, however, something gives and they become anxious, resentful, and exhausted. They become angry, distant, and disconnected. And when someone offers help, they say, “No, I'm fine.” Everyone knows they're not fine, but the person says, “I am independent. I can handle this.” Sometimes therapeutic work is not teaching someone how to become more capable. They are already extremely capable. The work is teaching them how to receive. Receiving help can be surprisingly vulnerable. When I help you, you may feel indebted. When I see your weakness, you may fear judgment. When you depend on me, you may worry that I now have power over you. So you choose independence because it feels safer. But safety and intimacy are not always the same thing. Sometimes the path toward a deeper relationship involves risking the possibility that someone else might actually be trustworthy. And receiving is not passive. It requires discernment. Healthy autonomy means I can decide whom I trust, what help I accept, and where I still need to say no. The goal is not to become dependent on everyone. It is to become capable of appropriate dependence with the right people. Autonomy Allows Us to Belong The more secure we become in ourselves, the more capable we often become of genuinely belonging to others. Paradoxical, right? If I know who I am, I don't have to make you agree with me. If I can tolerate disagreement, I don't have to control you. If I can take responsibility for my emotions, I don't have to make you responsible for them. This is also where the idea of systemic therapy becomes relevant. In another article, “Why Systemic Therapy Matters,” I wrote about the fact that we are not the only car on the road. Our lives intersect with other people, and those people influence us just as we influence them. Autonomy does not mean pretending the other cars aren't there. It means learning how to drive your own car while paying attention to the traffic around you. That is part of what makes relationships so complicated. We are individuals, but we are also participants in systems. Our choices affect spouses, children, parents, friends, coworkers, and communities. Becoming more autonomous does not mean becoming less connected to those systems. Ideally, it means becoming more thoughtful about how we participate in them. This is particularly important in marriage. A healthy marriage does not require two people to eliminate themselves for the sake of the relationship. Nor does it require two people to protect themselves from one another. Instead, marriage asks something more complicated: “How do I remain myself while giving myself to another person?” That is a much richer question than, “How do I stay independent?” And it is one of the reasons I appreciate the Catholic understanding of the human person. Catholic thought has long emphasized both the dignity of the individual and the fundamentally relational nature of the human person. We are not isolated units. Neither are we interchangeable parts. We are persons who become ourselves in relationships. What Healthy Autonomy Looks Like So what does healthy autonomy actually look like? It looks like being able to make a decision without needing everyone's approval. It also looks like being willing to ask for advice. It looks like saying no or like taking responsibility for your mistakes. It looks like being able to hear criticism without immediately collapsing or becoming defensive. It looks like changing your mind when new information deserves to change it. It looks like accepting that someone you love may make a decision you would not make. And it looks like allowing other people to have their own autonomy, even when you wish they would use it differently. Because sometimes maturity is not demonstrated by standing on your own two feet. Sometimes maturity is demonstrated by knowing whose hand to reach for. Thoughts from the Couch From the couch, I have come to appreciate that many people spend a surprising amount of energy trying to prove that they don't need anyone. They prove it through competence. Through busyness, through always being the one who takes care of everyone else. And eventually they discover something uncomfortable: Being needed is not the same as being loved, and being independent is not the same as being free. Autonomy allows us to become responsible for our own lives without pretending that our lives exist apart from everyone else's. It allows us to say, “I am responsible for my choices,” while also saying, “I don't have to make every choice alone.” It allows us to be strong enough to stand and humble enough to lean. Perhaps that is one of the great tasks of adulthood: learning that dependence and independence are not the only two options. There is a third way. Connection. Or perhaps, more accurately, interdependence. We can be separate without being isolated and be connected without being enmeshed. We can make our own decisions without pretending that nobody else matters. And perhaps that is closer to what freedom was meant to be. Not the freedom of never needing anyone. The freedom to love, choose, receive, give, disagree, forgive, ask for help, offer help, and remain ourselves in the midst of it all. The Desert Fathers went into the wilderness looking for freedom and discovered, among other things, that the hardest person to escape was themselves. We do not have to move to the Egyptian desert to discover the same thing. Sometimes all we need is a difficult relationship, a stressful week, a spouse who disagrees with us, or a teenager who has suddenly discovered that our opinion is no longer legally binding. Life has a way of reminding us that we were never meant to do this entirely alone. And that is not a failure of independence.It is part of being human. At Holy Family Counseling Center , we often work with people who are trying to find that balance—between caring for themselves and caring for others, between boundaries and connection, between responsibility and receiving help. For those who desire it, faith can be part of that conversation as well, offering another way of understanding freedom, responsibility, relationship, and the dignity of the person. Sometimes the goal of therapy is not to help someone need nobody. Sometimes it is to help them become secure enough in themselves that they can finally let the right people get close. Maybe that is the real difference between independence and autonomy. Independence asks, “How can I make sure I never have to need anyone?” Autonomy asks, “How can I become responsible for my life while remaining open to the people who are part of it?” The first can leave us standing alone with our backpack. The second allows us to decide when to carry it ourselves, when to set it down, and when to let someone we trust carry it for a while. That may be a much healthier kind of freedom.

“Uh…trudging. You know, trudging?” If you have seen A Knight’s Tale, you may remember this wonderfully strange scene. William Thatcher comes across Geoffrey Chaucer walking along the road—dirty, disheveled, and apparently having a very bad day. When William asks what he is doing, Chaucer explains that he is “trudging.” He defines it as the slow, weary, depressing, yet determined walk of someone who has nothing left except the impulse to simply soldier on. And if this doesn’t give a good impression of the healing, I don’t know what does. Of course, this is not the inspirational-poster version of healing, or where you wake up one morning, discover that you have finally “done the work,” and suddenly become the emotionally regulated, perfectly self-aware, spiritually mature person you always hoped you would be. In my years of working as a therapist, I have found that real healing is often much less glamorous.Often, healing looks like trudging, slowly putting one foot in front of the other. Then another. And another. Sometimes you make great progress. Sometimes you seem to walk for miles only to discover that you have somehow arrived back at the same place. Sometimes there are beautiful views, sometimes there is rain, and sometimes both at the same time. There are blisters and you seriously question why you thought walking this particular road was a good idea in the first place. Yet you keep going because the horizon is a little closer, things just a smidge brighter. That is the part of healing we do not talk about nearly enough. We Like the Destination More Than the Journey We live in a culture that loves transformation stories. We love before-and-after pictures. We love placing our hand against the camera and pulling it away fully transformed while “Can we skip to the good part?” plays in the background. We love the moment in a movie when the main character finally realizes what has been holding him back, says something profound, and rides triumphantly into the sunset. I’m here to tell you that therapy does not always work that way. Neither does life. You may understand exactly why you react the way you do and still react that way. You may know that your childhood shaped you without knowing how to stop carrying your childhood into every relationship. You may recognize that you need better boundaries and still feel guilty every time you set one. You may forgive someone and still feel hurt. You may know intellectually that you are loved and still struggle to believe it when you are lonely. None of this necessarily means you are failing but it may mean that you are trudging. Healing is rarely a straight line from brokenness to wholeness. It is more like a pilgrimage. And pilgrims, by definition, travel; they make stops, they rest, they get lost, they get sick, and they have to ask for directions. Occasionally they may get waylaid for a long time to build up money, strength, or whatever else is needed to continue the journey. Then they keep going. The Trouble with the Shortcut One of the hardest things about healing is that we want a shortcut, and it makes sense. If something has hurt for ten years, we would prefer not to spend another ten years working through it. If a marriage has developed unhealthy patterns over fifteen years, it would be wonderful if one good conversation could repair everything. If grief has taken up residence in our hearts, we would love to tell it that its lease has expired. But psychological and spiritual growth rarely responds to our preferred timeline. There are reasons for this. Our brains learn through repetition. Relationships develop through repeated interactions. Habits are formed over time. Attachment patterns are not created in a single afternoon, and they generally are not undone in one either. This is one reason therapy can sometimes feel frustrating. A person may say, “I understand this now. Why am I still doing it?” And I tell them that understanding is important, but understanding is not the same thing as transformation. Knowing the road is not the same thing as walking it. And walking it once is not the same thing as learning how to travel it. Sometimes we need to walk the same stretch of road again and again before we begin to recognize the landscape, remember where the pitfalls are, and hopefully learn a better path. There Will Be Stops Every pilgrimage has stops.This matters because we often interpret stopping as failing. Yet, working on ourselves can involve hitting a plateau where we don’t see the effort changing the landscape. But stopping is not necessarily quitting. Sometimes you stop because you are tired, or need to heal a new or remembered injury. Sometimes you stop because you have reached a place where you need to reconsider your direction. There is wisdom in stopping. In therapy, progress sometimes looks like learning to pause before reacting, or noticing an emotion before immediately trying to get rid of it. It may mean taking a breath before sending the text or sitting with discomfort rather than immediately distracting yourself. That pause can feel like doing nothing. Instead, think of it as practice. A person who has spent years responding automatically may discover that there is now a tiny space between feeling something and acting on it. That tiny space can be the beginning of freedom. The pilgrim has stopped. But the pilgrim has not quit. Sometimes You Will Walk Backward Perhaps the most discouraging part of healing is what we call a “setback.”You thought you had moved beyond something and then suddenly you find yourself doing it again. You thought you had learned not to take everything personally. Then somebody sends a three-word text—“We need to talk”—and your nervous system immediately begins preparing for the apocalypse. Welcome to being human! A setback does not erase progress, in fact, sometimes the difference between then and now is not that the old pattern never happens again. The difference is that you recognize it sooner. This means you might recover more quickly, apologize more easily, or ask for help as you need it. Very simply, that is progress. Is it glamorous? No. But eventually you realize the road may look familiar, but you are not the same person walking it. “I Will Make a Way in the Wilderness” There is a beautiful image in the prophet Isaiah: “I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” —Isaiah 43:19 I have always liked the fact that God does not promise that there will be no wilderness. However, He does promise to make a way through it. And this distinction is so important. We can assume that healing means God will remove every difficult thing from our lives. If we pray hard enough, understand enough, or finally get our lives organized enough, the wilderness will disappear. Reading Scripture tells a different story; that there is a road through the wilderness. Faith does not necessarily eliminate the hard road but faith can give us the courage to keep walking it. As a Catholic therapist, this is where psychology and faith can sit together quite comfortably. Therapy helps us understand our wounds, relationships, patterns, emotions, and behaviors. Faith reminds us that our wounds are not the entirety of our identity; we are not simply the sum of our trauma, our mistakes, our diagnoses, our family history, our regrets, or our worst moments. There is more to the story and sometimes healing is learning to live from that larger story. Pay Attention to the Small Milestones When people are trudging, they need markers otherwise, the road can feel endless. So pay attention to small changes: maybe you handled a difficult conversation differently, maybe you noticed your anxiety before it became overwhelming, or maybe you recognized that your anger was covering sadness. We tend to measure healing by asking, “Am I completely better?” and that is often the wrong question. A better question is: “Am I different than I was?” And then: “What is different?” Progress becomes easier to see when we stop looking only for dramatic transformation. Pilgrims count milestones and we should too. There is something else worth counting along the way: the days themselves. In an earlier reflection, Teach Us to Number Our Days, I wrote about Psalm 90:12: “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” The prayer is not simply about counting how many days we have left. It is an invitation to pay attention to the days we actually have. When we are hurting, we can become so focused on the destination that we miss the day we are standing in. We spend so much energy asking, “When will I finally be better?” that we forget to ask, “What is this day asking of me?” Maybe today is a day for courage….rest…or an honest conversation. Not every day has to be a breakthrough. Some days are simply mile markers. And if we learn to number those days—to notice them rather than rush past them—we may discover that healing has been happening in places we were too busy looking for it to see. Learn to Travel Light There is another lesson pilgrims understand: you cannot carry everything. At some point, the backpack becomes too heavy. Healing often involves discovering what we have been carrying that no longer belongs to us: old shame, other people's expectations, the need to be liked by everyone. This list could be endless because we all have our things that we carry, even I do. Sometimes things need to be confronted, forgiven, grieved, or accepted. And some things need to be put down. This does not mean pretending the past did not happen, it means refusing to make the past carry your backpack forever. Healing is not always about becoming someone entirely new. It can be about becoming the person you were created to be underneath everything you have been carrying. Do Not Trudge Alone There is a reason pilgrimage has traditionally been a communal experience. People walk together and share food and stories, they encourage one another, and complain about their feet hurting. They offer direction when others are lost. Healing works better this way too, when we share it with others. A good therapist can walk with you for part of the road. Friends and family can walk with you. A spouse can walk with you. A faith community can walk with you. And every now and then, you need someone who can simply say, “Yes, this is hard. Keep going.” Not every problem needs immediate advice. Sometimes the most healing thing another person can offer is presence. Discovering that you are not the only person who has struggled with this particular stretch of road brings a lot of comfort, and power. What Do You Do When the Road Gets Long? If healing feels like trudging right now, a few simple practices can help. Keep your expectations realistic.
 Healing is not a race. Give yourself permission to grow slowly. Measure progress differently.
 Instead of asking whether the problem has disappeared, ask whether you are responding to it differently. Take the next step.
 You do not need to figure out the next fifty miles. What is the next healthy thing you can do today? Rest without quitting. 
 A Sabbath is not a failure of productivity. Sometimes rest is part of the journey. Notice the scenery. 
 Do not become so focused on reaching the destination that you miss the life happening along the way. Accept help. 
 Therapy, friendship, community, prayer, spiritual direction, medical care, or other forms of support can all be part of the journey. Remember your story is still being written. 
 A difficult chapter is not the same thing as a difficult ending. And perhaps most importantly: Do not confuse slow progress with no progress. The Road of Happy Destiny There is a phrase used in Anonymous groups that I find beautiful: “We will trudge the Road of Happy Destiny.” The phrase comes from the Twelve-Step tradition, where recovery is described not as arriving at some perfect endpoint but as continuing to walk the road of recovery, one day at a time. There is something almost comical about putting the words trudging and happy destiny together. Trudging sounds miserable. Happy destiny sounds like a Disney movie. But when we put them together you get something much closer to real life. The road can be difficult and still be good. You can be frustrated and still be healing. You can even occasionally sit down on the side of the road, question every life decision that brought you there, eat a snack, and eventually get back up….I’ve been there. Perhaps this is part of what we miss when we imagine healing as a destination because healing is not simply the place where we finally arrive. It is the person we become while walking. The patience we develop, the humility we learn, the courage we practice. So if today feels like one of those days when you are not exactly flourishing, thriving, conquering, or becoming your best self, perhaps there is another word for it. Maybe you are trudging and this is okay. Put one foot in front of the other and take the next step. Rest when you need to, let someone walk beside you, and look up occasionally. The road you walked is behind you, and when you take the time to see where you came from, things can look a lot better. And trust that the road does not have to be easy to be meaningful. The wilderness can still contain a path. The person who keeps walking, even slowly, even imperfectly, even with a few complaints along the way, may discover that trudging was not merely a sign that life was difficult. It was evidence that they had not given up. That is the strange gift of the long road that we are, perhaps, trudging towards a happy destiny. Thoughts from the Couch From the couch, I have come to appreciate just how rarely healing looks the way we imagine it will. We tend to think healing means arriving somewhere: I used to struggle with this, but now I don't. And while those moments certainly happen, much of the work is quieter. It is learning to recognize an old pattern a little sooner. It is responding differently the next time. It is becoming more comfortable with discomfort. It is realizing that the thing that once knocked you flat now only makes you stumble. That may not feel particularly impressive. But it is. I sometimes tell clients that therapy is less like taking an elevator and more like walking a trail. Unfortunately, there is no express elevator to emotional health. There are switchbacks, rest stops, wrong turns, steep inclines, and occasionally a spectacular view that makes you realize why you started walking in the first place. Also, there is often mud. Lots of mud. The goal isn't to avoid every difficult part of the journey. The goal is to become someone who can walk through those difficult places with greater wisdom, resilience, connection, and hope. That is one of the reasons I appreciate the image of pilgrimage. A pilgrim doesn't expect the road to be easy. The pilgrim understands that the road itself is part of the journey. If you find yourself trudging right now, you don't necessarily need to have the entire road figured out. You may simply need to determine the next step. Next steps look like having hard conversations, creating boundaries, forgiving those that have harmed us, and sometimes it is making an appointment with a therapist and admitting, “I'm tired of walking this part of the road by myself.” At Holy Family Counseling Center, we believe therapy is not about fixing people who are broken. It is about accompanying people as they grow, heal, and become more fully themselves. For those who want it, faith can be part of that journey as well—not as a substitute for sound psychological care, but as another source of meaning, hope, and perspective. You don't have to know exactly where the road ends. You just have to be willing to take the next step. And if the next step feels more like a trudge than a triumphant march, that's okay. Most worthwhile journeys probably do.