The Day I Cancelled Therapy Because I Couldn’t Face Washing My Hair (And Still Had to Pay for It)

I had every intention of going.

The therapy session was booked. My calendar had gentle reminders. I’d even been mentally stacking a list of things I wanted to talk about, ticking off the “homework” from last session, a few ADHD spirals, and that quiet existential background hum that shows up around 2am when your brain starts its own side project.

Well hello insomnia, my old PMDD foe.

But at 8:42am, with just over an hour to go, I found myself in the bathroom, glaring back at the mornings greatest opponent: my hair.

Now, for some people, this would be a non-issue. But mine? It’s long. Thick. Bleached within an inch of its life. It tangles if you look at it funny. Washing it isn’t just a task, it’s a commitment. An upper-body workout followed by a minor existential crisis and an hour-long detangling session that requires an emotional support podcast.

I’d already put it off for a few days, but in this instance, not even my beloved
bumble & bumble dry shampoo could help.

I just… didn’t have it in me.

I wasn’t in denial that therapy would help. I wasn’t worried about what my psychologist would think, she’s brilliant and kind and definitely wouldn’t have blinked if I’d rocked up looking like I’d been dragged backwards through a hedge. It wasn’t about judgement.

It was about effort… and the paralysing weight of it.

I didn’t want to be seen by me. I didn’t want to sit in that chair, in that small sacred space, and feel the quiet shame that I couldn’t summon the energy for something so ‘simple’. That I had once again outsourced all my effort to survival tasks, and had none left over for self-care. Even the kind I’m paying for.

So I cancelled. Politely. Regretfully. Via email.

And yep, the cancellation fee came in shortly after. $180 to not go to therapy.

Which sounds ridiculous until it doesn’t.

Because the cost wasn’t the money. The cost was in the shame. The disappointment. The sneaky little narrative that whispered, “You couldn’t even wash your hair. How are you meant to sort out the rest of your life?”

It wasn’t about looking good. It wasn’t about putting on a show. It was about feeling too far gone to even try. That strange, heavy grief when you realise it’s not that you don’t want to care… it’s that you can’t muster the energy to prove that you care.

It’s admitting to yourself that perhaps those perfectionist tendencies weren’t actually protecting you… after-all.

That moment was a turning point.

Because somewhere in the middle of the post-cancellation guilt spiral, I started thinking… what if we stopped pretending that effort always looks tidy? What if we created space for the moments we almost showed up, and chose softness instead of shame?

That seed became Unbound & Found.

This platform (this little corner of the internet) is for all of us who’ve ever ghosted a plan, cancelled a catch-up, or paid a full fee just because brushing your hair felt like a marathon. It’s a place where we can show up a little messy and a lot magic, and know that it’s totally okay.

So no, I didn’t make it to therapy that day.

But I started something else instead.

And honestly? That’s the kind of wild, slightly tangled progress I can get behind.