Learning Out Loud

Today marks my eighth Father's Day with no one to call.

You’d think after nearly a decade, I’d be better at this whole grief thing. And maybe I am, or maybe I’ve just gotten better at making myself and others think that I am. I still haven’t figured that out yet.

As a therapist, I understand grief theoretically. I’ve navigated it myself and helped others do the same. I know it’s pervasive. It comes in waves, often in moments you don’t expect, and often in the ones you do (e.g., Father’s Day, anniversaries, birthdays). The days where you brace for impact.

Some days are heavier than others. And on days like today, amplified by social media, ads in my inbox, and well-meaning people reaching out… it’s impossible not to feel the absence.

Whether that absence is full of fond memories, tight hugs, a shoulder to cry on, a silent supporter holding you up. Or if it’s the ache of what you never had, the grief for who you wished they were, the longing for the father you didn’t get… I see you. Grief is rarely simple. And when we grieve people who were flawed, or relationships that were unfinished, it can feel even more confusing.

So, to the fatherless on Father's Day:

Whether your grief is fresh or old, complicated or clear, angry or aching (or all of the above), I just want to say:

You’re not doing it wrong.

You don’t have to perform strength.

You get to feel however this day finds you.

Maybe you light a candle.

Maybe you avoid the internet.

Maybe you cook their favorite meal.

Maybe you look at photos, write a letter, go for a long drive.

Maybe you do nothing at all.

Whatever your version looks like, messy, quiet, resentful, tender, it’s valid.

You don’t have to earn your grief.

You don’t have to explain it.

You just have to hold it and allow yourself to be held by others who get it... even from afar.

With love,

Cara

If you're looking for resources about grief in general, or about the grief of Father's Day, I encourage you to take a listen to the podcast, Grief is the New Normal by Dr. Heather Taylor, a licensed psychologist and grief specialist. I had the privilege of being one of her students during my graduate program and continue to learn so much from her through this podcast.

On May 10, 2025, I walked across the stage at graduation to receive my degree (ceremoniously… I won’t actually be finished until I complete my internship at the end of July.). At 27 years old, I will have obtained a doctorate in counseling psychology, a journey that formally began in the fall of 2020, but one that has lived inside me for far longer.

I’ve spent years reading, researching, studying, practicing, completing clinicals, passing comprehensive exams and oral boards, applying for internships, and landing positions. I’ve earned this title with every late night, every feedback session, every tear and triumph. And yet… no matter how many accolades land on my CV, no matter how many kind words I receive from colleagues, mentors, or clients, there’s still this voice in the back of my head whispering:

"I’m a fraud."
"How did I end up here?"
"When are they going to find out I have no idea what I’m doing?"

Sometimes it shows up as anxiety before a new case. Sometimes it comes when someone compliments my work. Recently it’s been evident when someone calls me “doctor” to celebrate the achievement with me, and I have to say,  “not quite yet,”  while feeling like a kid playing dress-up.

Sound familiar to anyone else?

Through conversations with friends, family, peers and mentors in and out of the field, and diving into the literature, I know that I am not alone. I also know that this phenomenon is so common, that it actually has a name. 

“Imposter Syndrome”

While not a DSM-5-TR recognized diagnosis, “Imposter Syndrome” was first coined in 1978 by psychologists Dr. Pauline Clance and Dr. Suzanne Imes in their study of high-achieving women. They described it as a psychological pattern where individuals doubt their accomplishments and have a persistent fear of being exposed as a “fraud,” despite external evidence of their competence. 

Imposter syndrome can show up in many different ways. An article by Suzanne Feigofsky, MD (2022) identified several subtypes of imposter syndrome including:

• The Perfectionist – who feels like anything less than 100% is failure.
• The Expert – who always needs to know more before feeling qualified.
• The Natural Genius – who believes competence should come easily.
• The Soloist – who feels they must accomplish everything alone.
• The Superwoman/Superman – who juggles multiple roles and must excel in all of them. 

A meta-analysis (fancy term for a study summarizing the results of manyyyy studies) about imposter syndrome, conducted by Bravata et al. (2020), revealed several important findings regarding prevalence rates, associated factors, and possible interventions to help with these feelings. They found that depending on the tool used to assess feelings associated with imposter syndrome and the population in question, prevalence rates could vary from 9% to 82%. Overall, the highest prevalence rates were noted in women, ethnic minorities, students (specifically those in medical or STEM fields and first generation college students), and professionals in “high-achieving” environments. Further, they found associations between imposter syndrome and perfectionism, neuroticism, and low self-esteem. It was also associated with dysfunctional family dynamics (e.g., lack of validation or high parental expectations).  Moreover, their study revealed that imposter syndrome is frequently paired with symptoms of anxiety, depression, and burnout. 

As I explored this research, the pieces continued to fall into place when I viewed my own experience of imposter syndrome. As a young woman, I can recognize my innate drive to prove my worth, to prove that I am qualified and competent. As a young woman, I’ve often felt the need to prove my worth. Early in my training, and even now, I worry I won’t be taken seriously simply because of my age, or because I’m a woman.  As graduation approached, and the title of “doctor” became a not-so-distant reality, I found myself asking questions like, “What do I want people to call me?” Dr. Scammon – to set a tone of respect and professionalism? Dr. Cara – to reflect more of my authentic self? Why do I even feel the need to justify it? (Answer: because imposter syndrome is LOUD.)

It all leads back to the same question: “How did I end up here?” 

Dr. Feigofsky said it best, “If you are in the room, you deserve to be there.”

So, what do we do when the voice telling you that you don’t belong is louder than the whispered reminder that you do? Here are a few tips from the literature: 

1. Acknowledge how you feel;
2. TALK about it with others (because no matter how much you feel like the only one, you are definitely not alone); 
3. Practice a growth mindset, recognizing that perfection isn’t possible and failure is a part of the process; 
4. Celebrate your successes! (even the small ones, because no,  it wasn’t just luck, and yes, you do deserve it);
5. Consider therapy – Cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) has been demonstrated as an effective intervention for these thoughts and associated feelings. 

If you’ve ever questioned whether you truly belong… take this as your sign: you do. You earned your seat. And remember, if you’re in the room, you’re meant to be there. 

References: Note. All references are open access and available to the public, and were found using google.com/scholar. See list below for links. 

Bravata, D. M., Watts, S. A., Keefer, A. L., Madhusudhan, D. K., Taylor, K. T., Clark, D. M., Nelson, R. S., Cokley, K. O., & Hagg, H. K. (2020). Prevalence, predictors, and treatment of impostor syndrome: A systematic review. Journal of General Internal Medicine, 35(4), 1252–1275. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11606-019-05364-1

Clance, P. R., & Imes, S. A. (1978). The impostor phenomenon in high achieving women: Dynamics and therapeutic intervention. Psychotherapy: Theory, Research & Practice, 15(3), 241–247. https://doi.org/10.1037/h0086006

Feigofsky, S. (2022). Imposter syndrome. Heart Rhythm Case Reports, 8(12), 778–780. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.hrcr.2022.11.001

Disclaimer: The content of this blog is intended for informational and reflective purposes only and does not constitute professional psychological advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This blog is not a substitute for individualized mental health care. If you are struggling with your mental health, please seek support from a licensed mental health professional in your area.

Trigger Warning: This post includes themes of pregnancy loss, miscarriage, and grief. Please read with care or come back when you're ready.

Mother’s Day isn’t simple for everyone. For some, it’s filled with joy: breakfast in bed, little handprints on cards, laughter in the morning light. For others, it’s quieter. Heavier. A day marked by what’s missing.

This year, I’m standing in the space between love and loss, hope and heartbreak. Because I am a mother. But my daughter isn’t here.

I imagined I’d have three kids by the time I turned 30. But life had other plans. After we got married, we hoped it would just happen naturally. But months turned into years, and the quiet ache of waiting settled into our lives. We tried to stay hopeful, tried to "relax".

And eventually, we were pregnant - for the first time in over five years. Unfortunately, that pregnancy ended in miscarriage just a few weeks later. It changed me. It changed us. And it showed us, we wanted this.

And sometime later, we found out we were pregnant again. We held our breath, keeping the news close. After our 20-week ultrasound, I made our announcement post, finally ready to share...

But that weekend, she was born. A baby girl.
She was wanted. She was loved. She was perfect.
Her name was Kennedy. She was due January 2025, and she was born on August 31, 2024.

I think about the joy she brought us, even in the short time we had with her. The plans we made. The dreams we built. The people we shared our joy with and the ones we had hoped to. The quiet moments, hands on my belly, just being together. She made me a mother. And even though I never got to hold her the way I imagined, I will always carry her.

We’ve been through hard things before. I’ve carried other kinds of pain, other losses, other worries. But this… this is the kind of loss that breaks you. It changes you in ways you can’t explain, even to the people who love you. It’s a grief that lives in your bones.

We moved, a few times. We found ourselves at the ocean more than once, chasing calm, chasing breath. We stayed busy. We stayed quiet. I held my pain close, not because I didn’t feel it, but because I didn’t want to make it heavier for anyone else.

And for the last six months, we’ve been learning how to live inside this grief.

Dar stayed strong, like he always does. Holding us up in quiet ways, never asking for anything in return. The one who made sure I ate, who stood beside me in the hardest moments, and who carried the weight with me even when we couldn’t speak it out loud.

My mom. The relief I didn’t know I needed hit me the moment she walked into the hospital room. After, her and George opened their home to us. Gave us space to just be, to sit, to process, to breathe.

A few weeks later, my sister flew home for a week just to be with us. Just to help. Afterwards, she gave me space when I needed it, but I always felt her comfort. We spent Thanksgiving together and promised we wouldn’t go another Christmas apart.

The Shelton family -our chosen family- were there through all of it. Helping with our pets. Friday movie nights. The comfort of a best friend. The highs, the lows, and the moments we dared to celebrate, even if just for a little while. Getting to share that joy with them, even briefly, was one of my favorite parts. Their girls bring so much light into our lives, even on the darkest days.

Of course, our sweet Maebell was there every day. Right by our sides. She made us laugh on the days we didn’t think it was possible. She laid in bed with me all day when I was overwhelmed. She patiently rode in the truck for hours on what felt like our 1,200th moving trip. She got me out of the house for a walk. She’s a special one, but we already knew that.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, I baked a shit ton of cookies. I perfected the chocolate chip. Anyone else bake their grief away? It gave me something to do with my hands. Something I had control of.

Mother's day is coming up and I’ve been thinking about how much words really do matter. How they can open space for healing, or leave us holding something heavier than we know how to carry. One question in particular has stayed with me. It seems small to the person asking, but it has never feels small to me.

“Do you have kids?”

They don’t mean harm. It’s one of those casual, automatic questions, tossed into conversation like weather or weekend plans. But if you’re going to ask me if I have children, are you prepared for me to say, “I did”?

Because that’s my truth now. I have a daughter. She existed. She mattered. But she’s not here. And every time someone asks me that question, I have to make a choice. Do I lie to keep the moment light? Do I carry the weight alone, again? Or do I tell the truth, and risk making the conversation awkward, uncomfortable, or worse, painful for someone else?

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve smiled and said, “Not yet,” while breaking inside. And now, the question will change to “Are you going to try again?”.

This Mother’s Day, hold space for the ones who carry quiet grief. For the ones who are mothers in ways the world doesn’t always see. For anyone holding pain they don’t yet have answers for.

My sister has always been the open book. I’ve been the one who keeps the pages closed. I didn’t understand how sharing could be healing. I thought it would just leave me exposed. When I tried before, it hurt. I stayed quiet, thinking that was safer.

But now, I want to heal. And she’s taught me that sharing doesn’t have to be about losing control. Instead, it can be about letting go. About not carrying everything alone.

Sharing something this personal is hard. But holding it in has become even harder. I want to move forward. And I know I can’t do that if I keep burying my grief. Writing this is a step I need to take, even if it’s one I never imagined I’d share.

Kennedy Mae Kazemi.
She made me a mother.
And she deserves to be known.

We'll share more of the pieces one day. The other parts of the story that shaped us. But for now, I begin with Kennedy. With the love I will always have for her. With the ache of losing her. With the grief that lives between. And with the quiet strength it takes to keep going.

Happy Mother's Day,

-K

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been an open book, free for anyone to read.

I was the little girl who shared secrets that weren’t hers.
The teenager who spoke every thought aloud, hoping it would help her make sense of the chaos.
The young adult, cracked open by grief, leaking words at the seams.

I believed in the power of words, their ability to connect, to heal, to transform.
And I still do.

But now, I also understand how words can wound.
How they can expose, misplace, or distort.
How they can change things for the worse.

As I write this, I am not the same girl who spilled her soul onto the internet for anyone to witness. Over the years, through hard personal lessons and through deep immersion in the field of psychology, I started asking myself a different question:
Why?

Why did I feel the need to share so much, so often, with so many?

When I was younger, I think it was my way of asking for help with the only tools I had. Life was falling apart, and my openness became a kind of lifeline. Later, when people praised my vulnerability, called me strong, brave, resilient, I came to rely on that validation. I liked being the girl who could talk about the hard stuff.

But looking back, I see how much of that openness came from pain, not peace. From searching for identity outside of myself. From wanting to be understood more than I wanted to be whole.

And here’s the irony:
Even as a therapist-in-training (future psychologist), even with everything I know now about boundaries and healing, it still took me a long time to realize this truth:

Not everyone deserves to know you.

That might sound harsh. But I mean it gently, with love.

Not everyone needs access to every corner of your pain, your healing, your story.
We get to choose who sees the sacred parts.

That is not secrecy. It is self-respect.
That is not withholding. It is discernment.

Now, just months away from earning my doctorate in psychology (PsyD), I see healing differently, not just in theory but in practice, in my own bones. These last five years have changed me. I have walked alongside people learning to navigate their inner worlds with grace and grit. I have witnessed the courage it takes to ask for help. I have studied boundaries, trauma, identity, connection, and I have lived inside those questions too.

I have learned that healing is not always loud.
Sometimes (often times), the most meaningful work happens quietly, in the background.
Safe spaces matter.
Boundaries can be holy.
Vulnerability is powerful, but only when it is rooted in trust.

This blog is my attempt to hold that kind of space.
Somewhere between personal and professional.
Somewhere tender and thoughtful.

A space for educational content, stories, reflection, and gentle truths.
For learning out loud.
For honoring both the voice that longs to speak, and the wisdom that knows when to stay quiet.

Thanks for being here.

Disclaimer:
The content shared here is for educational and reflective purposes only. It is not a substitute for professional therapy, counseling, or psychological services.As a psychology doctoral intern, I am committed to ethical guidelines around boundaries and confidentiality. If you are a current or former client and encounter this page, please know that I will not engage publicly in ways that reveal or acknowledge our therapeutic relationship.

Thank you for respecting the space where education, reflection, and personal growth meet.