When the judge asked why she objected to releasing my records, my therapist didn’t argue from emotion. She opened a folder containing thirty-one years of professional guidelines, case law summaries, and a timeline of my treatment. She explained that therapy only works when patients believe they can speak honestly without expecting every painful thought to become courtroom evidence. Then she added, “The petitioner isn’t seeking these records because they’re relevant. He’s seeking them because he hopes they’ll embarrass her.”
His attorney insisted my mental health was at issue. My therapist calmly replied that I’d never been diagnosed with any condition affecting my ability to parent, manage finances, or testify truthfully. If the court wanted that answer, she was prepared to give it under oath. But she warned that handing over months of deeply personal notes would reveal private discussions about grief, childhood trauma, and healing that had nothing to do with the divorce. The judge read the subpoena twice before asking one question: “Can you identify a specific entry you believe is relevant?” The attorney couldn’t.
The motion was denied. The judge ruled that generalized curiosity was not enough to invade privileged communications and that therapy should not become a weapon in ordinary divorce litigation. As we stepped into the hallway, I apologized to my therapist for dragging her into the case. She smiled, closed her folder, and said, “You didn’t. Someone else tried to. My job was simply to remind the court why people need a place where healing isn’t treated like evidence.”
