The first time I saw a therapist, I was 28 years old. I hadn't spoken to my mother in over a year, and I basically sobbed uncontrollably while saying everything I had kept predominantly bottled up for most of my life. My tears poured nonstop for the first several sessions, even when I wasn't upset. It seemed like an automatic response to being allowed to let everything out.
When I got to the part about how a mother's love is supposed to be unconditional and, if my own mother hates me, then I can't possibly be a decent person, my therapist prompted, "But you ultimately realized the thing about mothers is just a trope and it isn't necessarily true. You realized what your mother thinks has no bearing on who you are as a person... right?"
To which I replied, "...What?"