For some people, therapy started with a heartbreak. For others, it was burnout that no amount of weekend jollof could fix. Then there are those who still whisper, “Me, talk to a stranger about my problems? God forbid.”

Yet, the numbers tell a quiet revolution. According to a 2024 survey by NOI Polls, nearly four in ten young Nigerians have considered or tried therapy in the past year, a sharp rise from barely 12 percent in 2019. Mental health platforms like She Writes Woman and MyTherapyApp report spikes in sign-ups, mostly from people aged 21 to 35.

Therapy is no longer a white people’s thing or a celebrity indulgence. It is becoming a language of survival, shared in group chats, whispered over suya nights, and confessed between overworked tech bros, tired creatives, and friends who have finally admitted that being “strong” all the time is exhausting.

Ada’s story: The brave beginning

When Ada first walked into her therapist’s office, she was sure it was a waste of her money and time. “Fifteen thousand naira just to talk?” she hissed. But months later, she now swears that it saved her and opened her eyes.

A 29-year-old marketing executive, Ada, says she hit a wall at a point in her career. “I was functioning, but I was empty,” she recalls. “Work was fine, friends were fine, but I felt like I was floating.” Therapy became her grounding space.
Her first session felt awkward, “like an interview I did not prepare for.” But slowly, she learned how to unpack things she had buried for years, her father’s absence, her fear of failure, her addiction to proving herself.

“I used to think therapy was only for people who had lost their minds,” Ada says with a laugh. “Now I realise it’s about finding your mind again.”

Tunde’s Story: The reluctant tech bro

For Tunde, therapy came after two panic attacks. “I thought I was dying,” he says. “Then I went to the hospital, and the doctor said, ‘Oga, you are stressed.’ I laughed because I did not even know stress could make you feel like that.”

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He found a therapist through a mental health app his HR team recommended. At first, he could not take it seriously. “I kept cracking jokes to avoid talking about real issues,” he admits. But when the therapist asked why he never allows himself to rest, he broke down.

“I realised that here, we do not rest. We just pause briefly before hustling again. I was tired, but I did not know how to stop,” he says. “Now, I am learning to slow down without feeling guilty. Therapy is not magic, but it helps.”

Vicky’s story: The preaching therapist

Vicky’s first therapy session nearly became her last.

“I booked a session because I was having panic attacks,” she says. “I was hoping to get coping tips, but halfway through, the woman started talking about demons and generational curses.”

According to Vicky, the therapist began quoting Bible verses about forgiveness and obedience. “She told me maybe my anxiety was because I had drifted from God,” Vicky recalls, rolling her eyes. “I was like, ma, please, I just need breathing techniques, not deliverance.”

She did not go back. But instead of giving up, she tried another therapist, this time, a therapist who actually listened without judgment. “It made all the difference,” she says. “I realised therapy is like dating; sometimes you meet the wrong one first. You just have to find your person.”

The sceptics and the strugglers

Of course, not everyone has found therapy easy or even accessible. Many young Nigerians still see it as a luxury or a “Western idea.” A single session can cost anywhere from ₦10,000 to ₦30,000, and for many, that is simply out of reach.

“I want to go,” says Femi, a 25-year-old content creator, “but I also want to eat.”
For others, the challenge is not money but vulnerability. “How do you tell someone you cry every night?” one guy joked. “They will just screenshot it.”

Still, something is shifting, and more Nigerian therapists are setting up online platforms, student-friendly rates, and even group therapy sessions that feel more like conversations than confessions.

Healing, Naija Style

Therapy has not erased the hustle, but it is helping people pause long enough to breathe. In a country where everything feels like survival mode, that small act, to stop and reflect, feels revolutionary.

Therapy here is not one-size-fits-all. For some, it looks like journaling after sessions. For others, it is praying, crying, or finally saying “no” without guilt.

As Ada puts it, “Healing is not a straight line. Some days you feel like you are back to square one. But now I know that progress sometimes looks like just showing up.”

For Tunde, it is less about being “fixed” and more about learning new tools to handle life. “We are all just trying to make sense of this mad place,” he says. “Therapy just helps you not to lose your mind while doing it.”

Cynthia Nwanonyiri