TANISHA SHAH

(At the orca pod at Seacquarium, Miami)

Therapist – Hello Tokitae! How are you today?

Toki – Please, just call me Toki. I’m good. How are you?

Therapist – I’m well, thank you. So, what made you decide to seek therapy?

Toki – I’ve just been feeling really down lately —isolated. I overheard some of my trainers talking about their own therapy experiences and I thought if it helped them, it might help me too.

Therapist – That’s a great step, Toki. Just to let you know, we’ll go at your pace. So, we’ll talk about whatever you wish to talk about. Don’t feel pressured to say things you are not comfortable talking about.

Toki – Thanks. I don’t know where to start. I’ve been feeling stuck —physically and emotionally. As if I’m just existing, not living. It’s hard to explain, but it’s like I’m trapped in a place that’s too small for me, thinking the same thoughts day after day.

(The therapist listens intently, jotting notes in her notepad)

Therapist – I understand. It’s okay to feel this way sometimes. Do you think you could tell me more about what’s been on your mind?

Toki – (Starts crying) Thank you for saying that. Everyone keeps telling me I should be grateful for my comfortable life here in Miami, where I get fed without having to hunt. But how can they really understand what it’s like for me?

Therapist – Your feelings are valid, Toki. I understand how hard it is to be told you should be grateful. Your feelings of frustration are significant and it is important to acknowledge them. But you shouldn’t put too much thought into other people’s opinions about your feelings.

Toki – I’m an apex predator meant for the big blue ocean, but I’m confined to a pool that’s a mere drop of water compared to my true home. (Continues) Home—Where is my home? The Pacific? Or this pool where I’ve spent my entire life?

Therapist – You don’t have to call it your home Toki. The Pacific has always been your true home.

Toki – I’m not sure. How can it be my home when I can barely remember it? I remember my family. For the first four years of my life, I swam in the vast Pacific. I remember it’s endless depths and the vast expanse of the blue waters. It was much cooler, clearer and the sounds were much more alive and full of life. I was surrounded by so many animals, small and big. The explosion of colours would make me gobsmacked sometimes.

You know, I’ve heard other orcas dive as deep as three hundred feet, and here, I’m in a pool that’s only twenty feet deep. I just feel so frustrated sometimes; I mean where do I go when the sun is blazing above me? (Voice rising) Don’t you think it’s inhumane to confine a human in a box for decades without them having done anything wrong? So why is it acceptable to trap me in this pool, with nowhere to go and no one to talk to?

Therapist – I’m truly sorry you’ve feeling this way. Your frustration is completely understandable. It’s indeed a harsh and inhumane situation. Tell me Toki, what do you usually do when you feel like this? Do you get angry, feel defeated? How do you cope with these feelings?

Toki – I guess it’s all of them…and none of them. I get angry, but then I feel defeated because there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t act out in front of my trainers without fearing the consequences. What if I hurt them, and they hurt me back?

(Sighs) This reminds me of Hugo. We shared a pool for ten years, from 1970 to 1980, until he died. (A lone tear escaped her eye)

Apparently, he suffered from a form of psychosis common in captive whales, as if living in this fishbowl wasn’t enough. He would often bang his head against the wall in frustration and depression, and eventually, succumbed to a brain aneurysm.

I miss Hugo deeply. We spent so much of our lives together in that pool. His absence created a void that I can’t fill nor ignore. When new animals arrived, like dolphins and pilot whales, I was so overwhelmed with grief that I treated them so harshly. I know I treated them unfairly. They too, were struggling with captivity. The lack of freedom. I was angry at the world for taking him away from me, and so I took it out on those poor creatures. This guilt weighs heavily on me, I deserve to be lonely and depressed.

Therapist – It’s completely natural to lash out when you’re grieving, Toki. You experienced a profound loss. You’re not a horrible orca; you’re someone who is struggling with intense emotions. If you were truly awful, you wouldn’t be sitting here feeling guilty about it. You shouldn’t be so harsh towards yourself. No one deserves to be confined their whole life, least of all you.

Toki – My suffering has been unrelenting, always inflicted by humans. Brutally captured and torn from my home and loved ones to endless days in this shallow pool. Sometimes I get blisters from the sun, but I still have to perform tricks all day. If I don’t, they send me to the vet. But they ignore the vet’s concerns about my depression and living conditions. They just want to make more money off me until I die and then move on to the next big attraction. I feel so bitter and distrustful, as if every performance a pale imitation of what my life was like in the wild.

Therapist – Trust is indeed a huge responsibility, and once it’s broken, it’s hard to regain. I understand why you’ve lost faith in humans. It’s incredibly brave of you to open up about this. If you’re comfortable discussing it, how does the idea of being back in the ocean feel to you?

Toki – I’ve heard whispers about efforts to return me to the Pacific, but I don’t believe it. I may not have been born here, but I’ve accepted that I will die here.

Therapist – But what if you did go back? Take a moment to imagine it. If you were free and back in the Pacific, how would you feel?

Toki – I try not to think about the ocean too much anymore. At first, the longing was unbearable. But over time, I learned to supress those feelings, even though they never completely disappear. The idea of returning to the Pacific feels like a distant dream. Would I even know how to swim in the ocean? Hunt for myself? The possibility of finding myself back in the big, blue ocean is scary. Being around all animals, each moving in their own unique way, making their own distinct noises, I wonder if I would ever yearn for captivity again if I was to find myself back in the ocean.

I’ve started to forget things —the smell, the sounds, the sensation of the water. In the beginning, everything was so new, and don’t get me wrong, I do love making the little humans happy. Their excitement when I perform, their tears when they leave, it all warms my heart. But I feel like I am too attached to their validation to ever go back to the way I was. And well, I overthink everything. I have the time, after all. I’m sorry if I’m venting too much. I hoped talking about it would help, but it doesn’t seem to make me feel any better.

Therapist – It’s okay, Toki. It sounds like you often overanalyse yourself, which can lead you into a vicious cycle of overthinking and then avoiding your thoughts to prevent guilt and despair. This is a common experience for those with anxious thoughts.

Toki – But why am I always so pessimistic? Why can’t I ever think positively?

Therapist – I think you might choose to stay pessimistic as a way to shield yourself from the pain of hope. It’s a common defensive mechanism. For example, when someone says, “I shouldn’t even bother hoping for a good outcome because I know I’ve failed”, it’s not always about truly believing they’ve failed. Sometimes it’s about preparing for disappointment, so if they do succeed, they joy feels even greater.

Toki – So, it’s like a defence mechanism? If I don’t expect too much, then I won’t be as much hurt if things don’t improve. But if they do, then the improvement feels even more rewarding.

Therapist – Exactly. It’s a way to protect yourself from disappointment. However, it’s only going to be more damaging in the long-term. Suppressing your emotions might seem like it helps in the short term, but those feelings can eventually affect your overall health and well-being.

Toki – I understand. I’m quite familiar with health issues, but most of mine come from living in captivity. But I do not wish to talk about them.

Therapist – Yes, let’s shift focus for a moment. What do you hope to achieve from this session? What did you imagine would come from talking with me?

Toki – Honestly, I’m not sure. I just wanted to talk to someone, get some things off my chest.

Therapist – That’s perfectly fine. You don’t need a specific outcome to benefit from therapy. Sometimes just having someone listen can significantly improve how we see ourselves and reduce stress. Is there anyone else you can talk to about your feelings?

Toki – No. I used to share my pool with dolphins, but now I’m alone. I miss my family. I don’t even know if they are okay. The day we were captured is such a blur. I can’t remember any specific details about it.

It was the day my whole life changed. How can I not remember it?

Therapist – Unfortunately, Toki, sometimes our brain shuts down memories of significantly traumatic events to protect us. Because the event was so overwhelming for you, your mind chose to shield you by blocking out the immediate memory.

Toki – I do remember the loud noises —both from the water and from outside. The New Year celebrations here in Miami still make me jump because of it. The first time I heard them in the pod, my trainers helped me through. I also know that not everyone survived.

Therapist – Unfortunately, that’s true. Some who survived the capture have died in captivity.

Toki – Do you know who’s working on arranging my return to the Pacific ocean?

Therapist – Yes, I do. It’s a collective effort involving animal right activists, several organisations, and the Lummi Nation— a tribe from the Pacific Northwest in America who consider you a relative. Did you know you have another name?

Toki – No, what is it?

Therapist – Sk’aliCh’elhtenaut. The name highlights your significance in their culture and community.

Toki – That feels strange —belonging to something. I always wondered what it would be like to have a sense of belonging again. I imagined it might be with other orcas or dolphins, but never humans. (Faintly smiling at the therapist) It doesn’t feel so bad.

Therapist – I’m glad to hear that, Toki. Our time is almost up for today. Do you have any final thoughts or comments?

Toki – Not really, I’m just kind of exhausted, even though all we did was sit and talk for an hour.

Therapist – That’s completely understandable. Opening up is emotionally draining. You did really well today. We addressed your concerns, explored potential solutions, and gave you a space to express yourself.

Toki – Thanks. It did feel good. I guess I’ll see soon?

Therapist – Of course. Until then, take care of yourself. Many people are working diligently to ensure you can return to the Pacific, safe and healthy.

Toki offered a final, gentle smile before turning back and swimming deep into her pod. A moment of reflection washed over her and she felt herself hoping to reclaim her lost home.

For the therapist, each session felt like a window into the soul of a creature longing for the freedom she had once known. Every story shared, every tear shed, strengthened her resolve to fight for Toki’s release. It was no longer just about hope — it was about justice.

*

News Broadcast:

“Lolita, also known as Tokitae or Toki, the oldest orca held in captivity, has died on Friday due to health complications, just five months after plans were announced to return her back to the Pacific…”

The words cut through the empty room where the therapist sat, with her eyes fixed on the screen as the report continued, recounting Toki’s years of captivity and the heartbreaking news of her passing. The world she had hoped for Toki—one where she could live in the wild again—now felt so painfully out of reach.

Tears welled up in her eyes, not just for Toki, but for all the orcas whose dreams of freedom remain unfulfilled. Toki’s story was over, but her mission wasn’t.

She felt like she had failed Toki, yet she also knew she couldn’t afford to let that failure stop her fight. The determination that had faltered for a moment came back, burning brighter.

*

(At the orca pod at MarineLand, Canada)

Therapist – Hello Kiska, it’s good to see you. How are you today?

Kiska – (Kiska’s tired eyes met the hers, the weight of decades of isolation visible in her gaze.) Hi, I don’t know where to start. I just feel so lonely.

Therapist – That’s okay, Kiska. This is a safe space. You can talk about whatever you need to. Your story is important.

As Kiska began to speak, the therapist listened intently, knowing that each story she hears reaffirms her determination to live in a world where animals are no longer exploited for human pleasure.