My Humble Beginning

On my first day of working with troubled kids, I unknowingly walked into utter chaos. Children were screaming and crying. Kids swore, threw solid blocks at one another, and ran out of the building.  And a frighteningly thin cape-clad boy jumped from atop one wobbly shelf to the next.

Initially, I was barred from fully entering the room because a deceivingly adorable cherub-faced 2 year old was throwing an impressive tantrum by the door. I watched as he completely dysregulated, crawled under the table, and began to scream obscenities while also melodically chanting "you have a stupid face."

I felt ill-equipped to handle this situation. I wanted to turn around and run away as fast as possible, but, for reasons I still have yet to identify, I did not. I walked right into the middle of the room, and observed as things deteriorated. Eventually, I engaged a few children and immediately felt out of my league. The caped child jumped onto a shelf in my area. One kid with an indecipherable speech impediment set him off. A toy was thrown. I moved to intervene, and got pelted in the head with a piece of jagged plastic.

I remember feeling helpless and stupid. I thought it was obvious that I had no idea what to do. I was sure the staff could see I was a moron and had no business being there. Then a nearby therapist came over. I don't remember exactly what she did, but I do recall thinking she was a genius. In minutes, she had miraculously diffused the situation, coaxed the caped boy down, and carried him out of the room. I was in awe of her skill, and simultaneously abashed at my own pathetic attempt to help. When the group ended, I kept thinking how bad I was at this work, and how frightening the whole experience had been. The last thing I remember about that day is this magical therapist telling someone not to thank her for helping because she'd "carry that kid around in a cape any day." Her unconditional regard for that child intrigued me.

Not long after, I began to think my perceptions about my ability were off-base. I was asked to fulfill similar roles more often, and eventually recruited to join the treatment team. I had several opportunities to work directly with this magical therapist. Eventually, I began to tell  her that I felt scared and unskilled often. I was routinely galvanized by her responses to these disclosures. She assured me that not only could I handle terrifying scenarios, but I did it all the time.

Often I did not believe her. She'd try to prove it by citing her observations of my interventions. I'd insist they were always accidental and unintentional. Usually we would agree to disagree, but the knowledge that she believed in me always encouraged me to continue on despite my discomfort. Because of her support, I assisted in intense situations that I would normally avoid. I took on perplexing challenges, and I got to see astonishing growth in some very needy kids.

Just before I left that job to pursue further education, I received a card from her that said:

"You are so talented at this work. I hope you realize how gifted you are shortly so that you can have the most amazing career ever."

I'm not sure that's necessarily true, but as I near the beginning of my internship and prepare to be unleashed into the clinical world, I think of this therapist often. When I think about frightening aspects of my future career, I hear her voice saying "but you do that all the time." When I'm certain I don't know how to handle specific scenarios I remember her arguing with me about my ability.

None of it changes my perception. I still feel naive and unprepared, but now I question the necessity of these feelings. The memories of her perspective and the knowledge that someone I admire believes in me, give me courage to face my fears and help others to do the same.