In hindsight it all seems so obvious—I should have become a therapist years ago. Easy to say now, but if I hadn’t befriended Jennifer, a retired therapist, during COVID, I may never have found my path.
What struck me in my conversations with Jennifer was how fondly she spoke of her work with clients, and the satisfaction that watching their growth brought her. I was at a bit of a loose end at the time, finally on the other side of a dark time in my life, and feeling like I had the energy for one last big pivot. Something in Jennifer’s stories resonated deeply with me.
My dark period began in my late 30s. I was married to the love of my life and had two beautiful, healthy children. In hindsight, I realise I was on a slow decline that was accelerated by a difficult eviction that kind of pulled the rug from under me psychologically. Later on, I would describe my state as “walking depression”. I could function in a day-to-day sense, but my mind was an infinite wellspring of negative self-talk, accompanied by anxiety and a constricted feeling in my chest.
I knew I had to do something. I started a 6am running routine that ended with a cold ocean dip. I discovered bibliotherapy—‘Feeling Good’ by David Burns helped me understand my catastrophizing was common and reversible. Most importantly, a friend who’d been through his own struggles came back into my life and gave me a space to say anything I needed to. We met every Sunday morning for multiple coffees. Those conversations helped me feel lighter and more hopeful.
Eventually my mood improved. I learned to be kinder to myself. I even started training for a pilot’s license, wondering if that might become a career.
Then one Friday afternoon while cycling with my son, I got a call from St. Paul’s Hospital asking me to come in immediately for an MRI. The scan revealed a cholesteatoma—a growth behind my left ear. The following Monday, a surgical team spent seven and a half hours removing it, taking my hearing in that ear in the process.
It was a setback, but I found perspective quickly. I know someone whose life was upended by a cancerous brain tumor, who will always live with the possibility of recurrence. Living with one good ear means noisy gatherings are harder—background noise is difficult to tune out. But intimate conversations suit me perfectly. I realize now they always did.
That realization clarified something: I’ve never understood why we focus on trivial stuff and ignore the deep stuff. I love talking about the deep stuff. The stakes feel higher, and that sharpens my awareness.
To apply for my Masters of Counselling, I had to complete Psychology prerequisites—the most engaging subject I’d ever studied, despite having six previous years of university and a Masters in Aeronautical Engineering behind me. I didn’t get accepted the first time, so I volunteered in the community until they took me in. School had its ups and downs, but my biggest takeaway was this: the therapeutic relationship is everything. Research consistently shows it’s one of the most important factors in healing.
But I learned it firsthand. Connection is to our wellbeing as oxygen is to our lungs. Much of what I encounter in the therapy room stems from a lack of genuine connection, and I make it a priority to offer my clients an antidote—the same kind of presence that helped me through my darkest time.
That’s why I became a therapist. Because I know what it’s like to walk through darkness, and I know what it takes to find your way out. And because sometimes, the most healing thing is simply having someone truly listen.