I’m sitting in the waiting area of the counseling center where I meet with my therapist at four o’clock every Monday afternoon.

I have my regular Flat White that I get from Starbucks on my way (if I didn’t have time to stop by the legendary Civil Coffee for their delicious black coffee).

To my left, there’s an old guy tapping on an iPad with his forefinger. To my right there’s a handsome fellow with a salt-and-pepper beard filling out the paperwork. Next to him is a boy with that 10-11 year old chubbiness. His Mom is sitting catty corner with a concerned pride in her eyes. You know the kind of look only moms give.

The thing that always strikes me when I sit here is the normal-ness of everyone. No one looks sickly or agitated or depressed.

It makes me wonder why they’re here. Did they experience a death close to them? Are they having a midlife crisis?

Are the kids being bullied at school? Were their parents divorced? Do they struggle with intense self-worth or anxiety like so many kids their age these days?

I want to both cry, imagining what they must have experienced, and tell them I’m so proud of them for being healthy enough to get help.

I think through all the reasons these normal people are getting therapy and then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and think, “Well, you look kind of normal. Why are you getting therapy?”

I’m sometimes kind of sheepish about using the word “therapy.” It sounds so clinical and dramatic. You don’t, typically “go to therapy” unless something crazy happened to you (even though you probably should anyways).

Despite this, I’m trying to be as open and honest about it as I would about anything else I do. It’s making me process life at a level and with a greater bird’s-eye perspective than when I’m slogging through life moment by moment.

Which is why I go.

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