Written by a client and shared with their consent.
“I only have forty bucks.”
I frantically recounted the bills in my purse. I was fourteen years old, standing in the basement of the NYC Harry Potter store. How was I going to get a souvenir and still have spare change for the rest of the trip?
Then I saw it: a small black postcard with a phoenix on it.
“That’s all you’re getting with forty dollars?” my chaperone asked incredulously.
I shrugged.
Later that day, I bought postcards of the twin towers and the five boroughs, and I returned from the trip with thirty dollars in my purse.
I remember this story now and laugh at how worried I was about money. But back then, I was obsessed with having complete control over everything, from money to grades to friendships. I was isolated and chronically anxious – counting every penny, overthinking every social interaction, re-checking every little homework assignment – until the summer after my junior year.
One evening after a 10-hour lifeguard shift, I was trying to relax in the library with my journal and a book. But I was worried that a guy was upset with me because he’d abruptly stopped responding to my texts. Also, my mom and I were fighting because I came home late the day before. Plus, AP scores were coming out in a week and–
I stood up and grabbed a pencil off the desk in front of me to get my thoughts down in my journal. I paused, the tip of the pencil suspended in the air.
“I’m tired of always worrying about the future,” I finally wrote. “I’m tired of anxiety attacks, back pain, and hours of rumination.”
“I’m here now, reading my favorite book while the sun sets. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but for now I’m going to enjoy the present.”
Later that night, I gazed at the postcard collection I’d hung up on the inside of my closet door.
The amber feathers of the phoenix usually reminded me of how lonely I felt on that school trip. Now, I felt the vivacious rush of Times Square at night. The brilliant shot of the Santa Fe capitol building used to bring back memories of family fights on that road trip. Now, I recalled the beauty of the adobe houses with bright blue doors.
Gradually, instead of focusing on what could go wrong, I started appreciating everyday joys and opening up to others more. Rather than stressing out about money, I splurged on real souvenirs. As I stopped worrying about offending my friends, I became a better, more empathetic one myself. And as I became less scared of rejection, I talked to strangers more often.
I also began to think more boldly and broadly about the career goals I’d had since I was little. My ultimate dream is to discover cures for mental illnesses, but I want to positively impact individual patients’ lives in ways besides slicing their brains open. The most important thing I’ll do is build a personal connection with each of my patients. I hope that by treating them with respect through their discomfort, pain, and vulnerability, they will realize that they are not alone.
I still worry about the future, but ever since that evening in the library, the quiet panic that I constantly felt has been replaced with confidence, gratitude, and search for connection. Recently, I was sitting at my desk on a Sunday afternoon, with the postcards from my travels still taped on the closet door to my left. I was nervous about starting school in two weeks, but I noticed that the sky was a perfect blue. My hands smelled like vanilla hand sanitizer. And later that evening, I was going out with that guy I was texting.
