Reflections

He quickly dismissed the idea of an anxiety disorder being real with one big blanket statement to the group gathered at the table. The mother, at a nearby table, overheard his remark and wanted so much to say something but couldn't.  She wanted to tell him how real the panic attacks are. She wanted to tell him how manic the text messages can be when her daughter is in crisis. She wanted to tell him about the sobs and tears expressed about never being good enough or understanding what needed to be understood.  She wanted to tell him about the periods of faintness and nausea that sometimes arrive with an anxiety induced episode.  She wanted to ask him if he knew what it felt like not to be able to catch your breath in public places.  She wanted to tell him all this and more but couldn't.  As she shares her story with me, I become frustrated. I am frustrated for the mom. I am frustrated that just because someone doesn't have experience with a disorder, t...

It was the end of a long few days. Days that felt fuller of mistakes than accomplishments. Days that felt bumpier than they needed to be. I was saying good night to a colleague and caught myself almost commenting about how hard this job is. And in that thought, a split moment, my mind hit rewind like an old cassette tape. Back to the third grade and I am writing about how I wanted to grow up and become a teacher. To me, there was no greater goal than to become an educator. And then, I'm remembering watching my mom and her struggle through grueling jobs like waitress, chambermaid, bartender and cashier. She worked long shifts and often without full compensation due. She'd come home, worn out and dog gone tired. Those were hard jobs. I was only having a hard day. The field I've worked in since 1992 isn't my job. It's a calling. As cheeky as that sounds, how fortunate have I been to work in a field I so admired since age 8? The experience didn't come with...