Bruce M Whealton, Jr.

It was April 15, 2000. I had a few books stacked beside the bed—reading material that reflected the many states of mind I moved through in a week: psychodynamic theory, ego state therapy, even a book written by a woman with dissociative identities using collages and magazine cutouts to represent the parts of herself.

I had been reflecting on all of it—how we carry different selves inside us, how trauma and healing play out over time—when Lynn appeared at the doorway.

She had that mischievous smile I loved.

“I want sex,” she said, straightforward as ever.

My heart lifted. “Me too.”

We undressed quickly, comfortably. Familiar, yet new each time. The kind of comfort and chemistry that only deep love can produce. When she moved toward the bed, her gaze locked with mine, I felt the same awe I always did. Like seeing her again for the first time.

She climbed on top of me, our lips finding each other fast, hungry. Her body pressed close, arms wrapped tightly around me, the space between us seeming to vanish.

“I feel like I can’t get close enough,” she breathed, her mouth pressing into mine like she was trying to merge with me—hungry, urgent, needing more than just touch.

“I know,” I said, pulling her even closer.

She shifted, her breath catching as our bodies moved together. Then, gently but firmly, she paused.

“You’re too close, sweetie,” she said with a soft sigh, her meaning unspoken but understood.

We had talked about it before—her health, the impossibility of pregnancy due to her condition. It was the one boundary we couldn’t cross, no matter how much we wanted to become one in every way.

But still, we held each other. Moved together. Loved each other as fully as two people can.

The intensity built. She clung to me, her body not arching but wrapping itself around mine—like she was trying to become part of me. Our mouths met again and again, hungry, urgent, like we could dissolve into each other if we just held tight enough.

And then—suddenly—I let go.

She felt it. Paused. Still. A quiet smile crossing her face.

There was silence, the kind that only happens when two people have given something wordless to each other.

She whispered, “We should shower.”

I caught my breath. “But you…”

She looked at me, her eyes soft. “I'm happy,” she said. “It’s okay.” 

I was confused a bit and wanted more for her.

This was about connection. About wanting and being wanted. About love so deep that it didn’t need to be measured. It amazed me that this kind of passion was still happening nearly every day - like we were newlyweds. Yet, we were years into the life as husband and wife. It didn’t feel routine. It felt alive. Urgent. Sacred.

Afterward, she went to start the shower while I stayed in bed, a wave of serenity washing over me.

We were in love—because she was in love with me. Because I was in love with her. Because we had become, in so many ways, one.

“I love you,” she said as we stepped into the water together.

“I love you so much,” I replied, heart full.

Then I laughed softly.

“What?” she asked.

“I was just thinking of that song by The Moody Blues—the way the singer repeats those lines like he’s overcome, like he just can’t hold it in.”

I spoke the words that the singer in the song sang:

'Cause I love you,
yes, I love you,
oh, how I love you,
oh, how I love you…'

“That’s how I feel,” I told her. “I want to tell the whole world that I love Lynn.”

She smiled, the way she always did when she knew I meant every word.

And I did. I would have shouted it from rooftops. Not just after making love, but anytime. Every day.

That night, as I lay beside her, I started thinking about her dreams. About how much I wanted her happiness. She had talked about getting her Master of Fine Arts one day. Maybe I could help with that. Maybe I could buy her a kiln so she could fire her pottery at home. Maybe, with this practice I was building, I could give her more than just love. I could give her the things that filled her dreams.

I was in love. Not just based on the passion we shared but the peace and serenity that matched our connection together.

After graduating in 1996, I had officially become a therapist. But that alone wasn’t the milestone. The deeper truth is this: I was now helping others with the very issues that once defined me.

I began my post-graduate career at Brynn Marr Psychiatric Hospital, then worked briefly at two public mental health agencies. And while each role had moments of meaning—particularly the work I did directly with clients—it became clear that the settings themselves didn’t always align with my values. Bureaucracy, insurance limitations, and profit motives left little room for the kind of deep, relational work that had drawn me to this field in the first place.

So, I made a leap that once would have seemed impossible: I started a private psychotherapy practice.

Chris Hauge—my longtime mentor—was instrumental in helping me take that step. He offered his office space when he began scaling back toward retirement, allowing me to rent the space affordably by the hour. With his guidance, I took the necessary steps to get credentialed with insurance providers, set up billing systems, and advertise my services to the community.

And people came.

I began seeing clients for anxiety, depression, eating disorders, and relationship struggles. One client paid out of pocket for help with weight loss. Another came to me with questions about communication in his same-sex relationship, wondering whether I’d be comfortable hearing about the details. I was. More than comfortable—I was honored. People were trusting me with their most vulnerable truths. And they were doing so because they could feel that I understood.

Because I did.

What once had been sources of shame—my social phobia, my dating inexperience, my fear of being seen—had now become bridges. Not liabilities. Strengths. I had done the work, and I was continuing to do it. I was in therapy myself, pursuing a form of psychodynamic work rooted in self-awareness, free association, and emotional insight. I didn’t want my past to distort the present—not mine, and certainly not my clients’.

The therapy I offered wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And it mattered.

As my caseload grew, I outgrew the shared office arrangement and moved into my own space. I was fully self-employed, fully licensed, and finally—fully believing in my own capacity to help others heal.

Lynn and I went out to celebrate. It wasn’t just a milestone in my career—it was a moment of quiet triumph. Not flashy. Not loud. Just the two of us, sharing a meal, holding hands across the table, knowing how far we had come.

So much had changed since the days when I thought I had nothing to offer.

Now, I was a therapist with a thriving practice, a deep belief in human healing, and a partner who believed in me even before I did.

And maybe, in helping others become whole, I was continuing to see my value to others.

Preparing an Office for Therapy - A Space of My Own

My private practice had grown faster than I could have imagined. At first, I was renting space by the hour from Chris Hauge—my mentor and supporter—but within a few short months, I was seeing clients nearly full-time. It no longer made sense to rent by the hour. The numbers told the story: I had reached a point where a dedicated space wasn’t just a dream—it was the next step.

With Lynn’s support, I found an office in downtown Wilmington, on Chestnut Street. The rent was $400 a month, which was far less than what I would be paying if I continued renting hourly. Within a month, I had already passed that threshold—and we both knew it was time.

The space was exactly what I needed. It was part of a long hallway of offices in a building shared with other professionals, including a lawyer and a few other therapists. It came with a receptionist, a quiet waiting room, and access to a shared conference room I could book when needed.

Lynn and I jumped right into setting it up. We scoured yard sales for a comfortable couch, picked up pillows to make the space inviting, and bought a desk and chair from Office Depot. It was a whirlwind of practical and emotional preparation. I had never cared much about how things looked, but Lynn did—and thanks to her, the space felt warm, welcoming, and professional. Without her help, I would have been self-conscious, worrying if the space felt right for my clients.

We added a whiteboard for diagrams and notes. I framed my degree, licensure, and hypnosis certification. These weren’t just decorations—they were symbols of a journey that had once felt out of reach. From a young man too anxious to speak in class, I had become someone clients sought out for healing and support.

We also prepared for the full range of needs. I added chairs for potential group sessions and stocked a small toy box for play therapy with children. I didn’t expect a large number of child clients, but I wanted to be ready. I remembered how lost I’d felt during my first internship with kids—and I had since studied play therapy with more intention.

The receptionist was helpful with greeting clients, answering the phone, and handling basic tasks during regular business hours. I kept the more personal aspects—like therapy notes, billing conversations, and scheduling—between me and my clients to maintain confidentiality and control. After hours, I had a key and alarm code, and I often stayed late to see clients who couldn’t come during the day.

And then, suddenly, I was here: practicing full-time in my own space. Not as a student, not as a paraprofessional, not as someone tagging along on someone else’s license.

I was the therapist. The space was mine.

It’s hard to describe what that felt like. Euphoric. Surreal. Joyful. And above all, deeply earned.

Lynn and I celebrated the way we often did: with a quiet dinner out, holding hands across the table, hearts full. I felt like I wanted to hang a metaphorical plaque on the wall of my life—“Here. Here is where it all became real.”

Not long before, I could barely imagine a life like this. Now I was living it.

And it was beautiful.

In the last chapter, I mentioned being employed at Brynn Marr Psychiatric Hospital. While the work with clients was rewarding, the values and norms of the setting were not a good match. I then worked in two public mental health settings. The second one was Sampson County Mental Health Center. That lasted just about 9 months before I wanted to move into private practice.

I was able to complete all the requirements for licensure as a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) within the state of North Carolina before I left my employment at Sampson County Mental Health Center.

It was clear that whatever problems I had on the jobs at this agency or at Brynn Marr Psychiatric Hospital had nothing to do with how I performed with clients or patients.

During this time, I had sought feedback, counseling, support, and guidance from my colleagues. I had joined the local chapter of the Society for Clinical Social Workers which had regular meetings where I could interact with colleagues in a congenial setting where we got to share our ideas, request feedback on casework, and learn from one another.

It is through these meetings that I kept in touch with Chris Hauge who was a mentor of mine as I have mentioned previously.

I had approached Chris seeking advice on entering private practice because I looked up to him... I had known that he had kept a private practice for some time. He had been very supportive of my goals as they related to making a positive difference in the lives of others.

The Keys to Success and Accomplishments

As it turned out, Chris said that he was considering retirement and that he was cutting back his office hours. He offered to let me rent his office space at a certain rate per hour if and when I used the office. This was a very affordable way for me to find success.

I believe it was about $15 per hour - Chris wasn't using the office anyway during these hours. He told me the hours in which he used the office and when the office would be available. He shared an office with a partner - they had the main waiting room and reception area and two private office rooms where providers, like myself, could meet with clients.

If I had to build a private practice on my own, it could be challenging to get started. I would need to build a base of clients that would be paying every week for treatment with me. If you rent an office full time you have access to the building any time, day or night, but you pay a monthly rate to do this.

The cost to rent an office every month would be higher than the costs that Lynn and I were paying to rent our home - though her mother had been renting it to us and therefore we had gotten a great deal, a cheap rate for renting a home.

Chris gave me a key, introduced me to his partner and we discussed how I would record the hours in which I was going to use the office. He had a schedule I could consult to find out when the office was available.

There are so many things to consider when you are pursuing a career in this field and when you are seeking to work in private practice. As noted, I had to consider Professional Liability Insurance also called malpractice insurance, which are different names for the same thing. Chris needed to know that I had this coverage.

Billing is another issue. I had to file insurance claims for treatment with a client's insurance company or agency. So, I had to get registered with various insurance companies including Medicare.

I had contracted with someone to do the medical billing as well and I got a post office box (PO Box) for non-personal mail.

Having all my mail go to Chris' office didn't seem like something that I wanted to do yet. If I did not go to the office because I didn't have a client that day, then I might miss my mail that day. There was a place where I could get a PO Box close to our home.

It's great to have someone with whom you can consult when you are doing all these things and Chris was helpful in this regard as well.

Then I had to advertise in the newspaper and online. The internet was still a bit new in the late 90s, but I was able to create a website.

Other Advice That I Received from Colleagues

It's important to reflect upon the support I got from colleagues as well as the therapy or treatment that I had been receiving.

I became interested or curious to learn something about psychoanalysis and I began to study this formally from an organization that provides certification in psychodynamic/psychoanalytic therapy. The organization provided learning objectives, credits, coursework, as well as certifications for mental health and psychological professionals.

I would go and see Marjorie Israel, who worked out of her home. She was a clinical social worker like myself and I met her at those meetings.

Marjorie invited me to her home office. It was an interesting and scenic location. She had a nice yard with flowers and plants in a beautiful and serene garden with a curving sidewalk.

I would lay back on her couch and do free association or recount my dreams. It was reminiscent of Freudian psychoanalysis with the psychoanalyst and the couch. Marjorie said that she had to modify her approach since psychoanalysis traditionally had been done with a client coming four or five days a week for years.

Oh, I was paying her out of pocket, also. Lynn and I didn't have a great deal of money but she was supportive of me getting the guidance and support that I needed.

She also engaged in more talking than traditional psychoanalysis. 

While so much of psychoanalytic theory is hard to prove with research, I was interested in a technique where I would not be censoring anything at all. I was interested in making sure that I covered everything going through my mind – my motivations and hidden desires. I didn't want any issues from my past to interfere with my role as a therapist for clients.

It is so special that Lynn didn't ask me to work for a big agency that might offer "good insurance." We both knew that insurance wasn't the answer. She was born with a pre-existing condition. Even forcing insurance companies to cover pre-existing conditions is not a guarantee that we would need.

Starting My Practice

One of my counselors cautioned me that Wilmington was a saturated market, meaning there probably isn't a market for another psychotherapist in the Wilmington area.

I was going to prove him wrong, which would make him happy actually. I mean, he had my best interests in mind. He was speaking only about the market for therapists.

I did start to pick up clients rather fast. I had selected a few words to use in the advertisements as specialization areas that I hoped would be problems that people in the area had and/or things that interested me.  So, initially, I thought of advertising that I could help individuals who are dealing with anxiety, depression, eating disorders, and relationship issues. 

I had previously had problems with relationships which was manifested in the form of shyness, social anxiety, and social phobia. 

I added that I could use hypnosis to help with quitting smoking, weight loss, or other problems.

This seemed to work out well for me. I used a second phone number that rang at my home, but the location of where I was living was not revealed.

One guy started paying me out of pocket for weight loss.

Then I picked up a client who had relationship issues. He said that he was gay and asked if I could help. I reported that I could help. To me, relationships require active listening. So, I would demonstrate that in the sessions with the client and help him to learn how to increase his communication skills in the same way.

It's interesting that people in relationships that are non-traditional relationships will understandably want to know if we (the therapists) are comfortable listening to details about their intimate relationships.

Returning to the topic of psychoanalysis, we get terms like transference and countertransference from this field.

Transference is about how the client reacts to or responds to the therapist. It can relate to projection where a client projects onto the therapist ideas and feelings that exist in another relationship.

Countertransference is how therapists respond to the client and the client's behaviors. I was working on my own "issues" to ensure that none of my past was carried into the therapy sessions with others and would cloud my judgment. This was part of why I went for analysis with Marjorie.

Anyway, I also picked up a client who was dealing with major depression. Another issue that I was treating was anorexia. I had taken on a client who was in college and had come home with her family hoping to return to college later.

My client base was growing, and it was getting to the point that I needed more access to the office than what was available while renting from Chris. I also found that by paying a flat rate every month, I could save money.

Recognizing these accomplishments was amazing and a cause for celebration. So, Lynn and I went out to dinner at one of our favorite restaurants. Everything was amazing and a celebration was called for!

This has been an overview of the various types of clients I was seeing and the problems or issues I was treating. Later chapters will go into more detail so I will ask you to keep reading with me.

First, let's talk about family life so that you, dear reader, will know that I had another life outside the office. 

Graduating in May 1996 with my Master’s in Social Work should have been the climax of a long journey. But in truth, it felt more like a beginning. The real transformation—becoming a therapist, becoming myself—was just taking shape.

I accepted a position as a therapist at Brynn Marr Psychiatric Hospital, a locked inpatient facility in Jacksonville, North Carolina, not far from Camp Lejeune. It felt like a natural next step after my internship at The Oaks. I was no longer an intern. I was the therapist—one of two on the adult unit, responsible for half the patients under my care.

Leading therapy groups was a routine part of the job, and I accepted that without hesitation during the interview. The person who NEVER spoke in small classrooms at Georgia Tech was now agreeing to fascilitate therapy groups. But now? It felt like a culmination. Beginning four years ago, I had stood at open mics reading poetry to strangers, declaring my love for Lynn. Now, I was standing in hospital rooms, holding space for pain, for hope, for change. All eyes were on me. Whether the patients thought the group therapy would help was less important than the importance I placed upon my role.

Group therapy sessions happened multiple times a week. Patients could also request individual sessions. And they did. Often. That meant the world to me—not because I had the answers, but because people felt safe with me. I was no longer the shy, unsure young man who avoided eye contact. I was a therapist, and I was showing up for people in ways I once thought impossible.

And I never forgot that I didn’t get here alone.

Lynn’s support wasn’t just moral—it was foundational. She had walked beside me through my transition from engineering to social work, believing in me before I fully believed in myself. Every step of my success was built on the foundation of her steady love.

Not everything about the job was ideal. Brynn Marr was a for-profit hospital, and it quickly became clear that treatment was often dictated by reimbursement policies. One patient, Victoria—a woman with anorexia and suspected Borderline Personality Disorder - quickly exhausted her covered Medicare days. My supervisor wanted to discharge her, but in the mean time, waiting for a new placement, she would continue to see me for therapy. Not the other therapist. Me.

I couldn’t turn her away. She needed care, not just a referral. And when it became clear that the unit was becoming a hostile environment for her, and when my supervisor asked me, I told him: “Yes, I think this is a hostile and non-therapeutic environment for her.”

When she was confronted by multiple staff, I made sure to be at her side. Not to rescue her, but to stand beside her. To be someone consistent. Someone who didn’t flinch.

That’s what therapy often is—just staying with someone in the hard moments.

She was volatile at times, and the term “borderline” was thrown around like an insult. But I never stopped seeing her as a full person. She might storm out one day and return the next like nothing happened. That was okay. I stayed steady. And when she was told she had to attend therapy groups which were conducted by either me or the other therapist on the unit, Victoria stated emphatically, “Fine, I’ll go to Bruce’s groups and that’s it.” The other therapist was a woman with maybe 2 or 3 year’s experience.

One afternoon, that trust was still unfolding—Victoria and I were in session when the phone rang at my desk. The storm outside had intensified. Hurricane Fran was aimed with the eye of the storm coming right up the Cape Fear river where we lived in Wilmington.

It was Lynn.

“What are you doing?” she asked—not panicked, not pleading, but with that firm, unmistakable tone she used when something mattered.

“I’m working,” I said, as if that explained everything.

“You need to come home now!” she said, emphatically “The roads are flooding.”

There wasn’t time for her to explain anything else about her worries about me arriving home safely or her being alone. I couldn’t believe that some aspect of the indifference I had known growing up from my parents had influenced this entirely different relationship. She might have been firm but it was out of love and not convenience for her.

Her voice carried what my parents never did. When I was 18, about to go to college, my father told me to get rid of the fort built when I was a younger kid. The only reason it was still there when I was older was as another place to hide or a temporary home for my friend Paul. I had the crazy idea that I could just burn it down. So, in the middle of the summer, in the evening as darkness arrived, my friend Ken and I decided to burn it down. Talk about reckless and crazy! There was a propane heater inside with tanks of propane in there. Two of them had shot up like rockets missing Ken who was on the top dropping water that I brought from the stream.

There was something different about this memory. I had lost hope that I could put the fire out. I ran up to tell my father to call the firestation. He said “no,” probaby thinking about how I could get in trouble. He didn’t confront me for having the irrational idea of burning it down. On the one hand he might have been concerned about me getting in trouble but I had only known indifference from my mother and father. Without taking time to explain more about how out of control the fire was, I rushed back into the woods behind our house to keep bringing water from the stream to put it out. It’s tragic that I had to wonder about all the tangled ideas that I had back then that came rushing back. Was he confident I could put out the fire? It’s amazing the neighbors didn’t pitch in. Was it just too much for a stoic and indifferent father to cause his son to get in trouble?

Why am I interveaving this memory into my narrative? This is one of those few times when I can only hope that the reader can infer some meaning to this.

Twelve years later with a hurricane coming at Wilmington, I realized that I mattered and I felt something entirely different when Lynn told me to come home now! My decisions and choices took on a different meaning with Lynn. There was love.

I told Lynn, “I am leaving now.” And I added, softly and with tenderness, “I’m sorry.” And I meant it.

I turned to Victoria and said in a hurried tone, “I have to go home.” She had put two and two together in this rare instance of a therapy session being interrupted.

I left the hospital and drove through streets that were fast becoming rivers. Water rose up to the hood of my car. It was pure luck that I made it back without getting stranded. But love—not luck—is what got me to leave.

That was the moment I saw something I hadn’t fully understood until then.

This wasn’t just a job I’d chosen. This wasn’t just a career I had trained for. It was a life I was building. And someone was waiting for me in that life—not out of obligation, but out of love.

She was home, alone, afraid. And she needed me. Not just safe. With her.

I’d never known that kind of need before - not from my parents, not from anyone. But I knew it now.

And I wasn’t going to take it for granted.

By the time I entered graduate school in 1993, I had already spent nearly a decade preparing for the person I was becoming—not just professionally, but emotionally, socially, and spiritually. What began at age eighteen as a painful struggle with shyness and toxic shame had, through small but steady steps, transformed into something resilient, intentional, and deeply rooted in empathy.

It didn’t happen overnight. My career shift from engineering to psychiatric social work wasn’t just a change in job title—it was the culmination of years of internal and external labor. Long before I ever earned a paycheck for helping others, I had already been doing the work.

At Sherwood Village, a supportive housing complex for people with chronic mental illness, I spent weekends on call—providing emotional support, checking in on residents, helping coordinate group meetings and outings. Though I was technically staff, it often felt more like being part of a large, loving community. They trusted me. They felt seen. That kind of trust—the kind earned slowly, through empathy, consistency, and presence—became one of the greatest affirmations of my path. It wasn’t theory. It was real.

At Georgia Regional Hospital, and later The Oaks in Wilmington, I volunteered alongside clinical social workers who saw something in me and helped cultivate it. Chris Hauge, in particular, became a mentor who gave me real responsibilities—intake assessments, participation in therapy groups, and eventually, my second-year graduate internship. His approach, grounded in authenticity and experiential techniques, helped shape the kind of therapist I would become: transparent, emotionally present, and deeply human.

Graduate school itself was demanding—academically and logistically. I commuted long hours, worked weekends, and balanced internships with coursework. My first-year placement at the mental health center wasn’t a great fit—especially on the children’s unit—but even that taught me something: not every environment would be mine to thrive in, but every one could teach me something.

That year, I also worked with day treatment and homeless outreach programs. It was during that time I created a “street sheet”—a resource guide for people experiencing homelessness in Wilmington. Ironically, years later, I would be handed that very same sheet when I found myself in crisis. Life has a strange way of returning to you what you once offered to others.

By my second year, I had no doubt I was on the right path. At The Oaks, I finally felt fully alive in my work. I co-facilitated groups, led guided imagery sessions, practiced active listening, and slowly began offering brief individual therapy sessions. What astonished me most was how open patients were—how much they wanted to share when they felt truly seen.

I wasn’t perfect. I made mistakes. I stumbled through awkward moments and carried the weight of self-doubt. But I kept going. Because by then, I had learned something vital: showing up with empathy, honesty, and the willingness to learn is sometimes more powerful than having all the answers.

This chapter of my life—this decade of growth—wasn’t about finishing a degree or getting a title. It was about becoming someone I could respect. Someone others could trust. Someone who believed, finally, in the possibility of healing.

I had overcome more than shyness. I had crossed a threshold: from observer to participant, from anxious outsider to trusted guide. And I wasn’t just becoming a therapist.

I was becoming myself.

All of this could be a story in itself—the steady unfolding of who I was meant to be. I wasn’t just learning a profession; I was undoing years of silence, shame, and invisibility. I was continuing a journey that had begun at eighteen, in the quiet refuge of weekly counseling sessions at Georgia Tech. For five years, with the same therapist, I explored what it meant to live fully, to speak my truth, to grow. And that same energy carried me through these transformative years—from volunteer, to intern, to someone who had earned a place at the table, not by pretending to be someone else, but by finally becoming who I was always meant to be.

In an earlier chapter, I described the most meaningful accomplishment of my life: building a family with Lynn. As husband and wife, we were a family in every way that mattered.

But long before I could meet someone like Lynn—let alone be ready for the kind of connection we shared—I had to become someone else entirely. I had to grow.

During college, I spent five years trying to overcome what I once called “shyness,” but what I now recognize as social anxiety and a severe lack of interpersonal skills. The person I was at eighteen could barely hold a conversation, let alone navigate the emotional landscape of love, intimacy, and healing. To even meet Lynn, to express my interest in her, required a set of relational and emotional skills I hadn’t yet developed when I entered college.

Ironically, I was preparing to be a social worker even while studying engineering at a school that didn’t even offer a degree in social work. I just didn’t know it yet. It wasn’t until much later that I recognized those years as a time of transformation, not just academically but psychologically and spiritually.

As I mentioned earlier, engineering was never a good match for me. But in high school, no one gave us aptitude tests. No one sat down to ask what kind of life might suit us. So, I did what seemed practical. What was expected. What sounded respectable. It wasn’t until I was immersed in therapy and taking elective courses in psychology that I began to see another possibility.

Psychology changed my life. Therapy saved it. And somewhere along the way, I realized I wanted to offer that same possibility to others.

When I moved to Wilmington in 1992, I was still finding my way professionally. I had accepted a six-month contract at Corning as a technical writer, but I was actively looking for opportunities in the mental health field. That search led me to The Oaks, the psychiatric hospital affiliated with New Hanover Regional Medical Center.

It was there that I met Chris Hauge, DSW, LCSW—a social worker and mentor who would become instrumental in my development. Chris supervised me during my second internship, helped me get started in private practice, and remained a professional touchstone for years. His influence was profound, not only because of what he taught but because of how he modeled authenticity.

At The Oaks, I started as a volunteer, but the work was anything but superficial. Chris assigned me to help complete intake assessments—detailed interviews that formed the foundation for diagnosis and treatment. He asked me to make diagnostic impressions before reviewing the psychiatrist’s notes, encouraging me to trust my observations and clinical reasoning. This practice, rare for a volunteer, deepened my understanding of mental health and validated my ability to contribute meaningfully—even before I began formal graduate training.

What stood out to me most was how Chris created space for authenticity. In his groups, staff were encouraged to be genuine—to respond not just clinically, but humanly. If a patient expressed feelings of worthlessness, the expectation wasn’t to retreat behind neutrality. It was to meet them with presence. Even something as simple as noticing and naming a patient’s strength could be part of the work. That kind of honesty wasn’t just permitted—it was modeled.

It might sound obvious, but in many clinical environments, that kind of openness is rare. Years later, I would encounter professionals who treated empathy like a liability—who worried that affirming a client too directly might be crossing a line. But back then, with Chris, I learned that healing could happen through relationship. Through realness. That was the kind of therapist I wanted to become.

When I returned years later for my internship, I saw even more clearly how the information gathered by clinical social workers often surpassed what the attending psychiatrists had available. Yet, in some later settings, I would find that physicians didn’t always want to hear those insights. There’s a hierarchy in medicine that doesn’t always leave space for the voices of those outside it. Still, I held onto what I had learned: that deep listening, careful attention, and compassionate presence could offer more than a title ever could.

At The Oaks, I was invited into the work in a way that felt real and urgent. There was no busy work, no meaningless tasks to “keep the volunteer engaged.” I had a key to an office where I could meet with patients privately. I sat in on group sessions. I helped complete required documentation. I saw the systems, and I saw the people inside them.

And I saw myself, more clearly each day, becoming who I was meant to be.

It wasn’t just about knowledge or training. It was about alignment—about discovering a life where my values, my skills, and my sense of purpose finally lined up.

I had been through the fire. I had faced self-doubt, shame, and misdirection. But I had emerged with something unshakable: a sense of who I was, and what I was here to do.

Helping others wasn’t just something I wanted to do—it was something I needed to do. It made life meaningful. And it gave me the kind of satisfaction that no paycheck or title ever could.

And so, I moved forward—no longer doubting whether I belonged, but knowing that I did.

Looking back now, I can say with absolute clarity: I was on the right path. I hadn’t just found a career.

I had found my calling.

During the summer before my senior year at Georgia Tech, I was assaulted with a different kind of violence—this time, not physical, but emotional and existential.

It came in the form of a phone call from my sister Carrie. She was distraught, crying, barely able to speak. She had just been assaulted by both of our parents. At nineteen, she had been trying to start fresh at a community college in Florida after the family relocated from Connecticut to Hobe Sound, following our father’s layoff.

I can still hear her voice. The way it trembled. The way she said she and her friend—who I vaguely remembered as the stunningly beautiful girl she often hung out with—had talked after the assault and agreed, “Next time, we’re calling the police.” But there wasn’t a next time. Carrie just moved out.

That phrase haunted me: Next time. It carried a bitter recognition. We had been abused before. And we both knew it. But until that moment, it had never been spoken so plainly.

From that day forward, I saw Carrie differently. And I saw my parents differently, too. There was a strange new discomfort when I visited them for Christmas. I wasn’t sure how to act. I didn’t want Carrie to think I had forgotten. I hadn’t. I couldn’t. But I also didn’t know how to confront what we now both knew.

My brother had an easier time, in part because of his size. At 5’11”, he could stand up to our father. I couldn’t. Not then. Not in the same way.

But something had started to shift inside me. I had begun to feel better about myself—thanks to the support I was getting at school, in counseling, and from my close friends Thomas and Jo-Lee. I hadn’t told my parents about the conversations I’d had with my friends about the abuse. They didn’t know how much those outside relationships were helping me heal.

At my graduation, my parents met Thomas and Jo-Lee. Jo-Lee, ever kind and warm, made an effort to be polite. Thomas was quieter, more reserved—but his silence carried weight. He knew what I’d been through. And he didn’t want to pretend. My mother later commented that she “got along” with Thomas but didn’t feel comfortable around Jo-Lee.

If only she knew how much more intensely Thomas felt. How much we all saw and remembered.

That’s the legacy of gaslighting. You know something happened. You remember it vividly. But the people who hurt you deny it ever occurred—or worse, they pretend you’re the one who’s changed.

Years later, in 2020, I brought it up to Carrie again. At first, she seemed to hesitate, as if she had forgotten. I reminded her of her friend—the one she confided in. The one I remembered, even decades later, because of how shaken Carrie had been at the time. But she deflected. Changed the subject. There was no acknowledgment.

Maybe it was too painful. Maybe it was a kind of self-protection. Or maybe it was just another way shame rewrites the story.

Whatever the reason, it left me alone again with the memory. Not just of what happened to me—but of what I witnessed happen to her.

It was against this backdrop that I moved back into my parents’ home after graduation—without realizing how much unspoken tension I was walking into. I thought it would be a transition. Just a place to pause while I made my next moves. But in truth, it was a test I didn’t yet know I was taking: Could I grow in a house where silence had been more powerful than truth?

And those memories didn’t stay locked in the past. Years later, I would still wake in the night—next to Lynn, in a home built on love and safety—shouting, flinching, trembling. Nightmares of being assaulted as a child would surge to the surface, vivid and raw. I worried, in those early moments of waking, whether my arms had moved in sleep, whether I might have hurt her. But Lynn would reassure me: You didn’t hit me. I’m okay. My body was reliving what my mind had tried to bury. The violence I grew up with didn’t just haunt my memories—it lived in my muscles, my breath, my dreams. And it would continue to live there, in my memories and nightmares, until I was at least thirty.

Before I could become the therapist I was meant to be—or the partner I would become with Lynn—I had to unlearn a great deal of what I thought I knew. Not about others. About myself.

By the mid-90s, I had built something beautiful with Lynn: a home, a deep bond, a shared life. But to understand how I got there, we need to rewind several years. Back to a version of myself that still wasn’t sure I was even allowed to choose my own path. And indeed, I had not even imagined a career in a helping profession when I first started college 1984 with no social skills. The person I was when I started college at 18 would have never imagined the career path I would later pursue.

I had learned so much in college about myself and how to overcome problems that I had when I entered college at 18. The problems at the time seemed to be limited to social anxiety or shyness.

I graduated from Georgia Tech in December 1989 with a degree in engineering—an achievement, on paper. But I’d known for at least two years that I was in the wrong field. I didn’t need a career in formulas and machines. I needed a life that made sense emotionally, spiritually, interpersonally. I needed to be with people, not things.

I had broached the idea of changing majors with my parents. The answer was clear: finish what you started. There was no room for nuance. No consideration of what it might mean to shift directions after investing years in the wrong path. So, I stayed the course. I got the degree. And quietly, I made other plans.

Even then, I knew I wasn’t going to be an engineer. I had already started taking psychology courses, minoring in the subject. I had spent five years in weekly therapy, learning more about myself than I ever did in any lecture hall. I had asked myself the hard questions: Who am I really? What matters to me? What do I want my life to be about?

And I had my answer: I wanted to be a therapist.

When I moved home after graduation, it wasn’t to rest. It was a strategic step. I needed experience in the mental health field—volunteer hours, recommendation letters, something to prove that this new path wasn’t a whim but a calling. I started volunteering at Georgia Regional Hospital, learning from the social work team and quietly confirming that this was the right place for me.

My parents never asked what I was doing. They didn’t ask what I wanted. I wasn’t expecting applause, but I had hoped for something—curiosity, encouragement, a glimmer of pride. What I received instead was silence. Or worse, judgment.

Decades later, my sister would say that I “didn’t do things the right way”—that I owed it to my parents to work as an engineer first before switching fields. As if my life were some kind of debt to be repaid. As if they had invested in me only for the return, not for the person I had become. She said I should’ve worked while getting my graduate degree at night, as though I could simply moonlight my way through a career change that required daytime internships, full-time training, and a complete reorientation of my skills and identity.

The ideas my sister shared just a few years ago were already implied way back in the early ’90s. I just hadn’t let it sink in. I hadn’t yet grasped the full depth of what it meant to be raised in a household where your inner world—your interests, your desires, your truths—didn’t matter.

It was my mother’s voice I heard the most, reminding me that what I wanted was irrelevant. That my dreams were a burden. That my worth was in what I produced or how it made them look, not who I was or what mattered to me. I felt like I was something they wanted to show off - something that they created and not a human being with my own preferences, desires, likes and dislikes, interests and values.

I wasn’t their child so much as their project—something to sculpt, to display, to prove they’d done something right. But I wasn’t a trophy. I was a person. And I wanted to be seen as one

And what made it all the more surreal was that my father—years earlier—had admitted to me that he knew engineering wasn’t the right field for me. He had seen it. He had known. And he said nothing. He had never said anything that could be interpreted as disagreement with my mother. It’s one of the many mysteries of our household: Did he agree with her? Did he simply defer? Did he believe his silence was love?

All I know is that in our home, disagreement didn’t happen. Not openly. Not safely. And now, looking back, I can see just how much that silence cost me.

This reminds me of the many disagreements Lynn and I navigated—openly, honestly—without it ever threatening our love for one another. The contrast is staggering.

Looking back now, I realize that what I needed from my family wasn’t financial support. I found my own way to pay for graduate school through Stafford Loans, as many students do. What I needed was interest. Respect. A sense that my future, and my happiness, mattered.

But it didn’t. Not to them.

And that’s what toxic shame does. It teaches you that your needs are unreasonable. That your dreams are indulgent. That wanting something different, something better, something more you, is wrong. Even when your body tells you otherwise. Even when every cell in your being knows you’re meant for something else.

I didn’t ask them to finance my new path. I didn’t eat much. I didn’t take up space. All I needed was room to grow. But even that was too much.

And yet, I grew anyway.

I got the experience I needed. I volunteered. I made connections. I applied to MSW programs with clarity, confidence, and conviction. And when I stepped into my first graduate-level class, I didn’t feel out of place.

I felt like I had finally arrived.

Every client I’ve ever helped owes something to that younger version of me—the one who didn’t give up. The one who refused to live someone else’s life. The one who found the courage to begin again.

And Lynn—she saw all of that. She believed in it. She walked alongside me not just as a partner, but as a witness to my becoming.

That, too, is part of this love story.

This section begins at a moment of triumph—my graduation from the University of South Carolina’s School of Social Work. After twelve years of striving, struggling, and sacrificing, I had finally reached the threshold of my chosen profession. I was no longer just pursuing a dream—I was living it.

For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to help others. Not in a vague or idealistic sense, but as a real, tangible act of service. And now, at last, I had the tools, the training, and the title to do just that.

I was passionate. Motivated. Relentless. The obstacles I’d faced along the way—shyness, insecurity, financial setbacks, emotional wounds—had not stopped me. They had shaped me into the kind of therapist I wanted to be: present, attuned, and deeply human.

But let me be clear—this work was never about me.

It was about the clients. The patients. The people who sat across from me in moments of crisis, confusion, or quiet desperation. My job was to meet them where they were. To resonate with their experience. To walk beside them—not ahead, not behind—with empathy and humility.

And when I say empathy, I don’t mean sympathy or detachment. I mean feeling with. If a client found peace, I felt it too. If they laughed, I laughed with them. If they hurt, I held that pain—not as mine, but as something sacred I had been entrusted to witness.

At the same time, I had to stay grounded. I had to hold my center. Because therapy is a delicate dance—mirroring without merging, attuning without absorbing. You learn to feel alongside someone without losing your own balance. That’s the art. That’s the calling.

All of this—this emotional labor, this healing work—was the backdrop to my life with Lynn.

We were building something beautiful together: a home, a rhythm, a love that felt both ordinary and extraordinary. But while Lynn was the heart of my life, being a therapist became the structure around it. My career didn’t define me—but it held me steady, even as deeper storms were gathering on the horizon.

This section will explore those years—years when I was finally doing what I had set out to do. When I believed I had found my purpose. When I was helping others heal, even as unseen fractures were beginning to form beneath the surface of my own life.

Let’s begin.

By the summer of our second year together, I can remember standing on a porch during one of Lynn’s pottery events. I didn’t know anyone else there. I felt a little out of place—but not alone. It was summer.

We walked in hand-in-hand.

Later, feeling a bit awkward I found a seat at a picnic table. Lynn right near me. I reached for her arm and whispered, “Sit on my lap,” guiding her gently as she sat my lap and turned to face a friend talking. There was a pause in her conversation as her acquaintance drifted away. My eyes were suddenly captivated by the shape of her leg revealed by her very short shorts - probably not even trying to be seductive… and her foot with a open sandle dangling there.

My thoughts were playful and seductive. My hand ran up her leg and kept moving, as if no one was watching. She just turned to grin at me. Not telling me to stop, just knowing we were in public and we understood that.

Her body against mine was familiar by now, and this was one of those moments when desire mingled seamlessly with peace. She turned to me and asked sweetly, “Are you doing okay, sweetie?”

My hand had stopped but still was on her leg. My answer was “Oh, yeah, I’m good.” She understood and smiled knowingly.

This wasn’t the only moment of sexual playfulness nor was I the one acting. Even while I was driving… well that’s a private matter… or was it? The memory. I was driving and whether or not a person higher up in a truck might see didn’t seem to change Lynn’s actions or desires to pleasure me… and not needing to ask permission. It would be like asking for consent to tickle a person - the non-predictable nature of the action makes it work.

Later, we visited my parents for Christmas. It seemed natual to do. I was clearly not comfortable with this despite choosing to visit. Part of me wanted to show them the beautiful and loving lady that I had, as if they cared. Another part of me wanted to show what love looked like.

It was about being close as a natural thing, not like newly we were newly weds but we were just close to one another. Being in their home made me nervous. I saw Lynn speaking to my mother and got up close… I wrapped my arms around Lynn. It said “I’m with her and not you.” It also said to Lynn, “I need you.”

Intimacy as Discovery, Not Performance

I had studied Masters and Johnson. I had worked with clients who described their sex lives in clinical detail. I knew the theories about compatibility, erogenous zones, dysfunction, technique. But nothing in those textbooks prepared me for what it meant to discover someone’s body through love—not judgment, not comparison.

Lynn and I weren’t performing for each other. We were exploring. We weren’t trying to “get it right.” We were figuring out what felt good—what was comfortable, what was sacred. There was no pressure to be experienced or skilled. There was only curiosity, trust, tenderness.

I never expected oral sex, and she didn’t either. Perhaps that was because of my queasiness about mucus, a recurring challenge due to her illness. I once admitted to her that I struggled with things like sputum samples. She understood. She never made me feel ashamed of that discomfort. And in return, we both created a space where no part of each other was taboo—even if there were boundaries.

We explored everything else. Joyfully. Lovingly. Respectfully.

And as time went on, we knew what we liked, what to ask for, and how to listen to each other’s bodies without shame.

The Sacredness of Sex

For me, sex with Lynn was never casual. It was sacramental. I was still a Christian at the time, and I believed deeply in the idea of two becoming one. Our bodies were our offerings. Our souls met in that intimacy—not in spite of her illness, but in full knowledge of it.

And yes, I was a romantic. But this wasn’t just romance. This was a spiritual union. And when we were wrapped together, as one body; I felt more connected to the divine than I ever had inside a church.

It’s true—some people confuse physical pleasure with love. But we weren’t confused. We were making love. And we did so not as an obligation, or a performance, but as a celebration of everything we were to each other.

If I’m honest, I was learning to be free in my body by loving hers. I wasn’t trying to impress her. I was just trying to love her as fully as I could. And she gave me the safety to do that.

That was the miracle.

Not the sex. Not the affection. But the safety. The shared knowing.

I had never known that before.

And I have never known it since.