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.