In my reflections, I meditate on moments during my dance journey, my volunteering work in dementia care, and more.
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The office I moved into with my colleague was an empty, lifeless space when we first arrived. By the second week, we had already begun transforming it, filling it with plants, and as many books I could carry on my bike with every trip. Slowly, the space became more inviting, but it still felt incomplete. A psychologist's office should be neutral, yes, but it should also provoke thought, inviting clients to confront difficult feelings. Like the skeletal model in a doctor’s office, a subtle reminder of the inner layers we seldom think about yet are always there. Walking past other offices, I saw different artworks, bold colors stirring emotion, abstract shapes leaving room for interpretation and story, but with no personal touch.
Weeks passed, and our office has functioned as a haven for many conversations. Both my colleague and I saw clients here; when we had overlapping bookings, one of us would relocate. I prefer our office for its warmth and familiarity, and luckily for me, my colleague enjoys using the meeting room. We work in different departments, which shapes our caseloads, she focuses on aggression and property crimes, while I handle domestic violence. This often means I meet more parents and couples, often entrenched in cycles of harm.
I envision a specific atmosphere for my sessions, a space where people feel safe enough to speak about the things they are ashamed about. Because that is the guest that comes with them into the office and refuses to leave the room. The shame of being here. The shame of failing as a partner, a parent, a person. The shame of being sent here, singled out for having failed at something we all struggle with in various degrees. And while I trust the justice system to make the most fair decisions, life itself is profoundly unfair. It is fair that a perpetrator of violence must sit with a psychologist, but it is not fair that they are the client and I am the psychologist. A big part of these roles seem to have been shaped long before we met: by birth, by genes, by the families we were born into, by circumstances outside anyone’s control. A home where silence meant tension and noise meant screaming. A parent who left, who hurt, or who was seen hurting others. A family that avoided feelings, letting them fester and boil over. Children in these homes cannot escape, not then, not even as adults. They may leave physically, start their own families, but the cycle often follows. The shame of this continuation is unbearable, because no one who has experienced abuse wants it to persist in their life. Ever.
The first frame I hang on the wall holds this Chinese proverb. It hangs behind me, supporting me as I sit at my desk, a symbol of my own approach to the work. My method is simple: to acknowledge what has happened and find a way forward. Where others speak of misfortune when the old man loses his horse, I remain unmoved, like him. Even when the horse returns with others, and people call it luck, I stand firm. Whatever life blows our way, my choice is not to be swept away by it, but to keep walking.
塞翁失馬，焉知非福
(The old man who lost his horse, but it turned out for the best.)
Life is not fair. But within its unfairness lies a choice. Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor and the founder of logotherapy, wrote in Man's Search for Meaning: "Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms, to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way." This is the sliver of control we have, the ability to choose our attitude. So much in life is decided for us, but this choice remains ours. It is why we must take responsibility for the direction of our lives, the relationships we form, and the children we have created.
The second frame I hang, faces the clients directly. It holds a passage from my favorite story, The Little Prince. This is what I hope clients take with them when they leave. That while life may be unfair, responsibility is where their power begins.
"People have forgotten this truth," the fox said. "But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose."
