My hand shook as I filled out the paperwork on the translucent, neon green clipboard. Upon completion, I sat in nervous anticipation, scouting out the other patrons in the building. I wondered why they were here. I’m sure they wondered why I, a 21-year-old college student, would be sitting on the same stiff waiting room chairs in the Lincoln Pediatric Group’s family therapy office.

They didn’t know that I’d been here before. I had been in one-hour sessions twice a week from age 3 to 6, dealing with the repercussions of a childhood trauma.

It had been 15 years since I had last been in that office. With every turn of a door handle my heart stopped. I didn’t know if I would remember the man who documented my words and progress before I even entered kindergarten.

I saw him before he saw me. His hair had a few more shades of grey and he had a gap between his teeth I didn’t recall, but his laugh and big kid-at-heart demeanor was eerily familiar. He was the same Dr. George I had played tiddlywinks with on the carpet, and who made coins disappear behind my ear. It had all really happened, I thought.

His office seemed completely different and larger than I remembered, but one detail struck me. Sitting on top of the wide desk amidst patient files and miscellaneous scraps of paper was a green glass baton. I was obsessed with it as a little girl. I’d run it through my fingers, sending a rush of navy and purple half-moon and star sequins from one end to the other. He smiled at my recognition, and handed it to me.

I glanced above the chair where he was sitting, noting the numerous certificates and diplomas framed neatly in rows, and held it together through the introductory small talk. “How’s school going? How’s your mom? What’s your major?” But when he asked me “What’s going on?” I fell apart.

I had left the “reason for appointment” space blank on the paperwork, not quite knowing how to say why I was here, but knowing that I needed to be. It had taken a year and a half to schedule the session. I saw it as a sign of weakness and defeat. I thought I could handle things on my own. But the disappointment, rejection and insecurity that mounted after freshman year of college weighed me down like gravity. I finally admitted to needing help.

I calculated my answers carefully as I gave him the short and sweet summary of my life from age 6 to 21, filling in the blanks since we had last talked. It felt weird to be spilling my guts to a guy who was still a little faded in my memory. But the great thing about my therapist is he doesn’t make it feel like “therapy.” It felt like a normal conversation with a close friend, with a bit more interrogation. Talking about my experiences wasn’t easy by any means, but I wanted to give myself a chance to move on and stop feeling trapped.

Often, finding the courage to schedule an appointment is harder than the therapy session itself. I admit I was hesitant to write about it because I know it can scare people off. But I have the opportunity to be a voice for others who may not be willing to talk about it. I’ve learned to disregard people who don’t support me, and be hopeful about finding those who will. Check out Anna’s story on page 8 to read about the actual, not stigmatized, process of therapy.

After one hour and 43 minutes, I peeled myself off of Dr. George’s enveloping couch. I was about to leave, but not before receiving a giant bear hug from a man who I had barely recognized hours before. “It’ll be okay, kid,” he said. And for once, I actually thought it would be.