Dear Dr. Gerson,
I’m not sure you would recognize me if you saw me today. I’m 21 years old. I’m almost six feet tall. And I’ve grown emotionally just as much as I have physically. I’ve learned, changed, and evolved. I think you would be proud of me.
I’m a senior at Yale studying Economics with a concentration in Macroeconomic Theory. I love big picture thinking and look to apply my conceptual passions to the real world. You may recall that my family loved to travel. I’m fortunate that I’ve continued to travel the world and meet people of different cultures who challenge my thinking. I lived in Spain during high school as part of an immersion program and returned to the US fluent in Spanish. I studied International Trade at the London School of Economics after my first year of college. I started my own business to bridge the gap between students and local coffee shops. I worked for a venture capital firm in the Middle East and spent last school year traveling back and forth to Dubai. And I worked in Healthcare Investment Banking at Barclays this past summer in New York City. I’ve developed a love for risk and pressure. And I can handle responsibility. If you met me today, you’d never know that I used to be too scared to raise my hand in class. You’d never know how I cried each day when I came home from elementary school. You’d never know that I sat in your office at 8-years-old and told you that I wanted to kill myself.
I want you to know that I’m doing great. I’m happy when I wake up in the morning. I feel good that I make others laugh. And I feel proud when I look in the mirror. You helped me get to where I am today. And though I know words won’t do my gratitude justice, I want to thank you.
I’ve thanked people for doing something for me. I’ve thanked people for giving something to me. But I can’t remember ever thanking someone for believing in me, healing me, and building me. You deserve more than a simple “thank you”.
I’ve thought about you a great deal over these past years. And now that I am graduating in May, I want you to know how that little boy who first came to see you 13 years ago has grown and matured. You deserve to know how I came to be so proud of who I am today. You were more than a therapist. You were more than a mentor. You were my savior, lifting me with your optimism and reassurance; you were my friend when I needed one most. I came to trust you, confide in you, and believe you. I even came to look forward to seeing you. You gave me a toolbox of tricks and skills to help me build myself back up. I still carry that toolbox today, pulling out and using what you taught me.
Third grade was an inflection point for me. At eight years old, I lost all confidence in myself. I was convinced that everyone was smarter than me. I thought I was weak. I quickly lost confidence in my athletic ability. I didn’t think my friends liked me. I lost my desire to be interesting or interested. And when I lost interest, I lost passion. It all started when a boy in my class beat me up during recess. I had no idea why. I didn’t fight back because I didn’t think I could. I didn’t know that I could stand up for myself. Until I met you. You showed me how to shift my perspective.
I had everything that any 8-year-old could ever want. I lived in a beautiful house next to the park where I played Little League. All of my friends cheered for me during recess football. I had the largest collection of baseball cards organized perfectly by team and alphabetical order. I wore the largest collection of silly bands around school. I ate the best packed homemade lunches that every kid was desperate to trade for. My parents were both in the first car in the pick-up line when the bell rang at the end of the school day. I had everything except for all of the answers all of the time. And it didn’t matter what the subject was about -- school, sports, or the time of day. If I didn’t know the answer, I felt like I had nothing. To feel like I had nothing when everyone believed I had everything made me question whether I could ever be happy. I tried to be happy. But when I wasn’t, I stopped trying. I decided there must be something wrong with me.
I will never forget the day I sat in your office and blurted out through tears that I wanted to kill myself. I didn’t literally mean kill myself. At least I don’t think I did. But I’m not quite sure why I said I wanted to. I shocked you. My mom cried. I am sorry. I was overwhelmed.
We only met during lunch when my mom would whisk me away from school to talk to you. I didn’t allow myself to miss any school. You worked within my schedule, making time for me to feel comfortable. We met twice per week for five years. I dreaded our meetings at first, thinking that each was the same and another chance for me to fall behind in school.
I explained to you that I felt a constant pressure to know all of the answers all of the time. When I didn’t know the answer, I felt that the weight of the world crushed me. I remember telling you how exhausted I was. I woke up at 4:00 AM, unable to sleep. I watched SportsCenter until 5:00 AM to get the previous night’s scores recap. I watched the same taped episode again from 5:00 AM – 6:00 AM. I memorized every score, game, player, and highlight. If my friends at school talked about something that I didn’t know, I would break down crying.
I went to school each morning at 6:00 AM to meet my teacher before class began. Mrs. Belvedere and I reviewed the entire day’s curriculum before the other kids arrived at 8:00 AM. We read the class’ Language Arts stories. We solved each math problem on the Mad Minute. We conducted the same science experiments the class would do five hours later. We went through every discussion question and every answer. She showed me every trick, shortcut, and formula. I memorized all the material before the first kid arrived. And a few minutes before 8:00 AM, I ran to the bathroom to make it seem like I was arriving with the other kids. Our early morning meetings made me feel calmer, allowing me to breathe normally when the school day started. And when Mrs. Belvedere called on me during class, she pretended like I didn’t already have the answers. She knew I was fragile. She made me feel normal. She was great at keeping secrets. I wish I had thanked her then.
You and my mom listened while I unleashed my bottled-up anxiety, sadness, and fear. You sat across from me in your leather armchair, troubled and intrigued. You occasionally scribbled notes on your pad of paper. I wanted to know what you were writing. I was certain it was something bad about me. I tried to disappear in the brown L-shaped sofa when you wrote. I now realize your notes meant you were listening. You were a great listener. You made me want to fill the silence without saying a word. I came to talk to you. And I came to listen to you. “Talk to yourself,” you told me. “Repeat in your head: I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.” I thought you were dumb. But I didn’t have the answers. So, I talked to myself. I soon realized that I had the answers all along. I just had to tell myself that I did.
The young kid who sat in your office did not know how to thank you. He didn’t even believe there was much to be thankful for. His perspective was blocked by anxiety and his thoughts consumed his mind. That young boy still lives within me, but he does not define me. His memory marks my laborious work to leave him in the past -- to see beyond him. You taught me the power of perspective. I am so grateful for your time, patience, and perseverance.
I wrote my college essay about my love for asking questions that either don’t have answers, or whose answers are challenging to understand. I wrote about how I’m comfortable with the unknown. And about how I embrace uncertainty. I’m intrigued by the unfamiliar. I talk to myself. I tell myself that I can do this -- before a test; while I’m up to bat in a baseball game; before a job interview; when I feel overwhelmed. “I can do this” changed my life. You changed my life. I think about where I was and where I am now. And I feel whole.
I don’t know what the future holds for me, but I’m excited and ready to find out. I’m not nervous. I’m motivated. I know that I don’t have all of the answers. And that is okay. “Thank you” could not possibly express all of my gratitude.. You taught me how to help me love myself. You taught me how to help me heal myself. You made me want to show my friends and family and myself that I can do this, and you can too. I am forever thankful.
Until we meet in person soon,
By anonymous.
