It’s 1999. I’m 25, fresh out of graduate school, and working as a family therapist—despite never having taken a single class in family therapy while earning my Masters Degree in Mental Health Counseling. I am woefully unprepared for this role in all respects.
I sit across the desk from my boss, a tall woman with big glasses who I find intimidating on the best days and absolutely terrifying on the worst. She is giving me feedback on a recorded family therapy session I recently conducted for evaluation. Her feedback is harsh, delivered with no apparent care, and layered within a professional relationship that has never felt good to me. Today, like every day, I sense she doesn’t like me—maybe even holds a special contempt for me.
As she stares at me, I feel myself begin to well up inside. I try hard to fight back my tears, but I’ve never been able to stop a cry when it’s pending inside. The tears come out anyway.
“Are you crying, Becky?!” she asks.
Though technically a question, there’s no curiosity in her tone, and she doesn’t give me time to answer anyway.
“If you want to make it in this life, you better get your big girl pants on. It’s a man’s world out there and there is no room for tears. Come back here when you can talk to me without crying.”
I am dismissed.
I retreat to the office I share with two other young, equally unprepared therapists fresh out of graduate school. One glances at me knowingly. The other keeps her head down. They know their turn is coming. We say nothing.
Later that day, I take my lunch break as I do every day; escaping the oppressive, fear-filled building to eat my homemade sandwich on a bench in a common area outside. After I eat, I walk in circles, replaying the same internal conversation I have every single day of the work week.
“I cannot do this any longer. Something isn’t right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to feel. I’m not cut out for this. What am I going to do?”
During most of my workdays at this therapy office, I’m consumed with a swirl of uncomfortable emotions and confused thoughts as I do my best in a job that is too big for me under the critical eye of a toxic boss.
But on these daily lunch breaks, my intuition is clear. My inner voice shouts at me as I circle the commons.
After months of this daily hell, I decide I can’t take it anymore. I vow to quit. Having cycled through several jobs that felt terrible, I assume that I’m simply not made for the traditional workplace. I assume I can’t handle what seems to be the inevitable reality of work, so I need to find another way to support myself.
The next day, I walk into my boss’ office and give my notice. She says very little. I think she is relieved. I know I am. Just two years into my career as a therapist, I throw in the towel.
As soon as I quit, I sign up for a month-long yoga teacher training course in the Bahamas, financing the entire $2,250 fee on my credit card without a clue how I’ll pay it off.
At 25, I don’t yet recognize the privilege I hold—the ability to leave a toxic job without a clear plan, the freedom that comes with minimal expenses, and the safety net of a supportive boyfriend and parents who will catch me if I fall. I have options.
But ever the planner, I’m nervous about having no clear next step.
So I fixate on this yoga retreat. I get excited about having a transformational spiritual experience, learning to teach yoga “the right way”, and eventually becoming a full-time yoga instructor. I plan to continue teaching fitness classes and personal training after the retreat for income while I gradually build my yoga clientele and create a successful business.
This plan seems appealing because I imagine that Yoga instructors never experience the workplace anxiety I’ve endured. No fear-inducing responsibilities. No harsh bosses. No daily stomach knots. Just kind, peaceful people with flexible bodies and strong hearts, working to make the world better.
As usual, the Universe has different plans for me.
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