The first time I sat in a therapist’s office I was 15. I can’t remember if I requested to be there, but I do remember being excited for the appointment. I knew enough to know that I loved talking about myself (what 15-year-old doesn’t?!) and if I got to talk about myself for an hour while some old guy asked me questions then I was all in. But I also needed help, advice. More than anything I needed hope.

At 15 I was a tall, lanky, late bloomer, with a perpetual naïveté and a desperate desire to be popular. Above all else I had horrific acne. It covered my face and arms and back.  While the physical wounds were bad enough, the emotional ones were just beginning…