Counselor's Corner

“Psychology is a train.” Dr. Marshall Duke was closing his final lecture of our Introduction to Psychology class. Two hundred and fifty students, most of us college freshman, waited for him to continue. “Some of you will be getting off here and some will continue the journey. To all of you, I say this – I hope you have enjoyed the ride.”   I’ve carried the memory of that moment for over 25 years. I appreciate the metaphor and have used it to guide my self-reflection and decision-making when I find myself at a journey’s end, a crossroads, or when grappling with the question “Is this still working for me?” What I have learned since I sat in that lecture hall so many years ago is that each train carries three different passengers: (1) Those who are disembarking, (2) those who are comfortably seated with no intention of moving, and (3) those who sit somewhere in between “disembarking” and “I’m comfortable here.” I have been each of those passengers. We all have.   As this academic year

Nine years ago, when the boys were one, I took a mom-getaway weekend to Galveston. I found the perfect sign at one of the downtown shops. “Life Is What You Do With Your Back-Up Plan” was painted in blue letters on whitewashed wood. I loved that sign. I hung it in my office, as a daily reminder of the importance of flexibility and open-mindedness. Until one day, someone needed the reminder more than I did, so I gave it to him. As we near the finish line of this academic year, I find myself returning to the sentiment of the sign and reflecting on the back-up plan I’ve been living – we’ve been living – since the middle of March.   I think the hardest part of living any back-up plan is letting go of the way everything was supposed to happen and accepting the way it did happen or is happening.   I’m assuming many of you, like me, had a plan for the “end of May” and “ending the school year.”   I predicted that, in between juggling end-of-year events and celebrations, I’d be fantasizing a

“So who were the bad guys?” We were at the Bob Bullock Texas State History Museum one morning and I was explaining the battle of the Alamo to the boys.   I don’t remember how old I was when I first learned about the Alamo. I grew up hearing about it as a child and remember family trips to visit the mission, my brother’s coonskin cap that played the “Ballad of Davy Crockett” when the tail was squeezed, choosing the names “Crockett” and “Travis” for family pets, and watching the Fess Parker movie about Davy Crockett. The version of the battle of the Alamo that I learned from teachers, history books and visits to the mission favored the Texans who sacrificed their lives for independence and cast Santa Ana and his army as the bad guys who were merciless in their killing of the brave heroes. As I got older, I added some detail to the basic story I learned as a child, but the general story didn’t change until I was in my late 20s when I was co-facilitating a therapy group at a high school

Max said “BE STILL!” and he tamed them with the magic trick.. . This is my favorite line of one of my most beloved children’s books, Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. It’s the story of a boy named Max who was sent to his room for mischievous behavior. His room transformed into a magical land inhabited by monsters with loud roars, big teeth, and scary claws. He became their leader and enjoyed their company until he decided it was time to go home to “someone who loved him the best.” He returned to his room and found a warm dinner waiting for him. I reread this book last week and found myself as mesmerized by it as I was when I read it as a child. I lingered on the page with the aforementioned line. I don’t remember which was my favorite page as a young child, most likely the pages when the “wild rumpus” occurs. But as an adult, as a psychologist, and as a mom, the page when the little boy holds out his magic wand to tame the wild things is my favorite. With their