The first time I visited a therapist, I cried in the waiting room. Most of the people leaving the back rooms were women. The only men were student counselors, which caused me to feel like a low-life. Obviously, my inability to be a man was obvious to me; my life so broken I needed professional help. When my name was called, I managed to wipe my face and force a smile—my effort to appear less pathetic than I was proved useless moments later. After a few questions from the counselor, I resumed my blubbering.

That first visit to a counselor occurred ten years ago. I was in the middle of a terrible relationship and lived through a string of abusive moments. I entered counseling because I thought something was wrong with me. What other people seemed capable of, like steady jobs and long-term relationships, was beyond my reach. I was an ashamed shadow of a man, too afraid to be himself and unable to let go of disappointment.

It took ten years for me to understand one real but profound truth: I am not broken. What’s true is I am not very good at being someone else- a gentile southern man, task worker, or yes man. At age 40, I was set free of all that need to be something else. (Turns out, learning to be me isn’t as easy I thought, but that’s another post.) For my freedom, I have the Lord God and counseling to thank. Thank God for professionals who studied and are passionate about helping others. What a gift.