Not once in my life did I seriously think I might one day become a therapist. The idea might have existed as a joke within me, as friends and acquaintances had always come to me with their problems, telling me how gifted a listener I was. Some had even suggested, over the years, that I’d make a great therapist. Cute, I’d always thought, but I don’t think so. So, my choice to become a therapist–which I barely trusted at all–came as a surprise, the realness of which I did not believe until I was encircled within it. With nothing to reference but two months of experience at Sloan-Kettering and a feeling that I was ready for my life to change, I interviewed at the two biggest and nearest schools, was accepted into one of them, and braced myself, as though lifting off for another planet. I had no idea at all what on earth I was doing or where it would leave me, and only vague speculation as to why I was choosing this path. It felt crazy to me, diving right into uncharted waters. And it would take some time before I learned to integrate that nothing could have been saner than the risk of a life without guarantees.