Source: Septimiu Balica / Pixabay
In the summer of 2011, in a neighborhood book store in Western Massachusetts, I was on the hunt: for a good summer read. I poked around for a while, getting lost amongst the stacks, tempted by a few titles, but ultimately feeling uninspired. A woman working there must have picked up on my struggle, and asked me if she could help. I told her I was looking for an engaging novel, one that could pull me in quick but that had depth and substance. She pulled a book off the “Staff Picks” shelf, sharing that she herself had just recently read this one and thoroughly enjoyed it, and thought it just might check all my boxes. I read the title, then looked up at her with my mouth agape. The Good Psychologist By Noam Shpancer. Of all the books for her to suggest, she hands me this one?
Shaking my head with disbelief, I explained to her that in mere weeks, I’d be starting my first year of graduate school, studying, of all things, Clinical Psychology. She laughed at the coincidence as she rung me up, and I walked out of the store clutching the book in my hand, stirring with incredulousness at the funny ways that the universe lets us know that it’s keeping an eye out for us.
I devoured the book, finishing it in days, highlighting passages, making notes, having become rapidly, deeply, engrossed in the story, as one does when they find a book that moves them. Standing at the starting line of my formal training in the field, to get to…