Ode to a Therapy Office
I am moving my practice out of a suburban office in a few days, one I’ve occupied for the past 12 years. It’s an interesting thing, moving a therapy practice. My new office, a newly-renovated, gorgeous, glistening beauty in the heart of Chicago with incomparable views, is visually a far better space, from amenities to view to cleanliness, to my wife’s incomparable artwork, and abundant natural light.
But I’m finding that many of my clients, and even myself at times, are grieving the loss of the drab, dirty, grim current space. Many of us think of the spaces we visit as neutral and unimportant. Many of us give precious little consideration to space at all.
But spaces like this carry memories and hopes and dreams, enormous victories and crushing defeats. A therapy office is a particularly loaded space, not unlike the therapist themself. It takes time to feel comfortable working with a new therapist. Internally, clients ask themselves whether they have a match with this new person. Do they have the expertise to help me, my child or my family with the issues we’re suffering? Do I like them? Do they seem to be standing on solid ground enough to help me, or us?
And perhaps most of all, can I trust this person?
These are all important, relevant questions I encourage when considering a new therapist.
But we don’t vet the space with this same degree of veracity. Of course we don’t. If this therapist seems a good match, for most of us it doesn’t matter if they’re practicing in a lush space with comfy couches and soothing art. If there’s a desk and a couple of chairs in a windowless crypt, we’ll make it work.
Good therapists are a rare and precious commodity.
But space still matters. I’ve been paying close attention what my clients are saying, and how they feel, about my current and soon-to-be former office. For many of them, it is nothing short of grief. Within those walls, they have shared their darkest stories, their hidden secrets, their self-loathing, their desire for a different life or, on occasion, no life at all. In real time, they have discovered a sense of self, the need for a relationship to end, the will to live, right here. Right in here.
My clients have confessed to their most egregious acts in here. They’ve shared their heaviest fears. They’ve spoken truths they’ve shared nowhere else, ever. So many people have gotten better in here. Collectively, we have gone through countless boxes of Kleenex, for every conceivable reason, in this space.
And with each session, the space gains a bit of character, a unique personality, and a deepening sense of familiarity has become indelibly etched within these walls. With all that comes a feeling of unmatched safety for many people. That dingy room is the safest place on earth for some, industrial carpet notwithstanding.
A young man in his twenties returned for a session after a decade away, living his life. He hugged me, walked through the doorway, and took a long look around.
“Place looks exactly the same, man. I love it. It feels good to be here, like coming home. You moved that mug, though.”
Yes, the right space can provide us with a sense of consistency and reliability we might not experience anywhere else in our lives, a calm in the storm of chaos that often colors our lives.
Over the past couple of months, I’ve been playfully accused by clients of looking forward to this move. As one teenage girl I worked with put it, “Leaving? But what about the mems?”
I love that.
And yet I am looking forward to this new space, this fresh beginning. Still, this new office I’m moving into, beautiful as it is, has a lot to live up to. It’s like a new car, free of nicks and scratches, nearly perfect, but antiseptic as well. It carries none of the bumps, bruises and scars that create space for new memories, heartaches, connections and healing. That’s going to come with time.
In the meantime, I offer my gratitude to 10 West Calendar Avenue, Suite D. You’ve gotten my clients and I through a lot. Among that was a wildly unexpected pandemic, in which you were the only space that felt safe, familiar and predictable, even for me. Perhaps especially for me.
I’m told this was once an accounting office for a long-abandoned bank a floor below. I like to think we’ve breathed some new life and hope into this spot. I hope whoever lands in here next appreciates the beautiful war wounds and healing that has made an ordinary space sacred and carries on a tradition of sharing in here.
And going forward, I’m hoping to introduce that shiny new office to my clients and the therapy world. I hope it’s ready to hold our hopes, fears, dreams and pain. I’m looking forward to seeing that first scratch on the floor, the inaugural mark on the wall, that wound that will heal, creating an ever-growing emotional space.
And finally, I encourage you to take a moment and consider the other spaces in your life: your home, your bedroom, your car. Even your own office space. Is it upbeat and affirming for you? Are you happy in there? Are you inspired and creative? And perhaps most importantly of all, do you feel safe?
If not, make the changes in that space that inspire and create a safe atmosphere. It’s a not-so-small gift you can give yourself that may very well change the vibe and very nature of your quality of life.
Space. It’s a big deal.
Cheers,
John