Nine years ago, I was eight and a half months pregnant with my first child and sitting with Debby, a treasured senior colleague and gifted psychotherapist. She departed from our regular business to venture:
“Do you want to hear how psychologists screw up their kids?”
“Yes, I do,” I said, immediately aware that some of the most emotionally hamstrung souls I have ever met are the children of therapists and knowing that I would be adding one more child-of-a-therapist to the world any day
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