Hello friend!

I’ve been in a weird place for the past six months. Finally publishing Sketch made me feel empowered. Like I could do anything I ever dreamed about. And one thing I dreamed about for years was becoming a therapist.

It was one of those things I told myself for so long would be too expensive, and then, as more time went on, I told myself I was too old. But then I started working for a university that offers a licensure-track program in Marriage and Family Therapy. Not only working for the university, but directly for the School of Social and Behavioral Sciences, in enrollment. I literally talk to people daily who are considering becoming a licensed therapist or counselor. Like me, many of them already have a career or two under their belt, and this is a lifelong dream to be fulfilled. A mountain to be climbed. A dragon to be slain. And usually, by the time they speak to me, they’ve laced up their hiking boots and steadied their pack. They’ve sharpened their axe and donned their armor.

And, as an employee, I can do the same for a cost of…wait for it…next to nothing.

So the money was no longer an issue, and suddenly, self-publishing my debut novel at 51 made me feel like my age was no longer an issue, either. I had come to peace with both of those things, and there were no more excuses, other than committing to the time and energy. I was ready. I knew I had gas in the tank. I knew I could slay this dragon.

After fretting over my admissions essay for weeks, I was originally accepted into the program back in December and enrolled in classes for January, and then, all of a sudden, at the last minute, I pulled the lever that operated my escape hatch. It was because of the book launch, I told myself. It’s just not the right time. I’ll give it some more thought. Maybe go back to it in the spring.

And so that’s what I did. The chaos of the book launch behind me, I re-enrolled for an April start. I started classes, soaking up scholarly articles on intrinsic vs. extrinsic biases and systemic approaches to psychotherapy in just the first few weeks. Obviously, it is subject matter I am interested in. Mental health in general is something I’m passionate about. And I’m really finding value in the coursework and the professors.

And still, it just feels wrong.

It’s like there’s this little cat over in the corner of my brain. Let’s call him Franz. He’s black, as shiny as an oil slick, with haunting green eyes. And he’s watching me as I breeze past him each day, neglecting him as I read textbooks on client confidentiality and ethics. He saunters over, meowing loudly, pawing at my turned back. And as much as I try to fully engage in my graduate coursework, I can’t stop thinking about this, excuse my French, fucking cat.

(In case you missed the metaphor, the cat is my writing.)

Look, the thing is, it’s not like I can’t do both. I KNOW I can do both. But for the past year or so, I’d found a nice rhythm of fitting in writing, in a purposeful way, on the outer edges of my life, while I still got to have a life. I never want anything I do to feel like a punishment. I’m too old for that shit. And to keep a foot in both worlds, along with working a full-time job and practicing my own self-care…well, something’s gotta give. And I know me. The longer I’m in school, the easier it will be to fall back into the habit of not writing at all for months or even years at a time. The habit that led to it taking me more than a decade to finish Sketch.

Am I embarrassed to be typing this? To admit to the world that I am “dropping out of college”—I know, slightly melodramatic, but still—as an almost 52-year-old? Of course. I am human, after all. But the optics alone are not enough to motivate me to continue something I know now, with the clarity of hindsight, I only started because I could. Because it was something I used to want before I could call myself an author, and there were no more excuses not to go for it.

Do I think I’d make a good therapist? I do. And that part makes me a little sad. But there are a lot of great therapists out there. I have one myself. And I have other ways to give back to the world. In my relationships. In my empathy. And even in my writing itself.

While I struggled back and forth with this decision for a while, I’m glad I started the classes, if only to know that it feels right to drop out. Just the thought of leaning into my writing life fully unencumbered is like…well, it’s like slowly stroking a silky black cat.

I can already hear him purring.