A Letter from the Waiting Room

I see it all.

I see the anxiety and the tremors that men and women have when they see me for the first time. I see their foot bouncing as they sit on the sofas that fill my space and the chairs that line my soft, grey walls. Most people don't know that I see it all. They don't even acknowledge that I'm there.  I get it, though. I understand they have more important things on their mind, like wondering what their therapist is like and what questions they are going to ask. I understand that it takes a lot of courage and bravery to make the appointment with my owners, let alone walking through the big wooden door that separates me from something new. 

​I see them in the beginning--when their life feels like it couldn't get worse. I see the children, who may come from broken homes and have difficulty expressing their emotions. Or when they do express them, they come out in non-socially acceptable ways, like tantrums or numerous tears or exploding at school. I see the couple who aren't talking and are looking at their phones, both wondering if they can fix their marriage. 
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I see it.

And then I see the miracles. 

I see the smiles on their faces as they leave me for the last time. I see the couple who is no longer separated sneak a kiss on their way out the big wooden door. I see the children bobbing their heads along to the music, and I see it. I see the recovery.

You see, most people think I'm just a room. But that couldn't be farther from the truth. I'm a room that holds both the hurt and the happiness. The beginnings of therapy and the beginnings of healing. The ending of a therapeutic relationship and the endings of hurt. The middles and the in-betweens and all the other stages.

I'm the waiting room.