I remember the day I knew I would have a career in the helping field: It was a day like any other in first grade. As I stood in line with all my classmates, our janitor, Mr. Johnson, walked past. His familiar gimp accompanied him, as it always did, with one leg lagging behind him while the opposite arm swayed oddly.
To my dismay, the entire class snickered and called out insults, which—right or wrong—was the popular response by those around me. However, being the empath I am, I just sank inside. A pit the size of a kickball grew in my stomach and I just had to do something to ease his pain. Not having the tools then that I have now, I didn’t know what else to do. So I waved, smiled. A simple token of kindness that would foretell my future as a therapist. I knew then that I could not tolerate human suffering and that I had a gift within me to help ease it.