by Mariya Mykhaylova, LCSW

PUTTING THE PIECES TOGETHER 

The choices we make require us to weather ambivalence, especially when our selection entails foregoing all other options. While some decisions are foregrounded by uncertainty and mixed feelings, with others the doubt creeps in through an afterwardness. Our musings on the road not taken can be as seductive as they are fruitless, as relentless as they are impassable. 

In order to become a therapist, I chose not to become a journalist. Sometimes I catch myself looking over my shoulder at the path I didn’t choose. Writing was my first love. From a young age, I wrote short stories, relished the annual Young Author’s Faire, and even took a stab at a fantasy novel. As an adolescent, I turned my angst into poems and wrote and edited for the school newspaper. Journalism seemed like a way to turn my creative yearnings into a tangible career. 

But after a few years on the paper, I pivoted. Something within me whispered that this path wouldn’t satisfy me in the way that I hoped and that I needed to look deeper. The soul-searching that followed led me to psychology and eventually, clinical social work and psychoanalysis. Over the years, I have felt so at home as a therapist, filled with gratitude to have found a career that just feels right for me.

I closed the door on writing, but I did not forget about it, holding on to a vague, lofty dream of writing a book someday. The potential space left behind by writing remained vacant for about a decade until I started up again. As I’ve made my way back to various forms (professional blogs, personal essays, comedy, poetry, fiction), my feelings of certitude regarding my trajectory have become imbued with new textures. While I wouldn’t say I regret the path that I chose, I also find myself feeling wistful for the other life I chose not to lead – that of Mariya the Writer. 

I remind myself that it does not have to be one or the other. I’ve made shifts to create room for writing in my life along with a full-time practice. Sometimes I know that these loves can coexist in harmony, each making the other more complete; sometimes I feel I am betraying both, as each steals time away from the other and I am caught in the middle, a ragdoll tearing at the seams. Apparently, my inner artist has a flair for the dramatic. 

When writing, I am so complete and energized – another feeling that just feels right. The question remains: can I really have it both ways? And does being a therapist help or hinder my writer self? 

I tend to waffle on my conclusions. If I catch myself on a good day, I’ll say that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. That listening deeply and studying theories of development, relationship, and suffering in the way that we do makes for an excellent writer’s boot camp. That coming back to writing now is my way of putting all the pieces together.