Once, I thought that the constant unease at the end of every August was solely about worry (and thanks to Facebook memories, there are days in the year when it’s less fun to be reminded of how consistent I am). I thought I was worried about how my children would adapt to a new setting, group, or teacher. In the years when all the answers were correct, I barely slept throughout August.
This year I realized that the rock slowly rolling throughout the entire summer vacation and settling right in the middle of my chest on the eve of September 1st is no longer just rolling because I worry, but because the big new beginnings of the year have arrived again. Time hasn’t stopped; this cycle keeps rolling, and there are years when it feels like there’s no moment to breathe in between—and suddenly everything repeats and begins anew.
Beginnings challenge me, and the children, as always, are kind of outlets through which we experience things. I feel like I myself am going through adjustments, and it’s heavy. In such a period, when the whole world has gone off course and meanwhile we moved house and everything started over, the difficulties were greater and more noticeable than ever.
I want to start from the middle, without the effort involved in figuring out how things work, whom to trust, or whether the beautiful words of the beginning of the year will actually come true, if at all. I want to know.
When I was a child and approached a new book, I used to first read the last page before I started. While reading, the ending would sit in my head all the time—vague, rich in details and names I hadn’t yet learned—and little by little the things mentioned there connected, and I understood better what I had read before I truly began. It didn’t even annoy me that the suspenseful parts didn’t always keep me on edge—the knowledge was more important to me than the tension. I was a tense child even without others’ plots. I liked to hold the two ends of the tangled thread and slowly untie the knot, gently, turning a big mess into a neat ball.
In short—beginnings and I are a “no.” I don’t have that joy or excitement of the New Year. I try, really I try to let it stick with me, but usually it doesn’t happen. I need to know it will be okay. Nurturing hope is lovely, but hopes are so elusive; they require maintenance, faith, and occasional small proofs that justify them and make it worth holding on despite the difficulty.
That’s why I deeply understand those who come to me for therapy, for themselves or as parents for their children. Hesitation is present in their voice; emotions are mixed; worries are justified. It’s the beginning of a long-term relationship that requires investment of time, money, energy—and above all—dedication, openness, and vulnerability.
It’s very hard to start dealing with something that slows you down, is felt, and is present in life. Beginning this process involves much ambiguity; the entire process largely depends on the connection with someone you haven’t yet met or whom it takes time to decide if they are the right person. And who guarantees that this will actually help? That it works? That it’s right for me?
When was the last time you started a new relationship by your own initiative, introduced a new factor into your life—especially one meant to improve your life? Most of us aren’t trained for that in everyday life. At some point, we internalize who is in our various life circles and, like moving puzzle pieces, learn how to navigate them, choosing the right distances from each other (a complex task in itself), changing pace and direction from time to time, sometimes facing clashes that affect all of that… So deciding to add more moving circles to these circles? That’s really not easy; who knows what might happen.
When was the last time you started a new relationship by your own initiative, introduced a new factor into your life—especially one meant to improve your life? Most of us aren’t trained for that in everyday life. At some point, we internalize who is in our various life circles and, like moving puzzle pieces, learn how to navigate them, choosing the right distances from each other (a complex task in itself), changing pace and direction from time to time, sometimes facing clashes that affect all of that… So deciding to add more moving circles to these circles? That’s really not easy; who knows what might happen.
A moment later, a new client will enter my life. When the door opens—I will release that initial image into the air like a helium balloon that yearned for the clouds while trapped inside the house—and I will focus on seeing who is really here.
In fifty minutes, we won’t be complete strangers anymore, we’ll understand a little better what we can achieve together, and we will set off on the path.
As the years pass, this rock of the beginning of the year wears down along with the heavy unease.
The proportions change, the ability to be in adjustment states grows, successes accumulate. You can zoom out and see that even a tangled thread has its own rules—it’s not just a random mess. The overall course becomes clearer, the connection between the years becomes evident, complications left unresolved in early stages ease dealing with those we will still meet, similar connections and our skills in solving and untangling them improve if we persist.
You can’t peek at the end of the book. It hasn’t been written yet, constantly changing and written on the go. The end of the thread is hidden inside the knot, patiently waiting for its turn to be revealed. If we hold on to both ends all the time, we won’t be able to complete the process calmly; our hands won’t be free.
I feel it’s becoming worth the effort—personally and professionally—and so is the privilege of helping others feel that way too: to walk a path without early signposts, without a syllabus, and yet agree to walk together until the knot becomes a neat ball.
And then, in the end—the beginning is a very specific point in time, impossible to do without.
What a blessing.
