As young children, we’re often exposed to contradictions — someone smiles, but their tone is harsh. One day, we're the center of attention; the next, we’re ignored. It’s confusing. Some kids get curious. Others internalize the chaos and wonder: What did I do wrong?
I was one of those kids. I learned to tiptoe — to be careful around others’ emotions. And perhaps that’s where my empathy began… in trying to belong, to understand, to stay safe.
I was born during World War II. My mother risked her life to have me — her second child — hoping it would keep my father from being drafted. Whether we agree with that decision or not, I’m grateful to be here. My father, for his part, contributed to top-secret government research.
The contradictions in my early life — love mixed with fear, presence with absence — made me deeply curious about human behavior. Why do people act the way they do?
In sixth grade, after being molested by my teacher and silenced, I wrote a research paper on the history of insane asylums. It was no coincidence. I discovered that many women were institutionalized simply because men deemed them difficult. Years later, I read Manufacture of Madness by Dr. Thomas Szasz — a chilling account of how women were labeled witches, then insane.
And yet, alongside those dark experiences, I was fortunate. Between ages 6 and 13, my best friends were three boys who lived on my block in Brooklyn. They were kind, loyal, and protective — more so than many girls I knew. That taught me not to group people by one bad experience. A single individual’s harm doesn’t define an entire gender, race, religion, or ideology. Prejudice, I believe, is born when we stop seeing people and start seeing categories.
When I became a nurse, I wanted to specialize in psychiatry — to truly understand and help people. But the field back then was dominated by medication, shock treatments, and even lobotomies. I turned down those jobs. I couldn’t be part of a system that treated people like broken machines.
Then I found something different: an experimental psychiatric unit was opening. The hiring process was unlike anything I’d seen. A circle of 34 people — all staff — asked honest, thoughtful questions. Even the nurses' aides and orderlies had a say. They offered me the supervisor role, but I declined. I wanted to work with people, not manage them. I’d done that before — I knew it wasn’t for me.
That decision changed my life.
The unit opened a few days later. We treated patients who had experienced severe psychosis and delusions — some institutionalized for decades. Others were newly suicidal. We used almost no medication. Instead, we sat in circles every morning, staff and patients together, sharing space and truth.
One morning, a new patient — a man who had just attempted suicide — joined the circle. When it was my turn to speak, I looked at him and said:
“If you’re going to kill yourself, please wait until you’re discharged and do it at home — quietly. Just don’t make a mess. I really don’t want to clean up blood.”
He erupted.
“How could she talk to me like that? What’s wrong with you? You should be fired!”
But the room was smiling — even laughing. And I gently asked,
“You’re not suicidal right now, are you?”
He paused.
“That’s true. How can that be?”
“You’ve been sitting on anger for years. I just helped lift the lid. Now, are you ready to do the work?”
We worked together for 10 days — over an hour a day in one-on-one sessions, supported by an incredible team. No meds. Just real, deep work — psychodrama, alter ego dialogue, raw expression. He was ready. Afterward, we followed up with weekly home visits. He stayed stable. He lived. He healed.
But healing doesn’t always start with therapy. Sometimes, it starts even before birth.
Five years later, I gave a psychic reading to a 35-year-old man who experienced suicidal thoughts every September. Trusting what came through me, I asked him to call his mother and ask what happened early in her pregnancy.
He later told me:
“My mom said she went in for an abortion when she was six weeks pregnant with me… but then changed her mind and walked out.” That was in a September.
At six weeks, the fetus isn’t conscious — but the chemistry of the mother’s fear, rejection, then reversal, can imprint into the developing neural tube. Those sensations live in the body — not the soul.
After learning the story, he never again felt suicidal in September. The awareness brought light to what had once been a shadow. With no repression left, there was nothing left to torment him.
Repression and violent expression are both forms of armor — defense mechanisms to avoid feeling the original pain. But when we bring our truth to the surface, healing can begin. Sometimes that means facing rage. Sometimes it means unearthing what happened before we had words. Either way, transformation is possible — without medication, without labels, and without shame.
Empathy often begins in confusion. Insight often begins in pain. But what you do with it—that’s where transformation begins. Your nervous system is not broken. It’s trying to protect you. Maybe now, you can gently teach it something new.
If this resonates with you, you’ll love my book, Soul Detective: How to Solve the Inner Mystery of You. It’s built on everything I share here—including 42 visualizations, techniques and exercises that emerged from my own healing journey. Step by step, they’ve helped me (and many others) gently rewrite the story the body’s been holding.
With warmth and love,
Nancy
