In 1954, my end-of-year school paper was due, and I wanted to write about the history of “insane asylums,” the term we used then. On the corner of our street lived the Director of Brooklyn State Mental Hospital. His sixteen-year-old daughter and I often talked about psychology. We were both fascinated by the mind—how it worked, and how it sometimes didn’t.
One day, I asked her if her father might allow me to walk the hospital grounds and simply observe. To my surprise, he agreed. And so, at ten years old, notebook in hand, I found myself walking those grounds.
A man began walking beside me. We talked easily. He was articulate, curious, engaged. I asked if he worked there, and he said yes—he worked in the chart room. Then he added, almost casually, “I’m also a patient here. I have schizophrenia, with delusions of grandeur.”
I asked him how he knew that.
“I read my chart,” he said.
That moment has stayed with me for decades.
At the time, what struck me most was not his diagnosis, but his awareness. He didn’t appear “crazy” by any childish stereotype I carried. He was intelligent, calm, and reflective. And yet, he lived with a mind that sometimes betrayed him.
What also struck me—though I couldn’t fully articulate it then—was the question: Why would an institution designed to help people allow patients to read their own diagnoses? Why give someone access to language that could label, confine, or even harm their sense of self?
Decades later, as a nurse, I would revisit that question from the inside.
My final nursing role was running an experimental, federally funded acute psychiatric unit in the South Bronx. Patients stayed ten days. They were deeply psychotic—many schizophrenic, manic, depressive, suicidal, homicidal. Medication was rarely used. Instead, we focused on observation, relationship, trauma, and environment.
It was there that what I now call my “Hope Path” truly launched. Using my abilities as a medical intuitive, I could sometimes see hallucinations, sense where trauma had fractured the mind, or perceive something profoundly wrong in the brain itself. Every person had a different route into their suffering—and, therefore, a different route out.
Some healed dramatically. Not all—but enough to know that healing was possible.
Looking back, I wonder if that earlier institution understood something we later forgot: that awareness, intelligence, and insight are not the enemy. That knowing something is wrong can be the first step toward reclaiming one’s life.
For sixty years as a holistic educator, I have watched people accept prescriptions without understanding benefits, long-term effects, or side effects—without being encouraged to look deeper. Medication can help. Holistic modalities can help. Trauma work can help. What matters is discernment, curiosity, and hope.
Because the truth is this: there is hope everywhere—if we are willing to look.
When a Diagnosis Isn’t the Whole Story
Years later, during an interview with a couple who asked me to officiate their wedding, I encountered another story that reinforced this belief.
The bride, Rickie, knew I was a nurse and holistic health educator. She shared that from ages 13 to 23, she had been diagnosed as schizophrenic and struggled deeply with suicidal thoughts. For ten years, that diagnosis shaped her identity and her treatment.
But her story did not end there.
Eventually, she was re-evaluated and re-diagnosed with five different medical conditions—including copper toxicity. Elevated copper levels can, in some individuals, contribute to severe mood disturbances and suicidal ideation. With proper identification and treatment, her life began to change.
Her father, Frederic Flach, who served as Director of Psychiatry at Wayne Pitney, chronicled this powerful journey in the book Rickie, co-authored with Rickie F. Hartman. It is a moving account of misdiagnosis, persistence, and ultimately, hope.
If you know anyone struggling with mental health challenges, I highly recommend seeking out this book. It is both illuminating and encouraging.
There Are Many Reasons We Behave the Way We Do
Over decades of work, one truth has become clear to me:
Apparent behavior always has a story.
Sometimes it is trauma.
Sometimes it is biochemistry.
Sometimes it is environment.
Sometimes it is toxicity.
Often, it is a complex combination.
People need hope.
People need understanding.
People need the courage to ask deeper questions.
Whether through medication, holistic modalities, trauma work, nutritional support, or a thoughtful integration of approaches—healing is not one-size-fits-all.
But it is possible.
And sometimes, the turning point begins with a simple, powerful question:
What else could be going on?
In the light of love,
Nancy
