I don’t know when I do my best thinking. But I do know where: the shower. So last week I did the most obvious, logical thing. I moved my whole workspace into it. Desk, chair, books, framed medical diploma now hanging via suction cup.

It makes perfect sense for what I do. I’m a therapist. A family therapist. I see clients in person once or twice a week. Divorce, death, grief, life transitions, mental health, trauma—I cover it all.

Historically, people have had all kinds of breakthroughs while staring at water pooling around their ankles. According to legend, the shower is where W. Thomas Engleberry III had his Promethean idea for his invention that would change the world: packing peanuts. According to Hal Shapiro’s biography, 1599: A Year in the Life of Tommy Engleberry III: “The idea just arrived. Kinda like the shipments my packing peanuts will safely protect.”

The shower is actually the perfect setup for my sessions.

With the door locked, there’s privacy. My kids know that when they hear the water running, Daddy is seeing patients. And probably talking about abuse and trauma. And nothing says “you’re in a safe space” like warm water, the hum of the exhaust fan, and my decrepit bottles of Selsun Blue Medicated Maximum Strength Anti-Dandruff Shampoo.

We’ve had some real breakthroughs lately. “You’re not actually fighting about sex,” I told H and T, a troubled married couple in their 30s who come to my shower twice a week. “You’re fighting about power dynamics.”

Both nodded.

“Also, H, you’re hogging all the water again. We talked about this.”

To a man with unresolved grief over his father’s death 10 years ago, I asked, “What did your father represent to you? What part still feels unfinished?” When he started opening up, I had to stop him: “Before you go any further, I’d like to ask you to do one thing: Can you pick my diploma frame off the floor? Sorry about the suction cup fail.”

One thing I wasn’t prepared for was patients relieving themselves in my workspace. I don’t mean emotionally. I mean biologically. I mean urinating. Even in a place where there are no judgements, I totally judge. The sound of running water is not an invitation for you to urinate, Mitchell (real name changed).

And it’s certainly easier to speak with clients about intimacy when we’re in a space that’s only 60 inches by 30 inches.

I peeped the Yelp reviews recently. One caught my eye:

★★★★ Actually listened and didn’t attempt to put labels on things that were already diagnosed. And the vanilla & sandalwood dissolving tablet steamer was restorative as hell.

Things are going so well that I’m contemplating adding a second showerhead. And scaling up. I already have my kids’ bathroom bookable on Zocdoc. It opens up as soon as Connor finishes pooping, give or take.

The HOA does not approve of my new workspace, which is weird because they didn’t say jack when, during pandemic, my wife moved her workspace into the garage. She’s a surgeon.