Reflections on Charlotte (Or What I Learned About Life From My Therapist's Death)

Until a year ago, Charlotte was my therapist. I use the word “my” loosely, as I hadn't had a session with her for close to four years. But she was the person I sobbingly met with when I was 18 years old and in the throes of depression, and with whom I built a relationship—fluidly moving in and out of contact—over the following decade. She was the first person to truly witness my pain, and what I gained from our relationship ultimately influenced me to pursue psychology and a helping profession.

Which is why I found it confusing that, when I got word that Charlotte had passed quickly from a stage four cancer diagnosis to her death, I didn't feel immediately sad. Like a movie montage, my mind went to all the harmonious things I knew to be true of Charlotte, and it brought a sure smile to my face.

She consistently pursued her passions. 

In addition to being a busy therapist, Charlotte was a professor of transpersonal psychology, a supervisor, a co-owner of a goat herd (yup), a student of spirituality, and above all a mother and grandmother—both in the flesh and as archetype. 

She could readily share knowledge of everything from biopsychology to enneagram personality types to dream analysis, and she did so with energy. Her bookshelves were sky high and their contents were not for show. She did the work that helped her do the work and you could feel that in her presence.

She felt strongly and loved fiercely. 

Some therapists are stoic, but if you told Charlotte a self-deprecating story she would laugh with you, and if you told her of harm done unto you would get angry on your behalf. She spoke of her family with compassion. and each member was reflected as a glimmer in her eye. When my sassy 20-year-old self learned that her zodiac sign was a triple-Scorpio and joked. “Your husband must like that,” she replied with a giggle, “My first husband didn't.” 

If all this sounds like too much to know about your therapist, that's because Charlotte was not one to color within the lines. She used her human-ness in order to relate to those seeking her help. (One of my absolute favorite memories is of the time I was early for my session and ran into her in line at Walgreens buying a pint of ice cream. If that ain't humanizing, I don't know what is) Had she not been so Charlotte-esque in her work, I would never have felt so confident that she wasn't leaving many regrets on this earth, a fact that she later confirmed.


Death is one of those universally reliable experiences, but how we respond to it varies based on so many factors. What I'm finding to be true is that the stronger I perceive that the person who I have lost was living how s/he wanted to be living, the less complicated my grief becomes. When my heart resonates with the pain, regrets, and have-nots of the person I've lost, it weighs heavy, anchoring me to a deeper despair.

I find there are a few things we can do with observations like these, the first being to take inventory of how we are living, and to make alignments as needed. Are we pursuing our passions, feeling our feelings, loving as completely as possible, and staying true to our own rules? If not, what can we do to move ourselves in the direction of yes?

The other way I find the various responses to death to be helpful is by tuning in and being available to others' messages about their life satisfaction. Instead of passively listening as friends and loved ones mention certain things that they would like to be better or different, we can inquire about how to make such things happen.

And of course, the final way is to make sure your people know how you feel about them, through words or gesture. With Charlotte, I was thankful that I had been in communication with her over the years, despite not sitting across from her. 


Charlotte's memorial came a couple months later and there I found my sadness. It came in a wave of tears similar to those that fell when I first met her, and my face twitched in ways I never knew it could as I listened to those celebrate what they knew of her. I spoke before the packed room and trembled as I told everyone exactly how I felt, exactly what Charlotte meant to me, and exactly how bad I felt that none of us would get to sit with her again. 

My sadness was certainly uncomplicated. It was the primal shaky loss of someone I loved - no more, no less. 

As I left the room I was handed a small laminated card that displayed a lovely two-inch picture of Charlotte's smiling face, below it a quote. I read the card and smiled, thinking thank you Charlotte, for being so inspirationally and stubbornly you, and for showing us when it is truly okay to have the last word. It read:

“I have done everything I wanted to do in this life. It is so very important that people know my passing is not something tragic but part of my journey. You all mean so much to me.”