Written By: Yousuf Syed

We are all storytellers. We create narratives with ourselves and others; however, the narrator is always in question. So, as I write this, I do think about how much of it was destiny versus how much of it is a romanticized narrative about a job that came to me. I love what I do, and it feels as if it were meant to be despite it not being the initial field I sought to do. Despite it sounding like the setup of a bad joke, my journey began at a funeral.

 I was 17, with an awkward mustache (my dad forbade me to shave because razor blades are expensive) and a spiked-up haircut that even 2010 couldn’t justify. At a moment’s notice, my name was called up to speak about my deceased neighbor, and the only issue was that I was not informed that I would be providing a speech. I am also not very familiar with the custom; however, I’m pretty sure there isn’t a “pass” option when it comes to speaking. Every speech before me was tearful, meaningful, and profound. In fact, in retrospect, it made no sense to have me speak after his best friend and granddaughter. 

How do I top that? Am I supposed to top it? As I get to the podium and look into a sea of red noses and puffy eyes, I think to myself, “This is so typical, Terry. You found a way to make me look like a jackass at your own funeral.” The relationship I had with my neighbor was an interesting one. He was the bitter old man, and I was the kid that lacked boundaries and would occasionally feed his dogs chocolate from time to time (in context, no dogs were severely harmed during this story). At that moment, I was able to talk about my friendship with Terry. The unlikely pairing of an irritable 60-year-old white man and a Pakistani kid had the makings of a modern-day Dennis the Menace. Terry would appreciate this joke, but I have to say for myself: I knocked em’ dead. People began nudging one another, sharing a laugh during a difficult time, and truly celebrating someone they all cared about. They laughed because they knew who Terry was, and they were able to resonate with the story because, after all, laughter is nothing but two people sharing a moment of relatability. It was at that moment that I wanted to make people feel better. I wanted to be able to make people feel advocated for. More importantly, I wanted to reassure them that there is always an opportunity to share a laugh and grief was nothing to be afraid of. I had found my joy to connect with others and I had believed that filmmaking was the way to do it. 

As a kid, Disney reigned supreme, where I would watch The Lion King, Aristocats, Pocahontas, Hercules, and Air Bud in my Saturday rotation. I would make short films with my friends from middle school, and to top it all off, Hollywood was in my backyard. The narrative in my head was rationalized; Hollywood and I went together like a golden retriever and basketball (apparently a good fit). I knew it would be a struggle, however I believed I was living the child of an immigrant trope.

I told my parents I didn’t want to be a doctor, the audacity. I told my immigrant parents I wanted to go into the arts, the betrayal. I was also failing high school chemistry; how did they not see this coming? I went to film school, and I was good. I was making connections; I interned at a few places, worked on a few projects, and was broke and unfulfilled. I was disappointed that the champions of diversity in Hollywood didn’t really care about diversity. It felt as though they themselves didn’t understand the community they were representing. I felt like a fraud, and I felt like a failure. All I had to show for it was a bad short film that I made for a desi dating app, and mind you, it didn’t even help me get matches. 

One of the last times I was on set, I was a production assistant on a rap video. We were supposed to start at 4 pm, and I got there at 3 pm. We were supposed to end at midnight, and I was in that abandoned warehouse until 7 am. Before I could go take my nap before day two of shooting, I remember the rapper’s cousin, who was tossing joints all over the place, approaching me. He towered over me as he pulled out a wad of cash and said, “I’m going to add 20 dollars to your pay today, but you have to pick up every roach (joint) in the warehouse. If I find one, you don’t get the 20 dollars, do you understand?” As I picked up the used joints, I thought about the toilets I scrubbed, the urine that should have been in those said toilets I wiped off the floor, all the credit I didn’t get, all the credit I got when it wasn’t good, and it occurred to me that something went wrong. Or perhaps my immigrant parent’s fears were right. I had gotten to a place where I needed desperate help. 

My purpose was mistaken, and I bet on the wrong horse. I was anxious that I would eat crow for the rest of my life. I felt the guilt that every child of immigrant feels after all the sacrifices their parents made for them. I finally decided to go see a therapist, a few actually, and despite having glimpses of what felt like progress, I was frustrated because they didn’t get me. They didn’t know what it was like to have to explain to other people why I had a flower pot in my bathroom. They never accidentally ate pork. My therapists would usually process their client’s fear of flying but didn’t know how to hold space for someone who is more anxious about TSA. However, I loved the concept of two people sitting in a room and just talking. I loved the idea of exploring the journey with the person and, at the same time, uncovering how this person got to be the person they are in the first place. 

In film school, you learn about the term “on the nose.” When it feels like a character is being too obvious or too preachy, the character is being on the nose because people don’t talk like that. A good screenplay has short actions and fast dialogue with subtext because the subtext is sexy, clever, and packs a punch. Subtext also paints a vivid picture of who the person is. When a client says, “I should have known better.” We are given a glimpse of their upbringing. When a client says, “I just want to be fixed.” We are being told that the client was never welcomed for who they were.  

As I began to gather more insight on my own subtext, I started to think about what it would be like to sit on the other side of the couch. I thought about the genesis of what my purpose was. To connect, advocate, and reassure the people with red noses and puffy eyes that they are welcomed as they are. I broke the news to my parents that I had changed careers, and when I thought my dad would be elated to hear the news, he asked if I was sure and if I wasn’t giving up on a dream because that was the last thing he wanted his son to do. Shout out to a good character arc.

 My very first session as a therapist was on Valentine’s Day 2020, and a few weeks later, a new normal happened. I hustled to get clients to meet my graduation requirements. My entire life was categorized into individual, relational, and supervision hours. During my time, I was able to create my own Muslim Support Group, where we would create a space where we would explore what the Muslim experience is in a community that is severely underrepresented in mental health. I eventually graduated with honors (very surprised, especially since I thought psychopharm was going to have animals in it) received my Associate number, and eventually started where I am currently practicing at the Grateful Mind Center and Elevation Behavioral Health.

I recently completed my required 3000 hours as an associate, and I’m getting closer every day to becoming a licensed therapist. Every time I have the privilege to sit with a client, I hear the narrative they’ve rationalized. Thinking their life is a movie when in fact, it’s more like a tv show, and that significant change is more like a new season, with new characters, in a new environment. I get to see kids make mistakes and explore who they are while simultaneously discovering that adults also don’t know what the hell is going on either. I get to see the hero in people, despite the fact they’ve been labeled as irritable, abrasive, and bitter. It’s almost as if I get to see Terry. It’s almost as if I’ve been doing whatever I can to be that kid again. Despite that previous line being on the nose, as a therapist, I feel secure enough to say none of that shit matters. Take care and stay safe.