Thankfully, you and I suffer silently. We praise G-d for modern medicine, and hold our heads high when passing on the street
On the surface, we seem so different. I’m a workaholic, you’re a stay-at-home mom. My husband is an accountant, yours learns in kollel. I’m a lot older than you, and so are my kids. We really have nothing to do with each other.
But I know you. I know your eyes, am attuned to your struggle. I can recognize the signs, the pauses in your conversation, the omissions in your chitchat.
It takes one to know one.
We’re both distinctively successful in our lives. Most envy us, the single minded-passion we give to our jobs, our family, ourselves. We look like the type who has it all together.
But no one knows that our psychiatrist is our best friend.
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