My Roller Coaster in Private Practice

“You’ll have 10 counselors reporting to you,” she said. Her sharp brown eyes looked into mine for any sign of wavering. Her bright red lipstick showed cracks with every hypnotic smile. I had just finished my Master’s in Social Work with over 1000 hours of fieldwork in nursing home settings, women’s shelter hotlines, batterer intervention programs, and victim support services. I knew I’d be able to land a decent job in the field but what mattered more to me was to do anything to pay off my 1 major student loan in 6 months before the interest started to accrue. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” I said.

“Good, you’ll report to Dr. ____ and you can start next week. We must see progress for all the counselors,” she said with a thick Hispanic accent. Her freshly dyed black hair was tied up in a high bun, stark against her pale face and crisp white pantsuit. A scent of patchouli wafted my way as I stood up to follow her out the door. 

She showed me the coffee maker. Kitchen. Psychotherapy resource books. My desk. A nice window overlooking the busy street below.

I put down my periwinkle blue bag on the chair, imagining myself in the supervisor role I’d just been given. 

Little did I know how this job would show me the underbelly of questionable ethics in this private practice. It would go on to take a toll on my health, make me question the health industry, and expose me to 80-100 families impacted by mental health challenges within my community. 

It started with a loss of appetite.

I started skipping meals because appointments ran over. 

The long drives to complete home visits usurped all my time and energy.

My boss’s boss had unreasonable expectations without adequate compensation, typical for many private practices in the area.

But I took it. I did the math and if I worked in this role for just over 6 months, I could pay off the loan. 

“You’ll also have 5 clients of your own.”

“So you want me to see clients and supervise the 10 counselors with 5 clients as well?”

I just wanted to make sure she understood the weight of what she was proposing.

“That’s right”—dead stare. 

My first thought: is this even legal? Well, I guess since it’s a functioning practice, it must be.

Only later did I start to notice file after file of counselors leaving the practice within weeks of their probationary period. Apparently, most people don’t enjoy a 7-day work week along with an unpredictable and mentally taxing schedule. 

I took my case files back home and studied each one through the night. 

8-year-old boy, attempted to drive his father’s car, drank alcohol from his uncle’s supply, and attempted arson at school.

13 year-old girl, a victim of sexual violence, depression, self-harm, and school refusal.

9 year-old boy, non-communicative after his father’s sudden death while doing construction work. Mother remarried. Difficulty coping.

5 year-old boy, non-verbal autism, biting, and other aggression to express frustration. Limited self-care prognosis. 

4 year-old boy, family living under the poverty line with unstable housing. Child has uncontrollable crying spells and signs of developmental delay.

Visit after visit, I started to see our community from a new lens. Overworked families who were unable to give their children the time and attention they needed, leaving them vulnerable to abuse and neglect. I saw parents weary from suffering in silence and shame over a child’s diagnosis. My heart broke again and again seeing behaviours and family patterns that could be resolved through our beautiful gift of Islam. As a visible Muslim woman, I was always aware of how families may perceive me but each family I met gave me a chance to listen to their stories with compassion and bear witness to their pain.

I was 23 and lasted 1 year at the job after giving my notice. The first thing I did was pay my loan in full followed by a cathartic sajdah ash-shukr, alhumdulillah.

Even though I could no longer tolerate the long hours, the inevitable toll on my health, and my narcissistic boss, it was the clients that kept me there. Each person’s story still lives within me.

I remember their names, their homes, the colour on their walls, and the way they’re eyes would change as they told their story. I was broken and built through that year. The raw experience of human-to-human connection in times of hardship made me softer and stronger. Despite my begrudging attitude throughout, 10 years later, I can look back and appreciate what I learned in those intimate settings, in close in contact with those who were most vulnerable in my community while holding their hands through the hardest struggles of their lives.