Page 21 of Ruined Vows

“But what does that do to everyone else outside the narrow beauty standard?”

“Makes ’em feel like shit!” says a girl near the front.

“That’s right.” I point in her direction. “They start to feel bad, and some might try to conform.”

“You lose your culture,” says a girl with braids.

“You get EDs,” says another.

“You give in and become an influencer who gets all the brand deals,” says another.

More laughter.

“She’s right. Conformity reaps rewards. It feels good to be in the in-crowd. It can make a person want to lean in even harder. Get all those likes. More brand deals.”

“What about someone who can’t conform no matter how hard they try?” Phillip asks, brows furrowed, eyes intense on me.

“They repress,” I say, locking gazes for only a moment before looking to the class at large. “Their shadow grows deeper. Trauma forms in the shadow. Someone mentioned EDs—eating disorders. I think that we’re all getting that we’re talking about racism here, too. Scapegoating someone who doesn’t put on a persona that’s like the one a society has decided to elevate. Or you can become a rebel and seek freedom from that societal persona and liberation for yourself and others.”

“How?” someone asks.

“Jungian therapy seeks balance to bring the conscious and unconscious selves together, personaandshadow—through art, storytelling, talk therapy, and other ways to help patients access their feelings and thoughts.

“Does it work?” Zachary asks.

“Does Jungian therapy work, or does therapy itself work?”

“Either. Both.”

When his eyes meet mine, I feel a desperation there that I occasionally sense in these kids. I know it’s silly that I think of them as kids when we’re not that far apart in age. And I know it’s cliché to say that I feel like an old soul. But sometimes I think the gap in the generation between those of us who didn’t always have a smartphone in our hands as little kids and those who did is bigger than the Grand Canyon. It’s not like my parents paid any more attention to me without an iPad or phone, but at least they were plopping me in front of a TV that had human operators driving the programming and not YouTube algorithms.

“Yes,” I nod, not dropping Zachary’s gaze. “Therapy works. Because the good news is that our neurons are endlessly elastic, and we can form new neural pathways and connections at almost any age. Change is very possible, no matter what emotional or mental dilemma a person might currently be facing.”

I finally pull my eyes from his, hoping I wasn’t just making a direct plea to my stalker as I address the class as a whole again. “That’s not Jungian, though, just therapeutic knowledge at large. But for any of you thinking about going into it, therapy is an exciting field where you can really help people. In fact, the department is holding a workshop later this month about career opportunities. I’ll be sending out an email, so watch for it, and as always, feel free to stop by my office during office hours to talk if you feel this is a career that might interest you.

“Now, open your texts to page 379 and let’s start digging a little deeper.”

Some groan, but the squeaking and shifting of bags tells me many are complying while others start clacking away at their laptop keyboards, either pulling up the ebook version of the texts or going back to playing whatever online game they were in the middle of since they’ve decided the class is going back to being dull again.

I teach for the rest of the hour before there’s the usual mass exodus when I dismiss the class.

Only Phillip comes up after class, wanting to know more about the career fair and to get my thoughts on if I could see him being a therapist or if I think he’d fit better doing graduate research.

“Either way, you’ll probably end up doing some clinical hours, which could give you a better feel for it and which way you might want to go. I’m sorry, Phillip, but I’m late for another appointment,” I say, looking toward Isaak, who’s come up to the desk and is looming like a towering shadow behind me, glaring down at the boy. “Come by during office hours if you want to discuss it more.”

“Sure thing, Professor Roberts,” Phillip says, beaming at me before backing away when Isaak takes a step toward him. “Whoa. This your boyfriend or something?”

“Or something,” Isaak growls, and Phillip scurries off, only taking one quick look back over his shoulder at us before disappearing through the door.

“Was that entirely necessary?” I ask dryly as I gather my teaching notes and tidily tuck them into my portfolio.

“You bet your ass it was,” he mutters. “Class of little creeps.”

He surprises a laugh out of me. “I thought they were on pretty good behavior today.”

“That was good behavior? That one was all but drooling on his desk over you, and I’m pretty sure the weirdo in the corner was writing his school shooter manifesto.”

“Zach’s harmless.” I wave a hand.

---