Page 99 of Off-Limits as Puck

“You fucked up,” observes a girl with purple hair and the kind of direct gaze that cuts through pretense.

“Majorly. And now I’m here. Starting over. Building something different.”

“Better different or just different?”

“Ask me in a year.”

They laugh. Not at me. These kids understand reinvention as survival mechanism, identity as something fluid rather than fixed.

“What I learned,” I continue, “is that mental toughness isn’t about never falling down. It’s about getting back up even when everyone’s watching, even when you’re embarrassed, even when you’re not sure who you are anymore.”

“That’s some fortune cookie shit,” mutters the texting boy, but he’s listening now.

“Maybe. But fortune cookies don’t usually mention that getting back up hurts like hell and takes longer than anyone tells you.”

For the next twenty minutes, I answer questions about anxiety management, dealing with family pressure, finding motivation when everything feels pointless. These kids are sharp, insightful, asking the kinds of questions that would challenge experienced therapists.

“My mom wants me to be a doctor,” says a quiet girl near the back. “But I want to study art. She says that’s not realistic for people like us.”

“What’s realistic?”

“Safe. Stable. Something that guarantees money.”

“And what’s art?”

“Everything I actually care about.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a choice to make. Safety or meaning. Both are valid. Only you can decide which one you can live with.”

“What if I choose wrong?”

“Then you choose again. That’s the thing about choices—most of them aren’t permanent, even when they feel like it.”

After the Q&A, kids file out slowly, some stopping to thank me, others just nodding acknowledgment. I’m packing up my noteswhen a boy approaches—maybe fourteen, wearing a Bulls jersey that’s seen better years.

“Dr. Clark?”

“Chelsea’s fine.”

“You helped my brother. Miguel Santos. He was getting into fights, failing classes, acting crazy.”

My chest tightens. Miguel. Sixteen-year-old kid from the south side, dealing with his father’s deportation and his mother’s depression.

“I remember Miguel. How is he?”

“Good. Really good. He’s in counseling with someone else now, but he talks about you sometimes. Says you taught him that anger doesn’t have to be destructive.”

“Miguel taught me that too.”

“He’s graduating this spring. Early admission to UIC. Says he wants to study social work because of what you showed him about helping people.”

Wow. Miguel—angry, desperate Miguel—choosing a career in service because of our sessions. Proof that the work mattered, that I was good at something beyond destroying my own life.

“Tell him I’m proud of him,” I manage.

“I will. And Dr. Clark? Thanks for coming tonight. Half these kids have been through shit you wouldn’t believe. Hearing from someone who survived falling apart... that matters.”

He leaves, and I stand alone in the empty auditorium, surrounded by folding chairs and the ghost of my former professional confidence. Frank appears with the practiced timing of someone who’s delivered countless post-game speeches.

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