When I was in Grade 7, our classroom desks were arranged so that we sat facing one another. My classmates quickly discovered that if they sat across from me and started talking about what was happening in their lives, I would listen—really listen. Before long, they were informally lining up during breaks for what they jokingly called “Therapy Time with Liz,” announced with the kind of dramatic flair usually reserved for school plays and talent shows.

Looking back, it was probably an early sign of the work I would eventually find my way to. At the time, though, psychotherapy wasn’t something people in my small town really talked about, let alone considered a career. My school guidance counsellor had me pegged as a future doctor, lawyer, or perhaps philosopher, given my tendency to ponder existence—and its meaning—out loud.

Instead, my path took me through several very different worlds.

I spent time on stage as an actor, learning to step into the lives of people whose experiences differed from my own. I worked as a car broker and spent time at racetracks, where I discovered that people reveal a surprising amount about themselves while discussing how to apex a turn. Eventually, I became a criminal lawyer, which taught me to listen closely, think critically, bear complexity, and understand human behaviour from multiple perspectives.