My new therapist has an office situated on top of a Greek restaurant on the north side of town, an enclave that even I can remember not being as trendy as it has now become. The smells of grilled bratwurst and beer travel through the air, past the Aveda hair salon, past the new book store, and seem to stop right under the tracks of the Brown line.

There are people everywhere and nothing is perfect. You can feel all of the messy and gritty parts of who you are seep into the noise and commotion without dramatically changing the landscape. You are just part of the deal; you are not disrupting anything.

I'm clearly a different person today than in April 2002. I am 29. I drive a brand-new car. I am married. I am no longer apologetic for the material elements of my life, or lack thereof, though it's true I lug around a sack full of sorry for things I've yet to put my finger on. But I am not scared; that's one of the things you learn about going through therapy. There is just too much to be gained on the other side of scared to be bogged down by it for too long.

Not for nothing, but the wind gets knocked out of me the moment my hand pushes open the heavy wooden door that leads to the stairs that leads to this new therapist's office. I am reminded why I am here, I suppose. One can only be nonchalant about her circumstances for so long; the cracked marble-like floors, the dingy walls, the glass-paned doors, the lack of natural light, the faded, hand-written signs that instruct you to ask for a key to the bathroom.

This is the evidence that reveals you're only in this building because you have to be and something must be terribly amiss for your presence to be voluntary. It is not a normal Thursday.

My new therapist is effusive and she is wearing a pink jumpsuit. Her office is surprisingly warm and has one of those bobbling brook and rock zen garden things that put me off whenever I come across one. I am not this time. Perhaps it's because the contrast of the 1960s office decor of the hallway outside and the delightful arrangement in here puts me at ease.

She wants to hug me. I can tell she is a hugger. Her approach is, as her Web site read, "holistic," and while I've never really given much thought to what that truly means within the context of therapy, knowing this somehow makes me not so surprised that she might be a hugger. We sit down and we begin to talk.

I tell her about myself, about the things that brought me here. I cut to the chase on some of it. I know the drill for the initial therapy visit and I can hear myself talking. I sound like I'm giving a prepared speech.

She asks if I'm in the mental health field or perhaps philosophy. She also tells me I'm an old soul and I have a certain wisdom about me. I laugh because I'm certain the only way anyone has ever included such a tag to describe me is when it's used to call me a "wise ass." I then tell her that it's just that I've had a bad day, that it's been a rough few weeks, and I'm ready to just get on with it all.

We talk about disappointment and sadness and change and guilt and acceptance and somehow Buddhism comes up; I'm pretty sure it's within the context of a brief mention of void. I like someone who starts sentences with "That's what the Buddhists call ..." because I don't have enough people in my life who know what Buddhists call anything. I like her. She's hippie and maternal and has a voice that's been ravaged by cigarettes and a joyfulness in her tone.

After 45 minutes, I get up to leave and she reminds me that she doesn't have the answers but all of the questions, and that maybe some of the answers will find their way to those questions eventually. Then she asks me to drop two quarters into the meter where her car is parked out front and I gladly agree to this beautifully eccentric request.

It makes me laugh. I get my breath back. It's not so bad.