1. Winter

ONE

WINTER

O ne.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

I tap a rapid staccato on the desk as hot air blows from my overworked laptop, warming my numb fingertips. It's midday in the middle of summer, and even though the heat radiating into my studio apartment would usually cause me to sweat my hair out, my whole body is cold.

Eight! Eight-seven-eight! Eight-seven-six-seven-eight…

A wet snout nudges my hand as my dog jumps in my lap. He makes himself comfortable, giving me deep pressure. Even though he weighs all of fifteen pounds, his presence helps bring me down.

Deep breath.

"It's just a fucking phone call, Winter," I say out loud.

Kitty huffs, licking my hand where it grips the desk.

"I hear ya, boy." With one more cleansing breath, I calm my body and feel the pressing levels of high anxiety come down from "I'm about to lose my shit" to "This doesn't feel great, but I've got this. "

"Free," I command Kitty, and he hops down from my lap to sit next to my heel.

I rub his silky ear, and he looks up at me, his attention focused on my cues.

The blue "Join Meeting" button glows on my computer screen, and without overthinking it, I click to let myself into the call. I'm face-to-face with my program coordinator a few moments later.

Even though I've never met the woman in person in the four years I've been in the doctoral program, I know her well through the innumerable emails and video conferences we've shared. I try to school my face into a pleasant smile even though my muscles feel tight and like they might spasm at any moment.

"Winter, it was tough to do, but I'm happy to tell you I have great news!" Ms.O'Connor beams at me and claps her hands in front of her face.

Tap-tap-tap.

The air rushes out of my lungs in a whoosh.

" Really? " The relief is palpable.

I clench my sweaty hands in my lap and wish for the millionth time that I weren't such a nervous person. I've always been this way, but it wasn't until I hit my teenage years that my nervousness turned into a panic disorder with obsessive-compulsive features.

Don't think about that.

I've worked hard to manage my symptoms and be able to function in society—to want to function in society. So thank God for meds and therapy. And best friends who are there to pick me up off the floor. And a general hope for the future.

Still, being a disabled student has meant I've had to work three times as hard to get just as far as my peers. It's exhausting, even though I've been able to figure out solutions as I've gone along.

With online classes being a regular thing now, I breezed through undergrad, so it was easy to step into my school's PsyD childhood psychology program.

Everything has been smooth, simple. I finished the master's degree requirements last semester. But now it's time for me to complete my practicum hours: in-person supervised clinical experiences that are non-negotiable to the Virginia Board of Licensing and Liberty Falls University.

The problem is I need to be around people. A lot of people. And while I can go outside and even go to crowded places like the grocery store or the park—with a little preparation and Kitty by my side—the thought of going into a hospital or clinic and dealing with person after person in fifty-minute chunks for ten hours a day feels like my personal version of hell.

I've vacillated between assured confidence and sheer terror over the issue for so long that Veronica and my therapist both demanded that I reach out to the grad board to request disability accommodations.

"The board has decided to honor your request pretty much in full," Ms.O'Connor says, cutting into my thoughts. "They are willing to be very liberal with how you complete your practicum hours. Basically, as long as you have a licensed psychologist sign off on your work and check in with the practicum supervising professor, you're all set!"

She bounces on my screen and does that quick tap-tap-tap of her hands again.

"Okay?" I say while trying to temper my excitement. "That's…that's it? I can work with that," I reply again, feeling the tension in my spine release a fraction.

"Yes! Well, there's just one thing—you'll have to do your hours in person, but you get to decide how to do that."

She smiles at me again.

I blink in response.

"But…I can't see clients virtually? Clinicians do that all the time!" I say, feeling my blinking race out of my control .

Blink-blink-blink .

Kitty presses into my leg, alert to my rising distress.

"Yes, well, the program committee was willing to bend on the content of your practicum experience, but it's the opinion of the board that you will get the fullest educational experience and be best prepared for your future as a clinician by completing this part in person."

She lowers her voice. "You know how Dr. Stevenson is," she says in a near whisper.

Well, rip my heart out and set it on fire.

I do, in fact, know how Dr. Stevenson is. He is the professor who tried to kick me out of the program in my second semester of undergrad. I tried to go on campus for my final exam without Kitty. I'd just gotten him and finished service dog training, but I didn't feel comfortable bringing him with me.

It was a stupid decision. A masterclass in how to be self-defeating.

Quizzes and exams could be done online along with the rest of the coursework, but finals had to be administered in person by a proctor. I could have pushed for an exception, but I didn't want to draw attention to myself.

Internalized ableism is a bitch.

Even though I felt comfortable with the material, I had a panic attack so bad I got a nosebleed and ran out of the room. When I returned after taking my emergency Xanax, I told the professor what happened, expecting him to be understanding.

He is a psychologist, after all.

Instead, he looked down his straight nose and cut me to pieces as he said, "If you can't control your mental health, how could you possibly think you can treat clients?"

I passed the exam with a score three points above failing.

Dr. Stevenson was part of the driving force behind my press to finish my program in record time. I wanted to get out of all his classes. But now, he's the chair of the practicum board.

Jesus H. Christ.

I try to take air past my constricted throat muscles.

It's okay, Winter .

"Okay, that's…thank you for going to bat for me, Ms.O'Connor."

She smiles back at me.

"I know this isn't exactly what you wanted, but I do sorta agree with them, Winter. You're going to be a great clinician. You will make an empathetic provider," she says with a sober tone dampening her bubbly delivery. "You've made much progress as a student despite your disability. And …I think it's okay if you stretch a little. If you try. If it's really not doable, collect all the data and let's bring it back to the board. Okay?"

Her words are meant to be reassuring, but all they do is piss me off.

Many people say they understand anxiety disorders, but they don't. They think I can "think" my way out of panic. I can't. I've done a lot of work to be the healthiest I've ever been, but plenty of days are a challenge still.

I realize I'm biting my nails and lower my hand from my face.

"This is not to say you should just ‘get over' your disability." She makes finger quotes in the air. "It's more to be curious about what it would look like if you tried. At least you'll know."

"Thank you," I say, my lips feeling numb in a familiar signal that a panic attack might be right around the corner. "Alert," I murmur to Kitty, and he hops back on my lap, ducking his head to stay out of the frame. Part of me feels it's intentional. Every time Ms. O'Connor talks, his ears tense. Her high-pitched, excited tone borders on grating to my human ears. I can only imagine what it does to Kitty .

"You're welcome, Winter." She pauses for a beat. "I've done some thinking?—"

Oh, joy .

"—and I have a few ideas on how you could complete your program. If you could find a single subject to work with directly, that would be low stress…low er stress, right? I have a friend over at the children's hospital. She's the lead pediatric psychologist there. Since we have reciprocity with the hospital, she's taken a look at her roster of client referrals and picked out a few who might be willing to work with someone with your focus. She'll even act as your clinical supervisor! You can get everything set before the fall semester starts in a few weeks." She finishes speaking and beams, her smile wide.

This is a good case scenario. Not exactly "best case," but you can accept "good case," Winter.

I force the muscles in my face to concoct a smile and say, "Thank you so much for advocating on my behalf. That sounds wonderful."

"I'll loop you and Dr.Wagner together before I leave for the day. But, Winter?" She pauses for a moment. "I'm so incredibly proud of you. You've come so far in such a short time. I can't wait to see what you do this year."

Tears well up in my eyes. Ms.O'Connor, for all her quirks, is the closest thing I've had to a mother figure in this whole process.

We firm up a few more details and end the call after a few minutes. My laptop claps shut as I slam it closed, and I tilt to the side in my armless desk chair as nausea wells in my esophagus. The physical toll of showing up for the meeting, sitting through disappointment, and masking my anxiety means paying for it later.

Or now.

Not today, Satan.

Heading over to the massive wall of windows where the sun shines through at full force, I plop down on the oversized pillow seat in my meditation zone. Reaching for the stone-cased essential oil diffuser, I put three drops each of lavender, vetiver, and clary sage into it.

Kitty settles at my back, pressing into me with a tense position. He's trained to be vigilant to threats that might materialize around me, but mostly, he's alert to threats that may exist within myself.

Focusing on breathing, I close my eyes and turn my face toward the sun, thankful for the powerful rays. I extend my right index finger to my left hand.

I am safe. Trace up my thumb.

I feel calm. Trace down my thumb.

I trust my ability to prevail over hard things. Trace up my index finger.

I let go and trust the process of life. Trace down my index finger.

The scents swirl around me, forcing me to think of nothing but the affirmations.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.

Finishing my degree means everything to me. For the longest time, no one believed I could go to college and get this close to finishing. Not even myself. But meeting Genevieve changed everything.

I was fresh out of the hospital and fragile in my recovery. She was the first person to encourage me to accept my disorders—to accept my past—so I could move forward and live…even with anxiety as my long-time friend. My weekly sessions with Genevieve have been my anchor for over a decade. She told me I didn't need her blessing to pursue psychology, but she gave it anyway.

But I'm not pursuing psychology for Genevieve. I'm doing it for me. I'm doing it because I know millions of girls and women like me need and deserve support. The support I know I can give because I understand. I more than understand .

Finishing and getting out there to help people…it's non-negotiable.

I can do this. I can fucking do this.

My watch beeps, reminding me to take my meds and eat something. I shuffle over to the kitchen to grab my pill organizer and pour myself a glass of water.

My studio apartment is the first place I've lived on my own. I found the place online and fell in love with the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the busyness of U Street. The Howard University campus stands off in the distance. I still own my parents' house in Arlington, but I haven't been there since…

Nope. Not gonna go there, either.

I settle into a familiar daydream. In it, I take the train to the Tidal Basin and picnic on the lawn in March when the cherry blossoms bloom. D.C. is famous for the cherry blossom festival, but the thought of going to a full-blown festival feels as good as shoving sporks under my fingernails. But in my fantasy, the Basin is empty, and I'm able to lay with Kitty in the spring sun and view the blooms in peace.

And maybe if a handsome man were to walk past…maybe while walking his dog…and the dog got off the leash and ran toward me? Then maybe the man would stop to get his puppy and start a conversation, and one thing would lead to another and…we're in a passionate romance.

Sigh.

"Kitty, we can handle anything," I say out loud to my dog. He circles around and sits at attention in front of me. Tilting his head to the side, he snorts and waits for his next command.

"Relax," I say, petting his head and rubbing his face. When I release him, he saunters off to his dog bed, settling in and cuddling with his plushie.

I open the pill box, take the meds out of the container, toss them in my mouth, and swallow with a big gulp .

There was a time when taking medicine to help my anxiety caused more anxiety. My brain would tell me things like, What if you have an allergic reaction and go into anaphylaxis? Fun shit.

But now, after finding the right combination of meds and therapy, I can breathe. The crushing weight of constant anxiety and panic does not weigh me down.

I can go outside. I can get into a car. I can be free . I simply need accommodations.

A rap song about hyping up best friends blares from my phone, vibrating it closer to my laptop. Taking another big gulp of water, I set the glass down and answer my best friend's call.

Veronica Lance and I met on the playground in 3rd grade. I was being teased for the short 'fro my mom gave me after I fell asleep with two sticks of bubble gum in my mouth—gum that migrated into my curly hair.

Veronica came to my rescue when she socked Dominique Jennings right in the mouth and left her sobbing on the playground.

"You look cute. Just fluff your hair because it's a little flat on the left side," she whispered to me as she hooked her arm in mine. With a confident stride, she rushed us away from our crying classmate and to the bathroom.

Even though we both got detention, it was worth it.

She knew what it was like to be one of the five kids with melanated skin in our two-hundred student private school near Capitol Hill. She's been my best friend, my sister really, ever since.

I just wish she didn't need to be my protector so much still.

" Biiiiiiiitch ," she says with a long groan.

"What happened now, Rons?" I smile at my loud friend's predictable greeting. I head over to my clothes-rack-turned-closet and pull a pair of yoga pants and a soft T-shirt off their respective hangers before placing them on my bed. I felt compelled to dress in slacks and a button-down for my call with Ms.O'Connor—as if that would impact the outcome. I frown. At least now I can get comfortable.

"James just decided to let me know he's going to Seattle. Guess when he's fucking going, Winter?"

I pull the phone away from my ear and barely get a reply of "When?" out before Veronica interrupts.

"The week I'm supposed to give birth, that's when!" A door slams on the other side of the phone.

I let out a small gasp. "No way! What's he thinking?" I'm concerned, but I'd never tell her that.

"You know he isn't thinking. Why would he think? It's not that he'd ever tell his boss that he needs time off because God forbid he tell the Baltimore Thunderhawks they'll have to find a replacement to apply Koban."

"Veronica, he does a little more than apply sports tape. He's the team doctor."

"Doctor? You know who needs a doctor? Me! His wife who is pregnant with his first child." She crunches in my ear, and I'm sure it's kettle corn, her pregnancy fixation. She's been blessed to not have morning sickness, even though she just popped positive.

"Well, you know I'll be there, Rons. And James would leave in the middle of the game if you told him you had even a whisper of a contraction." I think. I hope.

The truth is Veronica's husband, James, is not my favorite person. Nor am I his. Veronica met him at the Johns Hopkins satellite hospital where she was a trauma ER nurse.

Was, because James doesn't allow Veronica to work anymore. He says it's for her safety, but I say bullshit.

One of James' players suffered a compound fracture, and Veronica stabilized the man. After the patient was sent to surgery, James asked Veronica out. He said he liked the way she commanded the room .

I think he just liked her ass in her scrubs.

To hear Veronica tell it, they connected over their shared love for their work and the fact that they both are part of Black Greek life. They pledged complementary organizations.

"You just have to see him stroll , Winter," Rons told me early on in their relationship. I told her I'd take her word for it.

It only took six months of dating for Veronica Lance to become Veronica Palmer. Now, two years later, she's expecting their first child.

Veronica sniffles into the phone.

"Yeah," she says in a small voice. "It's just that…I hate his job. Like, hate it. Loathe the shit entirely . And I es-pec-ial-ly hate all the ball sniffers around waiting to hop on his dick at any moment. I just wish he'd quit and work at any other place."

Crunch-crunch-crunch.

"First off," I say while fishing my underwear out of the bottom drawer of my nightstand, "James wouldn't do something like that."

I don't think so, at least.

"And two, girl, you did not just call them ball sniffers!"

She lets out a flat chuckle. "You're right, Winter. I'm just feeling…"

I wait for her to finish, but after a few seconds, I say, "Insecure?"

" Puffy. "

"Veronica Marie Lance-Palmer! You are pregnant—with my niece or nephew, might I add. Give yourself a break."

"Win, my jeans don't zip anymore and I'm barely two months pregnant. And I can't even say it's baby weight because the baby is, like, the size of a walnut or something. So…"

I sigh. "Sweet bestie of mine, I won't listen to you put yourself down. Do you need me to come over there? "

"I…really?" Skepticism laces Veronica's voice.

"Yes," I say firmly and clear my throat. "Do you need me to come over? You sound like you need some chocolate and for someone to rub your feet. James is away at training camp, right?"

Veronica sniffles into the phone.

"You'd come over for me?" Her voice sounds watery and tear-filled.

It's a big deal for me to leave my home. It's a process, which is why I only leave a few times a week at most.

Besides getting Kitty ready to work—putting on his harness, finding his paw shoes if it's wet, planning out my route—there are my anxiety rituals I have to complete.

First, there's the ritual of checking all the appliances to make sure they won't set on fire. I have to do this three times, uninterrupted.

Then, when I leave my apartment, I have to check that the door is locked three uninterrupted times. If I don't, I will expect someone to be in my apartment, ready to murder me. It will feel as real to my body as if I were staring down an axe murderer in real life.

Going down the stairs, I must count every single step. With practice, I've learned to count them in my head rather than out loud like I used to. Again, this practice must be uninterrupted. If I miss a step, I have to start over, trudging back up the stairs to count them again.

Once outside, I have to check the vehicle. It's always Uber or Lyft because I don't drive. I know how to, in theory, but I just don't. I've had more than one driver peel off while in the middle of my ritual.

It's a process. But I've come a long way.

There was a time when I couldn't leave the house at all. I'd touch the door handle to leave and blackout from the resulting panic attack. Those times when I'd wake up in the hospital, drugged out of my mind, were the only instances in which I'd see the outside world and anyone other than Henry, Gia, and Veronica Lance.

But I'm better. I'm getting better. I'm managing, damn it.

I will see the cherry blossoms.

"Yes, I would. Actually, I kinda need your help."

In the end, Veronica ends up braving the Monday rush hour traffic to come to my apartment. Not because she doesn't believe I can make the trip over to her home in Adams Morgan, but because she "couldn't stand to stay inside and watch another episode of Love in the City. "

So that's how she ends up curled up on my sofa in sweats and a T-shirt at 10 p.m., spilling popcorn crumbs everywhere while watching Love in the City.

"I just don't see why they can't let you do all this virtually," she says, swiping the open Diet Coke can off the glass coffee table so fast some of the soda spills over her fingers and lands on the seat.

"I don't understand it either, Rons. Everyone does everything virtually now. Why would this be any different? But I don't want to push it with them and make things harder on me." Sitting on the plush rug in front of the couch, I move to steal popcorn from the bowl in her lap.

She stares at my hand with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

"Anyway, maybe they have a point," I say, pulling my hand back with caution, a single kernel of popcorn between my fingers.

"The point being that they're ableist fucks?" she says after a beat.

"Veronica!" I laugh and place a hand over my chest.

"I mean, they are! You've done so much for that school, even when you were in undergrad. You've published articles and presented at conferences—virtually, because duh—and now they're sticking to their guns about this ?" She shoves a handful of popcorn in her mouth and chomps to prove her point.

"I hear you, babe. And I think maybe it's okay for me to push myself a little bit more than I have. You know…get out there."

She blinks at me.

"I will set aside the self-defeating rhetoric for now, babe. What does Genevieve the Therapist have to say about it?" I laugh at her name for my long-time therapist.

"I'll talk to her about it in my next session. I feel…not great about it, but I feel like this could ultimately be a positive thing. Have faith in me, Rons."

She inhales a little bit and sits up, placing the bowl next to her on the couch.

"I have all the faith in you, Winter. Do you know how spectacular you are? Like, my best friend is a baddie. I know you can do anything! I just— I don't like it when people try to mess over you."

She trails off, and I grab her free hand, squeezing it.

"Thank you for always sticking up for me, Rons. I love you."

"I love you too, Winter. You're one step closer to opening your ranch. Right?"

"Right," I reply, smiling. I let my head land on the sofa, my attention on the screen but thoughts elsewhere. "I'm gonna do it, Rons. One day, I'll have a big plot of land in the country with horses and goat yoga and sound baths and bodywork?—"

"And all the other witchy-woo-woo stuff you swear by," Veronica adds.

I roll my eyes and smile.

When I left the hospital years ago, I got the idea to create a place for survivors to mend their fractured souls after trauma—a safe space for healing. The mental hospital's sterile approach was helpful, but it didn't provide what I needed to move forward.

Medication and therapy helped get me stable.

True healing requires so much more—it requires soul work.

Kitty wanders over to me and puts his paws on my shoulder.

"I'm okay, love," I murmur to him. "Off duty."

Veronica grabs the bowl again, frowning and sighing when she sees it's empty.

"Well, let's get to it then." She pops up from her seat, and I stare at her still-flat stomach. It's bananas that she's growing a whole-ass human in there. Veronica has always been fit—her muscular, toned body looked very different from mine until I grew into myself.

My body type didn't get acceptable until the Kardashians made big asses and wide hips popular again. And if I have anything, I have an ass. And a round stomach with a little pooch over my cooch that sticks out when I wear form-fitting clothing.

I'm a comfortable size fourteen, sometimes sixteen.

Veronica ran track-and-field in high school and got a good chunk of money from her college to do the same. I bet if she tried hard enough, her thighs could crack walnuts, even though she's retired from sports. At the same time, she has an ass the Instagram models pay good money for, and her tits are perky perfect C-cups.

I look down at my chest. My G-cups, though full and round, do not defy gravity. I'm grateful for and, at the same time, curse the inventor of the bra.

She snags my laptop from the corner desk and strides back to the sofa. "Ms.O'Connor sent over info on clients, yeah? So, let's see it." She unlocks my laptop, and I rush to close the lid.

"You cannot see private client information. Sooooorrry, " I say as I take the laptop from her.

"Yeah, yeah, HIPAA and all that noise. Well, open it up and you see what she sent. I'm gonna go get some more pizza."

She stands back up, pivots, and pauses for a second before saying, "Actually, I'm gonna go pee. Then pizza."

I wave her off and re-open my computer. I tap the secure email from Ms.O'Connor, scanning through the message. She looped in Dr.Wagner, and the doctor sent a response an hour ago.

I have an interesting option for you. I have a fifteen-year-old Autistic male on the floor who is near discharge. The family declines inpatient treatment, and a hybrid program is inappropriate in this case. I've attached the case notes in the portal. Let me know what you think, and I'll begin the referral process.

Dr. W

P.S. I read your last paper on access to alternative communication devices within inner-city Autistic populations. Brilliant work. Thrilled to see what you'll do over the next few months.

I lean against the sofa as Veronica rummages around my kitchen. This seems like a perfect fit for me.

My interest in neurodivergence sparked in Dr. Stevenson's undergraduate seminar of all places. I admit I didn't know much about autism going into the class, and I can now see Dr. Stevenson's delivery of the course material reeked of bias. When we were tasked with a class research project that required us to work with programs serving the autism community, I planned on finishing the assignment and getting through the class.

I didn't plan on finding a deep connection with my clients, even through the barrier of a computer screen. When I learned that Autistic youths are three times more likely to face abuse in their childhoods…it was like part of my mission snapped in place.

Reading over the notes, I learn the client has unreliable speech and uses an alternative communication device to talk. He's just lost his mother, and the circumstances around her death are heartbreaking. The number of transitions he's experiencing right now would be a lot for anyone, much less for someone with his profile.

Even through the sterile case notes, I feel connected to this patient.

I can handle this one-on-one.

This is what you've been working toward, Winter. You can so do this.

I type my response to Dr.Wagner and close my laptop when I hear Veronica sniff in the kitchen.

When she walks into the room, her bright smile contrasts with the tense set of her shoulders. I can't ignore the red tint around her lids.

"What's wrong?" I say, standing up to walk closer to her.

"You know. Hormones."

I raise my eyebrow and say nothing, giving her a long look.

"Listen, I'm pregnant and hormonal. It's fine." Her phone lights up in her tense hand. I flick my eyes down to read the text before she can make the screen black again.

"Everything okay with James?"

Her back stiffens as she says, "Yep," popping the "p" with slight force.

I tilt my head. "Why aren't you talking to me, Veronica? "

"I am, Doctor Vaughan , jeez. There's nothing happening. Just James being his usual self, and I have less ability to deal with it without crying." She shrugs. "It is what it is."

I give her another short look before sighing and shaking my head.

"Okay, but if there's something that's bothering you, I'm here to help you. Okay?" She doesn't say anything but leans over to give me a tight hug.

When she releases me a moment later, she says, "I know, sister. Let's just watch some more Love in the City. I wanna know what happens with Marc and Jenni."

She shuffles around me and takes up residence back on the couch. Spotting the empty popcorn bowl, she looks at it, then toward the kitchen, and finally at me.

"Um, do you mind…maybe…" She holds the bowl in front of her face and gives me her best puppy dog eyes.

"Yeah, yeah," I say as I snatch the bowl from her to get her more kettle corn.