On the first day of work on my first job out of my Master’s in Counseling program in 1977, I wore a taupe 3-piece suit, carried a burgundy clutch purse, and sported burgundy high heels. I had gone to Dallas with the woman who helped me get that job, the mother of a childhood friend, and we purchased my entire outfit at Neiman Marcus.

I walked into Texoma Medical Center East as a psychotherapist at the hospital’s newly opened psychiatric unit. I was excited and ready to go, and I couldn’t wait to work with the patients in recreational therapy and as a co-therapist in the daily psychotherapy group. I arrived with extensive internship training as an undergraduate and graduate student. I already knew I loved working as a therapist, but what I didn’t know was that my job would be a balancing act between the new psychiatric staff and the hospital administration.

I met my future husband, Ray, on that psychiatric unit. He came on the recommendation of his college Psychology professor—my mother—to work as a psychiatric aide. My mother encouraged him to see if he was a good fit for the field since he was considering pursuing a medical career as a psychiatrist.

I was 24, he was 19. I was a therapist, he was an aide. We were strictly friends since I was in another relationship. It would be three years—and a job and relationship change for me—before Ray and I would reunite. Shortly after seeing each other again, he declared his love. We were married a few months later and will celebrate our 45th anniversary next June.