Can you imagine living with a mind that doesn’t feel quite like your own? Diagnosed with schizophrenia and recovering from a severe psychotic episode, Matt thought he'd found his purpose: becoming a clinical social worker. Yet, self-doubt loomed, questioning every choice he made: “Is this really what you want?”

Today, Matt shares the two pivotal moments that became his “whys” for pursuing a career in counseling.

About seven years after my major psychotic episode, I found myself wrestling with the idea of a new career – specifically, with becoming a therapist or in that area. I felt a deep pull toward the helping profession. I had a sense that supporting others wasn't just meaningful, but also necessary.

During those seven years, I relied on providers, community groups, and therapists. They gave me guidance and compassion when I needed it most, and their care planted a seed that kept growing.

I thought to myself: "This may be my calling."

But I also struggled with two questions:

“Is this truly the path I want?”

“And if so, what's my ‘why?’”

Questioning my purpose

The truth was, I didn’t know. Living with and managing schizophrenia meant that I’d become disconnected from any sense of purpose.

I was so unsure about myself that it didn't take long for doubts to creep in:

What if I’m only pursuing a counseling career because I don’t believe I’m capable of doing anything else?

What if I’m doing this because I've become part of the system? I've been helped by it, but also harmed and shaped by it - what if I don’t know where else to turn?

While I searched for clarity, my mind kept returning to my time in the hospital.

My hospital experience

2011 had been the most terrifying year of my life.

I’d spent almost three weeks in a psychiatric hospital close to downtown Miami. My mind, once creative, expansive, and vibrant, had turned against me. Every day felt like a new assault, a new reason to fear my own thoughts. I was unraveling so fast that I slipped into a kind of learned helplessness.

I remember one time when my parents were visiting me at the hospital, and I’d been adamant they weren't my parents at all. To me, they were intruders in disguise - shapeshifting, demonic figures sent to deceive and torment me.

At one point, I was utterly convinced I was trapped in hell. I threw myself against the thick, multi-glazed window over and over, desperate to escape.

The moments that set me down a new path

And yet, even in all that darkness, two moments of safety helped ease my fear and panic. They felt like a warm blanket around my shoulders while I was caught in my struggle to survive.

I'll never forget how, during a time when I believed I had no shelter from my own internal destruction, a stranger created a sanctuary for me.

Reconnecting with music 

My sister, during one of her visits, brought me an iPod loaded with calming acoustic songs. At first, I believed the device was dangerous; that it might explode if I handled it the wrong way.

But over time, the music became a lifeline. Each familiar melody reminded me of who I'd been before the psychosis, and who I might still be beneath it.

I paced the halls of the crisis unit, listening to those songs, tears streaming down my face.

I can’t remember why I cried. Maybe because, amid all the mental destruction, a small ember of hope glowed. Perhaps the music felt like dawn emerging from behind storm clouds, giving me a brief, fragile sense of safety.

Finding solace in shared experience

The second source of safety came from the peers; other patients, each fighting their own internal battles. Due to the nature of my illness, I didn't fully trust all the hospital staff. I complied with medication and vitals out of fear.

But the patients, the peers… I believed them. I felt their genuine concern when they checked on me, offered small gestures of reassurance, and let me know that I didn't have to endure this alone.

In the throes of psychosis, all I could hope for was a single moment of relief. A moment where something inside could have whispered, “You're still here. You're still you.”

There was one peer I'll never forget; a middle-aged, transgender, African American person who always seemed to notice me at my worst moments. We never exchanged formal introductions. I didn’t know their name, their story, or their preferred pronouns. But I'll forever remember how they approached me with a steady, grounded presence and said, “Honey, you're scared. Come with me.”

They held my hand and wrapped an arm around me and walked with me through the hallways until my terror loosened its grip. In those moments, I felt protected. I felt seen. I felt the storm inside me quiet just enough for me to breathe again. Their gentle, empathic embrace was like a shelter built on benevolence and goodwill.

It was fragile and temporary, but lifesaving.

Finding my “why”

Those moments didn’t cure me. They didn’t erase the chaos. But they changed something fundamental in me. They revealed the power of peer support and the quiet, profound ability of someone who has suffered to reach another who's suffering.

They also showed me that healing doesn’t always come from clinical expertise alone. Sometimes, it can come from being present, showing empathy, and shared survival.

I never saw that person again, yet I still hear their voice at times:

“Honey, you’re coming with me. C’mon, let’s go for a walk.”

I still remember how their hand steadied me, and how their kindness briefly turned off the faucet of terror surging through my mind. And I'll never forget how, during a time when I believed I had no shelter from my own internal destruction, a stranger created a sanctuary for me.

Turning my pain into purpose – and a whole new career

Those moments became my “why.”

Those moments guided me toward peer support and, later, back to school to study social work. I carry them with me every day. They remind me that healing isn't something I offer from a place above, but from a place beside. Combining professional qualifications and knowledge with shared lived experience lends me a multi-faceted approach to my therapy work.

Now, as I stand on the other side of the therapeutic relationship as a clinical social worker, I still walk firmly on the same side as those I serve. I hope to offer even one person the kind of safety that helped carry me through my darkest chapter.

If I can offer this mental refuge to even one person, then every step of this path has been worth it.

The information presented is solely for educational purposes, not as specific advice for the evaluation, management, or treatment of any condition.

The individual(s) who have written and created the content and whose images appear in this article have been paid by Teva Pharmaceuticals for their contributions. This content represents the opinions of the contributor and does not necessarily reflect those of Teva Pharmaceuticals. Similarly, Teva Pharmaceuticals does not review, control, influence, or endorse any content related to the contributor’s websites or social media networks. This content is intended for informational and educational purposes and should not be considered medical advice or recommendations. Consult a qualified medical professional for diagnosis and before beginning or changing any treatment regimen.

NPS-ALL-NP-01688 JANUARY 2026