Gratitude.

I try to exercise gratitude every day. Some days it’s profuse and knee jerk (“Oh, I am so grateful that guy behind me hit the breaks just fast enough!”). Other times it’s more searching (“Well, at least we both have insurance.”)

In any case, for the past several years, mine has been a practice of conscious gratitude, looking around and examining the ways in which I am—my own actions aside—just lucky.

There are the obvious things; but then, once you’re looking around for them, there’s a lot. And recently, for me, my gratitude seems infinite.

I didn’t come into money. I didn’t make a discovery, win a grand prize, or sell my book. No long lost relative emerged from obscurity to tell me I am actually royalty, nor did I encounter a delightful genie in a bottle to grant me wishes. (Though I am still waiting on those last two.)

I started my clinical component of grad school.

My neuro classes have taught me about the wonderful intricacy, mystery, and malleability of the human brain. My clients have demonstrated this; they’ve also humbled me to its power and fragility. Each person I meet at the clinic has a powerful story and is, by any measure, amazing. And they each make me feel thankful daily.

Most obviously, they make me thankful for my healthy brain and body. And they remind me that it may only be temporarily so, increasing my gratitude for each day I’ve been healthy and functioning. That I am healthy and intact makes me grateful for the big things—that I can be in a position to help others, get further educated, be independent, enjoy an active lifestyle—and also for other things I haven’t much thought about. For instance, I do not have to learn how to walk in a little circle every so many feet because I cannot perceive what is on the left of me. I can, without thinking or effort, tie my shoes, walk to class, or casually talk to strangers. I do not have to write everything that happens to me down because I will not remember it in several minutes. These were things I didn't previously realize I should be thankful for.

More than making me grateful for what I can or can’t do, they make me grateful for human resilience and what is possible for them, me, and everyone. They remind me that one can learn and relearn, and though life would be easier without the struggles some face, rehabilitation is possible. They also remind me (a helper by nature) that it is important to let oneself be helped and to rely on others.

In addition, I am grateful to learn from these clients. I’m not just talking about their disorders and deficits; these are really just one aspect of their lives, and though they undoubtedly shape them, it is not who they are. I'm talking about the character, strength, humor, and patience they demonstrate in so willingly sharing their experience and time with me, a novice clinician, full of the insecurity, faults, and silly (or downright bad) ideas that come with being brand new, so that I can learn and grow and help others in the future. As one of my clients once said to me and my co-clinician, “I thought you did a good job today.” And she, the one working so hard!

This is their most generous gift: the reminder that we should use what we have to help and graciously be helped when needed. That’s what it means to be part of a community.