Pantsless Friday

What a Wardrobe Malfunction Taught Me About Real Learning

I’ve been talking about my work with several houseguests lately. People are always interested in therapy. I have lots of theories about why, but I’ll save that for another time.

The other day, I found myself saying that most of what I’ve learned about being a psychotherapist has come from my patients, not from graduate school. That’s not entirely fair. I learned plenty in graduate school. In fact, it’s where I first learned that experience would be my best teacher.

Let me paint the scene.

I’m sitting in my Psychopathology class, paying rapt attention. I’m a few months pregnant and trying to finish my coursework before the baby arrives. I feel a light buzz in my pocket. These are the early days of cell phones, so there’s no guarantee I have it on me, but I did that day. I sneak out my (flip) phone and see a text from Husband: Call me. Immediately.

I slip out of the classroom. I hate doing it. I’m the kind of student who reads every assigned article. When my favorite professor told me “B = Ph.D.,” I kept highlighting anyway. But the text is unusual, so I step into the hallway and call.

Now, some quick background: back then, we lived in a big city, and Husband’s hospital was just two miles away. Every Monday he’d take the bus, loaded down with four work outfits, and stash them in a locker at the hospital gym. That way, he could run to work the rest of the week and skip the morning commute.

Back to the story.

It’s a Friday. Husband has run to work. He hits the gym, showers, and starts getting dressed. Underwear first. I’m not sure what he tried next, all I know is what happened after that.

“Wife,” he says when I pick up. “I need you to drive home. Immediately.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I’m at work. And I don’t have any pants.”

“What?”

“I packed your pants instead of mine. I can’t get them past my knees.”

“I’m in class,” I say. “I can’t help.”

“Wife,” he says. “I’m supposed to be rounding with my team in five minutes. And. I. Don’t. Have. Pants.”

I explain, calmly, that I’m in the middle of a lecture on anxiety disorders. That I can’t leave. That this is important.

I wasn’t known for my flexibility in those days. (I’m still not, but I’m trying.)

And then Husband drops the line that seals it:
You want to understand anxiety better? Try going to work without your pants.

That did it. I slipped back into the classroom, gathered my things, and snuck out again. I drove home, grabbed a pair of pants, and delivered them to my half-dressed husband. I missed the lecture on anxiety, but I still got an A+ on the exam, because that day I learned more about anxiety through experience than I ever could from a PowerPoint presentation.

That story still gets told in our house. It’s too good not to. But I did manage to take something meaningful out of that otherwise ridiculous experience: you can learn from books, you can learn from lectures, but some things, especially the human stuff, don’t click until they’re lived. You have to feel the panic, get the call, miss the class, bring the pants, and sit with the story long enough to let it teach you something.

That lesson stuck with me, especially once I became a therapist. It’s one thing to study symptoms, case studies, and research. It’s another to sit across from someone who’s in pain and remember that the most human moments often don’t come from preparation. They come from presence and patience. And pants. Preferably your own.