The Psychiatrist

Terry was the Director of Operations for Art in Tucson. Art trusted him. That mattered. Everyone knew Terry and Art were close. Friends at work and outside it.

Terry had that rare gift with people. The kind that made you feel seen without being examined. Heard without being corrected. In a building full of microphones, he knew when to turn the volume down.

They had three stations. Two Latino. One Hip-Hop. Fifty-five employees. Which in radio translates to fifty-five opinions, sixty-five egos, and at least eighty-five problems before lunch.

Naturally, Terry became what he liked to call the cluster psychiatrist. People came to him with their frustrations.

A night jock would explain why afternoons were clearly his destiny. A promotions assistant felt invisible. Someone was always feeling disrespected, misunderstood, or tragically underplayed. Terry listened.

There was one program director though. Always wound tight. Always one coffee away from orbit. Every week, like clockwork, he would storm in.

“Terry, I gotta talk to you. I really gotta talk to you.”

Terry would gesture calmly, "Come on in. Sit down."

For twenty minutes straight, the man would unload. Grievances. Theories. Injustices. Terry would nod. Occasionally say, “Yeah.” Or “Uh-huh.” No interruptions. No solutions. Just steady eye contact and the patience of a desert horizon at sunset.

Eventually, the program director would exhale. A long one. Like a summer storm finally letting go.

“Well,” he would say, standing up noticeably lighter, “I feel a lot better now. Thanks, Terry.”

And out he’d go.

This happened weekly. Same man. Same script. Same relief.

All Terry had done was listen. Or maybe just hold the space. Sometimes, that is the whole job.

There is something quietly beautiful about that. Like a tree that offers shade without commentary. Like water that runs without advice.

We spend a lot of time trying to fix things. Improve them. Optimize them. But sometimes people do not need answers.

They need a chair.
A nod.
Permission to say it all out loud.

Terry understood that. He never billed for it. Never wrote a prescription.

He just listened.

And somehow, everyone walked out better than they came in.