Circa 1999, I was in my final year of graduate school, sitting at my dining room table crafting a long-term career plan for a class assignment. I had it all figured out: four very long workdays a week, eight to ten clients a day, fifty weeks a year (I figured I deserved two weeks off). Fridays would be for documentation catch-up and long weekends. Each client would pay $100, and I’d have a good, steady salary.
Not surprisingly, very little of that plan came to fruition.
I was still at the tail end of adolescence then, unaware of how much I didn’t yet understand—insurance, taxes, the way politics shaped people’s disposable income, the importance of saving for life’s unexpected turns. My adolescent self’s plan wasn’t what my adult self would ultimately choose.
Instead, my professional journey has followed a river’s path—winding and branching—guided by an inner voice that knows when stillness has done its work and it’s time to seek new waters.
Choosing Adventure
My final semester of graduate school began with a life-defining moment. A call brought news that one of my closest friends from summer camp, Tamara, had died in a car accident at age 25.
At her funeral in Silver City, New Mexico, I listened to stories of her adult life—her courage, joy, and sense of purpose. Though I hadn’t known her in those years, I could still hear the echo of the teenager I’d known: an old soul with a child’s laughter and sense of wonder.
On the long drive back from the service, I asked myself what people would say about my life if it ended that day. The answer was clear: I wanted to choose adventure.
River Forks
The first adventure came at the end of graduate school in 2000. “I want to do something completely different for my postdoctoral fellowship year,” I decided. I left my Texas roots and headed for Los Angeles to work with children who had experienced trauma.
In California, I learned lessons that shaped both my career and my worldview. Professionally, I studied trauma’s impact on the mind and body, long before mindfulness became a mainstream idea. Personally, I learned how to build a chosen family, how to ask for help, and how to live outside the rhythms of an academic calendar.
Seven years later, the river grew still again. My inner voice whispered, It’s time to move on.
New Waters
I returned to Texas, this time to teach family medicine residents about the mind-body connection. The work was unfamiliar but invigorating—a new current pulling me forward.
The early days were rough, and I nearly dropped the oar a few times. A chosen brother wisel said, “If it isn’t better in six months, start looking.” Six months later, it was better—and I decided to keep paddling.
Over the next twelve years, I found confidence, creativity, and community. I learned to teach with authenticity, translate a psychologist’s process into a medical culture, and design programs that reflected the needs of learners. I became a mom one Friday afternoon at 6:30, and my beautiful babies were instantly embraced by a loving village.
Then one day, the waters calmed again, signaling another change.
A Familiar Shore
This new fork was both familiar and new. One Friday afternoon, the principal of my sons’ school approached me: “Can we talk?”
We sat on the patio, watching the boys play, and by the end of the conversation, I had said yes to a new role—returning to work with children and the adults who care for them. My inner Tamara smiled.
Those four-plus years were joyful. I loved the creativity of collaborating with people who shared my purpose but saw it from different perspectives. Eventually, the river’s pace slowed again, and I felt the pull toward a new direction.
My small part-time private practice began to call for my full attention.
The Road to Still River
In August 2019, I opened my practice with three clients who followed me from earlier chapters. I knew nothing about running a business, but I knew the power of connection, healing, and resilience.
COVID-19 pushed me to adapt—to translate the sacred space of therapy to a computer screen and build connection with clients I would never meet face-to-face. By 2021, it felt like time to give my business a true name, one that reflected not just what I do, but why.
Naming my practice was harder than I expected. I wanted something that spoke to children and adults alike—something that embodied calm and curiosity, adventure and safety, reflection and flow. Something that felt like a centering deep breath, or the sense of comfort that greets you when you walk into your home at the end of a long day.
Still River Counseling was born.
Because even when life moves swiftly, we can learn to find stillness in the water. Amid the busyness of living, there is always a quiet place to return to—a place of peace, presence, and self-compassion.
All are welcome here. Jump in.
— Jennifer
