I booked myself an appointment with my therapist for Boxing Day at 9:00 a.m. It was my Christmas gift to myself.

I was chatting with a good friend this fall about therapy; he was resistant to seeking it for himself, thinking he could “just handle things on his own.”

What I replied was that talk therapy is that, at least in my experience, both in the simple act of asking for help, and in the dialog itself. Therapy is hiring someone to help you help yourself. It is handling things on your own.

My agreement with myself is that I’ll book a therapist appointment when I have even the faintest inkling that I should: I have never been disappointed in this practice, and good things inevitably result.

My appointment for Sunday is not because I’m in crisis, or really even that anything feels wrong: I’m doing okay, starting to rebuild, feeling confident. That’s what I plan to talk to my therapist about: I want to explore those feelings with a disinterested third party, to, in essence, have a guided conversation with myself with the help of someone who knows how to facilitate that.

I can think of no greater gift to myself, and to the others in my life.