What the Water Gave Me

What the Water Gave Me

A month. That’s how long my ketamine-assisted psychotherapy practice in Chapel Hill had been running before the flood came. Thirty days of carefully arranged furniture, thoughtfully chosen artwork, and the particular kind of sanctuary I’d envisioned for this work—all of it sitting in the aftermath of 12 inches of murky, debris-filled water that had no business being there.

I joke with my mom that homeownership really boils down to one essential task: keeping the water out. Keep the basement dry. Keep the gutters clear. Maintain the roof. Cross your fingers that the washer doesn’t decide to stage a revolt and flood the laundry room. But sometimes, despite our best efforts, the water finds a way in anyway.

The practical devastation was immediate and overwhelming. Waterlogged carpet pulled away from the baseboards. My carefully selected therapy chairs—chosen for their particular comfort and the way they invited weightlessness— were now water-stained and reeking. Books and paper to be dried page by page. The smell that seems to seep into everything, that particular cocktail of damp and decay that signals things have gone very wrong.

Running a new business is already an exercise in controlled chaos, a daily dance with uncertainty and hope. Add the sudden loss of the physical space, and that dance becomes something more like free-falling. Where would I see patients when my office is uninhabitable? How can I maintain continuity of care when everything familiar has been swept away? The stress felt as murky and invasive as the floodwater itself.

But here’s what I didn’t expect: the grace that emerged from the mess.

Within hours of posting about the flood on social media, my phone was buzzing with offers. Colleagues offering temporary office space. Friends showing up with industrial fans and cleaning supplies. Trusted colleagues - new and old, reaching out with referrals to help me rebuild. The ketamine therapy community—already small and tight-knit—rallied in ways that reminded me why I’d chosen this path in the first place. For a few minutes, I felt like closing up shop and giving up before I even got started. But my friends, family, and colleagues encouraged me to keep going and take it step-by-step, day-by-day. Keep going.

I learned to ask for help, something that doesn’t come naturally to those of us trained to be the ones providing support. I learned to accept it, which proved even harder. There’s something humbling about standing in my ruined office, accepting a hug from a colleague who drove across town just to help me salvage what could be saved.

The flood also created unexpected opportunities to help others. Other practitioners reached out, sharing their own stories of setbacks and recovery. Patients who had heard about the flood began opening up about their own experiences with loss and resilience. The vulnerability that comes with disaster became a bridge rather than a barrier.

I wrote this post from a borrowed office, surrounded by someone else’s books and their carefully chosen artwork. It’s not the space I had planned, but it’s where healing is happening. My patients and I are learning together that therapy—especially trauma-informed therapy—doesn’t depend on perfect conditions. Sometimes the most profound work happens in the spaces between what we planned and what actually unfolds.

The water that flooded my office was destructive, yes. It carried away furniture and files, brought mud and uncertainty. But it also carried something else: the reminder that we’re not meant to weather life’s storms alone. It brought the discovery that asking for help doesn’t diminish us—it connects us. It revealed that sometimes our greatest gifts emerge not from our strength, but from our willingness to remain open when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

And now, it’s time for me to move back in to my fully renovated space — bigger and better than it ever was before: infused with the love, support, and resilience of Chapel Hill. In ketamine therapy, we often talk about the importance of “set and setting”—the mindset and environment that shape the therapeutic experience. I’d spent weeks crafting what I thought was the perfect setting, only to watch it disappear under dirty water. What I’m learning is that the most important element of any therapeutic space isn’t the furniture or the artwork. It’s the willingness to show up authentically, to stay present with whatever arises, and to trust that healing can happen anywhere two people are willing to be real with each other.

Floods can drown, certainly. They can sweep away what we’ve built and leave us gasping, surrounded by debris and damage. But they can also fill—with unexpected kindness, with community we didn’t know we had, with the kind of resilience that only reveals itself when we’re forced to discover what we’re truly made of.

The water gave me chaos, yes. But it also gave me clarity. It gave me community. It gave me the chance to practice what I preach about finding meaning in difficult experiences and discovering that sometimes our greatest losses create space for our most important gains.

I’m still going to be doing the work of keeping the water out—the gutters are cleaned, the roof is checked, the basement is watched. But I’m also more open to what might flow in: the help, the connection, the unexpected gifts that sometimes arrive disguised as disasters.

After all, in a practice built around helping people navigate altered states and difficult emotions, perhaps there’s something fitting about learning to do the work while everything familiar is still slightly waterlogged and nothing is quite where it’s supposed to be. Maybe that’s not a bug in the system—maybe that’s the point.

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If this writing resonates with you and you’d like to explore this work together, or you’re interested in learning more about ketamine and our community of support and healing right here in Chapel Hill, NC, reach out to learn more: sarah@cantoteampractice.com