It was my first session with my new therapist, and I was intimidated. She looked like a modern-day Grace Kelly, but with long auburn tresses instead of a structured blonde bob. Her name was Catherine (a pseudonym to protect her privacy), and her office was a high-ceilinged, prewar office in a classic Upper West Side brownstone, with an Eames lounge chair in one corner and a plush chenille armchair in another. “So what brings you here today?” she asked kindly, legal notepad poised on her crossed legs. [time-brightcove not-tgx=”true”] I told her that I had just gotten married, and we wanted to have a baby. And I was terrified. “Why is that?” I rattled off a list of fears.
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