Remnant Counselor Collective

When Height and Anxiety Collide: A Therapist’s Story

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Andrew Wichterman Andrew Wichterman
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Tall, Anxious, and In Need of Community: A Therapist’s Reflection

When I was 12 years old—well, technically the summer I turned 13—I was already 6’1”. That summer, I grew to 6’6”. The summer after that? Another inch. And again the next year. I stopped at 6’8”. Catch your breath before realizing just how tall that is. I’ve heard every tall joke you can imagine: “How’s the weather up there?” “Do you play basketball?” “Where do you even buy your pants?” The comments were constant. Today, they don’t bother me as much. I’ve done enough work over the years. But it wasn’t always like that.

You might wonder why it ever bothered me at all—aside from the growing pains, stretch marks, and the near-impossibility of finding clothes. But the comments weren’t what hurt the most. It was the rejection. The laughter. The public humiliation. I remember one moment vividly. I was walking behind two guys from my basketball team—one I thought was a friend. He wasn’t. He turned to my actual friend and mocked me. Said I was “goofy,” “too long,” and “barely able to run.” He had no idea I was behind him. But I was. When he turned around and saw me standing right there, the look on his face changed. “Oh man, you know I was just kidding,” he stammered. But I didn’t know what to say. I stood there, caught between embarrassment and fury, shame and silence. I knew I was awkward. I didn’t need someone else to say it.

That was the year it really got to me. I went from coordinated and skilled to unsure and lanky. I grew five inches in three and a half months. At one point, I was 6’6” and weighed just 160 pounds. At my high school peak, I was 6’8” and 185. It’s hard to feel strong when your body feels like scaffolding.

But it wasn’t just physical awkwardness that created emotional turmoil. Anxiety runs in my family. I heard stories of my dad and my grandmother sitting around talking about what worried them. I never got to meet my grandmother—she died of breast cancer before I was born—but I’ve been told she was too afraid to go to the doctor. Too afraid to drive. In all other ways, she was described as an amazing woman: kind-hearted, loving, godly, generous, and gentle. The same words could be used to describe my father. But anxiety was part of their story.

And I learned from them. From their stories. From watching my dad over the years. Anxiety, I discovered, is a coping mechanism.

Being tall didn’t cause my anxiety. But it became the vehicle through which it rode in. I was teased, ostracized, isolated. I longed to be accepted—not even admired, just accepted. I understood theology early. I loved Jesus. But I still wanted friends, connection, community.

For many therapists, we believe we’re immune. We sit on the healing side of the couch. We’re the ones who help others work through the hard stuff. But around 7 or 8 years ago, I realized: I needed therapy too. And I needed it badly.

Reprocessing those middle school memories—especially from grades 6 to 9—was painful. EMDR brought them back up like an unexpected flood. I’ve had clients look at me with tears and confusion after an EMDR session and ask, “What did you do to me?” My answer is always the same: “We’re pulling up 50 years of emotion that’s been stuffed away. Of course it’s going to hurt.”

I know this pain. I’ve lived it. And though I’ve grown into my frame and healed many wounds, I still wrestle with feeling out of place. Fitting in hasn’t always come easy. Some of my closest friendships today are with the faculty I teach alongside at Colorado Christian University. They’ve lived through sorrow. Some have battled self-harm. Some have survived abuse. Many have carried the burdens of others long before they knew how to carry their own.

We need those kinds of people. The ones who sit with us in the pain. Who don’t look away. Who don’t offer platitudes. We need real community.

Tim Keller once described true love as love that is given without requirement. Love without condition, like Christ’s love for us (Keller, 2011). We cannot love that way until we have dealt with our own stories. Until we’ve stopped pretending our pain is irrelevant or distant. Until we’ve stopped minimizing how our past has shaped our present.

Therapists, I believe, are uniquely shaped by pain. We often have higher expectations of people—not because we’re judgmental, but because we’ve seen what people are capable of when they’re at their worst and still hoping for healing. But that healing begins with us, too.

At Remnant Counselor Collective, and in my own life, my prayer is that we create spaces of community like this—where we give without expecting, love without requiring, and serve without resenting. I don’t need to be accepted by some snotty high schoolers anymore. I need to walk closely with Jesus and surround myself with those who do the same.

And maybe you need that too.

References

Keller, T. (2011). The meaning of marriage: Facing the complexities of commitment with the wisdom of God. Dutton.

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  • Kimberly Sperl

    Kimberly Sperl

    Thanks for sharing your story, it helped me put some things into perspective.
  • Stephanie Howard

    Stephanie Howard

    Thank you. Your story brought many important points to light for me.
  • Andrew Wichterman

    Andrew Wichterman

    Thank you both. I am glad it was helpful.
  • Sarah Gauthier

    Sarah Gauthier

    "Until we’ve stopped pretending our pain is irrelevant or distant. Until we’ve stopped minimizing how our past has shaped our present." Well said.
  • Shannon Wilson

    Shannon Wilson

    That was perfectly timed. Thank you for being so vulnerable.
  • Andrew Wichterman

    Andrew Wichterman

    You are very kind, Shannon- thank you.
  • Emily Pethel

    Emily Pethel

    I love this, but surely I can't be the only one missing Dr. Wichterman’s tangents. It seems the clever editing may have kept them hidden from us! In all seriousness, thank you for sharing your story and for being willing to connect through both video and the written word.

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