Each year like clockwork, my therapist leaves the city for three weeks and unlike clockwork, my life becomes that bit messier, a bit trickier to predict. As July comes to a close, the dread begins.

I worry that without my 45 straight minutes of blabbing each Friday, the bolts in my life will loosen and I’ll come shuddering to a complete halt, blocking the tracks for everyone behind me. That kind of thinking is called “catastrophizing” and, not to boast, my therapist says I’m actually really good at it. Rationally, I’m sure I will be fine this month. I’ll keep trudging on just as I did before I was lucky enough to get health insurance and the money for a co-pay. But it’s a wobbly kind of month.

I find some comfort in knowing I’m not alone in being left alone. Lots of New Yorkers lose their therapists in this most grotesque of all the summer months. Perhaps all of the therapists travel together in a calm herd. Maybe they swim, silently gliding through the water, managing to stay in their lanes even in the ocean.

Once, my friend Abi confided in me that she wonders about her therapist’s life and situation, and asked if I did the same about mine: “I mean, aren’t you dying to know who she is? To find out anything at all about her?” I answered honestly that no, I’m not. I understand that my therapist is not a bot activated only by my presence, but her life is not really any of my business.