On a gray morning in the mid-1960s, a middle-aged man sits on the edge of a hospital cot in a psychiatric research unit at the University of Pennsylvania. His shoulders are slumped, his bathrobe hangs loosely from his frame, and his eyes are fixed on the floor as if reading something written there that no one else can see. The psychiatrist across from him, a quiet, neatly dressed man with rimless glasses, asks a simple question: “What went through your mind just then?” The patient hesitates. He is used to doctors asking about his childhood, about his parents, about long-buried memories. No one has ever seemed much interested in the words running through his mind in the present moment.

Niklas S Osterman BHPRN, BSN, MA

Song: Nowhere else to be. Apple Music

In a small office at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in the late 1950s, chalk dust hangs in the air like a thin fog. The blackboard that dominates one wall is layered with symbols and arrows, phrases crossed out and rewritten in a neat but relentless hand. A young professor, slight and dark-haired, stands back from the board and squints for a moment, taking in the forest of diagrams he has just drawn.

Niklas S Osterman BHPRN, BSN, MA

Song: Nowhere else to be. Apple Music

Vienna, late autumn 1945. In a city still smelling faintly of smoke and rubble, a thin man in a dark suit stands at the front of a small lecture hall. The windows behind him are patched with cardboard; outside, tramlines rattle past buildings with their insides exposed. Inside the room, students and war-weary adults sit shoulder to shoulder on mismatched chairs, coats still on, breath faint in the cold air. They have come to hear a psychiatrist who has just returned from the camps. His name is Viktor Emil Frankl. His cheeks are hollow, his hair close-cropped, his eyes too old for his forty years, but there is a steadiness in the way he grips the lectern, a stubborn vitality that contradicts the devastation etched into his face. He clears his throat, glances at the notes he has scrawled on yellowing paper, and begins to speak about something almost scandalous in the ruins of Europe: the possibility that life, even life marked by horror, can still be meaningful.