“The biggest misconception about trauma is that it has to be this earth-shattering event,” she told the enraptured crowd, painting the air with her hands. “Society itself can be traumatic, especially if you are a woman. Especially if you are a further marginalized group within womanhood.” She let out a woooo sound to break the tension, and there was a ripple of laughter. “As I keep saying in this book, over and over, and on my Instagram page, until I’m blue in the face... There’s nothing WRONG with you, if you struggle in life, it’s about what’s HAPPENED to you.”

The final applause was thunderous. I actually almost panicked the balcony would collapse in on itself from the women in the audience stamping their feet. Before we left the stage, Dr. Petra, very kindly, held her arm out to me, and I got my own smattering of cheers. We hugged and posed for photos with official photographers, and I was pleased I’d shelled out on professional hair and makeup, as Dr. Petra could’ve easily wandered onto Oprah in how put-together she looked.

“That was so great,” I told her, trying to keep the gush from my voice as we handed back our microphones to the technicians. “Honestly, your book. It’s so good.”

“You’re too cute,” she drawled in her Californian accent. “Keep up the amazing work with your articles.”

We hugged one final time, before she was escorted to her giant signing queue, while I wilted back to the dressing room to collect my stuff, pumping with adrenaline.

Ben held out a bouquet of roses when I stumbled out of the stage door into the foyer. “You. Were. Amazing,” he said, flinging his arms around me, the flowers thwacking my back. “Best chair I’ve ever seen.”

I sighed relief into his shoulders, my body glowing with love. “Really? I was OK? I’m still shaking.”

“You were brilliant.” Jessica appeared at our side and I let go of Ben, taking the flowers before greeting my friend and parents.

“Thanks so much for coming, guys,” I said, hugging them hello. Jessica was wearing the perfect white shirt, tucked into her jeans with the perfect amount of French tuck.

“You were wonderful, Fern,” Mum managed, holding herself stiffly. “That was...very illuminating.” My heart ripped a bit when I saw a copy of Your Diagnosis Is Trauma clasped in her arm. I didn’t know if she’d perfunctorily bought it, or actually planned to read it.

“Really well done,” Dad said, standing mildly uncomfortably, highly aware he was one of the few men there. “You were spot-on. And it’s been so lovely to catch up with Jessica again. I still can’t believe you’re a mother. That makes me feel very old.”

She grinned in her red lipstick. “I had a child young, if that helps?”