In the last few weeks, as the specter of contagion has rapidly grown more ominous with each news cycle, a once unthinkable professional reality has emerged for therapists, one that favors technophiles over technophobes. I’m a technophobe—through and through—and a therapist.

My fear is reality based: my first computer crashed in my early 20s, taking with it a long-labored-over novel. Then, in my late 20s, I couldn’t get the slides straight at a conference of systems-trained psychotherapists, one of whom publicly interpreted my incompetence as an act of passive-aggression. In my early 30s, I hit the wrong button and mistakenly invited everyone on my email list, including exes, relatives, and bosses, to take a survey of their favorite sexual positions. This aversion—a phobia of all technology, even watches, cameras, and espresso machines—has waxed and waned throughout my life, but lately, it’s taken on a life of its own. Like an evil genie released from a bottle, I’ve watched it balloon out over the uncertain horizon of my professional future.

My first coronavirus-mandated video session took place a few weeks ago. I was dressed in a formal top and ripped jeans: professional from the waist up. The “join a meeting” box assured me I was “connecting” while its shaded sundial spun around and around. A minute passed.…