A few weeks before my birthday this past summer, I couldn’t stop thinking, “My god… I’m almost twenty-two years old.” Twenty-two. I barely believed that I was going to make it past 18. But I did. And then I turned 19 and thought, “This is it. I just can’t do this anymore. I’m done”, but before I knew it I was 20. I kept going and I didn’t give. There were instances where that was the only thing I desired. All I felt I needed. I sobbed because all I desperately wanted was the ability to just give up. Something inside of me just wouldn’t allow it. Then I turned 21 and started hoping for better days. Now at 22, I’m doing what I can to make every day one of those “better days” I used to fantasize about.
It’s still a little ways away, but I’m already preparing for my next birthday because nobody likes you when you’re 23 (thanks, blink-182). I think I’m funny, whatever. Whether that’s true or not (the “nobody likes you” bit. I know I’m hilarious, that’s not in question), I’m going to continue growing and making the most of my life. I can do that because I’m alive; because I didn’t give up, I get to experience every single part of life. The beauty of nature all around me, of love, of life. I got this far and I’m not stopping anytime soon. Realizing this gave me the courage to keep live, to conquer challenges and to learn more about myself and about the world. That’s when I feel like I really because ready to live.