I am not a pretty girl. Never have been. I’m a little rough around the edges, I speak too loudly, and I cry when I’m angry. I tried, you know, to be less volatile, less opinionated, less of anything. Whittled myself away until I was nothing but a wisp of a girl, complicit in my own destruction.

I lost myself somewhere between the ages of 13 and 15. Somehow, a quiet sadness had seeped into my skin until it was unbearable- an obesity of grief. But here’s the thing: I was not a tear-stained girl romanticizing the idea of pain. I was angry. And cold. And mean.

But then I found myself one morning after it had rained. Quietly, without waking my family, I slipped into the cool morning air. I danced in the rain, the grass under my feet and the morning sun warming my face felt new, exciting, and it was all mine. I found myself in sips of earl grey tea, a book on my lap, devouring the words as if they were a life raft on a tumultuous sea. I found myself while watching the sunrise on a foggy beach. It was beautiful the next day, too, and I pulled a rusty bike from the garage, and thought to myself, “I’m going to be alright.” Because I found myself on a run in the pouring rain, the sweat and aching lungs reminding me of my own mortality. I found myself in the quiet, shy smiles of strangers in coffee shops and curious children. I found myself while driving dangerously fast on the highway in the middle of the night. Laughter escaping my mouth as the lights of the city flew by. I have laughed and cried and sang and danced and all of it is because I found myself after hiding for so long. I found myself because I finally had the guts to scream “hello, world. I’m here.” I grabbed life like a face between my palms, and I said “yes, I will love you again.” It’s not a charming face, nor a beautiful smile. But yes, I will love you again.