It started on a whim: I decided to take a sober month. I didn’t have any specific reasons or concerns about drinking. Or at least I hadn’t acknowledged them yet.

Becoming a mother helped me to become more whole. It helped my broken parts find homes while walking through fire. Fire, the creator of life, ushered my son into this world, but it also formed his mother. My walk through pregnancy was not an easy walk, as it is not for many.

For over a year, I have been working with a therapist whom I have never met. Over fifty hours spent divulging to her my innermost secrets and fears, revealing so much of the rawness of who I am, and I have yet to sit in her company.

Journaling is such a powerful habit. In my life, journaling has been a constant companion. Writing has always been the tether that connects me to my truth.

When do our trauma wounds heal? When do the brittle scabs stop bursting open at every light-handed brush? When do the scabs harden to eventually scar?

I ache, everything hurts, I’m nauseated, but I asked for it, didn’t I? Don’t accept drinks from strangers, my grandma’s voice lectures from memory. Never leave your drink unattended.

For me, anxiety isn't a feeling here and there but a constant thing that, when at it’s worst, can color every single thought in my life. It’s not a thought process; it’s a physical, mental, and emotional state.

Growing up in an environment where adults did not feel comfortable expressing their negative emotions in front of me made me think that happiness was the only emotion allowed in public and it was an unwritten societal rule that everybody knew.

I wish I could say that I screamed when it happened, that I fought back, that I ran outside and yelled for help. But my brain froze. It stopped processing the moment in real time. I moved, I pushed, I ran, I got in my car, and I drove -- all in some sort of reflexive state.

When I started therapy last year, I was dealing with something known (my previously-diagnosed depression and anxiety disorders), but I was also asking a new question. Were some of the difficulties in my life thus far caused by undiagnosed ADHD?

This rant is meant for those who read things like, "I choose happiness because it's good for my health" and then feel so. much. shame. for not being able to choose happiness that day.

As you let go of the life you had planned, you may feel sad and broken. But there can be a beauty in the breaking and the way that you respond to your brokenness is everything.

As my maternity leave ended, anxiety had officially taken control of me. Out of nowhere, I was paralyzed. I was too scared to go to work or to drop off my kid at daycare, lest an active shooter would lurk around the trees. My anxiety reached sky-high levels due to the massive amount of time I spent reading the news, watching the news, and imagining that I was on the news.

“I’m bored” is never said with enthusiasm or excitement. It’s usually said with a helpless sigh, frustrated groan, or exasperated eye roll. No one wants to be bored.

As I dip my toes into this next season of unknowns, one thing I’ve realized is that as an anxiety sufferer I must be intentional about making choices that help me find peace.

I’ve lost count of how many times my dad has absolutely exploded in anger–to the degree of screaming and throwing things–and being unsure of whether or not he was going to hit anyone, including me. I can still feel the energy of his wrath reverberating through the house when his anger took control.

I worship at the Church of Antipsychotics. I have more faith in meds than a higher power. If I’m looking for salvation, it’s in an orange cylinder with a prescription refilled every month.

Engaging in life from a place of scarcity and control has only ever increased my symptoms of depression and anxiety, while engaging in life from a place of gratitude and trust has lessened their hold on me enabling me to actually do the things I long to do and be the person I long to be.

The woman I strive to be, the most joyful and powerful version of myself, has always been there, even when she was buried so deep under pain and desperation that I did not know her. She is who I discover as I learn to truly trust myself. A deeper self-love celebrates the ways I am becoming her.

I want my children to live in a world where the label of a mental illness is not a shroud to hide under in fear. For me, that looks like telling my story. Silent for so long, it’s like a tiny drip of water from a rusty tap that’s trying to turn back on. I still pause, inhale sharply and have an internal debate as to whether to speak up when the conversation turns to mental health. I just…do. It’s too important not to.