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Like most kids, I grew up believing that being myself was a dangerous and stupid choice.

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You’re allowed to hold the truth that who you are is exactly enough. You are allowed to be happy.

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Equipped with only a few hundred dollars, three packed bags and a pros and cons list, I blindly moved to a city I barely knew.

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You are constantly trying to be as self-aware as possible, even if that means addressing things about yourself that you don’t like or that you feel insecure about.

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As the harsh whispers of my anxiety melded into a shout, constantly pelting my mind with criticism, I nearly obeyed my mind’s taunts, mistaking my anxiety’s voice for my own.

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I’ve recently come to realize that so many of us, myself included, just sit and impatiently wait for happiness to hit us in the face without having to try, as if the universe simply owes it to us. 

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They let anger from the little things – traffic, long lines, loud people on the train – wash over them for a few seconds, and then they let it go.

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Becoming okay with the fact that you will never be perfect at anything, not even the things that you are most passionate about in life.