Tired of Being Tired, Sick of Being Sad *PUBLISHED & AVAILABLE ON AMAZON*

Unread Message (1) The Reason I'm Alive to Write This Story

Notification (1) sorry but it was time to let go

Unread Message (1) The Reason I'm Alive to Write This Story

Behind my ditzy Instagram stories that show off a perfect smile, and behind my positive affirmations that drip with savage resilience, behind my looks of unbothered yet focused dedication in any task, and behind that unapologetic braggadocio I carry across my dolled-up face down to the everyday heels I wear – these stunts only scratch the surface of what goes on in my head.

There is more to my life than superficial desires and materialistic things.

This stunting and flossing is not my 2018.

2018 was the year of my survival story.

It was the relapse of an illness that made me feel unimaginable pain until my body turned numb. It had me question if life was still worth living. It had me wonder if overcoming tomorrow's struggles was enough to prepare me for a future that was dimly lit.

Everyone has a story where they almost didn't make it – an untold tragedy where a rock-bottom moment threw them off the boat and they were given a choice to swim or drown.

For some, that moment happened within split seconds. For others, it was a slow, dreadful countdown of "when."

I'm still writing my survival story – these pages are filled with the paper cuts of today and yesterday. I'm in the midst of my journey.

Each time I rise out of bed is a win.

Each time I choose to live is a victorious fleeting second that puts me farther from the end that awaits.

But openly sharing my survival story has gotten easier. I've received hundreds of messages from strangers around the world that explain how my stories saved their lives, how my stories are a place they come to on a bad day, and how my online acts of vulnerability help silence the scary voices and lessen the aches that they feel will never fully go away.

I get asked why I share the most private parts of my life – on and off line:

When I had nothing to offer, being able to serve others through sharing my experiences has been the most self-fulfilling reward.

In fact, the past two years has tested my will to live more than ever.

I have new growing pains that prove I survived among the darkest nights alone where I murmured prayers for it all to end: the feelings of worthlessness, of not being enough, ashamed of mistakes I've made, crying to flush out the unsettling sickness in my stomach that I know will never completely leave.

From trying to explain it to people who don't understand, to sharing stories with people who have seen darker days, I discovered shifts of perspective. These were pivotal moments that had the power to sway someone's choice towards life.

I've opened to people where there was no digital screen to divide us, where they only knew a certain side of me based on their own personal judgements, and I chose to dissect those "versions of me" and showed them parts they were missing.

I reached out to them with hope that they'd listen and hear my story. I didn't think I'd become that close to people who were once passing strangers but now I'm incredibly grateful we have created lasting friendships.

I found beautiful friends who showed me how women should actually be treated – not as objects but as valued human beings who deserve to be given time, to be listened to, and to be given recognition and appreciation.