I used to be fifteen and tired.
I remember how I used to drown in my own sadness, how my depression weighed me down like an anchor. I remember how my grief felt like it was chained to my ankles, and how the weight of the world felt crushed against my chest. I remember the empty nights I cried myself to sleep and the meaningless mornings I awoke with tired eyes, wishing I hadn’t. I used to be fifteen and tired. I used to be fifteen and numb. I used to be fifteen and hopeless.
Then, I was sixteen and hopeful.
I met someone who made me want to live, with his stupid jokes and wild hair. He was just a boy who wanted to hold me when I cried and kiss me when I laughed. He was just a boy who made me grateful to be alive. He was someone who reminded me how to smile when I thought I had forgotten, a boy who made me love my life not because of him, but because of me. I was sixteen and hopeful. I was sixteen and in love. I was sixteen and happy.
Now, I am seventeen and alive.
Now, I have experienced heartbreak. I have loved and lost, and I am learning how to mend a broken heart, but I am grateful. I am so, so grateful to have loved someone like him. I am grateful to wake up every morning with purpose, and I am grateful I do not cry myself to sleep and all the reasons why I don’t. I am seventeen and alive. I am seventeen and striving. I am seventeen and excited.
