After 18 years of therapy, I feel…fine. Not euphoric, perfect, or “healed” like I used to aspire towards. I feel fine. In a wonderfully simple, stable, and settled kind of way. I’m fine. I’m enough. Life still throws curveballs, I get stressed, I feel insecure and fumble in conversations and struggle to go to sleep. I wonder how I’ll pay bills and freak out about a pimple. I get overly excited about french fries and spill beer…everywhere. I panic at meals sometimes and wonder if I’ll ever really love my body.

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