So, World Mental Health Day was on the tenth. I’m a little late, I know, but what else is new?

Any mental health-related day is always a little weird for me. I don’t normally go to any events or share anything online, because (believe it or not) I’m not overly vocal about my mental health in my everyday life. Surprisingly, the existence of a public spotlight on mental health makes me feel rather awkward. The best way I can describe it is by comparing it to the feeling you get when you walk in late to class in middle school and everyone turns in their desk to look at you. You aren’t embarrassed, per se, but it feels like you’re being put on the spot. World Mental Health Day is like that for me.

That being said, I did want to take this opportunity to talk about something that continues to bug me when it comes to mental health awareness. As I often do on mental health-related holidays, I saw dozens of #endthestigma posts all over social media. People were saying, “It’s not shameful to have a mental illness! Let’s talk about it!” I totally agree; it’s not shameful to have a mental illness, and if you’re struggling, you should talk about it.

So how come I only ever see this type of empathy granted to depression and anxiety?

Truly, it seems like every time mental health is in the limelight, people only bring up depression and anxiety. And, sure, there’s the argument that it’s because these are two of the most common mental illnesses. But, I can’t help but get the impression that it’s also because they’re the prettiest.

Don’t get me wrong, I am absolutely not arguing that depression and anxiety are “pretty”. As a nearly lifelong sufferer of both, I know these illnesses are just as serious and scary as any other chronic disease. But. With the whole, “mental illness is a beautiful tragedy” narrative, piloted by series such as the oh-so-terrible 13 Reasons Why as well as pretty much every young adult novelist on the planet, comes the idea that suffering from depression and anxiety makes someone pitiable, vulnerable, and at times, even desirable. As a result, the stigma around these diseases is lessening, but it’s being replaced with the notion that those afflicted with them need “saving”, like a damsel in distress.

Beyond that, there’s the fact that joking about suffering from depression and anxiety has become a normalized aspect of pop culture. Send out a tweet that reads, “I have no will to live lol,” and you’re nearly guaranteed dozens of likes, or at least a few relatability points. Effectively, it’s become “trendy” to suffer from depression and/or anxiety. This is problematic in and of itself, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about right now. What’s important is that the trendiness of depression and anxiety is, at least partially, further evidence of a nearly eradicated stigma surrounding them.

On the flipside, I’ve seen little-to-no improvement surrounding how any other mental disease is viewed. Even with mental health awareness steadily on the rise, it seems as though anything besides depression and anxiety is still villainized. To illustrate, I have depression, anxiety, and anorexia. (Have I ever mentioned it before?) While I have no problem being open about the fact that I struggle with the first two, every time I so much as bring up my eating disorder, I can feel the air in the room dry up with discomfort. (Actually, I think I mentioned this phenomenon in my post about fatphobia). I still feel the need to hide the fact that I suffer from anorexia in order to preserve the contentment of those around me.

My issue with this selective stigma erasure goes beyond wanting to be able to joke about my eating disorder the same way I do about my depression, though. It’s not lost on me that eating disorders are among the most socially acceptable of the still-stigmatized mental illnesses. For example, diseases like schizophrenia, addiction and OCD are still subject to an unbelievable amount of judgement. To further my earlier example about the emergence of mental illness-related humour online, go on Twitter and search the term “crackhead”. How many memes can you find wherein the butt of the joke is the notion that drug-addicted people are crazy? It’s ridiculous; the same people sharing these things online are the ones posting about ending the stigma on World Mental Health Day.

To be clear, I don’t think it’s anyone’s “fault” that certain illnesses receive more compassion than others. I just think that certain illnesses take more effort to understand, and thus it’s easier to exclude them in discussions about mental health. But, I think that should change. I think if we’re going to truly #endthestigma, we should end it for all mental illnesses, not just the ones that make sufferers act “cute” and “sad’. Next World Mental Health Day, I’d like to see posts about how to tend to a loved one going through a manic episode. I want to read about how to care for someone in the aftermath of a PTSD flashback. I want to share articles that outline the basics of dissociation.

As always, the best place to start with big goals like this is with yourself. You know the saying: “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” Gandhi knew what he was talking about. So, if I could give you any homework today, I’d say to try your best to minimize the ways in which you might perpetuate the stigma around lesser-known mental illnesses. Your contribution could be as simple as not getting scared away when someone brings up their condition. But, I promise you, that little bit goes a long way.

Having a mental illness, any mental illness, sucks at the best of times; we just want to know we’re not alone.   

Alright, well, it happened. I’ve reached a new frontier of blog owner basic-ness. And, by that I mean, today’s post is inspired by a poem.

Really, at this point, I think I should just stop fighting my tendency towards corny/mushy things. I mean, I get vulnerable on the internet every week, of course I’m a sentimental mess most of the time. This poem is really good, though, and it’s got me thinking about one of the hardest transitions I’ve had to make since moving away. It goes like this:

The Raincoat

By Ada Limón

 When the doctor suggested surgery
and a brace for all my youngest years,
my parents scrambled to take me
to massage therapy, deep tissue work,
osteopathy, and soon my crooked spine
unspooled a bit, I could breathe again,
and move more in a body unclouded
by pain. My mom would tell me to sing
songs to her the whole forty-five minute
drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty-
five minutes back from physical therapy.
She’d say, even my voice sounded unfettered
by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang,
because I thought she liked it. I never
asked her what she gave up to drive me,
or how her day was before this chore. Today,
at her age, I was driving myself home from yet
another spine appointment, singing along
to some maudlin but solid song on the radio,
and I saw a mom take her raincoat off
and give it to her young daughter when
a storm took over the afternoon. My god,
I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her
raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel
that I never got wet.

Source: Limón, Ada. (2018). The carrying. Minneapolis, MN: Milkweed Editions.

Beautiful, right? You crying yet? I almost did, when I first read it. In fact, I was so moved by this piece that I sent it to both my parents as a sort of a “thank you” for, you know, raising me. They were both grateful for the acknowledgement, but I don’t think they were quite as moved as me. Maybe I’m just really overly sentimental (okay, I’m definitely overly sentimental), but I couldn’t get this out of my brain for days after reading it. And, I think the reason this poem hit so hard is that my late teens/early twenties has been arguably the strangest, most transformative time in my relationship with my parents. Thinking about my them makes me feel nostalgic, and anxious, and guilty, but overall, grateful. Let’s dive in, shall we?

Nostalgia is easily the first thing that comes to mind when someone asks me about my family and my home. For most of my youth, I resented living in Saskatchewan. I hated that it was boring, flat (both literally and metaphorically), and, as I got older, I began to resent the population’s conservative mindset that was so different from my own. I never really felt like I belonged in Saskatchewan; to me, living and dying in my hometown seemed like more of a nightmare than something to aspire to. Thus, I spent most of my youth wishing it away, with an admittedly greater-than-thou attitude brought on by teen angst and an inferiority complex. We’ve all heard a version of the, “nobody understands me in this town,” conversation between a coming-of-age movie protagonist and their parents. Although my parents and I never had a blowout fight such as this, the idea that I was discontented with the life my home could offer me was always etched in between the lines of our interactions. I moved away the first chance I got, and my ever-supportive parents were behind me the whole way.

Now, having lived away from home for over a year, I yearn for the simplicity of life in the prairies. Sure, there’s nothing to do, but life was quiet, uncomplicated, and sort of beautifully plain. This, perhaps, has just as much to do with the fact that I was a child as it does with the fact that Saskatchewan is boring (I suppose adult life is complicated wherever one lives), but still, I miss the effortlessness. I miss the carefree demeanor I was allowed to embody because my parents took care of everything. I miss the safety that came along with being my parents’ child. I had things I needed to take care of on my own, sure, but if I ever felt overwhelmed, or confused, or just wanted a home-cooked meal after a long day, they were there. I miss the impenetrable barrier my parents’ raincoat offered. They still take care of me here, a little, but being three provinces away makes it much harder to shelter me from the storm.

With this nostalgia comes a bit of anxiety. The fact is, I don’t think I knew entirely what I was signing up for when I jumped at the chance to deny my parents’ raincoat and start my adult life at nineteen. I have more freedoms now, that’s for sure. But I also have more debts, less opportunity to enjoy myself, and more responsibilities than ever before. I get anxious when I think about my parents because I worry they resent me for running away so young. I worry that should I ever need more protection, should I need to move back home or rely on them in some other manner, that they won’t want to help. I’m an adult now, after all.

I know this fear is completely unwarranted, because my parents make it clear to me every day that they’re a resource at my disposal for the rest of my life. But still, I worry. Does asking my parents for assistance as an adult mean I failed at growing up? I want to make them proud, I want to be independent. I get anxious that needing their assistance means I’m draining them – something I don’t think I could live with.

This brings us to my next point: the idea that I’ve somehow drained my parents – emotionally, physically, financially, probably all three – makes me feel incredible guilty. Don’t think it’s lost on me that the struggles I’ve had with my mental health were just as hard on them as they were on me. Raising a teenager is difficult at the best of times, but having one who’s navigating the nuances of invisible illness alongside all the other complications of adolescence must have been so taxing. At my sickest, I wanted to isolate myself as much as possible, from everyone, including them. I wanted to hurt myself; I wanted to hurt the person that my parents loved more than anything. I wanted to hurt the person who made them parents. They supplied me with every workbook, every therapist, every resource to help mend my broken mind. And, as soon as I could stand on my own two feet enough to operate normally, I moved across the country.

The story doesn’t even end there, though. Once I moved, I put them through the stress of having a child with self-destructive impulses again, only this time, their power to intervene was next to none. I didn’t tell them what was going on because I had too much pride to admit things were going south. They saw me deteriorate from three thousand miles away and couldn’t do anything to help. I feel so guilty for all of that. I feel as though I owe it to them to succeed. I feel like because of what I put them through, I don’t deserve the assistance they so graciously provide me. I feel the need to repay them somehow: they gave me their raincoat through a typhoon, and now I owe it to them to change the weather.

However, above all, when I think of my parents, I’m overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude. The reason this poem affected me so deeply is that it spotlights an acquired perspective on the lengths to which parents go to protect their children. This, more than anything, is what I’ve gained since moving out. When I was living under my parent’s raincoat, I couldn’t see the storm going on around me. I didn’t know about the difficulties of adult life because my parents simply took care of them. As Limón (2018) puts it, I thought it was “a marvel that I never got wet”. However, being without the protection of my parents allows me to start understanding the true magnitude of what they did for me growing up. And, now that I’ve started to see it, I can start to be grateful for it. As undesirable as these feelings are, the nostalgia, and the anxiety, and the guilt I feel surrounding my parents would not even exist did I not acknowledge the gargantuan contributions my parents made to the life I live today. The fact that I feel the need to repay my parents for everything they’ve done means I am grateful for it. And, maybe, for now, that gratefulness is enough.

Thanks, mom and dad. I hope I make you proud.

Remember last week how I said I was nervous to talk about my eating disorder because I didn’t want to be triggering? Well, mission failed. Completely. But before you freak out, I’m still doing okay eating- and exercise-wise. However, I know last week’s post affected me because I’ve been thinking about my ED a lot. It’s weird, because even though I’ve had anorexia for almost half my life, I don’t normally spend this much time thinking about it.

Before I go any further, let me explain something. I always talk about my eating disorder in the present tense (as in, “I have an eating disorder.” versus “I had an eating disorder.”) I do this despite having been in recovery for going on seven years, and having been at a healthy weight for the majority of that time. And, I do it very deliberately.

First, it’s because I know it weirds people out. Whenever I talk about my ED I can feel the air in the room dry up. I think it’s because people hear the term “eating disorder” and immediately picture whatever hideously inaccurate after-school special taught them about EDs, branding me as a vulnerable soul in desperate need of validation (which is true, but it’s not because of my ED). Eating disorders just aren’t yet regarded as manageable chronic illnesses, as, at least in my opinion, they should be. So, being open about the fact that I have one is my tiny way of trying to shift the conversation.

Second, and more importantly, I talk about my ED in the present tense because I still live with it every day. As I said, I believe eating disorders to be chronic. Or, at least, I think mine is. Even though I eat as normally as I can, even though I exercise a healthy amount, even though my body image is worlds better than it was when I was hospitalized, the unhealthy thoughts around food are still there. I feel like if I talk about my eating disorder as something from my past, I discredit all the work I put in to correcting my unhealthy thought patterns. The language I use surrounding my ED is just as much for me as it is for other people; I’ve been dealing with anorexia for so long that half the time, I don’t even remember I’m fighting it.

But the point is, I am. I am fighting with my eating disorder, constantly. And, although I feel like a badass when I give it the metaphorical middle finger by eating breakfast, I don’t always feel empowered. In fact, it’s really exhausting and discouraging when I come across a thought pattern that I can’t figure out how to change. I’ve recently encountered one of those, and that’s what I want to talk about today. You see, I keep getting in one very particular fight with my eating disorder. It makes me feel really guilty, but not for the reason you’d think. (BIG trigger warning for any ED sufferers. I promise we’ll get back to less difficult content next week.)

The fight goes like this:

ED: Don’t eat that, it will make you fat.

Me: Okay, one: no, it won’t. Two: if it did, what’s so bad about that?

ED: Being fat is the worst possible thing that could happen to you.

Me: Why? No it’s not.

ED: No one will love you if you’re fat.

Me: That’s not true, the people in my life love me because I’m a kind person and a good friend. That doesn’t change with my weight.

ED: Sure, but if you’re fat nobody will ever love you romantically.

Me: Also not true. Fat people find love all the time. And, if my future partner only cares about me given that my body looks a certain way, they probably aren’t a very good partner anyways.

ED: But if you’re fat, that means you’re ugly, and nobody will love you if you’re ugly.

Me: Are you saying fat equals ugly?

ED: …

Me: …

So, basically, what I’m wondering is: does my eating disorder make me fatphobic?

I’m really nervous to talk about this, because I’m ashamed that those hateful thoughts about fatness ever even crossed my mind. I know that, technically, it’s my eating disorder having those thoughts, and not me, (separating your own thoughts from unhealthy eating disorder thoughts through personification is a really common tactic in overcoming EDs), but the fact of the matter is, my ED lives inside me. It uses me as a vessel to promote unhealthy eating habits (take a shot every time I say, “unhealthy thought patterns” or, “unhealthy habits” in this post, Jesus Christ). So, if my eating disorder is thinking hateful things about fatness, does that mean I’m thinking them too?

I also find it important to mention that this fear of fatness brought on by my eating disorder is only in relation to me. It’s like, everyone is worthy regardless of their size, just not me. I’m only worthy if I’m thin. But, despite that, the thoughts still upset me because they’re in direct opposition to everything I believe about beauty. I’m a huge advocate for the body positivity movement; I think it’s fucking annoying how no matter what you look like, this world will tell you your body is wrong. In my opinion, beauty is entirely about confidence and self-love. When someone owns their body, whatever that means for them, it’s sexy as shit. And you can tell when someone is owning their body; it emanates from them like fireworks. Self-assurance is at the core of beauty, and it can exist in anybody. No, literally. In any body.

So why the fuck does my eating disorder still try to convince me that weight gain is worse than a death sentence?

I contemplated this for days. I wondered how it was possible that I could believe beauty exists at all sizes while also being deathly afraid of gaining any weight. This led to me considering how straight-sized people have privileges that fat people don’t. Like, plus-sized clothing mostly exists online, and even then, style options are limited. Plane seats are tiny; bigger people may need to save enough money for multiple in order to travel. And, of course, there’s the incredible amount of body-shaming that fat people experience on the daily. Although, as a straight-sized person, I don’t have any authority on the topic, I’m as well-aware as I can be of the fact that simply existing is more difficult for people in bigger bodies.

And with that, ladies and gents, I think we’ve gotten to the heart of the issue. Deep down, I don’t think I care about the size of my body. I think my eating disorder, at least partially, is a manifestation of society’s twisted paradigm that fat people are less worthy. Instilling a fear of fatness in me is my eating disorder’s way of trying to spare me from the bullying that people in larger bodies are forced to endure. It’s not about size. It never has been. Rather, it’s about a stupid, outdated belief that fat cannot be beautiful. I refuse to believe it’s just me, either. I think in some way, that belief lives in all of us, because how could it not? When you’re bombarded by messages of “fat = bad” your whole life, of course you start to believe that lie is true.

I guess this means that for once on this blog, we’ve found a solution. Very off-brand for me; I usually end every post with, “I’m confused and frustrated and nothing makes sense!  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯” But, in this case, I think if I want to defeat my eating disorder’s fatphobia, I have to push for this world to become an easier place for fat people to exist. I have to advocate for people whose bodies don’t look like what’s constantly glorified in magazines and on TV. Because if the world can let fat people move through it without constantly shaming them for the way they are, then maybe the thought of gaining weight won’t be so scary. Maybe, then, it will just be about size. And maybe, then, I can finally tell Ana to fuck off when she tries to shame me out of enjoying Christmas dinner.

I’ve never really written about my eating disorder. I avoided it on purpose, though; I’ve struggled to find a way to write about it that isn’t incredibly triggering. But, the more I think about it, the more I realize it’s kind of impossible to avoid triggers in the discussion of what is inherently a pretty triggering topic. So, here’s your trigger warning. (Jesus, take a shot every time I wrote “trigger” in this paragraph. Just kidding, don’t. Trigger. Haha. Got you!)

Okay, incredibly weird, coffee-after-5-pm-induced intro aside, I’ve come to realize recently that my thoughts around food and exercise are becoming healthier. Living on my own, cooking my own meals, and (quite frankly) being a poor college student has had the unexpected side effect of changing the way I think about food. Or rather, the way that I don’t.

You see, although I was officially diagnosed with Anorexia at thirteen, my unhealthy relationship with food and my body dates back much farther. I remember taking ballet classes at age four and being ashamed of the way my belly protruded from the top of my tutu when I sat down to stretch. The first time I remember actively restricting my calorie intake is at age ten; I was on vacation with my family and wanted to look “presentable” in my bathing suit. Throughout my childhood, I spent countless hours thinking about food, exercise, and my body, desperately trying to come up with the combination that would make my prepubescent figure reflect the image I saw being idolized all around me. It was as if I was constantly in the midst of cracking a secret code that didn’t exist; I put myself on diet after diet, only to end up feeling worse about myself than when I began. Eventually, I decided I simply wasn’t worthy of food at all – in fact, I became terrified of it. Unsurprisingly, this led to a lengthy hospital stay and a clinically diagnosed eating disorder.

However, even after I was discharged, I still thought about food all the time. Through all the therapy appointments, all the failed combinations of SSRI’s and anti-anxiety meds, and all the visits to the pediatrician, I was thinking about food. My inner monologue my whole life was basically, “What will my next meal be?” “Pizza sounds good right now.” “I shouldn’t have eaten that.” “I need to be healthier tomorrow; no carbs.”

 I never thought to bring this up to any of the mental health professionals I frequented because, well, I didn’t think it was weird. Food had been the subject of nearly all my daydreams for so long that I didn’t recognize it as abnormal. And so, it never got addressed.

Another ED habit that followed me from the hospital to after my high school graduation is something I like to call “back-heavy eating.” Essentially, it’s a cycle that would start with me feeling insecure about the way my body looked, starving myself in the morning, and then over-indulging in the latter half of the day. At night, I’d feel insecure about my physique and decide I was going to eat “healthier” (less) the next day. I’d skip both breakfast and lunch, and by the time I got home from school I could hear my stomach rumbling over the car radio. Then, I’d cave, and I’d eat my whole day’s worth of calories in the evening. After that, I’d feel ashamed for “failing” at my “healthy eating”, and resolve to rectify the situation by “eating healthy” the next day. Starve, mini-binge, shame, repeat. That was my life for just about all of my adolescence. Nobody ever called me out on it, though, because my weight was stable. I was eating enough, just in a really weird way.

Cut to now. I’m living on my own, and money is tight. Thus, I have to plan out almost everything I eat to ensure I have enough groceries. I buy exactly what I need; I don’t have snack foods lying around because I simply can’t afford them. In a way, my circumstances forced me out of my back-heavy eating: I don’t have snacks around to binge on after a guilt-induced day of starvation, so I don’t starve myself in the mornings. Instead, I eat 2-3 meals and a small snack every day. It’s what I have, it’s what I can afford, and it doesn’t let anything go to waste.

And guys, the weirdest shit is happening. I don’t think about food all the time anymore! I didn’t even know that was a thing. If you’ve never had an ED, you might be like, “Yeah, dude, obviously nobody thinks about food 24 hours a day. How could you not know that?” And to be honest, I don’t know. I don’t know how I never realized my food fantasies were simply an extension of my eating disorder. It’s like I was in Plato’s Cave. My whole life (or at least, for as long as I can remember) I’d been thinking about food all the time. If that was my only reality, how could I have known other ways of thinking existed?

I really like this, though. I like waking up in the morning, looking forward to my breakfast, eating it, and forgetting about it. I like feeling full without feeling completely stuffed. I like working out because it makes me feel energized and uplifted, not because I use it as a way to punish myself for the way I ate the day before. I like everything that comes along with letting go of my food obsession.

Also, let me be clear, I’m by no means claiming to be “cured” of my eating disorder. If anything, I’ve come to realize that there will always be little victories to be had in my fight with Anorexia. It’s been a part of me for so long that I can’t expect to conquer it in one go, or ten goes, or even a hundred goes. It’ll take a lifetime of goes to develop a healthy relationship with food, and even then, I won’t be perfect. But that’s okay. Because I had a little victory recently. A victory that I didn’t even really know I was working towards. But hey, I’ll take it. Why not be proud?

If there’s anything to take away from this, I’d say it’s to look for your own little victories. You never know, maybe you’re already accomplishing some of them. And, when you do, be sure to celebrate. You’re worth it. Let me work it. When you succeed, go celebrate, cuz you deserve it.

Or whatever Missy Elliott said.

It’s happening.

The same feeling that starts to haunt me about a month into every new endeavour is beginning to poison my mindset. I don’t know if it’s a universal thing, a “me” thing, an anxiety thing, or maybe a mixture of the three, but no matter what new journey I set out on, I am dominated by this feeling.

The paralyzing sense that I’m not doing enough.

It really came out of nowhere, this year, too. Last week, I was flying high: I was super energized, motivated, and felt like I had things under control. Then, on the weekend, I was slapped in the face by exhaustion harder than Ronda Rousey hits one of her opponents in overtime. (Does wrestling have overtime? I shouldn’t do sports analogies; up until last year I thought you could get a “strike” in football. I digress.) Since the weekend, I’ve been overwhelmingly exhausted. It’s not a mental exhaustion, either – it’s physical, which worsens my anxiety and shame about “not doing enough”. My body is fighting to keep its eyes open while my brain screams at me for being tired, insisting that I haven’t “earned” the rest. Or worse, I actually do lay down to sleep, but because my brain isn’t on the same level of “tired” as the rest of me, I toss and turn thinking about all the chores I should be doing. It’s not a fun experience.

I used an interesting word in that last sentence: “should”. I think a lot of my perceived laziness stems from the idea that there’s this set number of things I should be getting done each day. Who is in charge of this agenda, and what authority do they have over me to determine my daily responsibilities, you ask? That’s a great fucking question; I have absolutely no clue. I suppose the easy answer is that I’m in charge of my responsibilities. I do my best to manage my time; I have a weekly schedule on my wall where I write down what I need to do each day. But, somehow, even upon the completion of every item on my list, I still wind up feeling unproductive. I study for my test, but I feel bad for not also completing my design project. I work out my abs and go for a run, but I feel guilty about exercising for only 45 minutes instead of a full hour. I complete a shift at work and meal-prep my lunches for the upcoming week, but it’s still not enough because I didn’t get a chance to do my laundry. I know that’s my perfectionism creeping in, but I can’t stop myself from feeling like there’s this mystical standard of achievement I should be reaching in order to keep my life from falling apart.

I compare my productivity to others’ a lot, too. I use other peoples’ accomplishments as an avenue to further chastise myself for what I regard as my own inactivity. Whenever I manage to question that perfectionist voice in my head, it comes back at me from a new angle: “everyone else is doing more than you.” And I know this is a ridiculous argument, because I have no idea how much other people accomplish every day. But yet, that looming question still taints my reasoning – what if? What if other people are doing more than me? What if I’m not doing enough? What if I am not enough?

Even worse than the shame I feel when I compare myself to others is the terrifying sense that everything I do right now will have dire consequences for the rest of my life. I’m a college student in an incredibly competitive major. I feel like if I don’t find an internship soon, I’ll have no job opportunities after graduation and be stuck working full time at a minimum wage job living paycheck-to-paycheck. I’m a young person at a time of incredible social, political, and economic tension. I feel an like if I don’t read every newspaper and fact-check what I see online and participate in every protest, I’ll doom my future beyond repair. I’m living in a very critical period – both in my life and in the world – and I feel like the only way to solidify any sort of future for myself is to juggle one thousand projects, extracurriculars, assignments, chores, and relationships all at once. I try to remind myself that it’s not that serious, that I’ll figure things out, and that I’ll be okay. But, it’s hard, because I don’t have any proof. How do I know I’ll be okay? I don’t. I can’t. So I continue to work myself to the bone chasing some type of security and I beat myself up whenever I fall short of my own astronomic standards.

Quite frankly, I’m tired. Literally and metaphorically. I’m tired of running my life like a drill sergeant, of pushing myself to excel in every facet of my existence. Also, I’m struggling to stay awake right now. My legs are sore. I need to rest. But I feel like I can’t, because I haven’t earned it. The second I rest, things will fall apart. I don’t know how, but I’m convinced they will. It feels like one night off could make the difference between having a future and flunking out of my program or going bankrupt. It’s scary. As hard as I try, I don’t know how to un-convince myself that rest is equated to indolence and that everything I’m doing is not enough.

Anyone else?

Thirty-six stories high on a tightrope I sit

For these breathtaking views I feel I am unfit.

I look down, ashamed of my spot in the sky

Petrified I’ll soon plummet; my luck will run dry

.

But the more I contract and the more I retreat

The more I acquaint with the far-below street

My fear that this cloud-swept landscape will soon fade

Makes it all the more likely my doom will pervade

.

So I muster the courage to tilt up my chin

And to feel the sun and the breeze on my skin

I’ll find my way back if and when I capsize

Thirty-six stories high on a tightrope I rise

.

I’ve been putting off writing today’s post, because I haven’t had the slightest clue what to make it about. Terrible excuse, I know. But this is my blog, and I’ll slack if I want to. That’s how it works, right?

I’ve also been feeling uninspired lately. I get uninspired when I’m stressed, and these days, I’ve been stressed about money. Or rather, the lack thereof. I’m not like, in ruins or anything, but the circumstances of this school year means things are a little tighter. Like, I’m going to school farther from my house, so transit cost is a thing. I’m in real college now, so I have to factor in textbooks and supplies. Oh, and I’m studying in the most expensive city in Canada. Can someone remind me why I chose to do that?

But, I digress. There I was: unmotivated to write a blog post. Preoccupied with finances. Until suddenly, one morning while I was brushing my teeth, the light emanating from my window hit me just right and my entire being began to glow luscious gold. My eyes widened. A little baby angel flew in the door and kissed me softly on the tip of my nose while sprinkling confetti all over the old tie-dye shirt I sleep in. Choirs were singing. Outside, I heard cheering. And it hit me!

I literally created this blog because I wanted a place to publicly complain about the struggles of being a twenty-something. So why not talk about what is possibly the most universal problem for young adults? Money!

I was worried about it anyways, so it’s relevant to my life. And I’m sure I’m not the only college student who has no goddamn idea how she’s going to afford anything. Of course I should make a post about it!

That brings me to today. Let’s worry about money together, shall we?

(Also, I was exaggerating about what happened when I realized what to write about. I wasn’t brushing my teeth!)

I’ll start with a rather embarrassing confession: this year is the first time I’ve practiced budgeting. I know I’m incredibly lucky to be able to say that. In retrospect, I probably should’ve had a budget last year, when I first moved out. But, at that point, I thought I’d only be in Toronto for two years (the duration of my performing program). I had enough money saved up to cover most of that. I figured after graduation, I’d be working shows, and then I could rebuild my savings on my own.

Flawed logic? Absolutely! Naïve? Incredibly! But we’ve already been over how unprepared I was (am?) for the real world. I want to focus on the facts about right now.

I have a budget this year. A tight one. And with it, I should be able to mostly afford this year, with a little help from the bank. But I’m worried for two reasons: what happens if I break my budget, and what happens in the years to come.

My first worry, breaking my budget, is kind of minor. I have incredible willpower; I should be able to keep it up. But I’m already realizing I need to make some adjustments in order to live within my means. For example, the grocery store closest to my house is far too expensive to buy enough to stay fed within my budget. So, I’ll have to find time walk a little farther to a cheaper grocery store. I wish I had realized earlier how expensive the store near my house is, because we’re not even halfway through September, and I only have $60 left to buy food for the whole month. I can do it, but I’ll be hungry. And I do stupid things when I’m hungry, like go over my budget to buy food. Do you see them problem here?

I guess something I’m realizing is that cheaper things come at a cost of more time. Yes, I can manage with my tighter grocery budget, but it means I’ll need to walk a little farther to get food. That, and I’ll probably have to learn to cook with cheaper things that take a little longer to prepare: tofu instead of tempeh, rice instead of quinoa, you get the gist. What I’m gaining in affordability, I’m losing in convenience. And I worry about that, because I’m in college for God’s sake. I work. I have homework. I need to clean and do laundry and commute an hour both ways to school every day. Will I even have time for that? Will I have time for anything?

Okay, so staying on-budget is a lifestyle adjustment. We all know I hate adjustments; I like planning things out beforehand and sticking to that plan come hell or high water. But, whatever. I’ll get used to it. If my choices are “find time to cook cheaper recipes” or “don’t eat at all because it’s too expensive”, I’m going to do the first thing.

What about emergencies, though? I don’t have any money put aside for repairs on broken appliances or extra income in case I forget to return a library book on time and am fined. Obviously, I try my best to avoid those things, but life happens, you know? And unfortunately, life happening could mean I can’t buy shampoo. It’s really scary to think about.

My second worry is a lot bigger. I’m stressed about the coming years. I am in year 1 of a 3 year college program, and at the end of it, I will have no money left. That’s not an exaggeration. Zero. I’ll work over the summer, of course, but it feels like my ability to continue in my program relies on me getting a really solid job during my break. No more minimum wage plus tips serving vegan burgers downtown. That just won’t cut it. I know some companies offer summer student internships and things, which would be great for financial reasons, and to get some work experience in my field. But those aren’t guaranteed! Also, earning a summer internship means I need to do incredibly well in school and build tons of rapport with my teachers during the first few semesters. That’s a lot of pressure to put on myself!

 Basically, it feels like the decisions I make right now as far as connecting with my teachers and peers will have a direct impact on my ability to stay in Toronto and complete my program. I can’t, just, live. I have to think about the future.

Ironically enough, this comes at a time where I’ve been trying desperately to think about the future less. I have this tendency to plan my life out years in advance, and obviously, that’s not a healthy way to think. Now more than ever, though, it seems like I should be planning out my life, at least for the next few years. At the very least, I want to know how I’ll be able to afford it.

 My parents say to just live this year within my budget, because that’ll get me through until next September. For the next few years, they say, we’ll figure it out as we go.

Figure it out as we go? Nice try, mister, but I have anxiety. I wish there were a way to plan out the next few years financially, without necessarily planning out my whole life. Does that make sense? It’s like a happy medium. For example, I don’t need to know what job I’m going to have this summer, or how I’m going to come across it, but I need know it will be high-paying enough to keep me in school next year. Or something like that, you know? It’s too hard for me to say, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” with my college education. The stakes are way too high.

But I know life doesn’t work that way. And I know being mad that life doesn’t work that way will only make things worse for me.

The truth is, I don’t know what’s going to happen next year. I’m going to try my absolute best to get a really good job, do really well in school, apply for scholarships, and live frugally. Even though that doesn’t solidify anything. Even though I’m terrified.

Student loans will help, too. I don’t qualify for much this year, because my having been moved out for only a year still technically means I’m dependent on my parents in the eyes of the government. This upcoming year, I’ll have been moved out for two years, be considered independent, and can get more funding.

But then, it’s hard to wrap my head around how much debt I’m going into. And I know it’s something most students, especially those who study away from home, experience, but it’s still brand new to me. Having $50,000 dollars to pay off on the day I graduate is a really daunting thing to hear. How long will I have? Does that mean I’ll have enough money to live my life, on top of repaying my loans? Will I have to move home until I’m 30 and everything is paid off? I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ANYTHING AND I’M SCARED ALL THE TIME! You know? It’s so frustrating!

If there is any sort of conclusion to my madness, I think it’s that I wish being scared about money is something more people talked about. You’d think it would be, since I’m living in a city where they charge for excessive breathing. I feel like I don’t ever hear my friends or classmates talk about money, and that makes me feel really alone. It feels like other peoples’ silence on the subject means they know something about budgeting and saving that I don’t. Or, maybe it means that money is just not something they have to worry about. Most likely, though, it means they’re worried too, and we’re all just so scared of being vulnerable that nobody brings it up and we sit in a constant state of feeling like we’re the only ones who are stressed, when really, everything would be easier if we just talked about it.

That’s what I tried to do today. I don’t know if any of it made sense to any of you. Maybe I sound totally naïve and out-of-touch. But you know what? I am. I’m twenty, and I know nothing about handling my finances. I know, eventually, that everything will be alright. I know that, as time goes on, I’ll understand a little more about savings and chequings and lines of credit and loans versus grants and all the other bank terms that feel like a foreign language.

But I’m worried about the in-between. I’m worried about what happens before I start to understand money. I’m worried about the right now, and the next year, and the year after that. I’m so nervous I’ll make one simple mistake that fucks up the rest of my life, all because I didn’t know better.

Anyways, unrelated, but if anyone wants to etransfer me $10,000, it would be greatly appreciated.

My first day of college, in three parts.

Night Before.

            So, I start school tomorrow. I didn’t expect to be this nervous. In fact, up until a few hours ago, I wasn’t nervous at all. I was super excited And, I mean, I still am excited, just also really nervous. In fact, I’m so nervous that my hands are shaking. I’m making a lot of typos because my fingers keep hitting the wrong keys. I went back and corrected them, though. You’re welcome.

Despite being nervous, I am slightly relieved, because I think the things I’m worried about are normal. Like, I’m mostly nervous about finding the right classroom and being there on time tomorrow. This time last year I was worried about finding jobs after graduation and how many friends I was going to have by the end of the semester. I know It’s ridiculous to worry about those things before even starting, but that’s just where my brain naturally wants to go. So right now, I feel good about worrying about the smaller things. Even though I am worried, it’s about things in my control. Does that make sense?

            I think I’m fretting over the little things because it feels like a lot is riding on this year. I’m trying not to think about that, because that makes this year seem so much more daunting than it is. I’m trying to remind myself that this is just another chapter in my life. It’s new, and promising, but it’s separate from the last one. I don’t have to “correct” all that happened last year by having a really great year this time around. But it still would be nice to have a really great year. I don’t know. I’m just going to try my best.

            I’m feeling pretty lonely right now. I think that’s contributing to my overall anxiousness. I’m lonely because this is the first school year of my life that my parents won’t be there to send me off on the first day. They haven’t even seen the campus! My roommates aren’t here, either, so the apartment feels really empty. I’m trying to combat the loneliness by reminding myself that my family is feeling the same way.  My brother moved to Victoria today (just for six months, but still), so my family is all spread out across the country. We’re probably all feeling a little weird and lonely tonight. I’m going to call my parents in a while to talk to them before bed. I think that will help.

            Under all the anxiety and loneliness, I’m feeling encouraged. This is the most anxious I’ve felt all month!

Okay, wait. When I say it that way, it sounds like I should be discouraged. But I’m not, because if this is the most anxious I’ve been all month, and this is pretty manageable, then that means I’ve had a good month!

I’m proud of how I’m handling this anxiety, too. I’m trying to just let the thoughts pass by instead of reading into them and getting freaked out. I keep telling myself that whatever happens tomorrow, I can handle it, and that’s keeping me grounded. Deep breaths, mindfulness, and my mantra. That’s what’s getting me through tonight. So much could go wrong, but so much could go right. Hey, I just rhymed!

Morning Of.

The train stopped on its tracks. I have to ride it all the way to the end, and then take a bus, to get to campus. My heart rate is soaring. Even though I gave myself plenty of time, I’m so nervous I’ll be late. I don’t know why I even care so much about that anyways; I don’t think attendance counts towards your mark in college. I keep telling myself that, even if I’m late, there’s nothing I can do about it. Plus, being late on the first day doesn’t mean I’m a lazy student, it just means I couldn’t find where I was going, or something. I don’t know. These “calming thoughts” aren’t really helping.

I couldn’t sleep at all last night, either. I stress ate peanut butter and sprinkles before finally falling asleep at just after 2 am, and I woke up at 6. Props to me though, because peanut butter and sprinkles is undoubtedly the most College meal ever invented. So, at least I’m doing something right?

Not a funny joke. I’m sorry. I’m running on four hours of sleep right now. Four hours of sleep, my breakfast smoothie, and nerves. Lots of nerves.

Last night, I also gave in to this anxious compulsion I have where I do research on random things. This time it was which grocery stores have the best deals on almond milk. I feel like I can’t help but get all nit-picky when I’m nervous. I go into panic mode and all of a sudden have to fix everything in my life. My brain is just like, “If I don’t find the best deal on almond milk RIGHT NOW, I’ll definitely starve to death this year”. Then, because I’m so focused on milk prices, I don’t have to think about what’s actually stressing me out. It’s so annoying, but I can’t shut it off. I wish I’d been able to handle my anxiety a little better.

I’m sorry, I just can’t stop thinking about this fucking train. It’s been stopped for seventeen years! Or maybe, like, three minutes. I can’t really tell. One of the two. I just can’t believe I might be late when I left a full HALF HOUR before I needed to! Am I going to need to leave an hour early every day? I can’t sustain that. I need to sleep! I already get up early enough because I’m a commuter now. Ooh, it feels fancy to call myself a commuter.

Fuck. This train needs to move.

On the plus side, I’m realizing now that all of the loneliness I was feeling last night wasn’t such a big deal. Yes, it’s the first school year I’m starting on my own. But instead of finding this morning sad, I found it rather peaceful. It was cool feeling so independent. And, I know my family is there to back me up. I’m looking forward to calling mom and dad later to tell them about today.

Holy shit. The train is moving again. Thank god!

Night After.

Well, first day is in the books. I had the most SPECTACULAR-ly regular time.

Did I fool you there? See, you thought I was going to say I had a spectacular day, but in reality, it was just normal. (Wow. Okay, you can totally tell I haven’t slept much.)

No, but honestly, today was fine. My first class was typical; we did a bunch of those ice-breaker activities that I always hate, but that I’m forcing myself to get better at. I managed to talk to quite a few people during group discussions, and I’m proud of myself for that.

However, since it’s a communications program, they had us getting up in front of the class to speak on the very first day. I normally don’t have a problem with public speaking, but today I found all those nervous feelings from before cropping back up. As a result, I found myself overcompensating and trying really hard to be “perfect” while I was speaking. I felt like I needed to astonish everyone, or their perception of me would be tarnished forever. I know that’s a pretty heavy responsibility to put on myself. As a result, when I sat back down, I started being super mean to myself for how I spoke. I wasn’t as lively for the rest of the day. I was feeling insecure, and so I shut down.  

I hit the gym in-between classes. Having access to a gym again is absolutely glorious. It’s not easy working out in a two-foot by six-foot space next to my bed in my room. After that, I ate lunch and walked around campus. There was this big party happening with a bunch of bouncy castles to celebrate the start of the new year. I didn’t go, though, because I felt awkward going by myself.

There isn’t much left to say about today. I had one more class in the afternoon, which went about the same as my morning class, save for the embarrassing presentation. I even have a test next week already. Yikes.

Overall, I’m fine with my first day. I’m not over-the-moon about it, but I’m not devastated either. And truly, I think that’s all I could really ask for to begin with. I can’t expect my first day at something to be mind-bogglingly incredible. It was hard and scary, as all new things are, but I got through it. That’s something to be proud of.

I’m hopeful for this year. It feels good to be hopeful; I haven’t felt that in a while.

Oh, and I wasn’t late!

Alright, you caught me. I missed an upload. But I have a good reason for it!

Okay, I don’t. I could’ve made time to write, but I got sidetracked getting ready for the upcoming school year and unpacking from my trip home. I’m also writing for my school’s blog, which is pretty cool. (I hope that writing for another blog doesn’t count as cheating on you guys. It’s a one-time thing, okay!)

It works out pretty well that I ended up posting today instead of Friday, though. That’s because today is the one-year anniversary of the day I moved to Toronto. It’s kinda weird to think I’ve been here for an entire year; it simultaneously feels like way more and way less. Does that make sense? It’s like, this whole year feels like a blur, so I can’t believe it’s been a full twelve months. But also, the vast difference in my circumstances now compared to last September makes it feel like I’ve been here much longer.

But, I don’t want to just sit here and talk about how weird it is that it’s been a year since I left Saskatchewan. As I’m sure is natural, the one-year anniversary of my move has got me thinking a lot about life’s experiences and what they mean in the grand scheme. I wrote this poem – (Excerpt? I don’t know if I’d call it a poem) – in reflection on my first year away from home. I think it captures my feelings on the subject.

________________________________________

This time last year, I was packing up my things.

This time last year, I was boarding a plane.

This time last year, I was meeting my roommates.

This time last year, I was thought that dropouts were insane.

This time last year, I was wide-eyed, and naïve, and incredibly optimistic.

I loved my friends and family, but home felt like a pair of pants that I’d outgrown.

Although had my fears about being on my own,

my anxieties were always overpowered by the anticipation that pounded through my chest, down my arms, and out my fingers

.

This time this year, I am packing up my things.

This time this year, I am boarding the train.

This time this year, I’m meeting new roommates.

This time this year, nothing and everything has changed.

This time this year, I feel like I have a new perspective on happiness and perseverance.

I know I’m still naïve, and probably more hopeful than I should be.

But my mindset has shifted from trusting that everything will be amazing, to trusting that whatever happens, I can handle it.

Somehow

.

And though home sometimes feels hypothetical,

although I don’t quite know yet where I fit in,

although pieces of my identity have fallen away this year like seed pods off of maple trees,

I’m still here

.

And I’m slowly replacing those missing pieces of identity with new ones.

Pieces that I’ve crafted with the understanding that my worth is intrinsic,

that it lies beyond whatever hobby or hustle I use to express it

.

I wish I could say the story of my first year on my own is one of beautiful resilience, adaptation, and prosperity. But it’s not.

What I have to show for these last twelve months is much less tangible than that.

My story speaks instead of a struggle that doesn’t get better, but of a girl who keeps going anyways.

Even though she doesn’t know what will happen next.

Even though she can’t plan ahead.

Even though not everything will be great.

I mourn the months I lost to misery.

I anticipate the era that approaches.

Most of all, I thank the teenager who refused to quit trying

.

Maybe that’s all I could ever ask for.

What comes to mind when you hear the word “timeline”? Is it Instagram? No shame if it is, because up until a few days ago, that’s what I thought of, too. However, being back home has got me all kinds of wondering about a different timeline: the timeline of life. Sounds deep, huh? But I just left therapy, so I’m feeling sentimental.

Let’s dive right in, shall we?

In case I’ve never mentioned it before, I’m from Saskatchewan. If you’ve never heard of it, that’s because there’s nothing to hear about. I often equate my home province to, like, the Nebraska of Canada – lots of fields and farms but not much to do. (Do NOT call it the Texas of Canada, though, that’s Alberta). Life is pretty simple here – at least in comparison to the recklessness of Toronto, where I live now. I grew up thinking that Life was graduating high school, going straight to college, getting married, having kids, and retiring. I call it the “Triple C” lifestyle: convocate, conjoin, copulate. Also, because I’m a woman, it was always indirectly implied that my place in life was to be a wife and a mother. If I had a career, it would be “on the side” of my familial responsibilities. I know it’s 2019, so that’s ridiculous, but everyone knows Christians are very particular about gender roles.

Let me explain my upbringing a bit more. I want to make it clear that never once was I told outright that the path I should follow was an undergraduate degree, a 9 to 5, young marriage, and a big family. In fact, my parents always told me I could do whatever I wanted in life, and that they would support me no matter what. I feel really lucky about that; I know it’s a privilege a lot of people don’t have. HOWEVER. The environment I grew up in gave my subconscious the impression that there’s a very particular way to live life.

For one, I went to Catholic school. Cue the horror movie music. Just kidding, it’s not as bad as you’d think. But the education was very limited. Thankfully, I was taught about evolution, which is something a lot of former Catholic school attendees can’t say, but there were a lot of other lessons that were either misinformed or completely glossed over. Namely, I was taught from kindergarten that “family” meant a mommy and a daddy and their children. As I got older, the lessons became more elaborate, and I learned about how postsecondary education was mandatory for a “good” job, and how God’s plan for all women was marriage. I distinctly remember telling one of my teachers during my senior year that I planned to become an artist, and in response she raised her brows and said, “What a waste. You’re so smart.” Essentially, anything that diverged from “God’s plan” didn’t make the curriculum I was taught. And so, as a result, I was conditioned to believe I couldn’t live any other way.

Secondly, all the adults that influenced me throughout my childhood lived virtually the same life story. And, if they didn’t, any events that differed from the “right” way to do things were shrouded in secrecy. That goes for things like career changes, divorce, health issues, or anything else that might provoke gossip at church reception. (Saskatchewan people are very gossipy. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that there’s not much else to do around here.) Don’t get me wrong, people are absolutely entitled to their privacy, and I don’t expect to be in the know about everyone’s every move (although my Gemini moon believes otherwise). But, the example that was shown to Child Gabby instilled in her that anything that veered off of the Triple C path was shameful. My childhood eyes saw one life story unfolding a thousand different times, saw adults keep “disgraceful” things behind closed doors, and was explicitly taught in school that there was one way, and only one way, to live.

Cut to me, age 20, not only dropping out of school, but dropping out of art school. In retrospect, it’s no wonder I felt like such a failure when my plan for this year fell through! I had already chosen to go against the grain by taking a year off after high school. I chose resistance again when the school I chose to attend was for artists. And then, when I left, it was like, “three strikes, and you’re out”. I felt reckless, and messy, and idiotic, for ever having thought I could “prove Saskatchewan wrong” by following my own path. And I think, now, that that failure was my biggest fear all along. Giving up performing was hard, but not as hard as coming face to face with the fact that maybe my dreams of autonomy were, indeed, just too far-fetched. I never wanted to be just another high school graduate who got married and had kids before she was twenty-five. I felt like I had so much more potential than that. And after the events of this year, it was like I made a fool of myself by trying something different. I was so ashamed.

(Wait, wait, wait. Quick little sidebar here: I realize it totally sounds like I’m shitting on those who do live a Triple C lifestyle. And that’s totally not my intention! I only want people to do what makes them happy, and if that life is what appeals to someone, I am all for them pursuing it. It’s just not what I want for myself, so that’s why I talk about it with a little bit of disgust.)

Now, back to the subject. Something I’ve come to realize recently is that a lot of the shame I was experiencing surrounding my decision to leave school was because I was still measuring my success in comparison to the Saskatchewan timeline. For example, I was embarrassed about taking a year off after high school (even though I knew it’s what was best for me), but I found solace in the fact that since my performance program was only two years long, I would still graduate at twenty-one, just as I would have if I’d gone directly from high school into a BA at my local university. I was really concerned about finding a romantic relationship while I was away at art school, so I could still fulfill the destiny of getting married around the same time as all my cousins and high school classmates. As much as I wanted to forge my own path, the idea that I needed to live life according to a particular agenda was so deeply engrained in my subconscious that I was willing to bend over backwards to fulfill every arbitrary marker of success.

But I want to try something different. I want to try abandoning timelines altogether. I want to try making the best decisions I can, in pursuit of my own happiness, in my given circumstances with the resources I have, without attempting to follow a 2-year, or 5-year, or 10-year plan. It’s a BIG task, because it essentially entails re-educating myself on the fundamentals of purpose. It means re-wiring how I look at life and success. It also means that in all my life decisions, I’ll be flying completely blind: I can’t use my parents, classmates, or older cousins as life’s cheat-sheet, because our milestones won’t necessarily line up. That’s not to say I’ll never get married, or have children, or buy a house, or any of the other things that my peers are doing. Maybe I’ll do all those things! But, if I do, it’ll be when the universe decides it’s time. Not when I decide, or my parents decide, or the example set by other millennial Saskatoonites decides. It will happen in its own time. God, that’s fucking terrifying, huh? Can I get a “hell yeah” from all my anxiety sufferers in the audience tonight? It’s a bolder and braver choice to forge my own path in life, but it means I have to face the very things I’m afraid of: uncertainty. Vulnerability. Shame. Instability. I know that, by making this choice, I’ll never be sure of where I’m going to be five years from now. I hate that. But I’m looking at it this way: either I forfeit my autonomy now and follow the same path as everyone else, committing myself to a life of stability, but unhappiness, or I keep pushing to curate a life of my own. The risk could pay off, I could become happy and fulfilled and full of love and light, or I could end up completely destroyed and more miserable than ever before. At least with option B, the chance at happiness is there. And, my therapist would have me say that the chance of me following my dreams and ending up worse off is basically zero.

I don’t know if I believe her yet.

But there’s only one way to find out.