I remember when a 'good day' meant just making it to the end without a full-blown panic attack in public. I recall when "good" was defined by the absence of something—no tears before noon, no screaming matches in the car, a silent kind of desperate survival. Now I want my good days to be filled with something, not just empty of terror. Back then, I considered it a victory if I didn't call in sick or burst into tears at my desk. Now, a good day is measured in the things I CREATE, not just the disasters I avoid.