I've been thinking a lot about how my younger self wouldn't believe I'm actually okay most of the time now. Like, really, deeply okay, not just faking it. It's strange to think of all the energy I spent trying to convince myself things were fine, and how little I trusted the genuine moments of joy back then -- always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Now, the shoes are still there, but I know how to walk around them. I wonder if she'd recognize the quiet. Not the absence of noise, but the stillness inside when the storm has passed and the debris is being cleared. It’s taken years to trust that it won’t always rage.