In 1867; a certain Isaac Newton, still trying to dodge falling apples, was working on the 3rd law of motion – ‘For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.’ I’d like to discuss how this law worked for me, by giving me as much energy and inspiration to fight a disease that took so much from me.

But first, it’s only fair that I shed a little context on my life leading up to my depression diagnosis. When I was 10, I endured a life changing battle – one that I’m so proud to say I’ve won, but in no sense unscathed. My life up until November 2004 was, in search for a better word, easy. I had excelled athletically; with the physical strength of a boy that lived life to play football (soccer in your language) and run up mountains (Something that I did once to the despair of my dad, whose screams became all too distant to notice).

Then, on the first week of November I was ill. I writhed around in agony on the sofa for the better part of a week, having been diagnosed with gastroenteritis (a viral stomach bug) by a trainee doctor. Unfortunately, he made his diagnosis majorly wrong. As I lay there twisting in pain, my appendix was ready to rupture and change my life.

The next conversation I had with a medical professional went like this:

“Calum, the anesthetic hasn’t seemed to work yet. I’m going to have to put this mask on you to put you to sleep. Count down from 10 for me will you” “10…. 9….. 8……7…………”

My eyes closed, not to awaken again for another week. Unbeknownst to me, I had suffered peritonitis due to 2 litres of poison ripping through my body like a pinball shooting around a machine, smashing into healthy organs and cascading around me. My body couldn’t cope and shut down every organ (barring my heart and brain) whilst I lay there in a coma; able to hear fragments of my parents conversations and prayers but without the consciousness and physical ability to respond.

The following year was nowhere near as hard for me as it should have been, due to the most incredible family and friends. I will value their unequivocal love and support forever. From the moment I woke, the life I once knew was history and I had been shunted onto a new path.

This new life required me to learn how to speak and swallow again. I had so much muscle damage that it took me another week to build enough strength to turn my head and raise my arm.   Over the years, through physiotherapy, I’ve reached a stage where I can walk again and participate in life without many obvious impediments.

However, such a life altering moment wears down on you.

Like attrition, life chipped away at my resolve. At the age of 17; these small stones of not being able to play sports to the ability I once could, embarrassment of my situation, and the added pressure of fulfilling a life I felt fortunate to live, had carved a hole in me. It had worn me down and knocked me into a deep dark pool with no ladders. It had knocked me into depression. Being a naive kid that had never suffered from any signs of poor mental health, I did what too many people in my situation do.

I convinced myself that it’s just a phase and woke up every day, opened the wardrobe and grabbed another disguised face of happiness to wear. It wasn’t until late 2015 that I forced myself to visit the doctor, and received an official diagnosis. Sometimes in life, moments come along and you think ‘That’s changed everything’ these moments may include: Hearing the unimaginable beauty of Daft Punk for the first time. The first taste of Ben & Jerry’s that leaves you contemplating the meaning of Ice Cream.

For me, the diagnosis was one of them. I turned to Newton and realized that if this depression had been dragging me down for 4 years, then there’s at least 4 years of energy that I’m going to use to not only beat this illness but to completely obliterate it.

Step One

The first and arguably the most profound benefit of being diagnosed, was that it separated me from my illness. Up until that point, I thought my mood was as intrinsic to me as the birth scar on my neck, or my inability to perform tongue twisters.

Discovering that depression was an alien illness that had not only invaded me; but was making itself at home in my head, sipping a cup of tea whilst flicking through Netflix documentaries, gave me something to fight. It’s hard to fight a battle when you think you’re the enemy. Recognizing that depression wasn’t a fabric of my life, but more of dirty piece of cloth that had attached itself to me, I decided to reconnect to a former depression-free version of myself.

In a sort of premature mid-life crises, I began immersing myself with things that I had based my life around as a child. I started cycling again, surrounded myself with books from ranging from Fiction to Historical Fantasies, Memoirs to Classics, all in an attempt to rediscover what made me happy. I believe this to be such a vital aspect of maintaining a happy lifestyle. For one that is so simple, it’s often overlooked.

Whatever makes you happy, do it, do it as much as you can because the main person you’re responsible for keeping happy, is you.

For any True Detective fans out there “Life’s barely long enough to get good at one thing. So be careful what you get good at” – Rust Cohle Matthew McConaughey’s nihilistic and detached character delivered many pertinent life lessons in True Detective, but this one grabbed my attention to most. Life is short, and if you can only master one thing in life, make sure it’s something you truly believe in.

Step Two

Use the resources around you to help others, and yourself in the process. I’m fortunate to be studying Marketing Communications & Advertising at Sheffield Hallam University – located in England. Sheffield is a great place, full of students and brimming with people that want to work collaboratively to end this mental health crisis. The depression I suffered with, gave me the inspiration to use my marketing modules to help break down the stigma attached to mental illness.

I, along with a team of students, have been working with a local mental health charity to redesign takeaway boxes, which incidentally are as familiar to students as krill is to whales. The new boxes (With different stick faces, catchphrases and colors on them) are designed to surprise and amuse students, encouraging them to share pictures online and using marketing to build awareness for the great work that Mind are doing in Sheffield.

Secondly, I’ve had the pleasure of working with the University ‘Social Enterprise’ team, to raise funds for a new concept. The concept (Cafe Branches) would be a local cafe that employed mental health practitioners to sit with and aid customers that wanted an informal chat about their health. In a similar-to-Uber style app, customers could choose their guide and see what debates and lectures were taking place.

Step Three

I became my own biggest fan. Imagine that battling depression is like a boxing match. It’s been a hard fight and you’ve taken some fair blows, you’re tiring and struggling to keep your breath after 8 hard rounds of sparring. The bell rings and you go back to your corner, sit on the stool and wait for the sweat to be wiped away from your brow. In jumps the trainer, but instead of Paulie (Rocky Balboa reference), it’s actually you, re-energising and demanding that you believe in yourself.

‘It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep on going etc etc’. Big yourself up every day, be biased, be encouraging. It doesn’t matter how trivial it is. Sometimes I give myself a pat on the back when I choose the perfect song to listen to, or even when I add a new word to my vocabulary. Constant self appraisal is the perfect antidote to the self-loathing and self-ridicule I used to partake in when I was at my deepest points, and I attribute it to my sanguine (Giving myself a pat on the back for that one) attitude now.

So back to Newton; if his law states that for everything in life, there’s an equal and opposite force, then I believe depression brings with it the tools to defeat it. Depression can rob you of the happiness you once thought was your default setting, so go back to the very things that brought you that happiness. Depression spreads false rumors and doubts in your head, so do the opposite and big yourself up as much as Kanye does (Just maybe not as publicly).

When I saw that becoming a Health Community Ambassador was something that Wish Dish was doing, I jumped at the chance. By serving in this role I can impact so many people and the health community by helping people share their stories.

I’ve come up with some goals to accomplish along the way.

• Create a community and safe haven for people to come and share their stories.

My ultimate goal while serving as a Wish Dish Health Community Ambassador is to create a community and safe haven. I want the Wish Dish Health Community to be an open forum for everyone to share their stories.

• Provide a resource/outlet for people struggling with health issues.

By providing a community for everyone to share their stories I hope it leads to resources for others to use. I want Wish Dish Health to serve as an outlet for people to share their resources and stories to hopefully help just one person who reads their story.

• Connect people who have endured health issues or have been affected by health issues in order to create a support system.

I want someone to read a story and realize that someone else has been affected by cancer, suicide, multiple sclerosis, addiction, etc. and now they have a contact person to serve as a resource for helplines, spiritual/religious resource, foundations, etc.

• Bring attention to more important health topics, specifically related to mental health.

By allowing people to share their stories about how they been affected by suicide, depression, anxiety, etc. it brings attention to these health topics that need to be pushed to the forefront of research so that we can work towards a cure or more help for those wanting to live a normal life in the community.

• Help overcome stigmas of mental health and disabilities.

Mental health and disabilities have become such taboo topics to discuss. I’m hoping through Wish Dish Health that people are willing to talk more and more about these topics in order to bring them into the light of health topics and let people know that its OK to discuss these topics with one another. We want to encourage these conversations in order to help save just one more life.

• Start a legacy of conversation.

The more people are willing to share their stories and experiences then it forces people to start a conversation. This allows people to become more aware of health issues that are affecting so many people around the world today.

• Help people become open minded and sympathetic to ALL health topics.

I want people to learn as much as they can about different health topics. Research topics like autism, cancer, HIV/AIDS, schizophrenia, ADD/ADHD, Zika, diabetes, etc. There are plenty of resources online to learn more.

TED Talks has a great piece on autism by Temple Grandin you should check it out!

• Use my future nursing degree to spark change.

In May I’ll graduate with my BSN and I hope to use that degree to help change the lives of NICU babies and their families. But for now I want to use Wish Dish Health to help change and save lives.

• Professional development for my future career.

By serving as a Wish Dish Health Community Ambassador it will help expand my knowledge on many health issues as well as see how people cope with certain things. This will help me tremendously with my professional development as well as help me connect better with my patients.

Imagine that you’ve just pulled an all-nighter studying for exams. Your brain is tired. Your eyes are tired, You can barely function. You stumble to class and feign alertness until they end at 3:00pm. But wait! Your day still isn’t over.

You can’t sleep yet; you still need to do homework and get groceries. Your stomach rumbles, so you drive to the grocery store in your exhausted, dizzy, inattentive state. You walk into the store and can’t remember why you came in the first place. You decide to buy a couple frozen meals and drive back to your apartment.

By now you’re so exhausted that you’re hallucinating, seeing strange lights and shapes out of the corner of your eye. You pop a frozen meal into the microwave and finally recline on your roommate’s tiny, uncomfortable couch and close your eyes for a blissful second. You close your eyes at 6:00pm on Wednesday. You wake up, groggy and un-refreshed, at 4:00pm on Thursday.

You’ve just slept for 22 hours.

Now imagine that instead of having pulled off that all-nighter, you instead got 14 hours of sleep the night before but feel as exhausted as if you hadn’t slept at all.

This is my daily life living with idiopathic hypersomnia.

Like many college students, I’ve experienced my fair share of sleepless all-nighters, choosing afternoon naps over doing homework, and sleeping until noon on weekends. I’ve fallen asleep in class, canceled plans with friends at the last minute so I could sleep, and expressed friendly envy towards a classmate who got 10 hours of sleep the previous night.

Unlike most college students, my afternoon naps ranged from 6 to 18 hours. Pulling the rare all-nighter resulted in me falling asleep the following afternoon and sleeping until the following day. Sleeping in on weekends meant that you didn’t wake up sometime after 12:00 pm; I usually woke up sometime after 8:00 pm.

I thought all of these behaviors were normal for a college student, especially one who stays up a little later than she should and struggles to manage her time effectively. Little did I know that all of these were red flags for a sleep disorder.

I had always struggled to do well in college. I procrastinated a little too often on homework assignments and didn’t study quite enough for tests. I routinely slept through my alarms and sometimes slept through my classes altogether.

My grades ranged from just ok to pretty good and my class attendance was always fairly poor. I just assumed that I wasn’t managing my time well and that I was at fault for choosing sleep over my other responsibilities.

Even after failing a class and losing my job from poor attendance, I still thought that there was nothing “technically” wrong with me. I thought that everyone I talked to about my sleep was right: “you just need to push through it,” “go to bed earlier,” and most of all “stop being so lazy.”

It wasn’t until January 2015 that I realized something was wrong with me and had been wrong with me for a long time. After sorority chapter, I stumbled back to my apartment ready to go straight to bed at only 8:00pm.

I remember pushing my clean laundry off my bed onto the floor and deciding that it took too much effort to change out of my formal sorority dress into pajamas. I laid out horizontally across my bed, with no pillows and no blankets, and…that’s all I can remember. Until I woke up at 10:00pm the following day.

I remember waking up, still dressed from the night before, with no recollection of what had happened or what time it was. I grabbed my phone and gasped when I saw that it was 10:00pm on Tuesday. That couldn’t be right. Our chapter was on Monday nights at 7:00 pm and I was home by 8:00 pm. That would mean that I slept for over 24 hours. How could that be right?

Normal people don’t sleep that long.

I was absolutely terrified. I couldn’t begin guessing what was wrong with me; what would make me sleep for that long? I wasn’t ill. I hadn’t had a recent allergic reaction. I wasn’t on any medication. What was it? And most of all I feared: what if I fell asleep somewhere that wasn’t safe?

I called my doctor and scheduled an appointment for the next day. I was immediately referred to a sleep study to see why I was sleeping for so long and why I struggled to wake up in the mornings. Leading up to the sleep study, I feared going to sleep every single night. I feared that I wouldn’t be able to wake up the next morning, or even wake up at all the next day.

I immediately started a healthy sleep regime: I was in bed with the lights out by 10:00 pm and my first alarm was set to go off at 7:30 am. I honestly believed that adopting this strategy would be the key to managing my sleep effectively and that there was nothing medically wrong with me.

However, after a month of living on this sleep schedule, I only felt worse and continued to sleep longer and longer every night.

I completed my sleep study and two weeks later, I was diagnosed with idiopathic hypersomnia. Unlike insomnia, hypersomnia means sleeping too much, especially when the person struggles to wake up after sleeping. Idiopathic means “unknown cause.”

I was disheartened and felt more alone than ever to learn that I had a sleep disorder that prevented me from waking up naturally, and that even the name itself stated that no one knew how it was caused.

I was given a prescription for a stimulant medication used to treat narcolepsy but was denied insurance coverage for it because I didn’t have narcolepsy. And at $200 a bottle, it was impossible to pay for it out of pocket.

I felt hopeless. My performance in class worsened until I was finally forced to withdraw from my last semester of senior year.

I signed up for summer classes to complete my degree, but even then I continued to struggle to wake up and go to class everyday. Homework was nearly impossible; I fell asleep during all my assigned readings and even during assigned video viewings.

There was nothing that kept me awake. I felt that I was condemned to a life of unconsciousness, and it was a life that I struggled with alone.

My mom started searching to learn more about idiopathic hypersomnia. She managed to get me an appointment with the world’s leading neurologist on the disorder in only a month instead of the typical 12 month waiting period, which was a feat we agreed was a miracle from God.

I saw him and learned more about the causes of idiopathic hypersomnia, and I learned that I was one of hundreds of patients he was treating for this disorder. He said that hypersomnia was caused by the brain producing a chemical that acts like a sleeping pill, and that no matter how long I slept, this would only make me crave more sleep.

He recommended that I also attend the annual Hypersomnia Foundation conference during the summer. I was relieved that not only I was seeing a doctor who understood why I was so sleepy and understood my struggles but also that there was an entire conference for other people who suffered from the same disorder.

For the first time since that night in January, I was finally relieved and happy. I was no longer alone.

I attended the conference and was surprised by how many people were there. There were over 300 people in attendance, and most of them suffered from hypersomnia. I listened to the world’s leading researchers talk about their newest discoveries and about new treatment methods they were developing for hypersomniacs.

I couldn’t believe it; I finally understood the disorder that had caused me so much suffering and that there were even treatment options available. I wasn’t condemned to a life of unconscious sleep; I would be able to live a normal life and stay awake every day.

I met several other young adults in a breakout session support group. Hearing their stories about their struggles and their diagnoses made me relieved that there were other people who understood everything I was going through. We bonded over our shared mental illness and created an amazing support group that we’ve continued ever since the conference.

We share advice on dealing with our disorder, console and help each other during challenging times in our lives, and find ways to laugh about our disorder on a daily basis (our favorite joke is “I’m great in bed. I can sleep for days”).

Living with idiopathic hypersomnia is a daily challenge. I’m challenged from the moment I wake up every morning until the moment I go to bed to stay awake and try to live a normal life. But now I know, even in the face of a rare illness like this, I’m not the only one going through it.

There are always other people who are there going through the exact situation I’m experiencing, and together we can help each other overcome the daily struggles we all face.

I’ve been told many times by other people that “I’m not the only one experiencing this,” but I’ve always brushed that off thinking that they didn’t understand my unique situation. But they were right: even with a disorder that’s only found in 1 out of every 2,000 people, I am still not alone.

I have my family and my friends supporting me. I have my doctors for continuing treatment. I have my fellow patients for advice. And I have God to lean on and guide me through this difficult time in my life.

If you only remember one thing from my story, I want it to be this: no matter how hard life gets, no matter how hopeless you feel or the failures you endure, you are never ever alone. You are not the only one experiencing this difficulty in your life, and you are not the only one who has ever suffered from this situation or felt alone like this. You are loved by your family, your friends, and your deity, and you WILL overcome this difficult time in your life.

Take it from Sleeping Beauty herself.

(If you’re interested in learning more about idiopathic hypersomnia, visit the Hypersomnia Foundation’s website at www.hypersomniafoundation.org).

Looking at myself in the mirror, I focus on the gentle bulges across my hips and thighs. I see the new found curve along my waist. I see me, not just the shadow of myself I saw a few years ago.

I’m a recovering anorexic. For me, anorexia is like alcoholism in the way that you are never fully ‘cured’. Relapses happen and it takes persistence and constant self-love to stay healthy.

I’m at the heaviest weight of my life and I’ve been told I have never looked healthier. To me, that is one of the best compliments I can receive. I had always been persistently underweight for my 5’9 frame since I was 15. Spiraling downwards into diet-restricting and over-exercising, I was a mess mentally and physically before I sought out help my sophomore year of college.

But I’m not here to explicitly tell about my battle with anorexia. I’m here to talk about recovery.

About the twinges of doubt and sadness that come with compliments saying that you look well.

About how old habits are hard to fend off when you’re old jeans fit too snugly.

About how when I stand in the mirror I see a woman. Not just a wisp of one.

I see a woman. A woman with a little extra padding to cushion her mind and her heart. A woman who tries on new clothes and makes an effort to never be discouraged by the size tag. A woman who speaks out about body positivity and lifts others up on her journey to wellness.

But the journey to wellness isn’t always easy.

Wellness isn’t just about the number on a scale or a healthy BMI, it’s about how you think and feel about yourself. It’s about how easily you can accept and be kind to yourself. Wellness is something we all struggle with.

I may be at a healthy weight, but when I see myself in the mirror I sometimes find myself cursing each new curve.

But when I take the time to stop and think about where I got those, I find myself smiling. Each curve came from living life. From eating cake with a close friend in England to grabbing a pint of cider in Germany. When I was at my worst, my world revolved around food and what I didn’t eat. Now food revolves around the new life I have built for myself and the new woman I am today.

A woman one who knows she should probably get back into shape, but slightly fears how it could control her life again. A woman who realizes that the best thing that ever happened to her was studying abroad. How it helped her break her routine and simply focus on living her life again. Meaningful experiences became more important than image.

It is with that thought that I wish to stay in the travel frame of mind. To focus on living my best life and, honestly, just try to stay happy.

My sophomore year, when I first started reaching out to receive help, I wrote a poem to share in my creative writing class. It was one of my fist times sharing such a personal part of myself. Soon, I found that being vocal about negative body image was key to helping you change the way you think.

The poem read as follows:

When I Look Into the Mirror

I notice the asymmetrical curve of my hips,

The slight left slant of my nose,

Off-centering my face.

I focus on every pore of my skin,

Scarred like the surface of the moon

From only nineteen short years of life.

I fold into myself,

Shying away from the newfound weight held around my waist;

An unwanted sign of recovery.

I feel the wetness as my eyes gloss,

Reaching for the white-capped pill bottle,

The one that ebbs these thoughts that haunt my mind.

I take a step back.

I see sunlight reflect the gleam in my eyes

Conveying warmth and summer’s sweet melody,

Crinkled up at the corners when I laugh.

I see my mother’s nose,

My father’s chicken legs,

Stretched for miles and built for speed.

I see long, slender fingers,

Of which my Dad relates to E.T.,

Perfect for reaching under the couch for refugee change.

I see a lopsided smile,

One that finds solace in a slice of chocolate silk pie

Or changes from raspberry to coral with a swipe of lipstick.

I am only but a body,

Focused by a lens,

Transformed through the brain,

Yet,

When I look into the mirror,

I see it all.

It has been just over a year since I wrote that poem.

Since I finally came to terms with my struggle, I couldn’t be prouder of how far I’ve come. And you know what? I’m delighted to share that. Whether or not it is seen as boasting is not my business. To me, there is no wrong in being proud of what you’ve worked hard to accomplish.

Earlier this week, I went in to the doctor. In the back of my mind, I was slightly terrified. It was the first time I was going to be weighed in a year; ever since I sought help back at university. Back then, I was getting weighed blind and felt entirely helpless to the fact that I wasn’t allowed to know my own body. It was a year ago that I walked out of that doctors office and decided that the number on a scale would no longer define me. And it was a year of bliss not knowing. But it was time.

I got on that scale and was weighed by a nurse who did not know what that moment meant to me. And that was exactly how I wanted it.

To be perfectly honest, it was fine. Maybe even better than I thought. My overactive imagination had conjured up some insane number in my head, so it was reassuring to see that wasn’t the case. I’m exactly where I need to be.

The journey to wellness is life-long. But it doesn’t have to be a battle. It’s important to bend with it like a palm in the breeze. If you stay too rigid, you might just snap. Life is ever-fluctuating. It curves left and right like a country road. Ebbs and flows like the oceans’ tides. It’s your job to learn to flow with it.

I don’t think I will ever buy a scale. I can finally say that I know myself and know that it can be all too easy for thoughts to become obsessive. But, to me, I now know that what really matters is how I feel. Healthy.

Mentally, physically, and spiritually. And honestly, I simply cannot wait to continue riding the curve on my journey to wellness.

My still-wet braid dripped water down my back, providing a cool relief from the sun rays dancing over my skin as I trudged up the swim trail from the lake.

My ankles were now covered in a thin coat of dirt that had been kicked up by the boys running ahead of me, excited to be first in line for the weekly “Burrito Bar.” As my campers gathered around our table at the coveted location on the Lakeside Porch, I filled a glass to the brim with iced tea before going out to sit with my little ones under the shade of the Manzanita trees.

Beaming faces, gap-toothed smiles, and wide eyes offered the backdrop to our meals as my campers excitedly bragged about their courageous accomplishments on the ropes course between bites of lunch.

“Can I please go to the bathroom?”

The innocence of childhood was shattered as I stared back at Andrea, my sixteen year old “Camper in Leadership Training”. I glanced down at her empty plate–a blank slate apart from a few half-eaten carrot sticks and an untouched pile of lettuce–then back at her face, showing an expression just as empty.

Andrea’s guilt was palpable: a criminal stealing calories which she did not feel she deserved, she desperately needed to dispose of any evidence of a meal. Her long, willowy arms and hollow cheeks brought me back to my own days of guilt, my own days of calorie counting and meal skipping, the days of weighing and watching, exposed ribs and hidden secrets.

. . .

It was senior year of high school, and man, I was on top of the world. I had a wonderful group of friends, a boyfriend who doubled as the school’s MVP on the water polo team, a place in the Advanced Dance class at my studio, and involvement in an array of clubs across campus.

It would have shocked anyone to find that the girl whose life was so laced with love and laughter spent her nights hungry and alone in bed, thinking up plans on how to escape meals the next day.

“Dad, I’m running late- I’ll just grab a granola bar from the vending machines.”

“It’s alright Mom, I’ll buy lunch today, don’t bother making one.”

“Thanks Matt, but I had a big breakfast. I’m not really hungry for lunch.”

“No mom, don’t worry about me for dinner, I’m eating at Sophie’s.”

“No Sophie, it’s alright, I’m going to eat dinner at home.”

The skill of deception was one that I had mastered.

I was living a double life: the girl who smiled and hugged friends around school, and the girl who frequently spent hours staring in the mirror, pinching her waist, and bringing herself to tears at the sight of her own body.

Occasionally, my public and private lives would cross paths– I would find myself wondering why my thighs touched in my desk at school or contemplating how much higher I could leap in ballet if I didn’t have all of the “extra” weight pulling me back to the ground. An almost catatonic state would wash over me, as if the world went silent to accommodate for the numbers screaming louder and louder in my head.

7 apps on my phone dedicated to calorie counting.

6 websites to calculate my BMI, only finding satisfaction when deemed “underweight”.

5 times a day on the scale to make sure the numbers were dropping.

2 secret hours at the gym after school.

0 calories consumed without being burned off.

My life had become a numbers game- constant counting, constant weighing, endless obsession.

Look at the fork. Pick it up. Stab at a piece of broccoli. Put it down. Drink water instead. Carry on conversation with mom. Look back at the fork. Pick it up. Put it down. You don’t need this. Look at your thighs. Mom is looking at your plate. She can’t know. Pick up the fork. Take a scoop of rice. Open your mouth. Chew. God, this tastes good. God, you are getting fat. Put down the fork. Repeat.

I was lucky, in a strange way, to see the negative effects my choices had on my body. I was tired all of the time; I was brittle and fragile and always bruised up; I got skinnier and skinnier, but it was never enough.

Ironically, the closer I got to what I was convinced would bring happiness, the worse I seemed to feel.

It was as if the pounds I shed from my figure returned twice as heavy to the air above me. When the weight of the world is heavier than the weight of your body, it becomes hard to distinguish between the two. Often I would mistake one burden for the other and find myself dragging around my weightless limbs like anchors.

It was a Tuesday. The lunch bell rang and students poured out of classrooms into the quad the way water fills a reservoir when the flood gates are finally let open.

Convinced I was shielded by the waves of my peers, I reached into my gray canvas backpack and fumbled around for the crinkled brown paper bag my mom was adamant about packing that morning. I kept my well-wrapped kryptonite at arms-length as I scanned the schoolyard for the nearest trash can, determined to catch not even a breath of the homemade brownies that were under-cooked, just to my liking.

I released the sweet treats into the dismal plastic bag, feeling momentarily guilty that my mom’s always-perfectly-symmetrical sandwiches and apple slices were now the equivalent of mangled pizza crusts and half-finished Gatorades. As I turned away from my abandoned calories, the pride of another skipped meal was short-lived.

I remember it as a movie scene–you know the kind–where everything is moving in a blur but there’s one focal point which remains clear. That focal point was my boyfriend. The stares exchanged between his eyes and mine made up a conversation more insightful than any words could do justice.

All it took was one look at his face when he saw what I had done.

This was the look that told me his suspicions were confirmed. It was the look that told me I had been caught. It was the look that catalyzed my desire to be well again.

He moved closer, enveloping me in his familiar, warm scent of lingering chlorine poorly masked by Old Spice and his mom’s dryer sheets. As if his arms were the glue holding the very pieces of my soul together, I immediately came undone when he stepped away. A marionette controlled by self-hatred whose strings had finally been cut, I crumpled to the pavement feeling as small as I had always hoped I would look.

. . .

The crisp mountain air in my lungs only made my thoughts seem more muddled by contrast as I stared back at Andrea. I knew what I needed to say. I knew what she wanted to hear. I wanted to force her to believe that she was beautiful.

I wanted to let her know that she was enough. I wanted to scream that a number on a scale cannot measure your intelligence or your self-worth. I wanted to convince her that it is so much prettier to have a full heart and big dreams than an empty stomach and thin thighs. I wanted to fix her.

I wanted to love her in all of the ways that I knew she did not love herself. I knew what words I should have said, but when I opened my mouth the only syllable I could utter was a raspy “Sure”.

After all, who was I to tell her to avoid the allure of the fire while I was still nursing my own burns?

Andrea made her way back to the table with the bloodshot, watery, post-purging eyes and sniffling nose that I had grown to know too well. I forced myself to look away from my adolescent reflection sitting across from me and added another heaping spoonful of sugar to my tea–a desperate attempt to sweeten the bitter taste left in my mouth.

I filled my cheeks with the sickeningly sugary liquid and forced a swallow, hoping that if I took a gulp big enough, my secrets would be washed down with it, once again burying the words that begged to escape my lips.

Our University of Georgia community was struck with a horrible tragedy and immense heartache this past week. We lost the lives of four amazingly beautiful young women and our prayers are with the fifth whom is still laying in a coma, hoping that she is able to pull through.

I faced what I thought would be the worst of losses my senior year of high school when one of my class and teammates, Tracey Vander Kolk, succumbed to suicide. I went to a typical high school of around 2,500 students, where just about everyone knew of everyone. When we lost this beautiful soul, our Severna Park community came together in the most amazing of ways to support each other through this dark time.

We had every sort of stereotypical group you could imagine for a school of teenage kids, but when this happened, when we lost someone that we all knew and loved, everyone was just one.

For once there were no clicks dividing who could and would talk to who, we were just Severna Park, mourning the loss of one of our own. The amount of support that my lacrosse team received was immeasurable and I cannot even begin to express how thankful I was, how we all were. My team was my family, and for the first time in what I ever knew, all of Severna Park was too.

When we got the news of the crash last Wednesday night, everyone received texts and calls from loved ones, checking in to make sure that we were okay. A sigh of relief knowing that your best friend, sister, or child was safe, but an ache in your heart knowing that someone else’s wasn’t. Thursday morning, the news broke and names were out. Personally, I didn’t know any of these beautiful girls, but so many people that are so close to me, did. Hearing how highly everyone spoke of each of them, makes me wish I did even more.

Everyone finds their people in college, and being away from home, we all form our own new families.

Whether you go Greek, find your best friends through your major or a club, or in my case, sports, we all find our way into some of the strongest relationships we will ever make. My lacrosse team is my family and I can full-heartedly say that playing with them is the greatest decision I’ve made throughout my college career. By choice or by blood, family is family. They are the greatest support system and biggest influence that anyone will ever have on your life and I cherish mine more than I could ever put into words.

My heart aches for my teammates that lost a part of their family. For the siblings who lost a sister. For the parents who lost a daughter. For the sororities that lost a sister. For UGA students that lost a classmate. For anyone who lost someone who touched their life in some way. Loss is a terrible thing. The worst thing about it, is that it most often takes from us what we have taken for granted.

It is the saddest reality that it seems to take a devastating event in order to bring everyone together.

So many peoples worlds were rocked and lives were left to feel like they were falling apart. But the thing about falling apart is it gives us the opportunity of coming together. Thursday, while a heartbreaking day, was a beautiful day in terms of our UGA community. Everyone came together to pay their respects and celebrate the lives that were lived, and are still fighting to live.

On Thursday our UGA community transformed into one family.

I am without a doubt sure that so many of you have classes with people you have never talked to. Speed walk through Tate to get away from anyone that tries to talk to you into joining their organization. Sit down on a bus and scroll through social media to avoid the awkward encounter of engaging in a conversation with someone whom is a complete stranger and seems totally irrelevant to your life. Won’t go somewhere or do something different without dragging a friend along so 1. you don’t look like a loser and 2. so that you don’t have to meet or talk to anyone new that has the potential of being weird or creepy or some other random undesirable trait.

Trust me, I know, because I do it all.

This crash hit us all just as any crash does, hard. But in light of this tragic loss, I figure that we all have the opportunity to learn to do one simple thing. Love a little more. Love all you can, while you can. Meet new people. Tell the ones that are already in your life how much they mean to you. Appreciate what you have, while you have it! Such a crazy, cliche concept considering your parents shoved this down your throat as a child and somehow not enough of us have actually grasped it yet. We are all so blessed with such wonderful lives, but it is so easy to take that for granted while we are so consumed with our hectic schedules and distracted by what we consider to be “significant” issues.

I cannot even count the number of times I have complained about my life falling apart this semester just because of a little school stress and being unsure about my future, when in reality, some peoples lives really are falling apart.

I am healthy, am going to one of the greatest schools and living in the best town, have the most ridiculously amazing family and friends (and dog) and overall just have a pretty awesome life.

The number of times I’ve actually taken the time to recognize and be truly appreciative of that this week? Not nearly enough. And on top of all that, we’ve all developed this tunnel vision where if something or someone doesn’t directly affect our lives, they aren’t even a part of our reality.

Each person that you meet has the potential to impact your life in an amazing way, but you actually have to meet them! Everyone who knew Christina, Brittany, Halle or Kayla, you are blessed. Blessed because you had the amazing opportunity of knowing a wonderful soul that we all weren’t as lucky to have known. With this in mind, we all need to take advantage of this amazing group of people we are surrounded by at Georgia. Dawg Nation is stronger than ever with the immense love we have shared with each other and the prayers lifted up for each and every single person that has been impacted by this tragic event. As we move forward, we will hold those lost close to our hearts, but carry on knowing that the love they shared is still with us, patiently waiting to be shared with each other.

“My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.” John 15:12-13

In loving memory of Brittany Feldman, Christina Semeria, Halle Scott, Kayla Canedo and Tracy Vander Kolk.

With thoughts, love and prayers for Agnes Kim.

My twin sister and I were born in 1994 in Mobile, Alabama. Excluding many details, less than 11 months after my birth, I had a heart transplant in Atlanta, Georgia at Egleston Children’s Hospital, today known as Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta.

Those who know me know the lengths I go to to appear as an average 21-year old. However, my story is more complicated. I firmly trust in the Lord that only those who need to read my story are reading it right now. Something I wish the seventeen-year-old me could read the twenty-one-year-old me write.

When I was seventeen, after Googling too much (everyone should avoid this) I came to the conclusion that my life would end far sooner than I expected. What I expected to be a full life of 70 years, at the end of a few weeks, changed to a hopeful 25 years.

If I lived to 32 I would break the Guinness World Record.

It was a heavy burden then but weighs less now. However, to this day, I still have to stop, take a deep breath, and refocus.

Those first three months were like being lost in a black abyss where the sea is so shockingly cold, it’s numbing. I was mentally and emotionally unconnected to everything in my life. There were two very special people in my life who somehow found a way to help me open up about my old world that was spinning and falling apart and the new world that was unknown and painful.

God was also there, but at the time I felt He abandoned me. I had always been willing to do as He wished, but I felt He didn’t adequately prepare me for this kind of life.

Before I concluded I only had 8-10 more years, my life plan was nothing special, a balanced life centered around my family. I planned a life that included a husband and children. I imagined what they might go through if I left them. Thus, I would not let them exist at all.

If I couldn’t have a family, maybe I could have an impressive professional life, but what could I possibly achieve professionally before 30? So as time went on, it became easier to think only 7 or 8 years into the future with everything I had wanted being unattainable.

I wish I could tell you what’s it’s like to have nothing in this world you want.

The things I want I can’t secure for myself. I can’t be the mother or wife I wanted to be, or the daughter or sister for that matter.

There is freedom that comes with this. Anyone could take anything away from me, do anything to me, and it can’t compare to the pain I feel knowing I will be the one that causes my parents to bury a child and the one who can’t be with my sister for the rest of her life.

If it’s God’s plan, I’m the one who might even abandon her husband and maybe her young children as well. Parents say that there’s nothing that compares to the pain of losing a child, so imagine you’re the child they lose but you know several years in advance and can’t stop it.

4 years later….

What was numb has come back to life. What was pain and shock has become unfailing trust. What were secrets has become faith in His plan for my life.

I am still reminded that my future is not as secure as it once appeared, but when fear starts to turn to anger and sadness I make a deliberate effort to focus on God’s presence around me. It’s hard to describe how it feels when I purposefully remind myself He is with me, and it is far greater to feel it than to read about it.

It feels like a friend is smiling down at me from higher up on an unknown mountain trail. When I’m sad or tired, it feels like my cheek falling on a trusted shoulder. When I’m angry, it’s hearing a soft plea, talk to Me. When I’m scared it’s a patient and resounding do not be afraid.

In April of my junior year of high school, I was a midfielder for my high school lacrosse team.

For our cancer awareness game, Coach Dan Kaplan informed us that a 10-year-old named Lily Anderson, who was currently battling cancer, would be singing our national anthem. Little did I know, this girl would end up making a permanent impact on my life.

After Lily sang the national anthem, she sat on the bench of our sideline throughout the game. I remember it was baking hot and the sun was beating down. I had been knocked around a couple times and when I came off the field, I was drenched in sweat and looked pretty rough.

Although I sat down next to Lily, I was intimidated to speak to her. For some reason, I assumed a little girl battling cancer would be somewhat timid or fragile…Boy was I wrong. Lily looked me right in the face and said “Holy COW you are SOO sweaty!!!!”

I couldn’t even pretend to keep a straight face.

I busted out laughing and was completely sold from that moment on. Lily was absolutely hilarious from the get-go and said whatever was on her mind. I really appreciated this because I am the exact same way.

As our season went on, our team “adopted” Lily as an honorary teammate. We all viewed her as a baby sister and I constantly thought about how awesome it would be to see her play lacrosse one day.

Her favorite colors were lime green and bright pink so of course, our team began to wear lime green and pink in any way possible to show her our support. I remember us all putting pink and green tape on our sticks, ribbons in our hair and shoelaces in our cleats in order to be “Lily-styled.”

We loved Lily and her spunk so much and I began to think about her bravery and strength whenever I wanted to quit or give up on a ball or cheat my way in a sprint during practice. Lily motivated me to push myself further. In the winter of my senior year in high school, Lily became very sick.

The cancer was spreading.

By this time, she was 11 years old and our team was fully in love with her. I remember one night, Mrs. Jennifer Anderson, Lily’s mom, was gracious enough to let us come visit Lily at her house. You can imagine an entire team of high school girls crammed in a living room with Lily in the center keeping us all entertained.

I know at her age, I was petrified to even look someone in the eye. But Lily wasn’t shy at all and we hung out with this spunky little 11-year-old, who had the most contagious laugh, until it was dark out and time to go. I don’t even think it was a week later that I woke up to a message in the team’s group chat. Lily had passed away in the night.

Dread washed over me. I ran upstairs to my parents and I guess they already knew because they just grabbed me in a group hug while I cried. I remember saying over and over “This isn’t fair. This shouldn’t be happening to kids like Lily. Why do I get to be a normal teenager and Lily doesn’t?”

I remember later that day, I had an award ceremony at my high school for something irrelevant. I wore pink and green for Lily and could barely keep tears from springing up. My teammates, Marisa and Dakota, were there, and when we saw each other, we collided in a group hug and let the tears run freely.

We agreed that we were going to make the upcoming season all about playing our hearts out for Lily. By the time the season started, Coach Kaplan had decided that we would use our #11 jersey to honor Lily since she was 11 years old.

Each week, he picked someone to wear the jersey and a recording of Lily’s voice sang our national anthem before each game. I can still remember listening to it on the field and getting chills.

In addition to this, Lily’s mom and little sister, Audrey, came to all of our games. Just a side note here: Mrs. Jennifer Anderson is quite possibly the strongest and sweetest woman in the entire universe and is the best hugger EVER!

And of course, we were always all sporting some kind of lime green and pink attire. It was simply a must that we all be stylish. It’s what Lily would have wanted. Our motto for the season was “LILYSTRONG” and we strived to embody her character in the way we played.

The really amazing thing about Lily is the way she turned my team into a family. Throughout my senior season, I noticed so many changes in West Forsyth’s Women’s Lacrosse Team.

We stopped yelling at each other when frustrated. Instead, I watched my teammates pick each other up and say “It’s okay. We’ll get ‘em next time.” I heard team chants change from “Let’s Win!” to “Let’s Do It For Lily!”

I noticed myself caring less and less about the numbers on the scoreboard and more about the teammates sharing the field with me and how I’d do anything for them. Whoever said sports bring people together might be right.

But in our case, it wasn’t lacrosse that brought my team together. It was Lily.

At the end of the day, the scoreboard will never really matter. Sports are, after all, just a game. What really matters is playing with heart and enjoying the moment you’re in surrounded by parents, coaches, and friends that you love.

People that are truly inspirational don’t have to try to inspire people. Lily didn’t try to influence us, yet she changed our lives. We all wanted to be just like her. She was and still is our hero.

For our cancer awareness game of senior season, Coach Kaplan surprised us with PINK uniforms to wear in honor of Lily. And I’m not talkin’ our regular navy uniforms with a pink number. These things were cotton candy pink from head to toe.

We were anxious all day because the weather looked awful and it was supposed to pour. I was worried we wouldn’t be able to honor Lily in this special way. But when game time rolled around, it still hadn’t rained.

We lined up on the field and listened to Lily’s voice sing our national anthem and the strangest thing happened. A breeze swept across the field and the clouds started to drift away. It was almost as if Lily herself told Mother Nature to back off for a couple hours.

I don’t remember who we played in that game or if I even scored. Memory is a funny thing. Irrelevant details like that are forgotten. But I do know we won that game and were all so excited that we had the chance to make Lily proud.

I wondered if Lily could see us and if she was proud of us. After the game, while we were down on the field and all the parents were snapping pictures of us, one of the moms froze in her tracks and looked at us all. “You guys…” she said, “It’s the 11th day of the month.”

We looked at each other in shock. Lucky number 11. Then another person said, “Oh my gosh…We scored 11 goals in this game! Lily’s number again!” I got chills. We were stunned. One of my teammate’s jaw dropped and she screamed, “There’s ELEVEN seniors!” We were all speechless.

Coincidences like that just don’t happen.

That was Lily saying hello to us in a way only she could and in a way only we would recognize; with the number 11. I have never been more positive that Heaven and angels are real than in that moment. And I can say with certainty that Lily Anderson is the most stylish, sparkly and sassy angel of them all.

Shortly after that game ended, the skies opened up and it poured. I remember the whole ride home being absolutely at peace and I knew Lily had held the rain off and had been there on the field with us. Right now as I type this, I have chills. I think that memory will always give me chills.

Today, as a junior at the University of Georgia, I serve on the Executive Board of Relay For Life. I have met the most amazing people and made incredible friends. I am touched daily by the stories I hear from other people affected by cancer.

All of this has stemmed from wanting to impact others the way Lily impacted me. I am such a tiny part of her story, but she will always be a big part of mine.

Lily’s family has a motto based on her personality and attitude towards things. They say, “Live a YES life like Lily did.” Mrs. Jennifer even gave our team these beautiful bracelets that are shaped like the word “YES.”

Here’s the meaning behind the motto: When life hands you a bad card, you can choose to see the worst or you can say YES to seeing the positive. Choose to say YES to all life can offer you and love every minute of it. That’s what Lily did.

Like I said, you would never know this kid had cancer. She didn’t let it keep her down. She was fun, giggly, and added sparkle wherever she went. Lily was literally personified glitter.

Most importantly, Lily was personified love. She LOVED life. And she LOVED everyone around her.

A common thing people ask you when you’re in college is, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I used to think, “Graphic Designer, Artist, Marketing Director…” And these are all great goals. But those are things I want to DO. Not who I want to BE.

I’ve come to realize that when I grow up, I want to BE just like Lily Anderson: loving, happy, positive and always willing to say YES to the best things this life has to offer.

It is common for people to say that time heals all wounds, but in my case, that is not quite accurate. I believe it is the manner in which one is able to deal with those wounds and want to change which is the determinant in the process of healing.

Three years ago around this time, I was diagnosed with an eating disorder. I clearly remember the traumatic day in which I was solely expecting a typical doctor’s visit, but that doctor’s visit amounted to much more than a typical checkup.

On this day, I clearly remember my doctor diagnosing me with an eating disorder and telling me that my heart rate was too low. At this moment, I did not want to accept reality. My whole mind was completely consumed with thoughts about food and exercise. I was in denial and wanted to continue living my life the way I was because I thought that it brought me happiness.

At this time, mostly all I focused on was eating “healthfully” and exercise. I sacrificed spending time with family and my schoolwork to get my exercise in. I did not want to give up everything that defined my life, and I chose to disregard all of the medical advice and urges from my parents.

I went one week continuing my extreme exercise habits and caloric restriction until I had to visit the doctor yet again. My heart was in an even poorer state, and my bones were becoming weaker. During this visit, my doctor informed me that my heart rate was so low that I could have died in my sleep. At this moment, I realized that I needed to change and embrace the process of recovery.

Every day for the next few months was painful for me.

I think this is a pain that only a person who has recovered from an eating disorder can understand. I felt like my whole life was falling apart because I had defined my existence based upon my physical appearance and tried to attain an unrealistic goal for my body type. Throughout my eating disorder, I really only cared about my diet and exercise, so going from exercising two to three hours a day and restricting my calories to not being able to work out affected me greatly.

Every day was difficult, but as time passed, my self-worth improved and I based my identity on attributes which defined me as a person, not by my physical appearance. I clearly recall being told by my doctor that an eating disorder mentality does not all of a sudden disappear overnight. It is a gradual process of learning to love yourself for who you are and embracing your body the way it is.

I do not recall the day in which I can say that I recovered from my eating disorder, but I look back on the recovery process today and think how my mindset completely differs.

Today, I sometimes cannot fathom how that was me three years ago. Although the recovery process was difficult and one of the most painful experiences of mine, I am grateful that I learned about myself and that I was strong enough to overcome something that had so much power over me.

I overcame the eating disorder and became a stronger person as a result of it.

February 8, 2016 was supposed to be a lot of things. It was supposed to be a lazy day full of studying, catching up on sleep, and preparing for the week ahead.

It was none of those things. If I am being completely honest, that day was a blur. A blur that consists of my phone ringing and hearing the tense voice of one of my best friends, hurriedly leaving my house, driving in silence, hugs, tears, phone calls, and more earth shattering silence.

February 8, 2016 was the day Allen Nasworthy died.

Saying he died seems so unreal. In previous experiences with death, there was a chance to say goodbye-with Allen I feel like I barely got to say hello. Allen was one of the best people I ever met. He could light up a room simply by walking in. His charisma was contagious and his influence was felt. In addition to all these spectacular traits, he was a warrior. A warrior who lost a tough battle

Allen was battling depression. He fought hard and still lost. Not only did he loose, but his loved ones lost a large part of our lives. Allen was a private person and did not talk much about his struggle, which is why when I was tasked with calling people that day, I did not feel like I was lying when I said “Allen died unexpectedly”- that’s what we told people, he died unexpectedly. Now that I have had time to process that day and think about it, I kick myself for phrasing it like that. Sure, it was unexpected to us. We didn’t know what the war zone in his head was like. People suffering from depression do not always feel comfortable or know how to communicate what they are feeling.

Why is this? Is it because it makes them a bad person? NO. Is it because they do not want to be stigmatized and viewed as weak? Studies say, absolutely. How do we change this? It is up to the survivors, the loved ones of the lost, and the ones still fighting to remove the stigma associated with mental health and depression. Cancer, heart disease, and other illness are researched and advocated for on a daily basis, mental health awareness and suicide prevention deserves the same attention.

Suicide leaves a hole in the hearts of those affected. It leaves questions forever without answers. Suicide makes someone think about the world differently.

I thought February 8, 2016 was one of the hardest days of my life-I was wrong. It was only the beginning of the hard days. Now I have to face a world without one of my greatest friends and mentors. I have to scroll by his name in my phone and remind myself not to text him. I have to pass the exit to my second home and not go visit him. I have to change the radio station when I hear the beginning of “You Should Be Here.” I have to replay every conversation we ever had and hope he knew how much he means to me.

I am trying not to focus on him not being here anymore, I try to live in a manner that honors the life he lived. Living like he did before he got sick. He gave his all in every task, no matter how large or small. That is why I will work tirelessly to bring awareness to mental health and suicide prevention. On April 24, 2016, I will be walking in the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP) Out of the Darkness Walk in memory of Allen. The link is included below, and I hope you will feel inclined to check it out and educate yourself to save a life.

To those of you fighting, KEEP FIGHTING. Your life is valuable and your worth is endless. To those of you with a loved one fighting; support them, encourage them to seek help, love them, and choose your words carefully. To those of you who have lost someone; I am terribly sorry for your loss and pray for you daily. And to those we have lost to this ugly battle; you are gone, but never forgotten and I hope your soul found the peace it was looking for.

Out of the Darkness Walks!