On February 4th 2004, my friend, my mom and I were in a car accident caused by a drunk driver.

We were 10 years old. My friend didn’t make it.

I’ve had to stay in the hospital for four and a half months. Got discharged on my 11th birthday actually.

Had both my legs completely crushed, had to do two years of almost daily physical therapy to learn how to walk again.

Had to say goodbye to my dream of being a professional dancer.

Became depressed, developed an eating disorder, attempted suicice.

Was in a very dark place. Felt guilty for my friend’s death, most of all.

Saw therapist after therapist, got put on medication, was admitted to a psych ward for a month, then came back home.

All that at just 13.

Today, it’s been 16 years since all that and I can honestly tell you that it gets better.

It gets better, and it gets easier.

Getting out of bed gets easier.

Looking at yourself in the mirror gets easier.

Yes, the scars are still there.

Yes, the memories are still there.

Yes, I still wake up in the middle of the night crying or screaming.

But it gets better.

It took me a long time to realize that all of what happened was out of my control.

It took me a long time to accept myself as who I was, and who this experience shaped me into.

Teenagers are cruel.

I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve been make fun of because I walked with crutches for months. People would try to make me fall, take my things off my hands and threw them on the floor, the times I came home from school crying because all I wanted to do was hide from all that and I couldn’t.

I thought no one would ever love me.

That I was too broken to be fixed.

I learned to walk again, to run again, to dance again.

I learned to love myself, love my scars because they make me me.

16 years.