When I was seventeen, I wrote this:

From the outside, my future looks so bright. But inside, I am hollow. My stomach is empty. My focus is destroyed. My brain is only good for calculating numbers. I’ve never been so good at math. None of this matters, though, because I’d rather be dead than fat.

When I was twenty-seven, I wrote this:

A freedom exists in the depths of my soul that I have never known before. I do not need to rely on a number to determine my worth; I am letting go.