As a teenager I wasn’t always the happiest of kids. I felt like things were never good enough, life was never bright enough, the grass out front never quite resembled my favorite shade of kelly green. I wasn’t always happy, but I was good. And to most people, that was enough. That was more than enough. Most parents wanted their kids to be like me. I was an A+ student, at the top of my class year after year. I excelled in sports. I was kind, sweet, respectful. A pleasure to talk to, to be around. My friends were, well plentiful and sincere. I partied, I socialized, I had “fun.” Yet something was always missing for me. Something inside of me knew that there was much, much more to life than being the pretty, well rounded, scholar athlete.

And as proud as my parents and family were of me – for achieving and excelling in the things I embarked on – I think that they were more proud of who I was beneath the surface, demons and all. They knew that my feelings, my thoughts, my general outlook on life came from a much deeper place than those around me. I questioned life and examined the world with the eye of our elders… not of a 15 year old, an 18 year old, a 24 year old. My parents have always known, and always told me how special they believe I am, different.

My parents loved that there was more to me, that my soul reached to a deep, deep place, and if this meant loving me as I struggled for years with bouts of depression, and nights filled with hopelessness, it was okay. They loved me then like they did the day I was born, and they continue to do so today.

Looking back I think they must have always known that I’d be okay. Because despite the fact that my older sister and I could literally, not be more different, they never seemed worried by what I was going through. With her they had it easy. She seems to stop after the pretty, popular, scholar athlete part. And that works for her; it works for her well. She is successful, and happy. Really just happy, all the time, with life, with everything. So for my parents’ youngest to come along and be all out of whack like me – lucky them huh? I don’t really know where this is all going, but their constant — literally endless, unconditional — love and support made me always know that my thoughts and feelings were okay.

It was okay if I felt a little different than my classmates, my teammates, my best friends. I was okay, and always will be. And you know what? My melancholy might even have shaped me into a better, more well rounded person than I could have imagined. I love who I am, and who I’ve become, and especially for the ways in which that person adds to the loveliness of my family. Our family dynamics.

My parents and sister love me more than anyone ever, ever will. More than anyone could. And for that I am so lucky. I feel such sadness for many of my friends as I see their families fall apart. I see things like resentment and bitterness, anger, loneliness and betrayal. I see parents who hardly acknowledge the lives of their children and rarely recognize their success.

My family is incredible. Bottom line. And for that I am so, so fortunate.  Thank you mom and dad, for always being you, and for always loving me.