For years, I believed that I was broken inside. 

It seemed like the only logical explanation for the deep, enduring sadness I felt in my otherwise fortunate and happy life. Better still, if I was broken then I could be fixed. Made whole—made normal.

I’ve felt it, sadness like a black hole, for as long as I can remember. When I was in first grade, I had a hard time making friends and focusing on learning. I cried a lot, I was put into special education. My teacher worried that I was being abused, only I had no scars or bruises. In reality my home life was very safe and very happy. But I felt things very deeply.

I grew from an emotional child into a moody teenager. At least, that’s what I believed.

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