My past does not define me.

The simplest of sentences that became a mantra for my pre teen self, as she struggled with the knowledge that the things she grew up knowing were not what they should have been. That the way people had always treated her weren't the norm, weren't okay, and most certainly weren't her fault.

Everyday I look into the fogged up bathroom mirror and see the eyes of my younger self staring back, judging me for the choices, mistakes and risks that I've taken but also they congratulate and spur me on because for every morning that I wake up I am a survivor.

A survivor whose past does not define her.