I wasn’t always anxious. 

As a child, I played every sport I could sign up for at the Boys and Girls Club. 

I took dancing classes at the small dance studio in my even-smaller town and threw myself into back handsprings in gymnastics, determined to land on my feet. 

I sang loudly in front of audiences, eagerly banged my pink softball bat onto home plates and furiously scribbled childish hopes and dreams into unfinished diaries. 

Unfaltering, I faced the world as if it were my own. 

I cannot pinpoint the exact moment I felt my once bright and spirited world become shaded by doubt and worry, but one day, everything felt far too big for me to handle. 

I felt incapable of confronting the world around me. 

A girl, once set on testing her limits, now found herself too scared of failure and embarrassment to even try at all.

I took this anxiety with me everywhere, folded up and shoved deep, deep inside like a keepsake in a wallet. I took it to high school — where I hid behind large, boxy sweatshirts and prescription glasses in hopes that I would become indiscernible to those around me, those who held their heads high and tested limits I thought I would never reach. 

I brought it to college, packed it neatly into boxes labeled “Bernard Hall Rm 303,” and allowed it to paint uncertainty across a future that had yet to be realized. 

If you had told the girl I was then — lost and terrified of my own blurry reflection of the future — that I would figure out what I loved, what I was good at and felt respected for, I doubt that I would have believed you.

In her version of our future, there is only failure and hesitation. Now, after hurtling obstacles she believed we would never pass, the world feels bright again. And none of that would be possible without the people I have always known and the people I have met along the way. 

To Montana, the person who taught me what it means to be a friend, who loves her people so unconditionally and without fail, your friendship feels like a trust fall with no hesitation. We have both grown and changed so entirely, yet remained best friends to each new and improved version we’ve become. Thank you for always being there and for being you. 

To The Echo and to my fellow editors and friends who read and celebrated every article, subdued my proclivity for wordiness and enhanced my inclination for exuberance, I cannot thank you enough for replacing the worry and anxiety inside me with light and laughter. You taught me everything that I feel proud to know, and I will forever cheer you on from the sidelines. 

To our fearless adviser, David Keith, I thank you for introducing me to journalism — a world of bright red correction marks, lifelong friends and, eventually, confidence in my future. Your courses challenged me to become a better writer and along the way, revived my love for writing. What you have done for not only The Echo, but each individual writer on staff, shines through each of us as a reflection of you. We respect you more than you know. 

To my sweet Nana, thank you for always supporting me, even when I get too busy and forget to send you my articles so you have to look them up. You mean the world to me, and I hope that I make you as proud as I feel to call you my Nana. 

To my big sister, Sabrina, the person I have looked up to my entire life in amazement, mirroring myself in hopes that my reflection might one day resemble yours, I struggle to find words to explain the weight of your opinion and support. Since we were children, we have laughed until the sun rose, argued like our lives depended on it and celebrated milestones with our small but mighty circle. Thank you for knowing me more deeply and truly than anyone else. I look forward to the day when we can close the distance between us and live in the same city again. Here’s to us being one step closer to that day. 

When I was younger, crying in the car on the way to school or struggling to get out of bed and face the world, my mom would promise me that everything would be OK in the end. Even if we weren’t sure how things would turn out all right. 

I have never told her how tightly I have grasped onto these words when I start to feel small or unsure, but I hope she knows that I owe it all to her. 

For coaxing me out of those big sweaters and into contacts, supporting me through feelings I didn’t understand and playing “True Colors” by Cyndi Lauper to calm me down when I cried, I owe it all to you, Mom. Thank you for making me write essays as punishment when I was little, thank you for always guiding me in the right direction and still supporting me when I do the opposite and have to learn the hard way and thank you for making me just like you. You are the person that I have always wanted to be, and I am so grateful for every part of yourself that you have given to Sabrina and me.

Not to spoil the ending or anything, but it will be OK. Everything will work out for you, no matter how scary the world feels. It may not be how you planned, but it will work out. Take it from someone who knows.