If you know me, I stress out often and pretty drastically, it's a character trait of mine at this point. I can't ever say that I was forced to be this way. I was raised in a loving household with two amazing parents. Sure, they're separated, but my relationship with both of them has matured and improved, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

I made myself as stressed as I am now, I cannot blame anyone else for my anxieties other than myself. However, my parents are part of the reason I fight through it all. They have cared for me and supported me through every step of the way. My father and mother have had uniquely different roles in my life.

My father is the type of father that you know loves you, he loves me so much in fact, that I remember having a conversation with someone who said that they loved me more than anyone ever could in this world. Then I retorted, in a possibly cruel manner, "My father loves me more." I'm sure that would make him proud.

While I would say that the person on this earth that loves me the most is my father, the one who has inspired me is my mother.

Right now, in my house, it's me and my mom, the dangerous duo. Okay, we're not really dangerous, but we understand and sympathize on a level where I can consider my mom my very best friend. We never shy away from any conversation and we frequently get mad at each other, but not on an unhealthy level.

It took us a while to be that way because even though she's my mother, that doesn't mean I have the automatic connection that she had with me when I was born. The things we have felt through our lives with each other have been completely different. She and I didn't start meaningfully interacting in my eyes until we moved to Georgia.

We moved to Georgia in 2008, around the time of the Great Recession. We stayed with my cousin while my mom worked at a fast food restaurant nearby. Sometimes, she would stay so late, she would have to come to pick me and my brother up, leave us in the restaurant with her until she finished her shift. I knew she was too tired to help me out with my homework, so I developed the ability to sit myself down and do it alone. When it came to English, her weakness at the time, I was lucky that I read so much, as she couldn't help me as much as she wanted to.

My mom was soon offered a job at the correctional facility at the Sherriff's Department. This is not exactly the ideal job but had overall better benefits for her, so she didn't hesitate. I got to see her more often, but she was even more exhausted than before. She worked hard, and I felt that I needed to work hard too, both to make her proud and to be at her level. I went overboard, I realized.

One of my worst panic attacks was when I got my first B on a progress report. I was in fourth grade at the time, and my mom was disappointed sure, but not in the way it seems. She was disappointed at how anxious it made me. My mom was going through something similar, the Police Academy. She held the same anxieties as me, and she failed. It didn't make me any less proud. I always look up to her because she never stopped. She always worked hard, for me and my brother. I admired that.

I want to be like her. I don't want to be a correctional officer of course, but I want her courage, her compassion, her drive. I love her and I admire her the most of anyone I know. I'm not very good at expressing it, but that's what I truly feel for you, mother.