For the first time since I’ve begun truly picking up my pen and writing, I believe that it is time for me to tell my story. My Amsterdam story. My 2016 story.

[Beware, I titled this a 'chapter' for a reason. Long read ahead]

If you’ve been following my articles and posts you know a lot about me. I’ve been raw. I’ve been open. I’ve told things that I never thought that I would tell my closest friends, much less a whole world of people on the Internet. Since June of this year, I have told strangers about my sexual assault, I have appealed to the emotions of people I haven’t talked to since high school with evocative tales of my adventures, I have broadcasted my humanity for any reader who clicks on the link imbued with my name. But I haven’t given a comprehensive overview, explained the timeline, showed the cause and effect of certain events. For me, this is important. Because it shows that I as a writer and as a human being am not just a combination of highly impactful moments that were spawned out of nothing. I am not just a cataclysmic rupture of my circumstances and my hot-blooded personality getting into a battle. But rather, a narrative that can be related to, understood and learned from.

So here goes.

I began January in a familiar place. I was making lists of bad habits I could get rid of, I was evaluating the progress of my life over the past year, and thinking of what I wanted for my life in the upcoming 12 months. I added things on to the list that now seem stupid: lose weight, get my flexibility back, maybe finally quit Red Robin? I knew these things would most likely not happen. Which is why I added safe bets: Go to Ireland (I had already bought the tickets) and hit a 700 credit score (I was at 671). Needless to say, I was living my life in a certain, very safe way. I didn’t expect that to change. In fact, I was incredibly comfortable with the life I was living.

Then, I took my trip to Ireland. Which may seem just like it could be any other vacation, but even as I was packing my bag I had a feeling that it was going to be anything but ordinary. It’s strange when you have feelings like that. When you get a feeling in your gut that your life is about to change, but you have no idea how, and you have no idea why. Needless to say, Ireland was absolutely incredible. The land is breathtaking, I had the greatest time with my friends and drank lots of Guinness, which is pretty much a requirement when visiting Dublin. Up until this point, it felt like a normal adventure, and it wasn’t until I stepped foot on Trinity College’s campus that something felt different, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I decided to go off alone for the first time in the trip, the first time I had ever been alone in a different country, and it was exactly what I needed. I sat on a bench by their field for sport, and I breathed. It sounds crazy, but it was as if when I inhaled I saw all these possibilities for my life, these avenues that I had never imagined before. But then as I exhaled, I was hit by all the road blocks I had created for myself. The safe, sheltered life I was living. The fact that I, indeed, was unhappy with where I was in life. The longer I sat there the faster the tears began to fall and the more I realized that I was sitting in the middle of a fork in the road. It was as if all of the fears that I had in the past of chasing my dreams vanquished. Just for second, enough for me to see the possibilities that lay in my future.

Fast forward to the end of the trip, lots of hard conversations and big decisions later and I found myself broken. I knew that this had to happen in order to achieve the great things that I had felt when I inhaled the Irish air in the middle of a rich green field, but it didn’t make it any easier. I had to re-evaluate literally every single aspect of my life. Every part of me had to be put under a microscope. I had to ask myself if I was happy, what I imagined for the future, and what I was so scared of that was keeping me from grabbing it. In the midst of this evaluation process I found myself at a bar one night, overwhelmed. I drank a tad too much because oblivion derived from a bottle seemed more appealing to me than constantly staring at the bottle I had been collecting my tears in since my eyes were opened to my reality.

Now I’m going to stop here for a second and make something very clear: my life was not bad. I was not miserable in my own existence. My struggle was that I was not actively pursuing my own happiness. I was comfortable living my life the way that I always had, and it was easy. But it wasn’t what I was destined to do. I had spent way too much time trying to help other people achieve their dreams and be the people they wanted to be, that I forgot to think about myself and what I wanted out of life. I’m also not saying that we should constantly be selfish. But there is a time and a place where we need to be strong enough to step away from others and nurse ourselves to health so that we can continue to successfully help others.

Back to the bar. I was out of my element. I was alone. I was drinking to waft away the pain. And someone noticed and took advantage of that. In that last week of January, someone noticed that I was trying to fix my life and that I was broken, and they took advantage of that. That night in January I was walked out of the bar and handed a reason to give up.

After the sexual assault, I lost my mind a little bit. And when I say a little bit, I hugely underrepresent the pain and fear and apathy that took over my body and soul. I cried every day for months. I slept for more hours than I was awake. I let isolation define me, feared that I would no longer be master of my own body.

I left my relationship.

I stopped going to classes.

I tried to quit speech and debate.

I was a robot at my own job.

I told everyone that I was okay.

I drove too fast and played my music too loudly.

But in the wake of this, I knew that I had to try and move forward. So I started talking. I started writing poetry. I fought for the hours that I still had left in every day. The next few months remain a blur to me. I applied to study abroad, I created a poetry program about the rape trauma syndrome that I was experiencing and somehow managed to get through it before bursting into tears when I left the room each time I performed or practiced it. I started eating again. I passed my classes.

It was a warm morning in May when I received the email that I was accepted to do an International Journalism minor abroad in Amsterdam for the fall of 2016. This moment really impacted me. It was then that I felt like, perhaps, I could turn this year around. Perhaps I wasn’t going to forever be destined to fall asleep and wake up in tears.

I began preparations. I started writing on the social media platform, Odyssey. I decided to backpack across Europe for a month and a half before I started my program, and I consumed myself with the arrangements. I cut off 14 inches of hair. I got rid of my apartment and couch surfed with friends for the last seven weeks before I departed. I sold 90% of my physical belongings. I quit my job that I had been at for the last six years. I fought through group counseling meetings to try and get my emotions in check before I moved for 6 months across the Atlantic.

It was like I blinked, and then the day came where I was about to leave.

As I got on the plane, I was so confident that I was doing what I needed to do. I felt like the stars had aligned and God was granting me this chance to understand who I am and what I want in life. I even chatted with the guy who sat next to me on the plane, and I never do that. My new friend offered me a family to spend time with during the holidays because he could tell I was unsure of what I was doing. The act of kindness that he showed me was the first of so many signs that proved I had chosen the correct path. Traveling through different countries and cities by yourself is at first, quite terrifying, then exciting, sometimes lonely, and always an experience that teaches you what you’re made of.

Let’s take for example when I was wandering the streets of Marseille, and I was starving, because I do not speak a lick of French, and I had not yet sorted out how restaurants in Europe work (trust me, it is very different than America). I was sitting on the beach and thinking about how strange it was that I didn’t have to work or really do anything but travel and explore for the next couple months. This is when I met a kind man who offered to show me a great place to eat. Let me set up the scenario for you. He spoke French. I speak English. We attempted to communicate. Every time I talked about food I’m pretty sure he thought I was asking about his previous relationships. He talked about working in a restaurant so I started speaking about my experience and I’m almost positive he thought I was discussing my favorite movie. But, we were on an adventure to find dinner. He wanted me to experience an “authentic French dish” and I was excited. Spoiler alert: he took me to McDonald's. He bought me a chicken sandwich and a McFlurry. I learned that communication and stereotypes are a two-way street. Now more than anything I find this event as comedic. I tried talking about sports and he responded back about fashion. He thought that as an American, I must miss burgers and fries. There was nothing I wanted less. But this was the first time that I found myself alone and stuck in an awkward situation with no one to be my wingman or escape route. When you’re in a foreign country, you can’t pretend that you have to go help your friend who got in a car accident or visit your grandma in the hospital. You have to recognize when you are in a situation you don’t want to be in, and you have to decide for yourself and do what is uncomfortable. For me, this was one of the first steps in a process that has developed the whole time I’ve been here. The process of standing up for myself. For understanding what I want, and where I want to be, or not be.

I discovered something very important about myself. I learned that I don’t have time to care what other people think about me. I can’t continue living my life and measuring myself by other’s expectations. This was never so true as when I first arrived in Amsterdam. I had this blank slate in front of me and this whole new persona to put forth. I had an empty 11-meter squared room. I had only a backpack. So I went to the store and asked myself what I wanted to decorate my room with. This is not the important part of the story. Don’t worry, it’s coming next. I went to several stores and had three huge plastic bags full of the normal things you need, like toilet paper, dishes, soap, a blanket. I was waiting for the tram because there was no way I could carry all of the stuff home without collapsing. As I stood waiting for the tram, I set down my bags. I leaned over to pick up the bags and was promptly hit in the head by the tram. I fell to the ground, half shocked, half concerned that this was the way my living in Holland was destined to be. No exaggeration, I blacked out for a second, opened my eyes to some very concerned Dutch onlookers and brushed it off. I went back to my new apartment and as a freshly concussed individual, I attended a welcome drink celebration and upon returning to my room, promptly realized I had moved into the incorrect room.

This was the first fully embarrassing moment that I had since leaving my comfortable home in California. Up until this point, I would have dealt with a situation like this by denying that it had happened. Or I would have reacted the way anyone around me thought I should react. This was the first time where I thought, how I respond to this situation is very defining of who I am as a person. So I claimed it. I made jokes. I accepted that I’m not perfect, and that is a very natural and charismatic part of me. I even used it to connect to my new roommate, asking her to check up on me and make sure I woke up in the morning. Now I’m not saying that one moment will change your whole life, but I will argue that an event can change your perspective and teach you something new about yourself. Before the tram incident I had been surviving by treating other people’s opinions of me as if they were my own. And if you have ever experienced anything similar to that then you know it leads to absolutely nothing except discontent. I would take getting hit on the head by a tram over living a life in oblivion. Which is surprising, because trust me, getting hit on the head by a tram is not a comfortable experience.

For some people, it takes a smaller wake up call than others to realize this. For me, it took drastic measures and moving to a different country where I knew no one to get the idea into my head. I had the opportunity to decide who I was going to be here. It was a fresh start. I was determined to not let the chance go to waste.

Fast forward a couple months, and I have never been happier. I have friends that care about me here enough to go with me to understand my obsession with Mexican food, and to make fun of American’s affinity towards peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (I had no idea this was weird). And back home I am supported by people who read my endless blog entries and send me G2 pens that I can’t seem to find in the Netherlands. I am learning so much in school from podcasting to the entire adobe suite, and I am challenging myself to become a better person with every breath that I take. Above all, I have realized that there is a greater purpose for my life that I don’t understand, and it was foreshadowed even just in January.

I had come to the realization that I was living my life to help other people, to inspire them to their full potential, to fight beside them in battle. But this is something that cannot happen without self-realization. Without knowing who you are and what you want and your opinion on things, you can never fully help other people achieve what they can. I guess it’s a spin off of the old cliché about putting the oxygen mask on yourself before you help others with it. You cannot fight for the voiceless if you are grasping for air yourself. You cannot write the power ballad of the oppressed if your hands are shaking too much to use your pen and paper.

I know that I am in the midst of this process. I know that I have much to learn. But I also know that I am not alone, and I will keep fighting, and keep seeking, and keep growing for as long as I live.