I was a fat baby, but I grew into it.

When my mom was pregnant with me my brother was praying for a little brother to play ball and dig holes with, and then out I came, an almost 10lb petite little princess. Suffice to say that he was disappointed from the start.  I have yet to ask him, but I believe it was at that moment, when he first laid eyes on that tiny Michelin Man wrapped in a pink blanket, that he vowed to try and mold me into the tough little brother he would never get. My mom likes to tell the story of how my brother would go from calling me his little princess one second to body slamming me the next. I mean, what says ‘I love you’ better than a well-executed pile driver?

My brother used to call me his “tough cookie.” When our dog jumped on me and I fell on my butt, or when I took a line drive to my thigh in front yard baseball, my brother would say something like, “Come on, you’re a tough cookie.” I may not have been the little brother that he hoped for, but I could take a hit, throw a football and burp with the best of them.

Growing up I would watch my brother do his own thing: wear a gas mask when his friend decided to start smoking, dress up like the tooth fairy for Halloween (pictures available upon request), write a letter to the editor about inclusion and somehow manage to be a jock, a class clown and still get good grades. He didn’t fit a mold, because he didn’t need too.

Two of the most important lessons that I've learned have come from my brother. One is that you will sometimes crash your bike and skin up your knees, I’ve got the scars to prove it, but you are tough enough to get back up. The other is that I can and should be unapologetically myself; I do not need to fit a mold, and I shouldn’t.

May is mental health awareness month. I know that when I am me, I can get up after the hardest falls because I am a tough cookie. I know that when I am me, I am my genuine, weird and quirky self and I love that person. For me, one of the worst parts of my mental illness is when I lose sight of who I am. Somedays I feel like the essence that makes me, me, is gone.  The free spirit that will dance spontaneously for no reason and take playing tag with her kid way too seriously, leaves, and I can’t get it back. How can I face the overwhelming weight of mental illness when I don’t like myself, let alone know myself and I don’t have the fight to get back up after I fall? The short answer-Sam.

Sam is my brother. Somedays he knows me better than I know me. On the days when I'm scared that I won't ever find myself and I can't keep fighting any longer, he reminds me of who I am and says, "Come on, you're a tough cookie".

For anyone dealing with mental health, or even just going through a shitty time, find your Sam. Find that person who loves you unconditionally, who knows you at a deep level and who isn’t afraid to give you the kick in the ass you need to keep going.