When I was 18 or 19, I told my mom that if I ever had a tattoo one of my options would be to get the word "impossible" tattooed between my collar bone and shoulder to help me remember how many things I had already done that shouldn't have been possible. She told me that I was being arrogant. 

And that was probably the first time that I realized that she did not understand as well as either of us thought what a war my growing up was. At 19, it felt like a miracle that I was alive and still happy and hopeful. And I wanted to remember that feeling of having made it to adulthood. Despite the statistics of young girls from broken homes, despite the years casual sexism in my school, despite many long nights strategizing about how to organize and survive my upbringing, I became an adult and achieved a new level of autonomy. Nothing I have done since has ever been as hard as growing up.

Now, at 29, the list of miracles grows. I'm so proud of how I have handled my trauma. I'm proud that I still talk to everyone in my family and that I have become the kind of daughter who will reciprocate whatever kind of relationship my parents are willing to build within the boundaries of what is healthy for me. I'm proud that I know what those boundaries are. I've survived a failed career and the harassment that came with it, but I'm still me and still growing. 

It's still a miracle that I am alive, capable of happiness and hope. I've known anger and disappointment that I thought would consume me, but there has always been a voice inside that knows much more about endurance than I thought possible. Part of me wishes that I had gotten the tattoo. Part of me still might. There are still a lot of "impossible" things to do.