At 25 years old I found myself on the floor of my New York City apartment with a hot pink lady Bic razor in my right hand and as I starred at my left wrist, I wondered how many times I would have to run the blades across it to draw enough blood to bleed out. I was afraid it was going to feel like giving myself a thousand paper cuts and then I’d have to do it all over again on my right wrist. The streams of tears had left salty streaks on my cheeks and the choking, suffocating rage I felt had turned into a deep heart-wrenching, aching self-hatred. I had written in my journal earlier that day, this life is so pathetic, I can’t believe I actually have to live it. I wasn’t ready to die, but this wasn’t a way to live. I felt like my predominant everyday emotion was anger and disappointment and I wore my “everything is great” mask like a shield of armor praying no one would test its strength. I was done pretending.
 

After a lightbulb moment with a coworker and a trip to Burningman, I decided to leave New York City and move to San Francisco away from everything I had known, to go find myself. Along the way, I discovered something so much greater. I grew up Catholic and I thanked God for the food I was about to receive. But there’s believing in God and knowing God. The difference is life-altering. The difference is Heaven on Earth.