I was about 12 years old when I started regularly seeing a therapist to talk about my anxiety. I am now 20 years old, and although eight years offers plenty of time for growth, there are still some days that I feel like 12-year-old Libby who wrote in her journal about being sad even when she was around other people, and how she was overwhelmed by these thoughts inside her head that told her she didn't matter all that much. When I encounter these low moments, I become very frustrated with myself and question if I'll ever be the kind of person I want to be if my anxiety's presence is so strong. Then I have to breathe (I'm actually really working to do that simple activity more often) and remind myself that I am so not the same person I was eight years ago. I have spent almost a decade since then changing, learning, and approaching my anxiety in a much healthier way than I would've if my parents had never encouraged me to seek professional help (thank you x i