Bad news, low esteem and screamworthy adrenaline: why you’ll be fine

Learning to be okay with bad days

Last year, I locked myself in the bathroom, lay flat against the wall, and tried not to cry. Trying to distract my neurons from the chemical motherboard sweeping my neo cortex, I opened my purse. In it, there was a piece of paper.

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It was a business card for an Italian restaurant. Not one I particularly liked, but nonetheless, a card I was relieved to see. I’d been sharing my unhappiness with a powerful bloke over some subpar pizza when he gave me the card, and some advice.

“In a year’s time,” he said, eyes glittering, “Everyone and everything that upsets you now will make you laugh. When you look at this card, you will realise how small and inconsequential this all is. And how small they all are.”

And in a strange way, it always comes true, with that bad business card in the back of my tatty wallet. But people and problems don’t get smaller. I grow stronger. And you, however useless you feel now, will too.

Because you will get better at dealing with black letter days. You’ll be able to see the shrieking adult from accounting as a scared little boy. You’ll know you are an asset, even when others can’t see it. You’ll be inventive. Creative. Funny. Kind. You’ll have skills you haven’t even thought of yet. You’ll wow people in a way that will leave them talking for days. Because, and you can only get this through time, blood and pain, you’ll learn to love yourself and fight harder.

Maybe it feels like the end of a road, today. Maybe you’ve written your resignation and thrown it away. Maybe that exam went so badly you can’t face tomorrow. But the sun will still come up and with it, you can and will rise and fight harder.

As hard as it is to believe now, you will laugh in the face of the monsters you fear.

Love yourself. And with it, you will always, always overcome, whether you are a waitress, a banker, a student or a pensioner. There’s always, always next year, and there’s always that business card at the back of your purse.

Written by

24 year old with an awful lot to say about everything. Opinions entirely my own. Usually.

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