Trigger warning: self-harming behaviourCliché music reference aside, this is my mantra on April 7 every year.

Today is my birthday. Every year I celebrate another year of Erin, another year I’ve survived and another year I’ve thrived. I don’t take big leaps each year, which often makes me feel like I’m falling behind the pack of kick-ass women I follow and happily cheer on. But the little steps I take are more than nothing and they’re what I will be toasting tonight.

This year, I’m celebrating three small steps—ditching an old job to test out the waters of the fast-paced magazine publishing world, finding a new home in a new neighbourhood of this vast city and writing this post. These little steps have held their own challenges and their own rewards. Some have been pressing a little harder on my soul, though. Recently, I’ve felt as though I’m drowning, but I’m doing it all without cutting myself, without suicidal thoughts and that is the big leap. I’m celebrating surviving the challenges.

Recently, I’ve felt as though I’m drowning, but I’m doing it all without cutting myself, without suicidal thoughts and that is the big leap.

Today I’m celebrating another year of life because there was a time I didn’t value that. Five years ago, I didn’t want one more day, I didn’t want one more moment because both could lead to one more day of crying until I was numb, one more day of questioning my worth and one more day of defining my suicide plan while simultaneously hating myself for not being “brave enough” to follow through with it (a lie I now understand, but one I once believed with intensity). I stepped back from the people in my life and expected the credits to roll. Whenever I started to cry too hard, I’d take a small razor blade that I hid in a little box of matches to my arms to distract my mind, making tiny slits just deep enough to feel the pain and draw a little blood. That’s where I’d stop.

Maybe this just got a little too honest and open for some—and maybe a little too negative for a birthday post. But starting today, I’m taking a big step that I want to still be celebrating this time next year. Today, I’m going to be open and honest about my experiences with mental illness. I’m hoping that by writing about my ongoing tug of war with depression and reflecting on my journey to this point, I can join the tribe of those saying “me too” to offer support to those who just need to know there’s someone else out there who has seen it through, and that it’s OK to talk openly about these experiences without fear of sounding negative or begging for sympathy.

I thrive on positive vibes, cats and coffee, but I also know that my emotions make me powerful. I feel deeper. I value my downtime. I no longer fear crying (like, ugly crying) because it doesn’t have to end with hairline cuts. These are the dualities that make up me and while I continue to try to stay in the sun, I’m finally acknowledging my time in the shadows isn’t worth erasing. Instead, my emergence from these darker periods is a victory worth celebrating. One year—365 days of sun and snow, fresh blooms and grey skies—is hard to survive, but I’ve done it again and that’s worth toasting.