Sometimes when I think about things that happened to me when I was quite young, I don't think of myself as being so. I know that, objectively, I was considerably younger and less educated than I am now, but I still consider myself to be just as capable, and roughly just as large. And then I piece together the two unavoidable facts of my age at those times and my brother's age on Friday, and I am shaken to my core. There are things that I did and things that happened to me -- things that so many of us did or that happened to us -- at those ages that may actually kill me if my brother had to go through them. How are children, so fragile and innocent and naive and pure and formative, also so resilient? How is it possible that perfectly capable, confident, and strong people such as myself could come from things so terrible?
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I'm Audrey, a college student and existential rambler.
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February 2021
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