New York,

When I look at you from the window seat of a plane, it’s hard to grasp your vastness. A sprawl of buildings, apartments, skyscrapers, overpasses, tunnels, and parks—each one a marker in the countless lives you’ve shaped. Yet in the sea of everything, there’s one life, in one wretchedly outdated building, that has brought my heart a world of grief. Not because of anything he’s done, but because of how completely the everything that is you swallowed him up and made him lonely.

In another world, you would’ve built my dad up to be the classic rags-to-riches story. From “Do or Die Bed-Stuy” to the top of the food chain—from fixing the neighborhood block boy’s cars to owning his own repair shop. You were the land of promise, the American Dream. For a moment, naiveté blinded me to thinking it was within our reach.

How will I ever be able to forgive you for the story you authored? The one where my dad didn’t make it big. Where you ended his chance at a better life. There is no picking yourself up by the bootstraps when your new normal is an achingly repetitive day on loop at the nursing home, his new home.

If you press your ear to the walls of the Truss Hotel, I can guarantee the sound of my heart breaking still reverberates within the foundation from when I first got the call about what happened. There’s a car on the Q train that still gets a little too humid after all the tears my sister and I cried after our first visit to the nursing home. I don’t think the counter boy at Joe’s will forget how puffy my eyes were as my voice shook asking for a slice as I came to terms with our new normal.

I used to long for you, New York. You were where it all started. Where my ancestors laid roots at the prospect of a new life. Where my dad used to sneak me lemon cookies on the train and publicly dance at a whim to keep a smile on my face. Yet with each visit, my heart toward you hardened. The happiest memories of my hometown are now overshadowed by a nightmare that was actualized.

When I look at you from the window seat of a plane as I leave JFK once again, I breathe a sigh of relief. I still love you, but I can’t let you swallow me, too.

Dear 15 year old me,

Man are you in for a ride.

And I don’t mean one of those smooth sailing, dreamy boat rides that you find in Disney. I’m talking Six Flags Goliath, being suspended in the air with no choice but to stick it out.

That’s probably not what you want to hear, but preparation is key.

Let’s start with the good: You win homecoming queen your senior year. I already spoiled something huge, so now you don’t have to make such an ugly crying face when they announce your name as the winner.

But underneath the tiara, something is happening within your brain. The extreme episodes of depression and highs aren’t just hormones and the instability that comes with being a teenager.

I know you remember the bouts of sadness you witnessed from your dad. How he’d stare out the window for days, completely mum. How you’d crawl into bed and sleep next to him, hoping to incite some reaction out of him that wasn’t stillness.

But his depression never permanently stayed. You know those nights he’d be up for hours, awaking you and your mom at 2 a.m. with a plethora of brilliant ideas that he wanted to get started on? True, you haven’t seen him for years, but he left you behind something. You probably don’t want it, but it’s not up to you.

It’s more than looks that are hereditary. Everyone says you look just like him, but every time you see your mom’s face, you swear you look just like her. Maybe it’s wishful thinking or sheer admiration since she was the parent that stuck around.

That gift he left leads you to therapy your junior year of college (Sorry, but I can’t spoil where you end up at). But as soon as you hear your therapist, who you made so much progress with, utter the words “bipolar,” you no-show enough appointments to the point they bar you from coming back for months.

You wait. And wait. I know that sounds improbable since you’re the most impatient human on this planet. You’d hit the fast forward button on life if you could … but again, you wait, and try to get better on your own.

I want you to know that it’s always okay to ask for a helping hand. If you did, the episodes of hypomania and depression might’ve been frozen in their tracks earlier.

You’re 24 by the time you seek help. Your “Kobe year” as they call your 24th birthday (here’s your head start on all the cool kid lingo) kind of feels like a championship, word to Black Mamba.

You’re finally diagnosed. But this time, the mention of bipolar II is almost a relief. A win. There’s still a stigma around taking pills for your mental health, but it’s not as cutthroat as it is your freshman year of high school. It helps that you’re surrounded by people who can relate, navigating their own battles just like you.

This totally sounds like a nightmare, and your mind will jump to the worst after reading this forewarning. But let me tell you this — you will experience so many moments of beauty that it’ll be hard to wrap your head around.

Yes, you have bipolar disorder, but that didn’t stop you from embarking on a solo trip to the Canary Islands (No shade, but do you even know where that is on a map? If not, you’ll soon figure it out). You live in Argentina for a summer. You see the Coliseum and your high school textbooks won’t do it justice. You spend surreal nights partying in Madrid, New York, Los Angeles, Miami, and all over Italy. You pack up your life in Atlanta and turn over a new leaf in Boston.

I know you’re dying to know about your love life too. Again, let’s start with the good news: you meet a LOT of cute boys. Bad news: they all suck. So let’s not focus on that part.

Life is going to put you through the wringer, but you will be astonished and so, so proud of the person that comes out on the other side. To simply be alive is an incredible thing.

Your disorder is a gift. It’s made you into a force that’s resilient beyond belief.

So buckle up champ. Your journey starts now.