In the middle of October 2019 I had my first official panic attack. I was struggling to balance living in my homophobic father's home, finding a lack of support from my then-partner in a dying relationship, and wondering what the hell I was doing as someone in their late twenties. I began attending weekly therapy sessions for my mental health and reading just about any Brene Brown book I could get my hands on. Part of my work has been focusing on re-parenting which can be thought of giving the kid within ourselves what we may have needed in formative years and what may contribute to what is blocking us from achieving what we aspire to. My parents came to this country over 28 years ago hoping to create a new future for themselves and the family they intended to grow. Things as small as leaving Orange County would make my parents tense up and that doesn't even touch what seeing what a cop car would do. From as early as I can remember, we were told we can't. Eventually what was possible extended beyond just travel and touched who I could be as a man, who I could love, and what I was worth. One of the most challenging things I would ever argue I have faced is taking 27 years of believing I will never amount to anything and that everything that makes me, me, is also everything that is wrong with me. 27 years of trauma, fear, and longing to view myself of being a human worthy of love and his dreams just like every other human being. Building up to that particular event in October, I had been encountering the bodies of dead birds and while going through the motions. Varying from reminders of birds to more grizzly sights, the degrees of trauma only seemed to appear when I would hit an emotional low.