One day, early in my journey and in the middle of a very ugly cry, I staggered up from the floor and stared hard into the bathroom mirror. I saw my face. I was so very tired and grief-stricken. I saw the red blotches on my skin and the mascara running wild and dark. But then I saw my eyes. And by some miracle, I saw they were still shining. I gripped the edge of the sink and leaned in close, inches from the glass. Yes, I confirmed, they were tired and wet, but they still shone with something other than grief. I saw me. I felt me.