Now I sleep in more, clean more, take the time to do my nails. I save money, I spend a lot of nights in, and I am learning how to drive. These are notably boring things, but they’re things I couldn’t do before I created some space for myself. Space I needed to heal.

Slowly, I let the memories seep back in. When I remembered my trauma, I let myself linger on it, and let it settle. Thinking about what had happened still made me shake, but I started being able to weave something into my memories: understanding. I finally got what had happened in the weeks before, in the time after. I don’t know if it took a few days or a few months, but I don’t think about him every day now.

Instead, I think about me.

I think about the things I like about myself, like how I’m a good wife and a good mother (to two cats). I finally figured out how to do my eyebrows (sort of). I like the way I dress and my witchy tattoos. I like that I’m so much more apathetic than I used to be, that I don’t bounce around between extreme emotions. The part of me that kept secrets so as not to step on anyone’s toes has been wiped away, and in its place grows an honesty that borders on being a bit too much. And I like that when my friends ask me how I’m doing, I tell them.

“How are you so confident?" is a question I get asked a lot now. It feels like people are split on why they want to know — it’s either genuine interest or genuine disbelief. I mean, they're asking because I'm fat, right? Or because I laugh too loudly? “How are you so confident?” always feels like “How are you so confident, considering you?”

In response, I usually give some non-answer, and then make a joke to keeps things light. It's too hard to define in light conversation: There is no neatly packaged answer to share. If you want to know about how I am the person in front of you, I’m going to need a few hours (at least). Who I am is a conscious effort. Who I am has taken a lot of work.

After all, there are still days when I eat too much or not at all. Days when I pinch the fat under my chin until it’s sore, and days when I lock myself in the bathroom at work when talking to people leaves me wilted. And days when — no matter how much I don't want to — I can't stop thinking about him, about his life now, if he's happy.

So, am I confident? Confidence has always seemed like a thing for determined people, for people who are fearless or brave — something for heroines in YA novels. I'm still working on those parts of myself, but they come more readily now. My husband jokes that he can’t go anywhere with me because I always end up lassoed into conversations with strangers. “They’re drawn to you,” he says, and maybe it’s as simple as that. I remember how far I leaned my shoulders in when I walked in the city, and I know that I’m not quickly shuffling past everyone anymore — I’m letting people see me.

It's been six years since my assault, and I still don’t want to go to therapy. But the reason is different this time: It isn’t because I feel overwhelmed or scared — it’s because I feel good.