Throughout my childhood, my parents ingrained in me that taking medication was not only unnecessary but actually poisonous. We never had anything like Tylenol at home, and common cabinet inhabitants such as Mucinex and Tums were strangers to our walls.

Instead, they believed in healing the body through chakras and edible plants. If I ever had a stomachache, my father would break out his healing crystals and lay them on the flat of my back, chanting some song with made-up lyrics as my mother prepared essential oils for me to sniff before bed.

As a kid, I never really got sick, but my four-day vomit fest when I was six years old was only treated with spoonfuls of water, and the rash that broke out on my neck in elementary school was wrapped in a blanket of cabbage (yes, my mother truly believed cabbage could cure my hives). Since I was never really exposed to medication, I thought this was normal for most of my life. Once I got older, I noticed children popping Advil as if it was candy in middle school, and my friends were shocked that I had never even heard of it.

When I broke my wrist in the eighth grade, the nurse asked me if I wanted a prescription for any pain-relievers, and I adamantly refused. Not only was my father in the room (who also would not have approved of me receiving medication), but I believed that there was no benefit to it. My body would heal on its own, it did not need any assistance from outside chemicals.

After about a week, the pain became so intense that I no longer could sleep comfortably at night. This to be expected for anyone who breaks a bone, but every physical movement was virtually unbearable. My mother knew that I was desperate, so she purchased a small bottle and gave me a single pill.

Even though I felt almost instantaneous relief (as someone who never had medication, I knew that a little bit would go a long way), I was riddled with guilt. I thought I was weak for requiring medication to help me feel better. It wasn't that I believed people who took pills were inferior, but I was convinced that my body was strong enough to self-soothe.

Later into high school, I watched students around me ingest anxiety medication and anti-depressants, whether it was for legitimate diagnoses or during a party. I still didn't understand how or why they worked. How could a little pill somehow relieve the burden of a mental illness? How could an orange bottle be the solution?

I did not shame these people for using medication because I could see all of the benefits, but I was simply uneducated. I decided to do a little discovering and began to understand the (basic) science behind the process. Sometimes, the solution is adding more chemicals (in the form of prescribed medication, of course) to the balance.

Still, beyond medication for mental health, I find myself skeptical when someone offers me something as simple as low-strength ibuprofen for a headache. Every time I consider taking an aspirin, I am terrified it will somehow "taint" my body. Realistically, I know this is not true, but the voice of my parents lingers in the back of my mind.

I'm not suggesting that I should throw a pill-popping party, but the idea of taking something when my body needs it should not scare me. Our bodies are resilient, but we also need assistance every now and then. I should be okay with helping myself heal.

But I won't be taking one from that miscellaneous plastic bag that "helps you stay awake" during exam week.