Depression cast on me like a dark cloud, getting to a point where a month-long mental hiatus was my best and only option. When I left, the negative thoughts disappeared, but the days still remained hazy, the world around me colorless.

It was obvious that my mom told the whole family about my little trip to a mental hospital. I was whispered about at dinner tables, handled with caution at family parties, and given glances of pity from friends. I became numb to their encouraging words and empty promises of my future, but mental numbing couldn't prepare me for the day I went to my Bubbie's nursing home for the normal Saturday visit.

Visits kept a routine: We walk in, then hear her chuckle as she greeted us. "Oh Abby!" she would say, like it was a surprise that I would visit her. I had to give her a break, though. Being a ninety-nine year old Jewish woman who experienced discrimination, watching her younger siblings grow old faster than her, and living through years of changing seasons, made her a living piece of history.

I could feel the sympathy hanging heavy as I walked into her small, third-floor apartment. She sat in her electric recliner as always, adorned with colorful fabrics she'd obtained from traveling over the years. Her legs were laid out in front of her, and she sported a pair of black orthopedic shoes and sheer white socks that kept her ankles from swelling. Through her clothes, you could see she was set on the heavier side, something that came with age. Gravity caused her to have folds like the blankets that lay on the couch across from her.

I took my normal spot on the edge of her pea-green couch, and she greeted both of us with a tiny smile. There was a normal exchange of family gossip, but the usual questions like "how's school?" and "how is volleyball going?" were missing from the conversation.

Finally, conversation had run dry and the hour was up. My mom exchanged goodbyes first. "Goodbye, Bub," she said and gave her a small hug. I also said my normal "Goodbye Bub, Love you," and kissed her cheek. With one hand, she grabbed mine, then I stood back up and she grasped the other.

Her wrinkled hands gripped me like I was going to slip away, but I stood there, entranced by the amount of strength she had exerted. She peered right into my conscious with her robin-egg-eyes that were glazed over with age. Her lips quivered as she formed the sentence that changed my entire mentality.

"Wake up," Her hands shaking mine for emphasis. "Wake up. The world is a beautiful place."

There it was; the single phrase spoken from my ninety-nine year old great grandmother that became the gentle reminder every time I found myself in a rut. This mantra would keep me fighting for the rest of my life.

Those words caused an epiphany. My eyes teared up, washing away the haze that clung to them. The first thing I noticed were the trees outside. The leaves were growing back, the soft brown trunks, firm in the ground, grew at all different angles. I noticed the flowers in the window pane that my Bubbie managed to keep alive, sprouting in vivid color and omitting soft scents that circled her apartment.

The grass was so green, the sky was so blue, and there I was, standing with her hands in mine, softly crying at the sudden change of cognition. I was alive, with a beating heart that kept the blood pumping through me, and lungs that carry oxygen throughout my body. There was so much to do, so much that had to be done; people to meet, and many places in the world I still had to go.

I was only fifteen at the time, and I had so much of this beautiful, blooming world to live for.