You can only stay cooped up, listening to Drake lyrics and sobbing over your fuck-ups for so long. Eventually, you have to consign the 'awful' to the pile of 'great anecdotes', cycle up a few hills, purchase some highlighter with your overdrawn overdraft, and slay the damn demons. With months of regression comes the eventual progression. Your stroppy, hissy-fit throwing younger self will put her subtweets to rest when she realises that the time would be better spent on grinding to Trap Queen against the bedroom mirror.
In a way, this contact sport with your reflection needs to occur. It's about time you made peace with the girl in the mirror. Your feed is filled with proud selfies from Portland, and NYC, and your eyes are too important to waste on the sights of things that drain you of joy.