Cade Reddington Be the Light Scholarship

In the year 2020, everything changed. Of course, there was the global pandemic that shut the world down in mid-March, but that’s not what I’ll remember most about that year. On September 22, 2020, I was at a Girl Scout cookie booth with my two best friends, trying to raise money for our troop. It was early and I was complaining to my mom because at 14 years old, I thought I was too old for cookie booths. We were standing right inside the entrance to Cub, and I could feel the freezing air washing in through the sliding doors every time shoppers came inside. I shivered and stared down at the brightly packaged cookies, wishing I could be anywhere else. As I moved to straighten a box of Caramel-de-Lites, my mom’s phone rang. She answered it with the cheery voice she always uses when she’s talking to my dad. “Hello!” It was silent for a few moments, then I watched as her face slowly grew solemn and the hollows under her eyes seemed to deepen. A pit in my stomach began to make my heart pound. My eyes were fixed on her face, trying to guess what was wrong. That morning, I found out that my cousin Alex had shot and killed my aunt Jan, his brother Jack, and then himself. Alex was 27 years old and battled paranoid schizophrenia. Jan tried her absolute best to help him and give him resources, but he refused treatment. Additionally, he struggled with drug abuse. His father was addicted to drugs, and indirectly introduced them to his sons. This tragedy shocked my family, and I observed the unfortunate reality and impact of people who struggle with medication, diagnosis and treatment of mental health disorders. Currently, my brother, who has ADHD and OCD, is also battling drug abuse and is struggling with treatment acceptance. He’s 17 years old and has been using for about two years to my knowledge. Mental illness and drug abuse are deeply personal to me due to these experiences with my family. In college and beyond, I aspire to be a resource for people like Alex and my brother. Observing the mental health struggles of my family members made me see first-hand the destructive impact of drugs and untreated mental illnesses. That's what led me to study psychology—I want to dedicate my career to being present for others and helping them navigate their challenges. Dr. Ralph G. Nichols, known as the ‘father of listening,’ once said, “The most basic of all human needs is to understand and to be understood.” These words inspire me deeply. My goal is to create a space where people feel truly heard and valued. While listening alone can't cure serious mental illnesses, it's essential for individuals like my cousin Alex to have their conditions recognized so they can begin the journey toward help. I’m studying psychology at UW-La Crosse because I want my career to be spent helping people like my cousin Alex so tragedies like this one don’t happen. My brother has also really struggled to find the right person to talk to, hitting many dead-ends along the way. There is simply not nearly enough mental health support for young people and teens. By choosing a career in psychology, I hope to help prevent the losses of people like Alex and help reduce the impacts of drug abuse and untreated mental illnesses that have harmed far too many families. My aunt Jan, who was also a psychology major in college, would be proud of me for pursuing a career surrounding mental health.

My mom worked as an undercover narcotics special agent with the Department of Justice (DOJ) Division of Criminal (DCI) my entire childhood until she retired. It was common for her to work long hours and get phone calls from informants at all hours. Growing up with an undercover mom helped me gain perspective on drugs. She was involved in dangerous investigations but loved her job. To her, the criminal justice system was flawed by punishing users, so she made it her mission to arrest every dealer causing an overdose under the Len Bias Law. To her, an overdose was murder, and needs to be investigated like all murders. Even after retirement, Christmas cards get sent to her from victims' families and old informants. In eighth grade, my football teammate and friend, Junior, died by suicide during our football season. Junior was having a difficult time when Covid forced our school to online academics. Junior grew extremely depressed. His home life was difficult. Junior's dad was incarcerated for armed robbery, his mom had substance abuse issues, so Junior was living with a foster family. Junior confided in me that he thought he was gay. Junior is the biggest, most muscular, toughest guy on our team. I believe he told me because he knew I would be understanding. My mom is gay and I love her endlessly. I hugged Junior and said everyone would love him the same no matter who he loved. Junior hung himself days later. My heart broke knowing Junior's mind led him to suicide. On January 8th, 2022 I was notified that my friend and hockey teammate, Jase Luther, died from an overdose. Jase and I grew up together battling every team we faced as the dynamic defensemen duo. Jase was one year older but significantly smaller in body frame. Our pairing combined opposite styles of play that synced perfectly. We read each other's mind on the ice and moved instinctively together. Off the ice, Jase was a witty, fun loving friend. We made the most out of our hockey tournament hotel stays by playing endless hours of shinny together. He had long, curly hair, that he grew out every season to give him the perfect hockey "flow." We spent thousands of hours together since the age of seven. Hockey tournaments are notoriously big drinking events for parents. Both Jase and I came from single, non-drinking mom households. It was a rarity we bonded over. We vowed to never drink. The drunken debauchery team parents got involved in was our motivation to remain sober. Jase was a good student, positive influence to our team and a friend to everyone. Never once did I suspect that he would try any drug. His older sister had difficulty with substance abuse that lead to physical altercations between Jase's sister and mom. Jase's mom was physically disabled and walked with Lofstrand crutches (forearm style). Jase would vent to me about how his sister's drug abuse was making life difficult to keep his mom safe during attacks. Jase spoke about distain toward the drug dealers supplying his sister. To say I was shocked when told about Jase's overdose is the understatement of the century. The news buckled my knees. My mind was swirly with snippets of what I missed. How could I have helped show him support? I was fifteen and two friends were dead. Something needed to change. I switched to an elite academic high school, Culver Academy, on a full academic scholarship. Goal driven to become a psychiatrist and educate my mind fully to help people like Jase, Junior and Cade.

I sit in my living room, engulfed by the comfort of my couch, when my mother suddenly called me to her room. I think nothing of it because it is usually conversations about school or chores. However, as I make my way into my mothers’ room, she greeted me with a feeling of despair and a face of sorrow. Confusion waves through my body for I know the conversation could not be going in the right direction. I stood frozen, as silence lingered through the air, allowing my mom to be the first to fill the silence. She opened her mouth only to reveal that my best friend had killed himself. The room was loud and my head was banging, as I could hear her repeat those words repeatedly in my head. Without a word, I simply turned around and left out the room in disbelief. I went back to my couch and just then, I began to cry. I cried and cried and cried until the water dried from my eyes and I sat there to think and conjure up what my mother told me. Someone that I have grown up with my entire life, was now gone. Apart from me was gone and for someone that was only 13 years old, it was a lot to carry. I remember every memory I have had with Will, the good and the bad. For a long time, I let his death become the best of me. Not wanting to create new relationships and was scared that if I did, I would somehow ruin it. I closed myself off from the world and I only showed certain parts of myself. For a while that worked, but it did not stop the overwhelming feelings I felt when I thought of Will. However, I had to face my fears head-on; I began to accept that things were not going to change. That Will would not suddenly appear, and my life would go back to normal. I had to accept the fact that I will never be 100 percent okay, and that is okay. I took Will’s death as an opportunity to learn more about the world and myself. I always knew about mental health, but never really had conversations about it. I soon started to delve deep into my mental well-being and learn about what makes me happy and how I can improve my mental health. I became more thoughtful with my words and actions, and I prioritize myself over anything else. Will also made me realize, how much care should go into relationships. I was finally able to understand my peers and the people around me. I am more cautious of the way I act and what I say. Not only am I more cautious but I am simply more aware of the effects of poor mental health. Therefore, I do my best to create a welcoming, loving, and nurturing environment for all people that I meet by being open and honest and allowing people to feel like they can trust me. Since I graduated high school, I want to be able to help and inspire the world by focusing on mental well-being. It is my dream to graduate college with a psychology degree and use that to educate others on mental health. I specifically want to work in the Milwaukee area because I believe that there should be more efforts in helping the people in my community that do not have a voice to speak out about their mental health.

When I was younger, my older sister affectionately nicknamed me "Bubbles," a name which—at the time— seemed aptly fitting for me, the easy-going and adorably bubbly child who radiated joy, the child who unreservedly dished out smiles to strangers in the supermarket, the child who basked in the wonder and beauty of life. Yes, the name "Bubbles" fit little Rachael like a glove. Somewhere along the way, however, I shed my optimistic skin and my sanguine disposition. Somewhere along the way, depreciation debilitated confidence, and dread smothered anticipation. Ashamed, terrified, and unable to identify any rational, measurable explanation for this dismal shift in mindset, I held my crippling thoughts captive, until, at fifteen years old, "Bubbles" was lying on the frigid linoleum tile at midnight, questioning whether living was worth the constant battle. Accepting my struggles and comprehending the necessity for emotional and psychological assistance was vital to my evolution and, frankly, to my survival. Setting aside my pride, and confessing to the internal voices that were waging war inside my head, saved my life. Admitting myself to outpatient cognitive-behavioral therapy and obtaining medication to improve my mental circumstances represented the most significant turning point in my life. I had plummeted head-first into an eerie abyss, and those at the treatment center extended their hands and helped me to navigate my way out of the bleak, seemingly bottomless chasm. They lit a path of hope. Entering therapy allowed me a second chance at life, and I reluctantly took it. With the unending aid from my counselor and other individuals that composed my support system, my perspective on life, and the world as a whole, shifted. To truly comprehend the immense beauty of human existence, I had to confront the fear of acknowledging my fragility. To apprehend the rarity of the miracle of existence, I had to face death head-on and take back my life. Embracing my mortality was essential to welcoming the magnificence that life has to offer. Without the existential crisis that engulfed my high school experience, I would not be the person I am today. The lessons I have learned through the pain have become core aspects of my story and will continue to influence the life story that I will continue to write. Through my future aspirations, in both my personal and professional life, I want to show struggling individuals that there is hope. As little as it is discussed, millions of people struggle with mental health daily. The stigma surrounding mental health has discouraged soldiers of this battle, some meeting their demise from the lack of mental health awareness and support for individuals struggling with it. People view these fallen victims as statistics, or just another tragedy taken by suicide. Thankfully, I have not become a statistic. With the proper support and awareness, I have learned to manage the battle with my mind. Increased support for individuals struggling with mental health is essential in the fight against stigma, and is proven to save lives, mine included. When I realized life was worth living, I vowed to dedicate my life to helping others reach this realization. Despite the career I decide to pursue, I want to express the immense beauty of human existence to every individual I encounter. As I pursue my college education, this core memory will stay at the forefront of my mind, reminding me of my purpose on this planet. Just as I was shown the value of life, I want to show others that the sun will rise again, and with it, comes hope for a new day in a brighter future.

I began identifying the mental health struggles I had and still have to this day in 7th grade. As a person who aspired to have high academic accomplishments, I only saw mental health and the possible struggles with it as a way to hold me back from getting the best marks on my report card. I desired to see a therapist for all of the new feelings and struggles that I seemed to be going through that before, didn't seem to be an issue, but I was dismissed as just going through puberty and being overdramatic. This further sent me into a spiral of bottled up feelings and dismissal of my own mental health. I ignored the signs of anxiety when entering crowds and confronting people when they hurt me. Each time I became depressed by a slight trigger, seemingly out of nowhere, I would cry silently in my room until I could damp a cold cloth on my face so no one would know I was crying. It wasn't until my senior year of high school (less than one year ago) when these struggles would affect my schoolwork that the waves of emotions I was dealing with could be held back no longer. I gained intense anxiety from walking into school, fearing that everyone could see right through me and know how I had just cried that morning. I became desperate to find any solution to my problems so I sought out my high school counselor who first validated the emotions and feelings I was having. Just knowing that I wasn't being too sensitive or weak for wanting help was a huge step. In gaining that little bit of insight, I was able to gain the courage to seek out therapy once again. Just from that little amount of gained knowledge, I was able to convince my family of the necessity for therapy and finally made my first appointment. Just after a few appointments, so many things began to make sense. Although I didn't immediately get better at coping, I could finally put a finger on the different experiences I would deal with daily. Through therapy, I learned the roots of most of my problems and how I could work through them all, both by thinking through them and understanding the physiological cycles and responses that my body will go through to almost keep me in a panicked state. I could also recognize when I started to find myself in one of these self-destructive cycles and work towards avoiding them, possibly by doing a simple exercise such as breathing. From a young age, I desired to be a doctor. There was no other option when people would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I always saw myself in the operating room, helping fix people in ways they didn't know how to themselves. Little did I know that I could help others in ways that weren't necessarily physical. My interest in how the brain works began when my sister began attending college to eventually work as a psychiatrist. I listened to the information and interesting facts that she would relay back home from an outside perspective, always thinking that it was someone else who had to deal with these problems. After experiencing them myself and gaining a better perspective of how many people also go through similar things, I settled on majoring in psychology to aid and eventually spread awareness to kids like me who need that helping hand, not because they're broken but because they just don't have the full picture.

I've struggled with mental health issues for the majority of my life. As I was growing up, from the outside looking in, I probably seemed like a pretty happy kid to most people. I've always had a bubbly personality with a great passion and care for helping others. Loved ones and strangers alike. In my younger years, I did have my fair share of difficult experiences, to put it simply. My parents got divorced in 2014 and separated when I was 9. That was one of the messiest years of my life. The months leading up to their separation and the events that ensued were the start of my struggles. My dad struggled heavily with alcoholism and the last six months of my parent's marriage were essentially filled with my dad gaslighting me and constantly seeking validation from me, his 9-year-old son. A few months after my parent's divorce, I was sexually assaulted by my neighbor. She was 14 or 15 at the time and came over to our house often because all the kids on the block used to hang out a lot. At the time I was too young to understand how wrong what she was doing to me was, but it seriously affected my mental state. I think it was a big part of why I became distrustful and withdrawn. I went to a little bit of therapy following the divorce but it didn't make a significant impact on me. As I continued to grow up I dealt with social anxiety, trust issues, depression, and some other issues alike. There were ups and downs but the depression was always there even if it wasn't always noticeable. In 2020, following the start of the pandemic and the lockdown, my depression became unbearable. The isolation from my friends and feeling so alone made my depression start to become unbearable. That was the time when I started smoking THC carts to try to make myself feel somewhat okay. When that didn't help I started cutting; sometimes as a way of taking out my feelings, sometimes because I couldn't feel anything, to begin with. Smoking and cutting became a cycle and I stopped keeping up with my grades In 2022, earlier this year during my first semester, a girl I had recently broken up with accused me of sexual assault and spread it around the school everyone hated me and I was getting told to kill myself just walking down the hall. The accusation was false and I was able to prove that by releasing a video of her admitting she lied to ruin my reputation while she didn't know she was being recorded. People slowly started believing me but things became too much and at my absolute lowest point, I attempted to jump off a bridge and was stopped by my girlfriend who called me at the right time. I spent the next week at an inpatient facility for safety and followed that with 2 months of outpatient therapy for 6 hours a day. That treatment completely changed my life and I'm forever grateful for my support team who helped me. At first, we worked on my self-harm tendencies and I haven't hurt myself since the second week I was there. They diagnosed me with MDD, GAD, and ADHD and got me on medications which greatly helped. The ways in which they were able to make such an impact on me are what made me want to pursue social work. I want to work with teens struggling with mental health and provide the help that changed my life.