"A scientist." That was my real, passionate answer to the question, "What are you going to be when you grow up?" At least that was my answer when I was 10 years old. But a lot of things change in 8 years. New friends, new schools, and the most dreaded of them all: puberty. As I grew older, and our bodies start to change, my mind started to change as well. I started to understand myself more and more. There was a part of me that still loved Chemistry and STEM, but a little voice inside my head was telling me I should be an artist. I tried to quiet that voice down. "Shhh." I said. "Don't let others hear your dreams." The world can be cruel to those who dream. As I found myself suffocating my love for the arts, the love just grew exponentially. I started to re-think my plans. "What if...?" What if I involved my love of STEM to what I crave to have a career in? What if I could balance both? Questions wandered my mind. But with questions come doubts. And people are incredible at encouraging doubt in young artists. "What would you even do with an art career? You're going to starve!" "There is no way YOU could make it as an artist." "Why don't you focus on something a little more... realistic?" To me, art is real. Art is the realest thing I have ever perceived. Every single piece I create has made me a better artist, and a better human. That's why art is so important to me. I learn with every brushstroke, digital included. So, I decided to do something I had never done in the past 17 years of my life. I stood up for myself. I stood up for my dreams. I stood up for the little girl in me who was too scared to make it happen. I decided I would involve STEM in a career in Graphic Design. I realized that science can have an enormous impact on how and what I learn. Chemistry and Astronomy. Biology, and even Math have served me in finding inspiration for the art that I want to create. I love science. Especially because science helped lead the way to where my heart is. My heart is and will always be in art. I have been tremendously lucky to find people who support me in this journey, and have given me countless advice on how to traverse this complicated world we live in. I'm thrilled to be able to have a chance to create. I believe art is one of the most powerful forces on Earth.

A Performer. An Artist. What makes or breaks an artist? Is it possible to fully be one? Ever since I was a kid, I’ve expressed myself through drawing, painting, designing, singing, and dancing. But even though I participated in all these events, just like an artist would, most people would not consider me an artist. They mostly say I'm too young to be one. When do we start being an artist? Is it when we reach a certain age, or a certain level of education? A certain number of performances? I would still consider myself an artist. I trust every kid’s ability to be an artist. The sad factor of all this is we take children’s creativity away. When us humans reach a certain age, we are told we are too old. Too old for coloring books. Too old for singing in the car like no one's watching. Too old for creativity. Too old for art. We should just focus on real world problems. Taxes, marriage, death. That’s what really matters in life. Right? I absolutely despise that way of thinking. Sure, all of that is important. Momentous phases and whatnot. But there has to be more. This is where art comes in. Theater and dance have always been an escape for me. A way of moving with life, but instead of drowning with the strong current, I’ve got a boat. They makes life easy-going. Theater. Acting has always been of utmost importance in my life. Growing up, my parents were both in the entertainment industry, so I was always surrounded by film, theater, and shows. This definitely had an impact on me. I realized that acting was a big passion of mine. I could finally understand why people say "Do what you're passionate about, and you'll never work a day in your life". I can spend hours practicing learning lines and it goes by like seconds. My childhood was rough, but when I act, I let all my worries wash away. Dance. I've been dancing since I was 5 years old. I still remember one of my first dance classes. To be honest, I have blocked a lot of childhood memories, but that one I sure hope I'll never forget. I was always the shy kid in class, but when I danced, I transformed. I mainly loved ballet, contemporary and jazz, but I participated in multiple other styles too. I remember one experience vividly. I was in Chicago, at a dance convention, and I decided to let all my nervousness disappear, and just live in the moment. I danced my heart out. I did not care that some of my classmates were not taking it seriously. This was important to me. At the end of the weekend, they told me I had won a summer scholarship. There were about 10 scholarships for a class of more than 100 girls. They had seen me dance and saw my passion. I'll always hold that memory close to my heart. It made me realize that what I was doing mattered. I'll always be grateful for that. Experiences like this make me realize I am fully capable of being an artist. I hope my young self is proud of myself now. I am now an artist because she didn’t give up. I am now an artist because she started when no one believed in her. It is now my turn to help her shine. All her work has led up to this moment. It’s my time to be an artist.

An Artist. What makes or breaks an artist? Is it possible to fully be an artist? Ever since I was a kid, I’ve expressed myself through drawing, painting, designing, singing, and dancing. But even though I participated in all these events, just like an artist would, most people would not consider me an artist. When do we start being an artist? Is it when we reach a certain age, or a certain level of education? A certain number of pieces or prices? I would still consider myself an artist. I trust every kid’s ability to be an artist. The sad factor of all this is we take children’s creativity away. When us humans reach a certain age, we are told we are too old. Too old for coloring books. Too old for drawing. Too old for creativity. Too old for art. We should just focus on real world problems. Taxes, marriage, death. That’s what really matters in life. Right? I absolutely despise that way of thinking. Sure, all of that is important. Momentous phases and whatnot. But there has to be more. This is where art comes in. Art has been an escape for me. A way of moving with life, but instead of drowning with the strong current, I’ve got a boat. Art makes life easy-going. Art comes in many forms. I have been lucky to engage in many, but there are a few that stand out to me. Painting. Using paint and brushes seems like quite a simple art form. But it has a complexity like none other. It’s beautifully difficult. The way we can feel a sense of intimacy with an artist when looking at their painting makes me feel like what I am doing matters. I can transmit my world to another person. Another world. My art is now engraved in another story. Graphic Design. I never thought I’d want to create Graphic Design. But I hope life crafted an intersection for me to bump into it for a reason. It is my joy and hope. I can mix everything I know, have learned, and will learn into one. One piece is filled with hundreds of experiences. Imagine what more can do. Overall, my appreciation for art has been incredibly beneficial. I have had the pleasure to work in student shows, like the ECPOSI School of the Art Institute of Chicago's 2022 Show. Experiences like this make me realize I am fully capable of being an artist. I hope my young self is proud of myself now. I am now an artist because she didn’t give up. I am now an artist because she started when no one believed in her. It is now my turn to help her shine. All her work has led up to this moment. It’s my time to be an artist.

An Artist. What makes or breaks an artist?   Is it possible to fully be an artist?   Ever since I was a kid, I’ve expressed myself through drawing, painting, designing, singing, and dancing. But even though I participated in all these events, just like an artist would, most people would not consider me an artist.   When do we start being an artist? Is it when we reach a certain age, or a certain level of education? A certain number of pieces or prices?   I would still consider myself an artist. I trust every kid’s ability to be an artist. The sad factor of all this is we take children’s creativity away.   When us humans reach a certain age, we are told we are too old. Too old for coloring books. Too old for drawing. Too old for creativity. Too old for art. We should just focus on real world problems. Taxes, marriage, death. That’s what really matters in life.   Right?   I absolutely despise that way of thinking.   Sure, all of that is important. Momentous phases and whatnot. But there has to be more.   This is where my art comes in. This piece specifically was made for an art course I took at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. The narrative I want to tell with this piece is how I perceive grief. Grief is socially perceived as a dreadful idea. But for me, grief is the way we connect with the unconnectable. Whether that is death, a loss or another situation. I have gone through many unconventional losses in my life. I am estranged from my father because of his abusive behavior in the past. Even though I know I am better without him in my life, dealing with this pain has been incredibly burdensome. This piece was made with just my heart in mind. I knew I needed to grab everything I felt, and throw it on the canvas. Nonetheless, I also wanted to show the beauty in grief. There is still light in what seems to be dark. Grief is part of what makes us human. It is one of the most deplorable feelings, yet it shows how much we are capable of loving. Love is the part of humanity that keeps me going. It does not have to be romantic, but it does have to be genuine. I am proud of my final work. I have a lot to learn still, but I know that I am capable of anything I put my mind to. My passion for art is something that no one will ever be able to take away.

"THIS LOVE" I have for Taylor Swift is immeasurable. After being a fan of hers for more than a decade, I feel like her music is a second home. Every bridge, every chord, every sound, and every album creates an experience I could only describe as my "WILDEST DREAMS". Asking me to decide on a favorite song is like asking me what my favorite "STYLE" is. I love sewing and fashion, and every era brings a different sentiment that cannot be replicated. This is certainly a tough choice to make. "I WISH YOU WOULD" allow me to pick multiple songs, but, alas, I understand applications have limitations. One of my favorite memories was visiting New York for the first time, and I realized the plane's screen had some songs downloaded. You can imagine my excitement when I caught sight of "1989" by Taylor Alison Swift. I began to play "WELCOME TO NEW YORK". I know, I know! It was a little cliché, but it was one of the moments I will forever remember dearly. When we arrived in New York, my mother was by my side. I know some mother-daughter relationships sometimes have "BAD BLOOD" between them, but my relationship with her is distinct. One of the most important people in my life is my mother. She is my rock. Without her, I don't know if I would have ever made it "OUT OF THE WOODS". Sometimes, we get stuck in our issues, and it feels like the woods are swallowing us whole. Like there is no way out. But there is always a light at the end of the tunnel. For me, that light is my mom. Living with OCD and a multitude of familial issues, I needed someone to help me "SHAKE IT OFF". My friends have helped me tremendously, and I am very lucky because "I KNOW PLACES" where I can find them. I know that when I need support, I can count on them. Moreover, one question remains unanswered: "What is my favorite Taylor Swift 1989 song?" There is one simple answer. "BLANK SPACE" has invariably been my favorite "1989" track. My mom had the entire album downloaded on her phone, which meant I could play the songs on repeat. The song I kept coming back to was "BLANK SPACE". The lyrics spoke to me like a big sister warning you about love. Love can be beautiful, but it can also "burn down in flames". I have always looked up to Taylor. I know she is one of the strongest people in the industry. So for her to sing about how love is difficult, even when you are a huge pop star, feels comforting. Taylor is known for her paradigmatic bridges, and "BLANK SPACE" is no exception. The song is complete with "CLEAN" vocals and effective chords. This makes this song one of my all-time favorites. "ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS STAY" until the end of this essay to understand why Taylor is one of the most important people in my life. Taylor knows exactly "HOW YOU GET THE GIRL" to be more confident, fulfilled, and happier overall. I recognize how much Taylor has made me a better person, and I am eternally grateful for her.

When my little sister was 4 years old, she told me she wanted to be a flower growing up. I have naively always found that hilarious, but now I think I want to be a flower too. Let me explain. Flowers need sunlight, water, and soil to bloom. We as humans also have things we need. For me, those things are the following: Sunlight. Sunlight lights up our lives. For me, the person that lit up my life is my mom. Five kids, and still manages to love and care for every single one of us. She is my number one supporter, and I don’t think I would even be here today if it wasn’t for her. She's my person. My sunlight. Water. Water is the basis of life. We can’t live without it. Water reminds me of my friends. Just like water, my friends are versatile, and I’ve been tremendously lucky to find such loyal people to share my experiences. Soil. Soil is messy, but when prepared correctly, it can be very rewarding. School resembles soil. I’m not going to lie to you, school is grueling. I felt like giving up sometimes. So I had to prepare what I needed correctly in order to get the most nutrients out of the soil foundation. I can now say that school has been one of the most beneficial experiences I’ve ever had. Those hard times are what I needed to appreciate the good ones. Although I’ve had some good foundations that have helped me grow, I’ve also been hit with some… weed killers. Weed killers can turn the flower’s life upside down. It can completely erase the process made by the sunlight, water, and soil. My weed killer appeared a few months ago. Sitting in a room. A courtroom. My parents separated when I was nine. Yet here I sat. Seventeen years old and still facing the consequences of their marriage. My weed killer turned out to be my own dad. It’s hard to think about how, sometimes, the most important people in your life hurt you the most. He had refused to sign my passport. He wanted control. I’ve always known it, but deep down, I wanted to believe he cared more about me than he did about using me. Now I know I was wrong. I was kept in the room talking to the judge, the lawyers, and a children's psychologist, trying to convince them all about why I needed my passport. I suddenly stopped. I tried to contain my tears. Why am I fighting for MY passport, when I could be in school? Shouldn’t I be enjoying my teenage years instead of spending them away at court? After what seemed like hours, we finished talking. They finally agreed I could have my passport without the approval of my dad. I was happy, but I was also so tired. Tired of being torn down by weed killers. OCD, court meetings, school issues, etc. It seemed never-ending. The weed killers made me realize something, though. They weren't as strong as I thought. If I could go to court and still be able to bloom, I can get through anything. If I have the support of my sunlight, my water, and my soil, I can start blooming brighter than I ever knew possible. Even if I’m stuck in a courtroom. After all, we all deserve to be flowers, and I want to be the best one I can be, to make the world a little brighter. So, I guess my sister was right all along. We can all be flowers.

An Artist. What makes or breaks an artist? Is it possible to fully be an artist? Ever since I was a kid, I’ve expressed myself through drawing, painting, designing, singing, and dancing. But even though I participated in all these events, just like an artist would, most people would not consider me an artist. When do we start being an artist? Is it when we reach a certain age, or a certain level of education? A certain number of pieces or prices? I would still consider myself an artist. I trust every kid’s ability to be an artist. The sad factor of all this is we take children’s creativity away. When us humans reach a certain age, we are told we are too old. Too old for coloring books. Too old for drawing. Too old for creativity. Too old for art. We should just focus on real world problems. Taxes, marriage, death. That’s what really matters in life. Right? I absolutely despise that way of thinking. Sure, all of that is important. Momentous phases and whatnot. But there has to be more. This is where art comes in. Art has been an escape for me. A way of moving with life, but instead of drowning with the strong current, I’ve got a boat. Art makes life easy-going. Art comes in many forms. I have been lucky to engage in many, but there are a few that stand out to me. Painting. Using paint and brushes seems like quite a simple art form. But it has a complexity like none other. It’s beautifully difficult. The way we can feel a sense of intimacy with an artist when looking at their painting makes me feel like what I am doing matters. I can transmit my world to another person. Another world. My art is now engraved in another story. Graphic Design. I never thought I’d want to create Graphic Design. But I hope life crafted an intersection for me to bump into it for a reason. It is my joy and hope. I can mix everything I know, have learned, and will learn into one. One piece is filled with hundreds of experiences. Imagine what more can do. Overall, my appreciation for art has been incredibly beneficial. I have had the pleasure to work in student shows, like the ECPOSI School of the Art Institute of Chicago's 2022 Show. Experiences like this make me realize I am fully capable of being an artist. I hope my young self is proud of myself now. I am now an artist because she didn’t give up. I am now an artist because she started when no one believed in her. It is now my turn to help her shine. All her work has led up to this moment. It’s my time to be an artist.

When my little sister was 4 years old, she told me she wanted to be a flower growing up. I have naively always found that hilarious, but now I think I want to be a flower too. Let me explain. Flowers need sunlight, water, and soil to bloom. We as humans also have things we need. For me, those things are the following: Sunlight. Sunlight lights up our lives. For me, the person that lit up my life is my mom. Five kids, and still manages to love and care for every single one of us. She is my number one supporter, and I don’t think I would even be here today if it wasn’t for her. She's my person. My sunlight. Water. Water is the basis of life. We can’t live without it. Water reminds me of my friends. Just like water, my friends are versatile, and I’ve been tremendously lucky to find such loyal people to share my experiences. Soil. Soil is messy, but when prepared correctly, it can be very rewarding. School resembles soil. I’m not going to lie to you, school is grueling. I felt like giving up sometimes. So I had to prepare what I needed correctly in order to get the most nutrients out of the soil foundation. I can now say that school has been one of the most beneficial experiences I’ve ever had. Those hard times are what I needed to appreciate the good ones. Although I’ve had some good foundations that have helped me grow, I’ve also been hit with some… weed killers. Weed killers can turn the flower’s life upside down. It can completely erase the process made by the sunlight, water, and soil. My weed killer appeared a few months ago. Sitting in a room. A courtroom. My parents separated when I was nine. Yet here I sat. Seventeen years old and still facing the consequences of their marriage. My weed killer turned out to be my own dad. It’s hard to think about how, sometimes, the most important people in your life hurt you the most. He had refused to sign my passport. He wanted control. I’ve always known it, but deep down, I wanted to believe he cared more about me than he did about using me. Now I know I was wrong. I was kept in the room talking to the judge, the lawyers, and a children's psychologist, trying to convince them all about why I needed my passport. I suddenly stopped. I tried to contain my tears. Why am I fighting for MY passport, when I could be in school? Shouldn’t I be enjoying my teenage years instead of spending them away at court? After what seemed like hours, we finished talking. They finally agreed I could have my passport without the approval of my dad. I was happy, but I was also so tired. Tired of being torn down by weed killers. OCD, court meetings, school issues, etc. It seemed never-ending. The weed killers made me realize something, though. They weren't as strong as I thought. If I could go to court and still be able to bloom, I can get through anything. If I have the support of my sunlight, my water, and my soil, I can bloom brighter than I ever knew possible. Even if I’m stuck in a courtroom. After all, we deserve to be flowers, and I want to be the best one I can be, to make the world a little brighter with my art. So, I guess my sister was right all along. We can all be flowers.

“The Key” “I can’t get out.” I said to myself. Why was this happening to me? This has been going on all my life, but never to this extent. I couldn’t get out of the room. My mind wouldn’t let me. It sounds so foolish saying it out loud, but it’s true. I was stuck in an open room. This was the first time I truly realized something was wrong. I realized that I was suffering in silence and needed to speak up. This was not normal. My mind was getting stronger and stronger every day, and making me weaker. This is what undiagnosed OCD looked like for me. This Obsessive Compulsion Disorder is like my own mind-monster. Obsession after obsession. "Your mom will die. Unless you click your pen four times". "You'll get a heart attack because you didn't wash the dishes thoroughly". "Your cousin will try to commit suicide again". "Your best friends will start self-harming again because of you". It's better to be safe than sorry. Right? Compulsion after compulsion. Do you know how many times I rewrote parts of this specific essay because it didn't feel right? I don't either. It was too many to count. And believe me. I love counting. After the room incident, I felt the need to tell someone. There was a feeling of despair. A feeling of absolute agony that I could not let go of anymore. I needed a hand to help me. Someone I could trust with my darkest secret that I had previously never let into the light. I told my mom. At first, she was very hesitant to believe me, since it sounds ridiculous, I know that. But I also know my mind and my body. This is not just a phase or a cry for attention. This is real, and tremendously harmful. She agreed to take me to a psychiatrist. I felt terrified. What if what I was feeling had no cure? Thankfully, my psychiatrist explained everything. She told me how it isn’t completely curable, but she could help me manage it. I needed to go to therapy and take some medicine. Oh no. Pills. This thing would be hard to swallow. Literally. It’s been about a year since I started taking medications and therapy for my OCD. I’ve had some terrible days, but overall, I’ve seen incredible improvement. I can finally get out of a room without believing something bad will happen. Without having obsessive thoughts all day and night, and without having to act on every compulsion I feel coming. I now know my OCD is a part of me, but it will never be me. It will never define me. I'm now moving on to University. The next big step in my life. To be going to a large school is already fear-inducing, but I now know I will be okay. Pursuing Performing and Visual Arts is the path I can take to be a better version of myself. To learn, to give, to laugh, and most importantly, to make an impact in this world. I sincerely hope I can be an advocate for people struggling with OCD too. It's a lifelong battle, but it will be easier if we fight together.

When my little sister was 4 years old, she told me she wanted to be a flower growing up. I have naively always found that hilarious, but now I think I want to be a flower too. Let me explain. Flowers need sunlight, water, and soil to bloom. We as humans also have things we need. For me, those things are the following: Sunlight. Sunlight lights up our lives. For me, the person that lit up my life is my mom. Five kids, and still manages to love and care for every single one of us. She is my number one supporter, and I don’t think I would even be here today if it wasn’t for her. She's my person. My sunlight. Water. Water is the basis of life. We can’t live without it. Water reminds me of my friends. Just like water, my friends are versatile, and I’ve been tremendously lucky to find such loyal people to share my experiences. Soil. Soil is messy, but when prepared correctly, it can be very rewarding. School resembles soil. I’m not going to lie to you, school is grueling. I felt like giving up sometimes. So I had to prepare what I needed correctly in order to get the most nutrients out of the soil foundation. I can now say that school has been one of the most beneficial experiences I’ve ever had. Those hard times are what I needed to appreciate the good ones. Although I’ve had some good foundations that have helped me grow, I’ve also been hit with some… weed killers. Weed killers can turn the flower’s life upside down. It can completely erase the process made by the sunlight, water, and soil. My weed killer appeared a few months ago. Sitting in a room. A courtroom. My parents separated when I was nine. Yet here I sat. Seventeen years old and still facing the consequences of their marriage. My weed killer turned out to be my own dad. It’s hard to think about how, sometimes, the most important people in your life hurt you the most. He had refused to sign my passport. He wanted control. I’ve always known it, but deep down, I wanted to believe he cared more about me than he did about using me. Now I know I was wrong. I was kept in the room talking to the judge, the lawyers, and a children's psychologist, trying to convince them all about why I needed my passport. I suddenly stopped. I tried to contain my tears. Why am I fighting for MY passport, when I could be in school? Shouldn’t I be enjoying my teenage years instead of spending them away at court? After what seemed like hours, we finished talking. They finally agreed I could have my passport without the approval of my dad. I was happy, but I was also so tired. Tired of being torn down by weed killers. OCD, court meetings, school issues, etc. It seemed never-ending. The weed killers made me realize something, though. They weren't as strong as I thought. If I could go to court and still be able to bloom, I can get through anything. If I have the support of my sunlight, my water, and my soil, I can start blooming brighter than I ever knew possible. Even if I’m stuck in a courtroom. After all, we all deserve to be flowers, and I want to be the best one I can be, to make the world a little brighter. So, I guess my sister was right all along. We can all be flowers.

Our screams and cries were futile. We were in despair. It truly seemed like no one understood our pain. Feminism has always been a part of my life. A part of myself. I always noticed how differently we were treated compared to boys. Especially in my home country: Mexico. Mexico has a day we call "Ninguna Se Mueve", which translates to "None Of Us Move". It's a day when women don't come to school, work, or participate in any social activities so men can experience why our contributions matter. However, this past year, the boys at my school chose to see this as a day of celebration. They made food, took the day off, and laughed at us. Mercilessly. This made me realize they didn't get it. I mean, how could they? Our entire society is built upon the patriarchal norms. It's upsetting to hear, but it is true. It doesn't have to be our future, though. We came to the realization that we had to change our approach. They weren't listening, so we had to make sure they knew how we felt. The next day, all the women at school stood up. Demanded to be heard. Invited women to feel seen when men failed to do so. It was beautiful to see how united we could become in times of disparity. I talked to hundreds of women and men, sharing my stories and helping others join and learn how we are really treated. No barriers between us. Just bluntness. I have been afraid of speaking up for myself before, but this issue was bigger than me. Bigger than all of us. We had to work together to achieve change. And we did. We changed mindsets that day. I noticed a real change. Men apologized sincerely, which before this incident, was pretty much unheard of in my school. Don't get me wrong. I don't mean to despise all men, but I do want to help make them accountable for their actions. I'm tremendously lucky to have male friends that are supportive of our cause. Sometimes, we have to ask for help, and it can be hard, but never impossible. We all need to make a change together. In that moment, I realized how deeply I care about our opportunities as women. I've met some incredible women over my lifetime, and I can honestly say that they deserve the world. They are some of the strongest people I know. We deserve to be heard. I will fight until we are.

An Artist. I will be submitting via the Common Application below. What makes or breaks an artist? Is it possible to fully be an artist? Ever since I was a kid, I’ve expressed myself through drawing, painting, designing, singing, and dancing. But even though I participated in all these events, just like an artist would, most people would not consider me an artist. When do we start being an artist? Is it when we reach a certain age, or a certain level of education? A certain number of pieces or prices? I would still consider myself an artist. I trust every kid’s ability to be an artist. The sad factor of all this is we take children’s creativity away. When us humans reach a certain age, we are told we are too old. Too old for coloring books. Too old for drawing. Too old for creativity. Too old for art. We should just focus on real world problems. Taxes, marriage, death. That’s what really matters in life. Right? I absolutely despise that way of thinking. Sure, all of that is important. Momentous phases and whatnot. But there has to be more. This is where art comes in. Art has been an escape for me. A way of moving with life, but instead of drowning with the strong current, I’ve got a boat. Art makes life easy-going. Art comes in many forms. I have been lucky to engage in many, but there are a few that stand out to me. Painting. Using paint and brushes seems like quite a simple art form. But it has a complexity like none other. It’s beautifully difficult. The way we can feel a sense of intimacy with an artist when looking at their painting makes me feel like what I am doing matters. I can transmit my world to another person. Another world. My art is now engraved in another story. Graphic Design. I never thought I’d want to create Graphic Design. But I hope life crafted an intersection for me to bump into it for a reason. It is my joy and hope. I can mix everything I know, have learned, and will learn into one. One piece is filled with hundreds of experiences. Imagine what more can do. Overall, my appreciation for art has been incredibly beneficial. I have had the pleasure to work in student shows, like the ECPOSI School of the Art Institute of Chicago's 2022 Show. Experiences like this make me realize I am fully capable of being an artist. I hope my young self is proud of myself now. I am now an artist because she didn’t give up. I am now an artist because she started when no one believed in her. It is now my turn to help her shine. All her work has led up to this moment. It’s my time to be an artist.

“The Key” “I can’t get out.” I said to myself. Why was this happening to me? This has been going on all my life, but never to this extent. I couldn’t get out of the room. My mind wouldn’t let me. It sounds so foolish saying it out loud, but it’s true. I was stuck in an open room. This was the first time I truly realized something was wrong. I realized that I was suffering in silence and needed to speak up. This was not normal. My mind was getting stronger and stronger every day, and making me weaker. This is what undiagnosed OCD looked like for me. This Obsessive Compulsion Disorder is like my own mind-monster. Obsession after obsession. "Your mom will die. Unless you click your pen four times". "You'll get a heart attack because you didn't wash the dishes thoroughly". "Your cousin will try to commit suicide again". "Your best friends will start self-harming again because of you". It's better to be safe than sorry. Right? Compulsion after compulsion. Do you know how many times I rewrote parts of this specific essay because it didn't feel right? I don't either. It was too many to count. And believe me. I love counting. After the room incident, I felt the need to tell someone. There was a feeling of despair. A feeling of absolute agony that I could not let go of anymore. I needed a hand to help me. Someone I could trust with my darkest secret that I had previously never let into the light. I told my mom. At first, she was very hesitant to believe me, since it sounds ridiculous, I know that. But I also know my mind and my body. This is not just a phase or a cry for attention. This is real, and tremendously harmful. She agreed to take me to a psychiatrist. I felt terrified. What if what I was feeling had no cure? Thankfully, my psychiatrist explained everything. She told me how it isn’t completely curable, but she could help me manage it. I needed to go to therapy and take some medicine. Oh no. Pills. This thing would be hard to swallow. Literally. It’s been about a year since I started taking medications and therapy for my OCD. I’ve had some terrible days, but overall, I’ve seen incredible improvement. I can finally get out of a room without believing something bad will happen. Without having obsessive thoughts all day and night, and without having to act on every compulsion I feel coming. I now know my OCD is a part of me, but it will never be me. It will never define me.

An 18-year-old Mexican girl being admitted to a college in the United States has never been something I've heard of growing up. I've been told many times that applying is illogical. As of 2021, 4.6% of college students were international students. 4.6%. Why would I get accepted? Being different is exactly why. Being different is how I can make an impact. Being different gives me an entirely new perspective on life that cannot be replicated. That is why creating and being a part of a community of diverse students is very important to me. By learning and listening to what other people have to offer, we learn about ourselves. This whole experience can lead us to be better students, better friends, and better people. Learning about what the US has to offer has been a fantastic opportunity. It has given me insight into what my future world can be like. Even if there are only 4.6% of international students, I've learned that the world wants to continue growing. The world needs to be a diverse, loving place for all of us. Learning about how students experience college has made me realize this is the path for me. The world is ready for change, and so am I. I want to be part of that change. I've been lucky enough to be able to learn English as my second language. Even when I'm faced with challenges such as not being able to remember a word that I know in my native language, or messing up because of my accent, I'm still here, and willing to learn from my mistakes. After all, no one is perfect. We're all learning every single day. What do I want to learn? I've slowly come to the realization that Art is the path for me. So, why did I decide to start a career in the arts? Art is a beautiful mix that creates a genuine experience. For me, art is like my best friend. So for me to be able to attend a fine arts program that combines multiple practices, is like a dream come true. That is what makes college special for me. I've never been a one-practice kind of girl. I've always been completely immersed in a multitude of hobbies and passions. Ranging from voice acting to sewing, drawing, painting, and theater, having a broad range of education makes a person like myself feel completely fulfilled. Not only that, but being able to hear distinct stories from people I meet — whether they are friends, family, or strangers— paves the way to show students like myself how they can combine their passions and create a road that is unique to themselves. Art has made me the person I am today. Without art, the world would be incomplete. I'll always wisely remember a quote from one of my favorite films: "No matter what anybody tells you. Words and ideas can change the world." -Robin Williams (Dead Poets Society).

An Artist. What makes or breaks an artist? Is it possible to fully be an artist? Ever since I was a kid, I’ve expressed myself through drawing, painting, designing, singing, and dancing. But even though I participated in all these events, just like an artist would, most people would not consider me an artist. When do we start being an artist? Is it when we reach a certain age or a certain level of education? A certain number of pieces or prices? I would still consider myself an artist. I trust every kid’s ability to be an artist. The sad factor of all this is we take children’s creativity away. When we humans reach a certain age, we are told we are too old. Too old for coloring books. Too old for drawing. Too old for creativity. Too old for art. We should focus on real-world problems. Taxes, marriage, death. That’s what really matters in life. Right? I despise that way of thinking. Sure, all of that is important. Momentous phases and whatnot. But there has to be more. This is where art comes in. Art has been an escape for me. A way of moving with life, but instead of drowning in the strong current, I’ve got a boat. Art makes life easy-going. Art comes in many forms. I have been lucky to engage in many, but there are a few that stand out to me. Painting. Using paint and brushes seems like quite a simple art form. But it has a complexity like none other. It’s beautifully difficult. The way we can feel a sense of intimacy with an artist when looking at their painting makes me feel like what I am doing matters. I can transmit my world to another person. Another world. My art is now engraved in another story. Graphic Design. I never thought I’d want to create Graphic Design. But I hope life crafted an intersection for me to bump into it for a reason. It is my joy and hope. I can mix everything I know, have learned, and will learn into one. One piece is filled with hundreds of experiences. Imagine what more can do. Overall, my appreciation for art has been incredibly beneficial. I have had the pleasure to work in student shows, like the ECPOSI SAIC 2022 Show. Experiences like this make me realize I am fully capable of being an artist. I hope my young self is proud of me now. I am now an artist because she didn’t give up. I am an artist because she started when no one believed in her. It is now my turn to help her shine. All her work has led up to this moment. It’s my time to be an artist.

I once made a script for a movie about a guy that was mute, and we called it "Silence Speaks". The entire movie revolved around this guy who was bullied in school because of his disability until one girl finally befriends him and asks him to "speak up" against bullying. We won best comedic short film at our school's competition.

“The Key” “I can’t get out,” I said to myself. Why was this happening to me? This has been going on all my life, but never to this extent. I couldn’t get out of the room. My mind wouldn’t let me. It sounds so foolish saying it out loud, but it’s true. I was stuck in an open room. This was the first time I truly realized something was wrong. I realized that I was suffering in silence and needed to speak up. This was not normal. My mind was getting stronger and stronger every day, and making me weaker. This is what undiagnosed OCD looked like for me. This Obsessive Compulsion Disorder is like my own mind-monster. Obsession after obsession. "Your mom will die unless you click your pen four times". "You'll get a heart attack because you didn't wash the dishes thoroughly". "Your cousin will try to commit suicide again". "Your best friends will start self-harming again because of you". It's better to be safe than sorry. Right? Compulsion after compulsion. Do you know how many times I rewrote parts of this specific essay because it didn't feel right? I don't either. It was too many to count. And believe me. I love counting. After the room incident, I felt the need to tell someone. There was a feeling of despair. A feeling of absolute agony that I could not let go of anymore. I needed a hand to help me. Someone I could trust with my darkest secret that I had previously never let into the light. I told my mom. At first, she was very hesitant to believe me, since it sounds ridiculous, I know that. But I also know my mind and my body. This is not just a phase or a cry for attention. This is real and tremendously harmful. She agreed to take me to a psychiatrist. I felt terrified. What if what I was feeling had no cure? Thankfully, my psychiatrist explained everything. She told me that it isn’t completely curable, but she could help me manage it. I needed to go to therapy and take some medicine. Oh no. Pills. This thing would be hard to swallow. Literally. It’s been about a year since I started taking medications and therapy for my OCD. I’ve had some terrible days, but overall, I’ve seen incredible improvement. I can finally get out of a room without believing something bad will happen. Without having obsessive thoughts all day and night, and without having to act on every compulsion I feel coming. My new challenge is college. I now feel capable of getting through these next few years and every mishap imaginable. I can do more than I ever knew possible. Moments like this are scary, especially because we can never know what will happen. But that also gives me a sense of hope. I can choose my destiny. I will be able to pursue my goals while living the life I've always dreamed of. Even with OCD. I aspire to be the person I needed when I was younger. I plan to help others in my situation because when you have OCD, it seems like there is no end to the pain. But there is a way out. We all are capable of finding it. I now know my OCD is a part of me, but it will never be me. I will never let it define me again.

“The Key” “I can’t get out,” I said to myself. Why was this happening to me? This has been going on all my life, but never to this extent. I couldn’t get out of the room. My mind wouldn’t let me. It sounds so foolish saying it out loud, but it’s true. I was stuck in an open room. This was the first time I truly realized something was wrong. I realized that I was suffering in silence and needed to speak up. This was not normal. My mind was getting stronger and stronger every day, and making me weaker. This is what undiagnosed OCD looked like for me. This Obsessive Compulsion Disorder is like my own mind-monster. Obsession after obsession. "Your mom will die unless you click your pen four times". "You'll get a heart attack because you didn't wash the dishes thoroughly". "Your cousin will try to commit suicide again". "Your best friends will start self-harming again because of you". It's better to be safe than sorry. Right? Compulsion after compulsion. Do you know how many times I rewrote parts of this specific essay because it didn't feel right? I don't either. It was too many to count. And believe me. I love counting. After the room incident, I felt the need to tell someone. There was a feeling of despair. A feeling of absolute agony that I could not let go of anymore. I needed a hand to help me. Someone I could trust with my darkest secret that I had previously never let into the light. I told my mom. At first, she was very hesitant to believe me, since it sounds ridiculous, I know that. But I also know my mind and my body. This is not just a phase or a cry for attention. This is real and tremendously harmful. She agreed to take me to a psychiatrist. I felt terrified. What if what I was feeling had no cure? Thankfully, my psychiatrist explained everything. She told me that it isn’t completely curable, but she could help me manage it. I needed to go to therapy and take some medicine. Oh no. Pills. This thing would be hard to swallow. Literally. It’s been about a year since I started taking medications and therapy for my OCD. I’ve had some terrible days, but overall, I’ve seen incredible improvement. I can finally get out of a room without believing something bad will happen. Without having obsessive thoughts all day and night, and without having to act on every compulsion I feel coming. My new challenge is college. I now feel capable of getting through these next few years and every mishap imaginable. I can do more than I ever knew possible. Moments like this are scary, especially because we can never know what will happen. But that also gives me a sense of hope. I can choose my destiny. I will be able to pursue my goals while living the life I've always dreamed of. Even with OCD. I aspire to be the person I needed when I was younger. I plan to help others in my situation because when you have OCD, it seems like there is no end to the pain. But there is a way out. We all are capable of finding it. I now know my OCD is a part of me, but it will never be me. I will never let it define me again.

“The Key” “I can’t get out,” I said to myself. Why was this happening to me? This has been going on all my life, but never to this extent. I couldn’t get out of the room. My mind wouldn’t let me. It sounds so foolish saying it out loud, but it’s true. I was stuck in an open room. This was the first time I truly realized something was wrong. I realized that I was suffering in silence and needed to speak up. This was not normal. My mind was getting stronger and stronger every day, and making me weaker. This is what undiagnosed OCD looked like for me. This Obsessive Compulsion Disorder is like my own mind-monster. Obsession after obsession. "Your mom will die unless you click your pen four times". "You'll get a heart attack because you didn't wash the dishes thoroughly". "Your cousin will try to commit suicide again". "Your best friends will start self-harming again because of you". It's better to be safe than sorry. Right? Compulsion after compulsion. Do you know how many times I rewrote parts of this specific essay because it didn't feel right? I don't either. It was too many to count. And believe me. I love counting. After the room incident, I felt the need to tell someone. There was a feeling of despair. A feeling of absolute agony that I could not let go of anymore. I needed a hand to help me. Someone I could trust with my darkest secret that I had previously never let into the light. I told my mom. At first, she was very hesitant to believe me, since it sounds ridiculous, I know that. But I also know my mind and my body. This is not just a phase or a cry for attention. This is real and tremendously harmful. She agreed to take me to a psychiatrist. I felt terrified. What if what I was feeling had no cure? Thankfully, my psychiatrist explained everything. She told me that it isn’t completely curable, but she could help me manage it. I needed to go to therapy and take some medicine. Oh no. Pills. This thing would be hard to swallow. Literally. It’s been about a year since I started taking medications and therapy for my OCD. I’ve had some terrible days, but overall, I’ve seen incredible improvement. I can finally get out of a room without believing something bad will happen. Without having obsessive thoughts all day and night, and without having to act on every compulsion I feel coming. My new challenge is college. I now feel capable of getting through these next few years and every mishap imaginable. I can do more than I ever knew possible. Moments like this are scary, especially because we can never know what will happen. But that also gives me a sense of hope. I can choose my destiny. I will be able to pursue my goals while living the life I've always dreamed of. Even with OCD. I aspire to be the person I needed when I was younger. I plan to help others in my situation because when you have OCD, it seems like there is no end to the pain. But there is a way out. We all are capable of finding it. I now know my OCD is a part of me, but it will never be me. I will never let it define me again.

“The Key” “I can’t get out,” I said to myself. Why was this happening to me? This has been going on all my life, but never to this extent. I couldn’t get out of the room. My mind wouldn’t let me. It sounds so foolish saying it out loud, but it’s true. I was stuck in an open room. This was the first time I truly realized something was wrong. I realized that I was suffering in silence and needed to speak up. This was not normal. My mind was getting stronger and stronger every day, and making me weaker. This is what undiagnosed OCD looked like for me. This Obsessive Compulsion Disorder is like my own mind-monster. Obsession after obsession. "Your mom will die unless you click your pen four times". "You'll get a heart attack because you didn't wash the dishes thoroughly". "Your cousin will try to commit suicide again". "Your best friends will start self-harming again because of you". It's better to be safe than sorry. Right? Compulsion after compulsion. Do you know how many times I rewrote parts of this specific essay because it didn't feel right? I don't either. It was too many to count. And believe me. I love counting. After the room incident, I felt the need to tell someone. There was a feeling of despair. A feeling of absolute agony that I could not let go of anymore. I needed a hand to help me. Someone I could trust with my darkest secret that I had previously never let into the light. I told my mom. At first, she was very hesitant to believe me, since it sounds ridiculous, I know that. But I also know my mind and my body. This is not just a phase or a cry for attention. This is real and tremendously harmful. She agreed to take me to a psychiatrist. I felt terrified. What if what I was feeling had no cure? Thankfully, my psychiatrist explained everything. She told me that it isn’t completely curable, but she could help me manage it. I needed to go to therapy and take some medicine. Oh no. Pills. This thing would be hard to swallow. Literally. It’s been about a year since I started taking medications and therapy for my OCD. I’ve had some terrible days, but overall, I’ve seen incredible improvement. I can finally get out of a room without believing something bad will happen. Without having obsessive thoughts all day and night, and without having to act on every compulsion I feel coming. My new challenge is college. I now feel capable of getting through these next few years and every mishap imaginable. I can do more than I ever knew possible. Moments like this are scary, especially because we can never know what will happen. But that also gives me a sense of hope. I can choose my destiny. I will be able to pursue my goals while living the life I've always dreamed of. Even with OCD. I aspire to be the person I needed when I was younger. I plan to help others in my situation because when you have OCD, it seems like there is no end to the pain. But there is a way out. We all are capable of finding it. I now know my OCD is a part of me, but it will never be me. I will never let it define me again.

“The Key” “I can’t get out,” I said to myself. Why was this happening to me? This has been going on all my life, but never to this extent. I couldn’t get out of the room. My mind wouldn’t let me. It sounds so foolish saying it out loud, but it’s true. I was stuck in an open room. This was the first time I truly realized something was wrong. I realized that I was suffering in silence and needed to speak up. This was not normal. My mind was getting stronger and stronger every day, and making me weaker. This is what undiagnosed OCD looked like for me. This Obsessive Compulsion Disorder is like my own mind-monster. Obsession after obsession. "Your mom will die unless you click your pen four times". "You'll get a heart attack because you didn't wash the dishes thoroughly". "Your cousin will try to commit suicide again". "Your best friends will start self-harming again because of you". It's better to be safe than sorry. Right? Compulsion after compulsion. Do you know how many times I rewrote parts of this specific essay because it didn't feel right? I don't either. It was too many to count. And believe me. I love counting. After the room incident, I felt the need to tell someone. There was a feeling of despair. A feeling of absolute agony that I could not let go of anymore. I needed a hand to help me. Someone I could trust with my darkest secret that I had previously never let into the light. I told my mom. At first, she was very hesitant to believe me, since it sounds ridiculous, I know that. But I also know my mind and my body. This is not just a phase or a cry for attention. This is real and tremendously harmful. She agreed to take me to a psychiatrist. I felt terrified. What if what I was feeling had no cure? Thankfully, my psychiatrist explained everything. She told me that it isn’t completely curable, but she could help me manage it. I needed to go to therapy and take some medicine. Oh no. Pills. This thing would be hard to swallow. Literally. It’s been about a year since I started taking medications and therapy for my OCD. I’ve had some terrible days, but overall, I’ve seen incredible improvement. I can finally get out of a room without believing something bad will happen. Without having obsessive thoughts all day and night, and without having to act on every compulsion I feel coming. My new challenge is college. I now feel capable of getting through these next few years and every mishap imaginable. I can do more than I ever knew possible. Moments like this are scary, especially because we can never know what will happen. But that also gives me a sense of hope. I can choose my destiny. I will be able to pursue my goals while living the life I've always dreamed of. Even with OCD. I aspire to be the person I needed when I was younger. I plan to help others in my situation because when you have OCD, it seems like there is no end to the pain. But there is a way out. We all are capable of finding it. I now know my OCD is a part of me, but it will never be me. I will never let it define me again.

“The Key” “I can’t get out,” I said to myself. Why was this happening to me? This has been going on all my life, but never to this extent. I couldn’t get out of the room. My mind wouldn’t let me. It sounds so foolish saying it out loud, but it’s true. I was stuck in an open room. This was the first time I truly realized something was wrong. I realized that I was suffering in silence and needed to speak up. This was not normal. My mind was getting stronger and stronger every day, and making me weaker. This is what undiagnosed OCD looked like for me. This Obsessive Compulsion Disorder is like my own mind-monster. Obsession after obsession. "Your mom will die unless you click your pen four times". "You'll get a heart attack because you didn't wash the dishes thoroughly". "Your cousin will try to commit suicide again". "Your best friends will start self-harming again because of you". It's better to be safe than sorry. Right? Compulsion after compulsion. Do you know how many times I rewrote parts of this specific essay because it didn't feel right? I don't either. It was too many to count. And believe me. I love counting. After the room incident, I felt the need to tell someone. There was a feeling of despair. A feeling of absolute agony that I could not let go of anymore. I needed a hand to help me. Someone I could trust with my darkest secret that I had previously never let into the light. I told my mom. At first, she was very hesitant to believe me, since it sounds ridiculous, I know that. But I also know my mind and my body. This is not just a phase or a cry for attention. This is real and tremendously harmful. She agreed to take me to a psychiatrist. I felt terrified. What if what I was feeling had no cure? Thankfully, my psychiatrist explained everything. She told me that it isn’t completely curable, but she could help me manage it. I needed to go to therapy and take some medicine. Oh no. Pills. This thing would be hard to swallow. Literally. It’s been about a year since I started taking medications and therapy for my OCD. I’ve had some terrible days, but overall, I’ve seen incredible improvement. I can finally get out of a room without believing something bad will happen. Without having obsessive thoughts all day and night, and without having to act on every compulsion I feel coming. My new challenge is college. I now feel capable of getting through these next few years and every mishap imaginable. I can do more than I ever knew possible. Moments like this are scary, especially because we can never know what will happen. But that also gives me a sense of hope. I can choose my destiny. I will be able to pursue my goals while living the life I've always dreamed of. Even with OCD. I aspire to be the person I needed when I was younger. I plan to help others in my situation because when you have OCD, it seems like there is no end to the pain. But there is a way out. We all are capable of finding it. I now know my OCD is a part of me, but it will never be me. I will never let it define me again.

“The Key” “I can’t get out,” I said to myself. Why was this happening to me? This has been going on all my life, but never to this extent. I couldn’t get out of the room. My mind wouldn’t let me. It sounds so foolish saying it out loud, but it’s true. I was stuck in an open room. This was the first time I truly realized something was wrong. I realized that I was suffering in silence and needed to speak up. This was not normal. My mind was getting stronger and stronger every day, and making me weaker. This is what undiagnosed OCD looked like for me. This Obsessive Compulsion Disorder is like my own mind-monster. Obsession after obsession. "Your mom will die unless you click your pen four times". "You'll get a heart attack because you didn't wash the dishes thoroughly". "Your cousin will try to commit suicide again". "Your best friends will start self-harming again because of you". It's better to be safe than sorry. Right? Compulsion after compulsion. Do you know how many times I rewrote parts of this specific essay because it didn't feel right? I don't either. It was too many to count. And believe me. I love counting. After the room incident, I felt the need to tell someone. There was a feeling of despair. A feeling of absolute agony that I could not let go of anymore. I needed a hand to help me. Someone I could trust with my darkest secret that I had previously never let into the light. I told my mom. At first, she was very hesitant to believe me, since it sounds ridiculous, I know that. But I also know my mind and my body. This is not just a phase or a cry for attention. This is real, and tremendously harmful. She agreed to take me to a psychiatrist. I felt terrified. What if what I was feeling had no cure? Thankfully, my psychiatrist explained everything. She told me that it isn’t completely curable, but she could help me manage it. I needed to go to therapy and take some medicine. Oh no. Pills. This thing would be hard to swallow. Literally. It’s been about a year since I started taking medications and therapy for my OCD. I’ve had some terrible days, but overall, I’ve seen incredible improvement. I can finally get out of a room without believing something bad will happen. Without having obsessive thoughts all day and night, and without having to act on every compulsion I feel coming. My new challenge is college. I now feel capable of getting through these next few years and every mishap imaginable. I am able to do more than I ever knew possible. Moments like this are scary, especially because we can never know what will happen. But that also gives me a sense of hope. I can choose my own destiny. I will be able to pursuit my goals while living a life I've always dreamed of. Even with OCD. I now know my OCD is a part of me, but it will never be me. It will never define me.

An 18-year-old Mexican girl being admitted to a college in the United States has never been something I've heard of growing up. I've been told many times that applying is illogical. As of 2021, 4.6% of college students were international students. 4.6%. Why would I get accepted? Being different is exactly why. Being different is how I can make an impact. Being different gives me an entirely new perspective on life that cannot be replicated. That is why creating and being a part of a community of diverse students is very important to me. By learning and listening to what other people have to offer, we learn about ourselves. This whole experience can lead us to be better students, better friends, and better people. Learning about what the US has to offer has been a fantastic opportunity. It has given me insight into what my future world can be like. Even if there are only 4.6% of international students, I've learned that the world wants to continue growing. The world needs to be a diverse, loving place for all of us. Learning about how students experience college has made me realize this is the path for me. The world is ready for change, and so am I. I want to be part of that change. I've been lucky enough to be able to learn English as my second language. Even when I'm faced with challenges such as not being able to remember a word that I know in my native language, or messing up because of my accent, I'm still here, and willing to learn from my mistakes. After all, no one is perfect. We're all learning every single day. What do I want to learn? I've slowly come to the realization that Art is the path for me. So, why did I decide to start a career in the arts? Art is a beautiful mix that creates a genuine experience. For me, art is like my best friend. So for me to be able to attend a fine arts program that combines multiple practices, is like a dream come true. That is what makes college special for me.  I've never been a one-practice kind of girl. I've always been completely immersed in a multitude of hobbies and passions. Ranging from voice acting to sewing, drawing, painting, and theater, having a broad range of education makes a person like myself feel completely fulfilled. Not only that, but being able to hear distinct stories from people I meet — whether they are friends, family, or strangers— paves the way to show students like myself how they can combine their passions and create a road that is unique to themselves. Art has made me the person I am today. Without art, the world would be incomplete. I'll always wisely remember a quote from one of my favorite films: "No matter what anybody tells you. Words and ideas can change the world." -Robin Williams (Dead Poets Society).

My loss is not conventional. My loss is something that has caused me tremendous pain in a way I could have never foreseen. I lost my dad, and he is still alive. Let me explain. My parents' divorce has always brought hardships. The usual. Fights, screaming, crying, blaming the other parent for everything and anything imaginable. But these past few years have been suffocating. I sat in a room. A courtroom. My parents separated when I was nine. Yet here I sat. Seventeen years old and still facing the consequences of their marriage. It’s tough to think about how, sometimes, the most important people in your life hurt you the most. He had refused to sign my passport. He wanted control. I’ve always known it, but deep down, I wanted to believe he cared more about me than he did about using me. Hmm. Now I know I was wrong. I was kept in the room talking to a judge, the lawyers, and a children's psychologist, trying to convince them all about why I needed my passport. I suddenly stopped. I tried to contain my tears. Why am I fighting for MY passport, when I could be in school? Shouldn’t I be enjoying my teenage years instead of spending them away at court? After what seemed like hours, we finished talking. They finally agreed I could have my passport without the approval of my dad. I was happy, but I was also so tired. Tired of fighting. My dad also called the police on me once for not wanting to see him. That was a very defining moment in my life. It made me realize that I did not deserve this treatment, and I did not want to see him from that moment onwards. I am currently estranged from my father. I am mourning the loss of a constant in my life I never knew I could lose this way. People try to prepare you for moments of sorrow, but some moments can't be explained. This was unfortunately one of them. Nonetheless, every despairing experience comes with a lesson to learn. My hope was stronger than I thought. If I could go to court and still be able to bloom, I can get through anything. If I can keep going even though the wind keeps pushing me backwards, then I can do more than I could have ever imagined. Even if I’m stuck in a courtroom. We all deserve a chance to go to college, to travel, to pick ourselves up and asking for a hand when needed. We all deserve to smile genuinely. I want to be the best version of myself I can be, to make the world a little brighter. After all, hardships are always needed to appreciate all the good that's still here.

“The Key” “I can’t get out.” I said to myself. Why was this happening to me? This has been going on all my life, but never to this extent. I couldn’t get out of the room. My mind wouldn’t let me. It sounds so foolish saying it out loud, but it’s true. I was stuck in an open room. This was the first time I truly realized something was wrong. I realized that I was suffering in silence and needed to speak up. This was not normal. My mind was getting stronger and stronger every day, and making me weaker. This is what undiagnosed OCD looked like for me. This Obsessive Compulsion Disorder is like my own mind-monster. Obsession after obsession. "Your mom will die. Unless you click your pen four times". "You'll get a heart attack because you didn't wash the dishes thoroughly". "Your cousin will try to commit suicide again". "Your best friends will start self-harming again because of you". It's better to be safe than sorry. Right? Compulsion after compulsion. Do you know how many times I rewrote parts of this specific essay because it didn't feel right? I don't either. It was too many to count. And believe me. I love counting. After the room incident, I felt the need to tell someone. There was a feeling of despair. A feeling of absolute agony that I could not let go of anymore. I needed a hand to help me. Someone I could trust with my darkest secret that I had previously never let into the light. I told my mom. At first, she was very hesitant to believe me, since it sounds ridiculous, I know that. But I also know my mind and my body. This is not just a phase or a cry for attention. This is real, and tremendously harmful. She agreed to take me to a psychiatrist. I felt terrified. What if what I was feeling had no cure? Thankfully, my psychiatrist explained everything. She told me how it isn’t completely curable, but she could help me manage it. I needed to go to therapy and take some medicine. Oh no. Pills. This thing would be hard to swallow. Literally. It’s been about a year since I started taking medications and therapy for my OCD. I’ve had some terrible days, but overall, I’ve seen incredible improvement. I can finally get out of a room without believing something bad will happen. Without having obsessive thoughts all day and night, and without having to act on every compulsion I feel coming. I now know my OCD is a part of me, but it will never be me. It will never define me.

Art feels like my best friend. Art is my world and my world is art. Art is there for me when I am miserable. Art is by my side in my greatest accomplishments. Art is subtle, yet loud, and is there when my voice aches, and there are no more words coming out of my mouth. When nothing seems to be right, art sees that. When I am dealing with my greatest pain, art feels that. Art is a three-letter word, yet filled with words in definitions. Art is like my best friend. A best friend that you feel and know is with you every step of the way. Even when you can't seem to see art, art sees you. Art sees right through you. No walls separating your true self from art's soul. Art is you, your best friend, your passion, and your greatest enemy all at the same time. Art is meaningful and meaningless depending on you. Art is special. Art is kind. Art can destroy a human being in the blink of an eye. Art is humans. Art is nature. Art is love. Art is pain. Art is everything and nothing. Art can disappear in a second if not validated properly. Just like a best friend. Art is art. There's no more to it. Seems simple, yet is also estranged from within us since we are kids. Art is everywhere. You just have to see it. Not look, but see. I see art every single day. In every step of the way. In every butterfly, plant, person, season, and space. Art is like my best friend.