When asked, “How are you?” people may say, “I’m good”—but this is often a reflex. Millions of people struggle with mental health issues, including me, but after realizing my passion for the field, I am no longer silent. When I was six years old, I choked on food and had my first panic attack. From that moment, I swore that I would not eat because it was “dangerous.” In the next few months, I was hospitalized, went to multiple therapists, and lived off of nutrition drinks. Everyone around me was worried, but I felt no one could understand the impact of my anxiety. It was my fourth therapist, Linda, that changed everything. I am forever grateful for her talking with me, eating lunch with me, and being present with me. If it were not for her support, I may have starved to death. I wondered if other people had anxiety or mental health issues like me, and as I grew up, I noticed it all. I saw friends with scars of self-harm. I saw teachers take mental health leaves. I saw news headlines about suicide. As I became more cognizant, I decided to dedicate my life to understanding why our brains worked against us. I wanted to be someone’s “Linda.” With that being said, I know that I belong in the mental health field, and paired with my love for science, I plan on becoming a psychiatrist. The contribution of this scholarship would help me move toward dedicating my life to helping people who feel misunderstood the same way I felt. Being introduced to this issue at a young age fueled fire in my heart, and my passion burns brightest when I am volunteering for the Crisis Text Line. I began counseling for CTL in May 2022, and I can confidently say that I have solidified my dream career and, more importantly, made a difference in the lives of others. I am not qualified to give advice or administer therapy, but what I can do is be present for those in crisis. Whether about a fight with a friend or an abusive parent, I have the proper training to calm a situation and provide resources. Even though I cannot see the faces of the people I text, I know that my volunteering changes lives. I remember my first experience with a suicidal texter; my nerves grew as they cussed at me, but I realized they were likely just as scared as I was. let the texter lead and air out whatever they need to talk about and told them there is no shame in admitting they wanted to end their life. With these few words, a wave of change came in the texter’s voice. This simple validation made the texter extremely thankful and calm, and I was able to work with them to make a safety plan. After the conversation, I got an anonymous "thank you" note. I began to cry while reading it. The texter may have ended up ending their life that night if it were not for my words. Because of CTL, I am even more open about my struggles and actively trying to crush the stigma of mental health in my community. I check in on the people I may not be friends with. I advocate for mental health awareness as the wellness chair of my sorority. CTL has taught me that there is no emotion to be ashamed of. Everyone deserves an outlet to air their struggles, and I am grateful for becoming the outlet for over two hundred people in less than a year.

Childhood Memories (Inspired by a Still Life of Soda and Pizza) Tsss. Giggling girls sitting at the TV. We watched as the couple kissed And cried when the story ended. This fantasy world is nice. Tsss. Grabbing pizza before it gets cold. We can’t fit any more in our 12 year old tummies, full of sweets But yearn for one more bite. One more moment of melty, gooey joy. Tsss. The brothers race downstairs To steal away our magic box. We strike back with cheese balls And must clean up our “horrendous mess.” Tsss. It’s almost midnight. We were told “lights out at eleven” But continue chatting with hushed voices. We confess deep dark secrets And our favorite Harry Potter books. Tsss. One day, we will toast champagne, Well past midnight, as late as we want. All together at each other’s weddings. At housewarmings and promotion parties. Tsss. Today, we toast to lemon-lime soda. We toast to movie nights at Megan’s, To sixth grade ending, To futures we cannot fathom, To this fantasy world. Tsss.

“Puppy!” I squealed at my phone as my mom turned the camera to Eli. It didn’t matter that he was an adult—I never stopped calling him “puppy.” I saw him tilt his head at my high-pitched voice, showing he recognized the sound. In my rough first semester of college, FaceTime with my parents was a Sunday tradition, but I always checked in on my best friend, Eli. I knew Eli was a special dog from the moment I met him. My family always had boxers, but from my late great-grandmother’s advice, we decided to get a small dog this time. Eli was a puppy when I met him, and even though he was the size of a boxer's head, he wouldn’t grow much. Eli looked like a teddy bear. He ran over to me, his tiny tail wagging to the point that his entire bottom shook. The breeder talked to my dad while I met my new friend, and I remember hearing the strangest thing: His name was Elliot, and he was a small dog born on June fifth. Given that my great-grandmother was named Elinor and passed on June fifth of that year, we couldn’t ignore the sign. This dog was almost like a gift from her--a little angel. Eli’s angelic nature rubbed off on everyone around him. Every time I cried, even if I were silent, he would drop whatever he was chewing on and curl up next to me. Wherever we took him, he would make friends with the people and dogs he passed. During Christmastime, he would come to visit family and sit with my great grandfather–Eli especially loved napping on his lap. He was always there to put a smile on my face, and even when he got cancer, he never changed. I can still remember my dad bringing Eli to pick me up for fall break. My first semester at Villanova felt very lonely, especially without my teddy bear. I expected this reunion to be happier, but when Dad told me that Eli had a lump on his neck, I couldn’t help but cry in the quad. The next few months would be painful for Eli, and knowing I couldn’t be there broke my heart. By spring, he was in remission, but Eli’s lymphoma quickly came back with a vengeance. That summer, I spent as much time as I could savoring moments with him, feeding him whipped cream, and splashing him in the pool to see him run away. He was playful up until the very end. Even though he was dying, he was still “Puppy.” August came, and while one day he was hopping near the fridge, the next day he shuffled and refused to eat. The vet said not much else could be done. Even though I knew this would come, I still didn’t think I’d let him go that soon. The day we put him down, August eleventh, was the first anniversary of the day my great grandfather passed. It felt like another sign. Eli was in pain, but seeing him asleep on the table, I could tell he was home. Even though he lived a short life, Eli taught me what it means to be a best friend. He was there for me when I went through some of my hardest times. Regardless of if he could talk to me, he knew when I needed a friend. I’ll never forget how much he means to me, and while I start my next chapter without him, I’ll keep his pawprints on my heart through the whole book of life.