When I was a child, I was diagnosed with selective mutism, a severe anxiety disorder that made speaking to anyone outside my parents and sister nearly impossible. Social interactions were terrifying, even with relatives or classmates. People often assumed I was shy or disinterested, but the truth was far more complex. I was deeply aware of the world around me, observing everything in silence. Each day I would return home and recount to my mother every detail I had noticed, from classroom dynamics to small interactions between my peers. She sometimes felt overwhelmed by the amount I remembered, yet she listened, teaching me that my thoughts and observations mattered, even if I could not always speak them aloud. High school became a turning point. I joined the student newspaper, The Purbalite, at Baldwin High School. Writing quickly became my refuge, and soon it became my passion. Taking on an editor role allowed me to report, craft, and shape stories, giving me a sense of agency I had never experienced. Wearing a press pass, I felt unstoppable. For the first time, my words were not just a reflection of my inner world because they were a bridge to the world outside. During my junior year, I covered a vigil honoring victims of violence in our community. Writing this story awakened me to the power of storytelling. The vigil was solemn, yet it united people in grief and reflection. Through my reporting, I was able to give voice to the collective experience of my community. That moment taught me that writing could do more than document events; it could foster understanding, connection, and empathy. In college, I continued this work at The Collegiate Review. My stories ranged from period poverty in rural Pennsylvania to student musicians, DIII swimmers, and Mennonite bakers. Each story, no matter how different, shared a purpose: building community by amplifying voices that might otherwise go unheard. My experiences with mental health shaped this mission. Living in silence taught me how easily voices could be ignored, and it gave me the determination to ensure that no story was overlooked. Now, as a graduate student pursuing an MFA in creative writing, I am taking this work further. Journalism taught me to observe and connect, but creative writing allows me to explore nuance, voice, and emotional depth. I am learning to craft narratives that resonate not only intellectually but emotionally. Mental health shaped this path because it taught me the value of listening, reflection, and empathy all of which are qualities that are central to meaningful storytelling. Mental health has also shaped my relationships. I am attuned to others’ emotions and aware of the power of words and silence. I value authenticity, patience, and trust. I have learned that deep connections are built not through constant conversation but through presence, understanding, and mutual respect. Finally, mental health has shaped my understanding of the world. I know how invisible struggles can be, how easily people are misunderstood or overlooked. This awareness drives my writing. I aim to illuminate experiences that might otherwise remain unseen, to challenge assumptions, and to foster empathy. Writing has become both a tool and a responsibility—a way to bridge gaps between myself, my community, and the larger world. My experience with selective mutism transformed what once felt like a limitation into strength. It shaped my goals, my relationships, and my perspective, teaching me to listen, to observe, and to give voice to others. Storytelling is now my way of connecting, creating community, and contributing to a more empathetic world. Through words, I have found not only my voice but a path to amplify the voices of those around me.

When I was a child, I was diagnosed with a severe anxiety disorder called "selective mutism." In brief: I was such an anxious child I didn't talk to anyone, outside of my parents and my sister. I struggled very deeply with making social relationships with other students, even my grandparents. This didn't make me a stupid child, despite what many assumed about me. I would come home to my mother and tell her all about my day; including every observation I had that day. She describes being, at times, overwhelmed by the amount of information I remembered to tell her. In high school, I joined the student newspaper -- award winning, might I add -- The Purbalite, out of Baldwin High School. Quickly I fell in love with writing, and I even took on an editor position in my short tenure as a high school reporter. Something about putting on my 'press pass' made me feel unstoppable. Despite my fears and anxieties, when I was a journalist, I could do anything. My junior year, I wrote a story about a vigil my school was having to commemorate victims of violence and realized how much I liked the impact of writing about such important topics. Though a sad story, the vigil was a very important way to bring my community together. This work continued for me even after I graduated high school. In college, I did the same on The Collegiate Review. I wrote about everything from period poverty in rural Pennsylvania, to student musicians, to DIII swimmers, to Mennonite bakers. I was after building a strong community, by telling the stories of my people. I was after the connection. Now, as I graduate student, I am getting my MFA in creative writing to further this work. I chose this route, as I already have the tools I need to be an effective journalist; I am looking for the way to expand my own voice and amplify the voices of my community. I know there is a story in every single one of us, it's just a matter of knowing how to tell it. For me, journalism is my superpower. It has become a bridge between me and my community, but it has also made me a much more confident and strong-willed person. It has given me the gall to keep pursuing a good story, and sharing it with the world.

When I was a child, I was diagnosed with a severe anxiety disorder called "selective mutism." In brief: I was such an anxious child I didn't talk to anyone, outside of my parents and my sister. I struggled very deeply with making social relationships with other students, even my grandparents. This didn't make me a stupid child, despite what many assumed about me. I would come home to my mother and tell her all about my day; including every observation I had that day. She describes being, at times, overwhelmed by the amount of information I remembered to tell her. In high school, I joined the student newspaper -- award winning, might I add -- The Purbalite, out of Baldwin High School. Quickly I fell in love with writing, and I even took on an editor position in my short tenure as a high school reporter. Something about putting on my 'press pass' made me feel unstoppable. Despite my fears and anxieties, when I was a journalist, I could do anything. My junior year, I wrote a story about a vigil my school was having to commemorate victims of violence and realized how much I liked the impact of writing about such important topics. Though a sad story, the vigil was a very important way to bring my community together. This work continued for me even after I graduated high school. In college, I did the same on The Collegiate Review. I wrote about everything from period poverty in rural Pennsylvania, to student musicians, to DIII swimmers, to Mennonite bakers. I was after building a strong community, by telling the stories of my people. I was after the connection. Now, as I graduate student, I am getting my MFA in creative writing to further this work. I chose this route, as I already have the tools I need to be an effective journalist; I am looking for the way to expand my own voice and amplify the voices of my community. I know there is a story in every single one of us, it's just a matter of knowing how to tell it. For me, journalism is my superpower. It has become a bridge between me and my community, but it has also made me a much more confident and strong-willed person. It has given me the gall to keep pursuing a good story, and sharing it with the world.

Meaningful relationships often shape not only how we understand others, but also how we come to understand ourselves. One of the most formative relationships in my life has been with my friend and college roommate, Rivka. As my first true friend and someone whose personality contrasted sharply with my own, Rivka played a pivotal role in shaping my identity and the way I approach connection. Through her warmth and outgoing nature, she helped me grow beyond both my natural introversion and the challenges of selective mutism, becoming more confident in engaging with others. When I first met Rivka, I was not only quiet by temperament but also navigating the constraints of selective mutism, an anxiety disorder that made speaking in certain social situations extremely difficult. I often found comfort in observation rather than participation, unsure of how to initiate conversations or respond when others engaged me. Rivka, in contrast, was effortlessly extroverted. She was animated, approachable, and naturally drew people toward her. Her ability to connect with others seemed instinctive, something I admired but struggled to imagine for myself. Despite these differences, she became my first real friend, and that connection would prove to be transformative. What made Rivka’s influence so significant was her ability to include others with genuine enthusiasm and patience. From the beginning, she approached our friendship with openness, never interpreting my quietness as disinterest. Instead, she created a space where I felt seen and valued without the immediate expectation of verbal response. She invited me into conversations, introduced me to new people, and gently encouraged my participation. Importantly, she did so without pressure, allowing me to engage at my own pace while consistently reinforcing that my presence mattered. Living together in college further deepened this dynamic. As roommates, we shared daily routines and social experiences that gradually reshaped my understanding of connection. I observed how Rivka navigated social environments with ease, initiating conversations and forming relationships with confidence. At the same time, she remained attentive to my comfort level, often acting as a bridge between me and others. In group settings, she would naturally include me, giving me opportunities to contribute without placing me in overwhelming situations. With her support, I began to take small but meaningful steps outside of my comfort zone. For someone with selective mutism, these steps were significant. Speaking in a group, responding to a question, or initiating a brief conversation required both preparation and courage. Encouraged by Rivka’s consistent reassurance, I started to engage more actively. Over time, I began to recognize that my voice, though difficult to access at times, was still my own to develop and use. The contrast between our personalities became a source of balance rather than tension. Rivka’s energy and enthusiasm brought movement and expansion into my life, while my more reflective nature offered depth and attentiveness within our friendship. For me, it meant understanding that growth did not require abandoning my introversion or overcoming selective mutism all at once. Instead, it involved gradual progress, supported by trust and consistency. Rivka’s influence extends beyond my personal development into the way I now approach relationships with others. Having experienced the challenges of selective mutism, I am particularly aware of how difficult it can be to speak or engage in unfamiliar environments. As a result, I strive to create spaces where others feel comfortable participating in ways that suit them. I have come to appreciate that confidence in social settings is often cultivated through support rather than expectation. Rivka’s approach demonstrated that meaningful connections are built through patience, encouragement, and genuine interest. I now aim to embody these qualities in my own interactions, recognizing that small gestures of inclusion can have a lasting impact. Reflecting on this relationship, it is clear that Rivka’s influence on my life has been profound. She was not only my first friend, but also a catalyst for growth and self-discovery. Through her, I learned that my voice, even when difficult to express, has value. I also learned that connection does not require perfection, but rather a willingness to try, supported by those who believe in you. Rivka taught me that relationships have the power to reshape how we see ourselves. Her outgoing and bubbly nature did more than draw me into social spaces; it helped me navigate the challenges of selective mutism and recognize my own capacity for connection. The person I am today, more confident, more open, and more willing to engage, is a direct reflection of the friendship we built.

Silence, for much of my early life, was not a choice but a condition. Living with selective mutism meant that my thoughts remained largely unspoken in public spaces. Classrooms, in particular, became environments of quiet contradiction: while I engaged deeply with ideas internally, my participation was constrained by an anxiety that rendered speech nearly inaccessible. Yet within this silence, I discovered an alternative mode of expression that would ultimately shape both my academic trajectory and my sense of self: writing. Writing began as a necessity. When verbal communication felt unattainable, the page offered a space where language could emerge without fear. Over time, however, it evolved into something more deliberate and powerful. Through writing, I was not only able to communicate but also to refine my thinking, construct arguments, and explore identity. This transformation became especially significant during my involvement with my school’s newspaper, where I moved from a hesitant contributor to an active editor. Joining the newspaper staff initially felt paradoxical. Journalism, by its nature, is collaborative and often requires direct communication such as interviewing sources, participating in editorial meetings, and engaging in dialogue about content and direction. These expectations directly challenged the limitations imposed by my selective mutism. However, the written dimension of the work provided an entry point. I began by contributing articles, carefully crafting language that conveyed clarity and purpose. In doing so, I gained confidence not only in my technical abilities but also in my capacity to contribute meaningfully to a shared intellectual endeavor. As I assumed greater responsibility within the newspaper, eventually serving in an editorial role, writing became a bridge between isolation and participation. Editing required me to engage with the voices of others—to interpret, critique, and support their work. While verbal communication remained difficult, I developed strategies for collaboration that relied on written feedback, structured notes, and deliberate preparation. Gradually, these practices extended into spoken interactions. Editorial discussions that once felt overwhelming became more manageable as I learned to translate the confidence I possessed on the page into moments of speech. This progression illustrates a central insight: writing did not merely compensate for my inability to speak; it actively facilitated my ability to do so. By strengthening my command of language in written form, I developed a sense of authority over my ideas that began to transcend medium. The act of articulating thoughts on paper made it easier, over time, to articulate them aloud. In this way, writing functioned not only as expression but also as intervention and an instrument through which I could confront and gradually overcome the constraints of selective mutism. My undergraduate studies further deepened this relationship with writing. Engaging with literature and critical theory allowed me to situate my personal experiences within broader intellectual and cultural frameworks. I became increasingly interested in the ways language shapes perception and how narrative can both reflect and transform lived experience. Writing, for me, was no longer solely a means of communication; it had become an object of study and a craft to be honed with intention. Despite this growing commitment, I recognized at the conclusion of my undergraduate education that I was not yet ready to fully realize my potential as a writer. Rather than immediately pursuing graduate study, I chose to take a gap year. This was an intentional decision that reflects both self-awareness and dedication to my craft. This period is not a pause in my academic journey but an extension of it. It provides the necessary space to write extensively, read critically, and engage with the discipline of creative practice outside the constraints of formal coursework. During this, I have approached writing with the same rigor that characterized my academic work. I have developed a structured writing routine, sought out feedback, and immersed myself in diverse literary forms. This deliberate practice underscores my commitment to pursuing a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. I am not drawn to the MFA as a continuation of education in the abstract, but as a focused opportunity to refine my voice, engage with a community of writers, and contribute to the field in a meaningful way. The decision to pursue an MFA is deeply connected to my experience with selective mutism. Having come to writing through necessity, I understand its transformative potential in a way that is both personal and intellectual. Writing enabled me to navigate a world in which my voice initially felt inaccessible; it provided a means of agency, identity, and connection. Now, as I seek to advance my study of creative writing, I am motivated by a desire to explore how language can continue to serve these functions—not only for myself but for others who may similarly struggle to be heard. In this sense, my commitment to writing is not merely professional but also philosophical. I am interested in the intersection of language, silence, and expression -- how absence can shape presence, and how constraints can generate creativity. These questions inform both my creative work and my academic interests, positioning me to engage deeply with the demands of an MFA program. Ultimately, my journey from selective mutism to active participation in a writing community reflects a broader narrative of transformation. It is a testament to the capacity of writing to bridge gaps not only between individuals, but within the self. The silence that once defined my experience has not disappeared entirely, but it has been recontextualized. It is no longer a barrier, but a foundation upon which I have built a voice that is deliberate, resilient, and continually evolving. Pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing represents the next step in this ongoing process. It is an opportunity to further develop the craft that has shaped my identity and to engage with writing as both an art form and a means of connection. My path has not been linear, but it has been intentional and it is this intention, grounded in both experience and commitment, that I bring to the study of creative writing.

When I was a child, I was diagnosed with a severe anxiety disorder called "selective mutism." In brief: I was such an anxious child I didn't talk to anyone, outside of my parents and my sister. I struggled very deeply with making social relationships with other students, even my grandparents. This didn't make me a stupid child, despite what many assumed about me. I would come home to my mother and tell her all about my day; including every observation I had that day. She describes being, at times, overwhelmed by the amount of information I remembered to tell her. In high school, I joined the student newspaper -- award winning, might I add -- The Purbalite, out of Baldwin High School. Quickly I fell in love with writing, and I even took on an editor position in my short tenure as a high school reporter. Something about putting on my 'press pass' made me feel unstoppable. Despite my fears and anxieties, when I was a journalist, I could do anything. My junior year, I wrote a story about a vigil my school was having to commemorate victims of violence and realized how much I liked the impact of writing about such important topics. Though a sad story, the vigil was a very important way to bring my community together. This work continued for me even after I graduated high school. In college, I did the same on The Collegiate Review. I wrote about everything from period poverty in rural Pennsylvania, to student musicians, to DIII swimmers, to Mennonite bakers. I was after building a strong community, by telling the stories of my people. I was after the connection. Now, as I graduate student, I am getting my MFA in creative writing to further this work. I chose this route, as I already have the tools I need to be an effective journalist; I am looking for the way to expand my own voice and amplify the voices of my community. I know there is a story in every single one of us, it's just a matter of knowing how to tell it. For me, journalism is my superpower. It has become a bridge between me and my community, but it has also made me a much more confident and strong-willed person. It has given me the gall to keep pursuing a good story, and sharing it with the world.