I found God in the Sistine Chapel when I was 15. But then, it is easy to notice anything when it is shrouded with gold leaf, centered on the ceiling, and a tour guide -with an entourage of pointing tourists- is telling you exactly where to look. Staring up at "The Creation of Adam," I felt a pang of yearning like an alarm bell telling my soul why it had felt so empty for so long. Within a month I was baptized in a Connecticut river that, humorously boasting the artistic abilities of our God, was seconds later flooded with the swooping flight of hundreds of wild white geese. Glamorous as this introduction was, my walk with Jesus has been anything but, and the stained-glass beauty that drew me in would be a test of what truly sustained me when I felt that no light shone. That day Jesus was calling, and who was I to ignore my own artist? I had a small group of friends then that -I now know- benefited from my insecurity, passivity, and people-pleasing ways. I also had a boyfriend who was aggressively eager to grow up, who lusted after a body that was anorexic and sick, and that I was all too willing to maintain if it meant I would feel seen. When I no longer felt the need to head their desires and please those who claimed to love me but had no identity in the Author of love itself, I lost them all. And with all this loss and in ignorance of my Father’s plan, even my sense of identity seemed to strip away. I became angry; my relationship with my family dwindled as I became a revolving door of sadness and hostility. For years, fear of additional loss gave way to anxiety, and loneliness bred a depression in me so intense that I made plans to take my life. This suicide attempt -146 miles from my house in a cheap Pennsylvania hotel- resulted in a night of angry prayer and half-hearted promises. I bargained with Christ, begging that if He could make me feel better, I would be His most devout disciple. Momentary peace, however, did little to sustain me as the remnants of His unfinished work began to play out. Depression would slowly creep back in and -feeling betrayed- I would turn to medications. Within a week, the artificial solution would cause a seizure that left me hospitalized, and the panic attacks that followed in the next three months would erase all the worldly progress I believed I made. Blind to these blessings, I returned to Jesus, my last resort, with complete surrender. I declared that my life was no longer my own. In that instant my Father searched my heart and began His good work. And things. Got. Serious. I saw that I became less so He could become greater; when I felt reduced to the hollowest version of myself, God filled the emptiness with His word and ultimate love. I was seen. I came to see that Jesus was with me when he removed me from temptation; friends on a path to substance abuse were lost, and an unequally yoked boyfriend moved on. Jesus was my company when I believed I stood alone, holding up my arms as they took up the cross daily, not always knowing why or for what. My Savior was there holding back my hand when it shakily held the blade. He was in every small coincidence that saved my life until I realized that He sustained it all along. He was never my last option; He was my only option. In return, my God asked that I have faith, mustard seed-sized and all. No bargaining, no part-time devotion, just seeking Him in all that I do. Since this surrender I’ve watched mountains move. I have friends for the first time in my life who care more about my relationship with Christ than what I can offer them materially. My family and friends are now seeking his kingdom, and our relationships improved. I can discern His word as clear as my own. I am serving, maturing, and learning to see His hand on every situation, good and bad. My path has been made straight, and my anxious mind knows His peace. The confidence that now sustains me in my walk is preparing me to boldly approach His throne. For the rest of my days, this is the God I will worship.

I wish I could say I had one enlightening experience that shifted my perspective, one conversation with a stranger that rendered my medications obsolete and gave me the paradigm shift Ted Talks are made of. My progress recovering from depression and finding self-love was slow. It came on days when I pushed myself to shower or when I could stomach something more than dry toast and hot tea. When I slept less than 14 hours and washed my sheets, when I started humming again and humming turned to singing, and even when I changed from one pair of sweats to another, a small part of me rejoiced. Each day was a milestone. Each day is still a milestone. Though I continue to rearrange my life to accommodate for the sake of mental health, I do so with a gentler agenda. When I think of the world now, and especially my place in it, I understand that my experiences -the lowest and most shameful parts of it that I rarely get to share- allow me to make the deepest connections with those in the thick of overcoming their own version of the illness. So often since I have returned to a healthier state have I been asked how I coped with and took back control of my own mind. It happened when I realized my experiences, difficult as they may have been, were rare and added a genuineness and relatability to my mission to help and love others. I am more empathetic, more patient, and more understanding of those struggling with acceptance than any amount of textbook reading could have prepared me for. I can tell future clients that recovery is attainable because I went ahead of them and prepared a way. I have lived the struggle and have no intention of abandoning anyone in the thick of it. I now hold that each person is endowed with a set of gifts and weaknesses that equip them to fulfill their contributions to mankind. Though the future is unclear, I fervently pursue education for the sake of those who share even a sliver of my story. Mental illness is profoundly misunderstood and far too heavy for many who experience it alone. But when we can share our stories and connect with each other we are far more likely to gain insight that aids our recovery. College not only opens the door to career options in mental health, but introduces students like me to a community where such connections are made possible. No one is meant to go this battle alone, and I intend on being around to make sure I contribute to the cause.

I wish I could say I had one enlightening experience that rendered my medications obsolete and gave me the paradigm shift Ted Talks are made of, but depression eases slowly. Recovery came on days when I pushed myself to shower or when I could stomach something more than dry toast and hot tea. When I slept less than 14 hours and washed my sheets, when I started humming again, then singing, and even when I changed from one pair of sweats to another, a small part of me rejoiced. Each day was a milestone. Each day is still a milestone. Though I continue to rearrange my life to accommodate for the sake of mental health, I do so with a gentler agenda. I understand that my experiences -the lowest and most shameful parts of it- allow me to make the deepest connections with those in the thick of overcoming their own battles. So often since I have returned to a healthier state have I been asked how I coped with and took back control of my own mind. It happened when I realized that difficulty gives way to genuineness. I am more empathetic, more patient, and more understanding of those struggling with mental illness than any amount of textbook reading could have prepared me for. I can tell others confidently that recovery is attainable because I went ahead of them and prepared a way. I have lived the struggle and have no intention of abandoning anyone in the thick of it. I fervently pursue education for the sake of those who share my story. Mental illness is profoundly misunderstood and far too heavy for many who experience it alone. Sharing our stories and connecting with each other makes us far more likely to gain insight that aids our recovery. College not only opens the door to career options in mental health, but introduces students like me to a community where such connections -offering support- are made possible. No one is meant to go this battle alone, and I intend on being around to make sure I contribute to the cause.

About 146 miles from my small industrial town in South Jersey, an Econo Lodge in Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania held my 11:30am reservation where I planned my suicide. Non-smoking, pet-friendly, two queen beds. It was mid September and I had been battling an especially aggressive bout of depression for a couple months. That morning I was scheduled to work my minimum wage food service job at a county zoo and never showed. In fact, I would never be seen by my coworkers or employers again. The drive to work, normally 55 minutes without shore traffic, was cut short when I made the first impulsive decision of my life by pulling to the side of the road and deciding I would rather die than live the way I was living any more. Within an hour I was back home with a packed bag, my dog, a reservation, and a less-than-perfect plan. So I left. The isolating nature of depression meant that I didn't have notes to leave behind. Shame, coupled with the realization that I had become the angry downer of my group, kept me from accepting offers that eventually stopped coming altogether. A series of very fortunate happenings on the road and on a hiking trail in Ricketts Glen State Park would have rendered notes useless regardless, and for about a month after the suicide mission turned road trip, I truly felt better. Back home I got a new job that I was passionate about, I repaired friendships, I was serving at church, and I reregistered for school. I was ambitious again. I was me. However, depression would feign to anxiety, and in just over a month I would be hospitalized for the first panic attack of my life. An MRI, EEG, and CT scan would reveal that rather than some hidden tumor, some rare and mischievous disease, a thing wrong with my blood or the rupture of an intestine or necrosis of some organ, I was sick with something invisible to everyone. Back at square one with a new set of symptoms I thought it couldn't get any worse. And then came the medications. I was a revolving door cycling through bursts of irrational anger and grief, excessive energy and lethargy, and weight changes that tossed my athletic frame between severe malnutrition and states of overweight. In a family of petit women with an excess of nothing, I felt like an embarrassment. I stood out at gatherings -when I had the energy to show up- and I no longer looked like everyone else. I certainly didn't feel like everyone else. I got the sense my own family feared me; it was anyone's best guess what circumstances would bring about an outburst. Life was equal parts isolation and alienation. Around this time, school felt out of reach again. My dream to advocate for victims of trauma in the criminal justice system was shattered by the reality that I had no grasp on my own circumstances. I had aspirations of leading, teaching, and using my sensitivity to deliver therapy to the outcasts and forgotten members of society. Anxiety and depression took my freedom, my social life, and my future. I was now directionless and alone with a completely hopeless outlook on the world and those who walked among it with ease. I wish I could say I had one enlightening experience that shifted my perspective, one conversation with a stranger that rendered my medications obsolete and gave me the paradigm shift Ted Talks are made of. My progress was slow. It came on days when I pushed myself to shower or when I could stomach something more than dry toast and hot tea. When I slept less than 14 hours and washed my sheets, when I started humming again and humming turned to singing, and even when I changed from one pair of sweats to another a small part of me rejoiced. Each day was a milestone. Each day is still a milestone. Though I continue to rearrange my life to accommodate for the sake of mental health, I do so with a gentler agenda. When I think of the world now, and especially my place in it, I understand that my experiences -the lowest and most shameful parts of it that I rarely get to share- allow me to make the deepest connections with those in the thick of overcoming their own version of the illness. So often since I have returned to a healthier state have I been asked how I coped with and took back control of my own mind. It happened when I realized my experiences, difficult as they may have been, were rare and added a genuineness and relatability to my mission to help others; they gave me something to offer. I am more empathetic, more patient, and more understanding of those struggling with mental illness than any amount of textbook reading could have prepared me for. I can tell future clients that recovery is attainable because I went ahead of them and prepared a way. I have lived the struggle and have no intention of abandoning anyone in the thick of it. I now hold that each person is endowed with a set of gifts and weaknesses that equip them to fulfill their contributions to mankind. Though advocacy may or may not be in my future, I fervently pursue education for the sake of those who share even a sliver of my story. Mental illness is profoundly misunderstood and far too heavy for many who experience it alone. But when we can share our stories and connect with each other we are far more likely to gain insight that aids our recovery. College not only opens the door to career options in mental health, but introduces students like me to a community where such connections are made possible. No one is meant to go this battle alone, and I intend on being around to make sure I contribute to the cause.

About 146 miles from my small industrial town in South Jersey, an Econo Lodge in Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania held my 11:30am reservation where I planned my suicide. Non-smoking, pet-friendly, two queen beds. It was mid September and I had been battling an especially aggressive bout of depression for a couple months. That morning I was scheduled to work my minimum wage food service job at a county zoo and never showed. In fact, I would never be seen by my coworkers or employers again. The drive to work, normally 55 minutes without shore traffic, was cut short when I made the first impulsive decision of my life by pulling to the side of the road and deciding I would rather die than live the way I was living any more. Within an hour I was back home with a packed bag, my dog, a reservation, and a less-than-perfect plan. So I left. The isolating nature of depression meant that I didn't have notes to leave behind. Shame, coupled with the realization that I had become the angry downer of my group, kept me from accepting offers that eventually stopped coming altogether. A series of very fortunate happenings on the road and on a hiking trail in Ricketts Glen State Park would have rendered notes useless regardless, and for about a month after the suicide mission turned road trip, I truly felt better. Back home I got a new job that I was passionate about, I repaired the friendships I ruined, I was serving at church, and I reregistered for school. I was ambitious again. I was me. However, depression would feign to anxiety, and in just over a month I would be hospitalized for the first panic attack of my life. An MRI, EEG, and CT scan would reveal that rather than some hidden tumor, some rare and mischievous disease, a thing wrong with my blood or the rupture of an intestine or necrosis of some organ, I was sick with something invisible to everyone. Back at square one with a new set of symptoms I thought it couldn't get any worse. And then came the medications. I was a revolving door cycling through bursts of irrational anger and grief, excessive energy and lethargy, and weight changes that tossed my athletic frame between severe malnutrition and states of overweight. In a family of petit women with an excess of nothing, I felt like an embarrassment. I stood out at gatherings -when I had the energy to show up- and I no longer looked like everyone else. I certainly didn't feel like everyone else. I got the sense my own family feared me; it was anyone's best guess what circumstances would bring about an outburst. Life was equal parts isolation and alienation. Around this time, school felt out of reach again. My dream to advocate for victims of trauma in the criminal justice system was shattered by the reality that I had no grasp on my own circumstances. I had aspirations of leading, teaching, and using my sensitivity to deliver therapy to the outcasts and forgotten members of society. Anxiety and depression took my freedom, my social life, and my future. I was now directionless and alone with a completely hopeless outlook on the world and those who walked among it with ease. I wish I could say I had one enlightening experience that shifted my perspective, one conversation with a stranger that rendered my medications obsolete and gave me the paradigm shift Ted Talks are made of. My progress was slow. It came on days when I pushed myself to shower or when I could stomach something more than dry toast and hot tea. When I slept less than 14 hours and washed my sheets, when I started humming again and humming turned to singing, and even when I changed from one pair of sweats to another a small part of me rejoiced. Each day was a milestone. Each day is still a milestone. Though I continue to rearrange my life to accommodate for the sake of mental health, I do so with a gentler agenda. When I think of the world now, and especially my place in it, I understand that my experiences -the lowest and most shameful parts of it that I rarely get to share- allow me to make the deepest connections with those in the thick of overcoming their own version of the illness. So often since I have returned to a healthier state have I been asked how I coped with and took back control of my own mind. It happened when I realized my experiences, difficult as they may have been, were rare and added a genuineness and relatability to my mission to help others; they gave me something to offer. I am more empathetic, more patient, and more understanding of those struggling with mental illness than any amount of textbook reading could have prepared me for. I can tell future clients that recovery is attainable because I went ahead of them and prepared a way. I have lived the struggle and have no intention of abandoning anyone in the thick of it. I now hold that each person is endowed with a set of gifts and weaknesses that equip them to fulfill their contributions to mankind. Though advocacy may or may not be in my future, I fervently pursue education for the sake of those who share even a sliver of my story. Mental illness is profoundly misunderstood and far too heavy for many who experience it alone. But when we can share our stories and connect with each other we are far more likely to gain insight that aids our recovery. College not only opens the door to career options in mental health, but introduces students like me to a community where such connections are made possible. No one is meant to go this battle alone, and I intend on being around to make sure I contribute to the cause.

Not to be dramatic, but I planned my suicide poorly. About 146 miles from my small industrial town in South Jersey, an Econo Lodge in Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania held my 11:30am reservation. Non-smoking, pet-friendly, two queen beds. It was mid September and I had been battling an especially aggressive bout of depression for a couple months. That morning I was scheduled to work my minimum wage food service job at a county zoo and never showed. In fact, I would never be seen by my coworkers or employers again. The drive to work, normally 55 minutes without shore traffic, was cut short when I made the first impulsive decision of my life by pulling to the side of the road and deciding I would rather die than live the way I was living any more. Within an hour I was back home with a packed bag, my dog, a reservation, and a plan. So I left. Being a Christian -ignore the irony in my situation- I always found that God had a sense of humor. In a family of petite women with defined angles and an excess of nothing, He gave the only one with anxiety and self-esteem issues an extra 4 inches, a round face, and a muscular build; I, with the fragile sensitivity derived from ignorance and utter trust in the world, an endowment of a calling to the criminal justice system and all things forensic. That September my sense of humor would be tested again when upon seeking utter and permanent isolation at the foothills of the Poconos, our Lord would take initiative. As the two hour drive came to a stop in the hotel parking lot, a touch of my phone would reveal a heat so intense the inner workings would melt, rendering the phone -and GPS- useless, and me stranded. Ask and ye shall receive. Fear set in that night, and with it, hesitation. I looked at my dog who, despite the option of an entire bed to herself, chose me and my company time and again. The guilt of being on the receiving end of her selfless love told me I could, at the very least, give her a great day before I wouldn't be a part of them anymore. I knew an hour drive north would bring us to Ricketts Glen State Park. If we got up early we could hike most of the day away. Perhaps her joy would be the stuff of short-term memory or dream material to set her sleeping paws in motion, but it would give me time to think and plan before my commitment was made, and so it was set. By the time the sun rose that next morning I had spent the past 48 hours in a revolving door cycle of crying and recovering. The soreness of my tired eyes and the ache in my throat were dull as we were engulphed by winding roads and the sweet scent of early Autumn. It felt good to be small in a measure that wasn't indicative of significance or worth. It was simply that we were tiny and far less than rocky cliffs and streams that had been here longer than anyone's problems, especially my own. For a while I could forget that I was essentially a runaway with a self-destructive plan. But as many know, depression is like arthritis. Let the temperature fall just a little too low and the ache returns. It is a stiffening, hindering reminder that something is wrong inside you and itching to devour your attention and energy. So despite the bounty of Pennsylvania's wildlife and the lull of running water, I could not abandon the irrational sense of alienation that brought me out there in the first place. It was deafening solitude until I suddenly shared the space with the first pair of people I had seen in a couple miles. "It's a great day to be alive!" an older couple yelled over the roar of the waterfall as we approached, and though they were looking at me it seemed a declaration to Life itself. Nature was loud yet they had the confidence to compete with it. Successfully. I remember smiling for the first time in months. There was conviction in their voices and a gratitude in their posture that forced me to believe them, even if only out of politeness for a time. All the way from West Virginia, trips like these -they said- were what they lived for. (And how extraordinary that someone's intended final resting place could be someone else's vacation destination). Here they were, lively, carefree opportunists who craved adventure and from whom I got the feeling that boldness prevented any sort of hurt or sadness from getting a grip on them. And there I was, learning the secret to a good life: recognizing it. They were sweaty, out of breath, clearly exhausted yet thrilled to be navigating steep rocks and log bridges at their age. They are not done yet, I thought. Depression is not always conditional. It may worsen when circumstances in the environment become less ideal, but often it is an unannounced presence. Age has a way of sneaking up too; small warning signs foreshadow its coming, but who among us can stop time? This couple, despite the inevitable, chose joy. There is such perfect peace, I learned, deriving from gratitude that is renewed in each waking, rain or shine. To be where I am, when I am, is a gift. Their story woke me up to the fact that I am still here, I'm not done yet either. It is worth it to live even if only to pass it on. As recoverees themselves, their words ring all the truer; it is a great day to be alive. Whether you believe my own salvation comes from a dog or a pair of old strangers is up for interpretation. I choose joy. I choose opportunity. A poorly planned suicide means a spontaneous life awaits.

It is far easier to think small on base than to be realistic. Time itself can be measured in increments of plane miles, the service is the only career option, and children bond over similarities in the household dynamic and of their parents' schedules. While our dads were overseas we would have grown a foot before they returned, our mothers in the neighborhood grew closer, and our vocabulary became standardized as we learned the basics: "stationed," "rank," and the ominous "deploy." A word, we learn, that is code for "moving truck", "goodbye", and "starting over." When I was growing up, the smallness of this lifestyle was honorable. It was difficult and confusing mostly, but the profound sense of community and pride that permeated its residents made you feel you were a part of something massive even if you were only the long-distance dependent of a medal-donning soldier. A different set of everyday normals made each day without this parent easier, or at least distracted us from the unfavorable truth a couple thousand miles away, and that was the feeling that you were completely understood, completely known, by every family experiencing exactly the same struggle. It was around this time, with the influx of letters, that I discovered a love for learning about the happenings beyond base -a craving for knowledge that combatted a desire to be just like my parents. Neither of them -in fact, no one in my lineage- had received higher education. The expensive, seemingly out-of-reach nature of a degree drew them towards a career in which all are welcome; the Army invites those without a clear direction and gives them a new one, a clear one. Financially appealing, secure, and with in-demand positions, each generation enlisted. Now it's my turn. I too crave the benefits of a military career, but more so I am driven by the opportunities the Army provides to bridge the gap between education and service. So many military families, like mine, are discovering the benefits of an educated recruit and of military-trained employees. As I fervently pursue a degree in criminal justice and forensic psychology, I am motivated by such an outcome. Small thinking is no longer an option; I want to see change in the criminal justice system, options for those struggling to choose between a degree and a uniform, and a change in the repetition of my family's history. As such, I am currently working on a dual degree and entrance into my university's ROTC program. With this grant, I can remove one of the greatest roadblocks that afflicted my family at each generation: finances. Perhaps greater, my pursuit of the military would not be a reflection of obligation, but one of a true desire to make a difference where I feel it is most in-demand. A degree can get me there. It would be an honor to continue learning for my country and to be qualified to deliver the best service I can offer.