Last year, I went through a terrible breakup. My parents grounded me, took away most of my belongings to understand “how good I had it”, and I missed two and a half weeks of school. I was sure I would be sent to the psych ward, and that my parents would always hate me for the things I had done. While my feelings were valid, after a year of reflection, my actions weren't nearly bad enough to warrant such feelings. The things they were upset about were taken out of context; my complaining to this boyfriend, my rants... My parents were disappointed in me for being frustrated with them. Then, it had seemed reasonable. Now, I'm even more frustrated that they took my words and feelings out of context to fit their own beliefs. Their actions demeaned me, and I had no confidence by the end of the relationship and the whole ordeal itself. It took me a long time to regain my self-esteem after the breakup. I was confused and conflicted, and my parents were feeding me controversial and misconstrued information that they continued to take out of context. Though their feelings towards this boy were valid, I was frustrated by the outcome, even if I was grateful to be broken up. I felt free in that regard. I have Sabrina Carpenter’s music to thank for rebuilding my confidence. While her music was not the sole regeneration of my self-esteem, it was definitely a massive contribution. As I became self-aware, I felt even worse: How could I let myself stay in a situation where I was being emotionally taken advantage of, even if unintentional? That’s where her music came in: Relatable, understanding, and self-assured. It helped to know that so many other people relate to her music too; so many other people had been in a similar situation, and found solace in her music. It helped, as well, to see how her music developed from solemn to the feeling of "I'm too good for this". I’d never been self-assured, and now I am. I’m still a massive fan of hers, and whenever I feel particularly down about myself, I listen to her music. It’s like a reassurance that it can always be worse, and it will always get better. I’m worth more than I let myself believe I am, and Sabrina Carpenter's music reminded me of that.

When I was very young, my parents divorced. I was young enough that I barely remember what it was like when my parents were together, other than the end, when they didn’t really get along. What I do clearly remember is grieving the loss of their relationship and the togetherness of family I no longer had. I didn’t have a very good understanding of what was truly going on: Just that my dad was leaving. It was so long ago that I don’t remember a lot of my initial adjustment. I remember the first time they tried dating after the divorce, and how it never worked out. I remember dreading switching between houses every week, because I much preferred having only one house. I remember adjusting quickly anyway, growing used to bringing extra things in my backpack whenever I’d switch houses. I remember having a better relationship with my mom because she didn’t work as often as my dad did, and even when she did, I usually went to work with her. I didn’t realize it then, but she raised me more than my dad ever even tried to. My mom was always there, always supporting me, always making time for me. I don’t blame my dad, but he doesn't deserve the credit he thinks he does. Even now, as I am almost 17 years old, he is always working and is nearly absent from my life. He believes he’s the only person in the house who “does anything”, while my mom and I clean, cook, take care of his dogs and our own, while he works. He just works. My relationship with him is fine, and though he frustrates me often, I love my dad. I love my mom. From a young age, I knew I wasn’t only attracted to men. I can’t remember when or how I came to the realization, just that my feelings towards girls weren’t always just platonic. I remember my first crush on another girl and telling my mom about it. I could tell she didn’t know how to react. I was young, and no doubt she thought it was just confusion, which she later told me. She told me that I’m too young to “make decisions like that”, as though one chooses the gender they’re attracted to. A few years later, I tried to come out again. My parents were just as strained about it, claiming the same things that they had the first time: “you’re too young”, “choice”. It frustrated me, because if I got the chance to choose, I’d have chosen to be heterosexual. I wouldn’t have chosen to be complicated, to make my romantic life complicated for other people. Because of their own doubt, I began doubting myself. I doubted my identity and began to repress it. I was faking, I was looking for attention, my parents just had to be right. But, as I got older, I grew past their doubt and out of my own. I realized that, just because they doubt me and don’t understand queer identity, that didn’t mean I had to repress myself to appeal to them. I just didn’t have to talk to them about it. It could be a part of my identity, whether they acknowledged it or not. When I go to college, I plan to pursue a degree in finance so I can educate myself and those around me, and beyond that, manage their finances. I want to provide knowledge regarding the most comfortable way to financially support oneself. I want to be educated so I can support and educate others.

The Summer before my sophomore year of high school, I got my first boyfriend. It was new and exciting, especially because I felt that guys never looked my way, and yet this one had. I’ve never been one to shy from my emotions, so I wasn’t necessarily afraid to put my all into this first boyfriend of mine, even though I often felt stifled by his lack of reciprocation. Initially, the relationship was great, though I didn’t have much to base it on: He bought me flowers (thrice in eight months, for the record), he was honest and loyal, and unashamed to say we were dating. However, later that year, my grandfather passed away. My relationship with him had been strained, but the loss hurt no less. I didn’t cope with it well, disappearing for about a week before I resurfaced again. This boyfriend of mine didn’t seem to mind my absence, which, at the time, I was grateful for. I should have seen that it was a lack of concern and sincerity, but my glasses were a deep rose color. His lack of compassion for me only grew when he left me to suffer alone while he played video games with his friends. When he ghosted me for hours on end because “he was upset”. When he was aware of his emotional neglect and said he did love me, but did not even attempt to fix the way he was treating me. He blamed his mental health for the way he treated me, as if he couldn’t control it. I should have left, but the neglect made me desperate. I did things I’m not proud of in order to catch his attention, to receive his validation again. But even those desperate attempts did not always work. In fact, it seemed to draw him even further out of our relationship. I didn’t know what to do, so I gave in to the pressure. He took something I will never get back, and though I do not value it greatly, the fact that it was he who took it is most regretful. The fact that I did not truly want to give it, and let it be taken, is shameful. Maybe not on my part, but most definitely on his. My parents broke us up about 7 months in. Had they not, we would probably still be together. I would still be a doormat to his emotional neglect and just about manipulation. While the relationship was downright awful, it was meaningful to the development of who I am now. I was docile and dependent on him during our relationship; his instability made me crave something that wasn’t there. I found that stability in myself when we broke up. I found independence, confidence, and intolerance. I found the courage to speak up for myself, to respect my feelings, and to never invalidate myself on behalf of another person unworthy of my time. I do not dwell where it does not suit me, and I don’t let people walk all over me where they see fit. I am an entirely different person now, and I owe it to the girl who thought a blood-sucking parasite was “the one”. The image I chose represents the beauty I found, the spark I rediscovered, once I let go of what extinguished me.

It was my sophomore year of high school when my relationship with my mom grew tense. As my parents had divorced when I was very young, I saw my mom more often than my dad. Especially since she was on disability and struggling to find jobs outside of our home, and my dad worked full-time to support all of us. Because of my mom’s chronic illnesses and my lack of understanding towards them, we eventually butted heads. Her illnesses were also clouding her best judgment, and though I made my fair share of mistakes and had reason for shame, she said things to me that I still haven’t forgotten. I doubt any true blame towards her: She was struggling financially, medically, mentally, and on top of all of that, she still had to take care of me. Because of our relationship struggles, and my feeling like a burden to her, my mental health suffered. I had suffered with mental health and stability before, but it had never been this bad. My parents put me into therapy for it against my will. It was the beginning of my junior year when she was in and out of the hospital for jaundice, internal bleeding, and overproduction of liver fluid. She was having procedures to get it removed because it was causing her excruciating pain and discomfort. During one of the procedures, a vein had been punctured, and internal bleeding ensued. This was the first time she was in the hospital for consecutive days at a time. I can’t remember why, but I remember when: On September third of, 2025, she was hospitalized at UC Davis. With her out of commission, it was solely my dad’s responsibility to take care of me. He had my grandma’s help, who had moved in with us the year prior when my grandpa passed away, but it didn’t ease the struggle. My mental health was in shambles. Towards the end of September, my mom’s condition got worse. Because she was on a ventilator, they could not transplant her liver like they wanted. Nobody was sure that she was going to make it. I remember forgetting all of our previous conflicts during that time. This was my mother, the woman who had raised me for 90% of the time, and she could die at any moment. I couldn’t imagine my life without her. My mental health declined, and I was especially grateful to continue seeing my therapist. She helped me keep my feet on the ground, and I’m so grateful now that I was put into therapy. Miraculously, she got better. She was taken off the ventilator after a few days of being conscious and proving that she was capable of breathing on her own. Then, after being relocated to the transplant department at the hospital, she had the liver transplant. Our relationship was better than ever because of how close I had come to losing her, and how much I realized I needed her; how much she needed me through recovery. My mental health had mostly stabilized by then. Seeing my mom recover so quickly was motivating and relieving. I was comforted by the fact that she was healthy now, so I wasn’t struggling basically at all anymore.

Last year, my mom was hospitalized. Initially, it was for the same procedure so they could moderate her condition over the course of a few days. Then she would leave. Then, a few weeks later, she would go back to have it done again. The procedure was called paracentesis: the removal of excess fluid from her abdominal cavity. Her liver was overproducing this fluid, causing her pain and discomfort. Later, she was hospitalized for a month and a half after one of these procedures caused an internal bleed. She almost died. Then she got better. Then she got worse, and was put on the ventilator. They thought she was going to die. Then, miraculously, she got better. She had a liver transplant, and was sent to physical rehab for recovery. This happened over the course of over a month. She couldn’t walk, much less work. She wasn’t paying rent; how could she when she had come so close to death so many times? When she left the hospital, my dad paid for her last few weeks of rent, but he couldn’t pay any more than that. There was no sense in continuing to pay for a house that nobody could afford, when my dad had his own financial burdens to manage with his own home. So we had to move out. I had known we’d be moving out, so I’d been purging my room since before my mom had her transplant. We spent a week straight gutting our house, whether putting our belongings in a dump bin or into storage. We didn’t have much we wanted to keep in storage, so we threw a lot away. This was the house we’d lived in for fourteen years, and we suddenly had to throw fourteen years of our life away because my mom couldn’t afford to pay for it. Because rent was so high, there was no reason to even try. That house had been my life for most of my life and I had to say goodbye in just a week. My mom was basically homeless. She would be if we didn’t have a spare bedroom at my dad’s house. Since being in recovery and on immuno-suppressants, my mom couldn’t get a job, not until the new year. When the new year fell, she applied for jobs and got none. She’s still applying, two months in, and nobody will give her a job. She’s stuck selling press-on nails from home. My dad still works full time, and he doesn’t make very much money. He’s a sales manager at a struggling Volkswagen-Mazda dealership in Chico. He makes the four hour commute every day, paying thousands in gas every month, just to be paid poorly. Of course, he makes enough money to support our family, but that’s the bare minimum. Everybody should be making enough money to support themselves. I’m lucky that my dad does. I am so lucky that we have just enough, and I am so grateful for my situation. I know, however, that my dad’s work situation is not getting any better, and I can only hope it does. I can only hope my mom finally gets a job so she can support herself as she so badly wants. But nothing is guaranteed.

Initially, I was not in love with Wicked. The first night I watched it was with a couple of friends and my mom, and while I was entertained, I wasn’t as deeply impacted as other people had been. It wasn’t until I watched it again with my mom and read about it that I realized just how important the subject matter was: stance in the face of oppression and isolation in the face of being different. Wicked told the story of a girl who was born different and the trials she faced because of it. It told of how she inevitably tried to fit in, but later sought to fight battles for those who could not fight themselves. With that understanding came relation and inspiration. I related to Elphaba in the fact that she was lonely. While I still don’t know why, I remember having few to no real friends when I was younger, and feeling lonely because of it. I remember being “that kid”, who was a little weird but not enough to be an outcast. Just enough to be “that kid”. Even now, I still feel like I don’t have friends that I can be completely myself with, and that makes me feel lonely. It made me feel different. That there was something wrong with me for not being able to be true to myself. However, my relatability to Elphaba extends: I have my own Glinda. Her name is Khloe. We have been best friends for nine years, and I don’t know who I would be without her. I know who I am today because of her. Not-so-similar to Glinda, she is like my carbon copy. We understand one another on a level I feel may be impossible for another person to do, and for that, I am immensely grateful. My inspiration comes from Elphaba’s courage. Alone, she stood for what she believed in. Even those who agreed with her could not manage to stand beside her, and while I do not blame them, there is no courage in hiding. To make change, people have to speak out, and Elphaba knew this. Even with her image so tarnished by lies and rumors, she attempted to inform and strike bravery into the hearts of those who believed in her message. People today are so afraid of being ostracized for making a stance that they stay silent. Silence is how oppression spreads, and if oppression spreads, there is nobody left to speak up. While Elphaba could not help in the ways she wished to, she knew Glinda was capable of carrying on this mission, who is just as inspiring. From being compliant and submissive to achieve her ambitions, to fighting for her beliefs, shows that anybody is capable of making change if they just speak up. Speak for what is right and never be ashamed of your individuality. Those are the lessons this film taught me, and that reminder is more important than ever in today’s day and age.

When I was younger, I hated math. I didn’t quite struggle with it, but I just hated the functions and the process of going about finding an answer. My hatred continued even when I got to high school, though it had progressed to deflection. I struggled in it my freshman year, and I was embarrassed of my struggle. I felt inadequate. It didn’t help that most of my friends were taking advanced math classes, and I couldn’t even manage a B in my regular level. It was my sophomore year of high school that I began to love it. Initially, I was wary, and dreaded going to the class for fear of failure. However, through my determination and the help of my teacher, I found myself understanding it. I give most of the credit to my teacher, as I had never understood math so well as I had when she taught it. It helped that I finally found motivation and passion to put towards learning math. I managed A’s and high B’s all year that year, in comparison to my previous B’s and C’s. I was proud of myself, and I still am, as I am still maintaining A’s and B’s in my math class this year. I am grateful that I had a teacher who, I felt, was finally capable of teaching math in a coherent manner and therefore built up my affection for learning math. What I love so much about math is that it’s constant. There is only a set amount of answers for every equation and no other. There is clarity when an answer is wrong or right without having to analyze or dissect. While I always loved English, it could be vague, and in comparison, math was clear and stable. As I got better at it, I grew to appreciate how consistent and math was. It’s just a repetitive pattern and application of formulas you memorize over time. That is my favorite part about math.

When I was very young, my parents divorced. I was young enough that I don’t ever remember what it was like when my parents were together. What I do remember is grieving their relationship and the togetherness of family that I no longer had. I didn’t have a very good understanding of what was truly going on: Just that my dad was leaving. It was so long ago that I don’t remember a lot of my initial adjustment. I remember moving into my dad’s first house, and our financial struggle. We’d make a game out of counting how much money we could spend on groceries that week. I really remember the struggle my dad had to face with his work schedule, and when he would be available to have both me and my brother at his house. Both of my parents worked, but my mom sometimes worked from home, which meant she was available most often in comparison to my dad. I saw her more often, so I had a better relationship with my mom. However, it was my sophomore year of high school when my relationship with my mom grew tense. I still saw her more often, since she was on disability and struggling to find jobs outside of our home. My dad worked to support all of us. Because of my mom’s chronic illnesses and my lack of understanding towards them, we eventually butted heads. Her illnesses were also clouding her best judgement, and though I made my fair share of mistakes and had reason for shame, she said things to me that I still haven’t forgotten. I doubt my blame towards her because of many things: She was struggling financially, medically, mentally, and on top of all of that, she still had to take care of me. It was the beginning of my junior year when she was in and out of the hospital for jaundice, internal bleeding, and overproduction of liver fluid. She was having procedures to get it removed because it was causing her excruciating pain and discomfort. During one of the procedures, a vein had been punctured and internal bleeding ensued: This was the first time she was in the hospital for consecutive days at a time. I can’t remember why, but I remember when: On September third of 2025, she was hospitalized at UC Davis. With her out of commission, it was solely my dad’s responsibility to take care of me. He had my grandma’s help, who had moved in with us the year prior when my grandpa passed away, but it didn’t ease the struggle. Towards the end of September, my mom’s condition got worse. Because she was on a ventilator, they could not transplant her liver like they wanted. Nobody was sure that she was going to make it. I remember forgetting all of our previous conflicts during that time. This was my mother, the woman who had raised me for 90% of the time, and she could die at any moment. I couldn’t imagine my life without her. Miraculously, she got better. She had the transplant. Our relationship was better than ever because of how close I had come to losing her, and how much I realized I needed her; how much she needed me through her recovery. She had always been there, especially since my dad didn’t and still doesn’t have the time to be. My mother is the reason I am who I am today. She’s the reason I know so intimately the lack of permanence that life has.