I tried to lock the bathroom stall, but my hand was shaking too hard. Despite a stranger holding a weapon to my head just moments before, all I could think about was how much I missed my mom. After six years of repressing every emotion I had surrounding her death, I had no choice but to feel. I felt ashamed of my numbing coping strategies and helpless knowing that she wouldn't pull up in her old SUV to drive me to safety. Strongest of all, I felt alive. Not just because I narrowly dodged the cars I ran in front of to escape, but because I finally acknowledged that the love I felt for my mom didn't die with her. "You were only 14. Sometimes our brains shut down to protect us from overwhelming situations." The therapist's words became background noise as I entered a flashback. "I need you to hold her head up." My dad instructs, as he places the phone to his ear to tell the 911 operator our address. I hold my mom's lifeless body not knowing that would be the last time. The sounds of her final gasps for air surround me before I relive the silent walk back to my room. My therapist was right. Without my mom, I returned to a household that pretended her life never existed. My expressions of grief and longing were therefore met with frustration, criticism, and even shame. I quickly learned that the only thing worth fighting was myself. That belief led me to boxing, where I would train until I was too physically exhausted to think anymore. While I harmed myself and he harmed others, the man who assaulted me and I had one thing in common: we both did it to find relief from the pain we felt inside of us. I could only reach this realization when I considered what my mom would say about the situation. Memories of her glimmering sense of empathy surfaced as I thought back to the days when cancer left her too weak to stand up. She had a personalized compliment for every member of her care team and had other patients laughing uncontrollably over pranks she played with her friends. Above all, my mom had the ability to share any emotion alongside someone so they wouldn't have to feel it alone. So that is exactly what I set out to do. For a year, I compiled notes from my psychology courses, materials from past jobs in the mental health field, and interviews with professionals to create a 13-week program that is now called Build, Process, Share. The intervention supports those who have lost loved ones to homicide through psychoeducation, expressive writing prompts, and group discussion. The desire to offer this program at no cost to participants ignited a new type of fight, as I thought about the countless people who have to choose between financial stability and a supportive environment to process their grief. In doing so, I was also fighting for my 14-year-old self, who was not given this opportunity either. My grant proposals were rejected for several months before I was awarded funding that led me to become a counselor within the Philadelphia public school district, where I was now the one guiding people’s healing. "I think your mom would be extremely proud of how far you've come." I can tell that my words hit a soft spot as the student across from me finally releases some self-criticism. We finish our session by boxing together in the school gym, where we connect over the importance of exercise in releasing build-up emotions. This time, my mindset is healthier. The heavy bags are a place of temporary retreat when pain becomes overwhelming. Every punch is indicative of the power we hold in fighting life's obstacles. I encourage the students to take pieces of these sentiments or form their own relationship with boxing, as long as it helps rebuild their well-being in the aftermath of loss. Next month, I will learn how to more effectively fight for this mission as I begin a Master of Social Work degree to become a licensed therapist for marginalized communities. The program will teach me new approaches to processing death and the complex trauma that often accompanies it. In addition, I am interviewing for positions as a boxing coach to continue developing my ability to integrate physical and mental health services. My ultimate dream is to open a practice that combines the healing power of the sport with traditional therapy. I know that this will take time and dedication, but I am grateful that my mom's memory shows me that every day I have is worth fighting for, and that everyone deserves a life that makes them feel alive.