Embracing My Bold: How Sabrina Carpenter Helped Me Find My Voice From the moment I first saw Sabrina Carpenter light up the screen as Maya Hart on Girl Meets World, I knew I wasn’t just watching a character, I was watching someone who understood what it meant to be fierce, funny, and vulnerable all at once. Maya wasn’t the “perfect” girl. She was bold, messy, passionate, and unapologetically real, just like I was learning to be. Through her, Sabrina planted a seed of confidence in me that would only grow as her career evolved alongside my journey of self-discovery. What struck me most about Maya was her unapologetic presence in a world that often asks girls to tone themselves down. Sabrina’s portrayal of her gave me the courage to stop shrinking myself to fit into people’s expectations. I learned that there is power in being outspoken, in standing up for yourself, and in letting your true personality shine. That was just the beginning of how Sabrina began to influence my life. As I grew older, Sabrina’s music became a soundtrack to my growth. Her lyrics matured with the kind of emotional honesty I desperately needed. Songs like “Please, Please, Please” and “Espresso” didn’t just become catchy anthems on my playlist; they became mirrors reflecting the chaos of modern dating, the pressure to be likable, the heartbreak of unmet expectations, and the joy of owning your identity. These songs said everything I was feeling but didn’t yet know how to say. There aren’t many artists who dare to be this raw while still embracing the playfulness and contradictions of femininity. Sabrina doesn’t just write songs, she writes truths I’ve lived. And she does it with style, humor, and a touch of mischief that makes every lyric feel like a secret whispered between friends. Her music gave me a space to feel seen, especially as a young woman trying to navigate complicated emotions in a world that often oversimplifies them. Sabrina’s evolution from a Disney Channel star to a multi-talented pop powerhouse reminded me that I, too, could grow beyond the labels people place on me. Her career has been a masterclass in transformation, fearlessly moving from acting to music to film, all while staying true to herself. That inspired me to break out of my shell. I began to take on leadership roles on campus, advocate for mental health awareness, and stop hiding the parts of myself that once made me feel different or less-than. What sets Sabrina apart is her refusal to be boxed in. Whether she’s calling out double standards in relationships, flipping the script on heartbreak, or delivering biting one-liners with a wink, she gives young women like me permission to be complex. To be soft and strong. Heartbroken and hilarious. Beautiful and brave. And in a world that still struggles to accept women on our terms, that’s nothing short of revolutionary. Through Sabrina, I learned that being bold isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being real. It’s about choosing authenticity over approval and vulnerability over silence. Her journey has shown me that my voice matters, even when it shakes. Especially when it shakes. Sabrina Carpenter helped me find my voice through laughter, heartbreak, and espresso-fueled anthems of self-worth. She didn’t just inspire me. She empowered me. Her legacy is more than just chart-topping songs and memorable roles. It is a movement of young women learning to embrace every version of themselves. That is the legacy I carry with me every day. And that is the boldness I plan to pay forward.

Growing up Black in a home where therapy was not allowed nearly destroyed me. I was “overdramatic,” “too sensitive,” and told my pain wasn’t real. This mindset did not go through my life unpunished. When you have a childhood filled with deep, physical, and psychological pain, you scramble for ways to escape it. My oldest brother now lives in a mental institution, due to his addiction. My younger brother whom I’ve failed to protect, is an alcoholic. My older sister, my mirror and my heart, was molested as a child and died by suicide in November 2024. I saw her pain. I warned them! But like me, she was labeled “overdramatic.” Now she’s gone. And I broke. The kind of grief that reshapes your bones. Some nights, I wanted to join her. But something inside whispered, not yet. How could I claim to advocate for mental health while letting myself drown? How could I honor my sister if I refused to fight for myself? So, I fought. I turned to those who never gave up on me. My partner, my chosen family, my friends. I leaned into therapy. I cried. I screamed. I tore through years of buried pain. Six months of intensive therapy reshaped everything. It wasn’t pretty. I was raw and exposed. But I was finally being seen. And I rose. For the first time, I could breathe without guilt. Smile without faking it. Love myself without apology. That healing didn’t just save me. It gave me purpose. As Vice President of Black Students United at California State University, Monterey Bay, I have used my pain and healing to fight for others. In one year, I have helped five students access counseling services. Students who told me they didn’t think they mattered until I showed them they did. When I speak at BSU events, students listen. Not because I am perfect, but because I am real. I tell them the truth. That healing is ugly and beautiful. The need for help is not a weakness. It is power! I tell them about my sister. About how I refuse to let her story die in vain. Mental health is not just a chapter in my story. It is the spine. It shapes my leadership, my academics, and my future. I am pursuing a career in school psychology to make sure no student feels like they are voiceless. I was molded by fire, but my story won’t end in ashes. I do this for my siblings, my chosen family, and every child who’s ever felt broken. This scholarship will help me finish my undergraduate degree and pursue graduate school to become a school psychologist. I’ll be the advocate I never had. To my big sis: I love you more than words will ever capture. I will carry your memory like a torch through every room I enter. You deserved better. I’m going to make sure the next generation gets better. And to anyone out there who thinks they’re too broken to heal, let me be the proof that you’re not. You don’t have to carry it alone. Make that first call. Say the words out loud. Cry if you need to. Scream if you have to. Just don’t give up. Because your story is needed now more than ever.

Growing up as a Black woman with undiagnosed ADHD, I constantly felt like I was a problem. I wasn’t diagnosed until college, and by then, I had internalized the belief that my struggles were all my fault. That feeling stayed with me, and it taught me something important. It showed me how easily students, especially Black and low-income students, can be misunderstood, mislabeled, or ignored altogether. I’ve witnessed firsthand how poverty and instability affect students in my community. While volunteering for the Pajaro Valley Unified School District, I saw children of immigrant field workers falling behind in their education. Many families could not afford stable housing, and some students lived in homeless encampments. Others were pulled out of school during the off-season just to help their families survive. These children carry emotional and psychological burdens that are rarely addressed because the schools meant to support them are underfunded and overwhelmed. As a future school psychologist, I am committed to changing that. I want to create an environment where students are heard, valued, and supported. I will advocate for students who face systemic challenges, not just academically but emotionally and socially. My focus will be on early identification of learning and emotional needs, especially for neurodivergent students who are often overlooked. I want school to be a place where every student feels a sense of belonging and knows they deserve to succeed. Approximately 44 percent of K through 12 education funding comes from local property taxes. That means a child’s access to quality education depends heavily on the wealth of their neighborhood. Schools in low-income communities are often underfunded, their teachers are overworked, and students have limited access to updated textbooks, technology, and safe facilities. In some districts, teachers celebrate when their students receive books that are not torn or stained. That should not be considered a victory; it is a sign of how low the bar has fallen. How did we get here? How have we allowed a child’s future to depend on zip codes rather than potential? This is not just inequality. It is a violation of students’ rights. Over the past twenty-five years, students with disabilities have had the highest enrollment rates, yet they still face the lowest graduation rates. As someone living with ADHD, I understand what it feels like to fall through the cracks of a system that was never designed for students like me. My activism is rooted in lived experience. I’ve had to work while attending college full-time, take out loans, and cover all my expenses alone. I’ve gone without healthcare and dental care while striving for academic success. These struggles have only deepened my commitment to fight for a system where students never have to choose between survival and education. I want to be the kind of school psychologist I needed growing up. Someone who listens, believes, and reminds students that their voices matter. Because every child deserves to hear I understand you, I hear you, and I will fight for you.

Growing up Black in a household where therapy was seen as a weakness nearly destroyed me. I was the “overdramatic” one. The “sensitive” one. The “shit-starter.” I could cry, beg, and scream on the floor, and my parents still wouldn’t believe me when I said I was hurting. I wasn’t allowed to have pain. I wasn’t allowed to be broken. Because if I were, that meant something was wrong with our family, and in their eyes, that couldn’t be true. So I swallowed my pain. I silenced my tears. I wore a mask every single day because pretending was the only way to survive. By the time I turned 18, I wasn’t living, I was existing. I was a shell, numb and obedient, doing whatever my parents asked, no matter how much it suffocated me. I struggled with anxiety so intense it stole my breath, depression that made getting out of bed feel impossible, and binge eating that became my only comfort. But no one noticed. Or maybe they did notice and didn’t care. Either way, I was alone. And I was tired. My family’s silence wasn’t just painful, it was deadly. My oldest brother fell into addiction and now lives in a mental institution. My second-oldest brother died before I was even born because of the trauma and toxicity between my father and his first wife. My older sister, my heart, my friend, my mirror, was molested as a child because of her own mother’s selfishness. Her light dimmed early, and I watched her carry more pain than anyone should ever have to bear. And then, she took her life. It happened in November 2024. My sister, who had always been hurting, always surviving, always trying, was gone. I leaned on God when I felt like I had nothing else left. I screamed at the sky. I cried in therapy. I dug deep into the parts of myself I had buried for 22 years. I relived every moment of pain, every dismissal, every lie I’d told myself to survive. And slowly, so slowly, I began to heal. Six months of intensive therapy reshaped everything. There were weeks I didn’t think I’d make it. I was raw, exposed, stripped bare. But for the first time, I was finally being seen. I found the pieces of myself that I thought were gone forever. I found strength I didn’t know existed. And I emerged from that fire still standing. No. Not just standing, Rising! Today, as a future school psychologist, I plan to focus on early intervention in low-income schools. I will advocate for mental health screenings that begin in preschool and kindergarten so children with developmental delays, behavioral challenges, or emotional distress are recognized early. I want to work with teachers and parents to create trauma-informed environments where every child feels safe and understood. I also hope to expand access to culturally responsive counseling that affirms students' identities and recognizes the unique challenges they face. When students feel seen, they engage more, trust more, and learn more. To my big sis: I love you more than words will ever capture. I will carry your memory like a torch through every room I enter. You deserved better. I’m going to make sure the next generation gets better. And to anyone out there who thinks they’re too broken to heal, let me be the proof that you’re not. You don’t have to carry it alone. Make that first call. Cry if you need to. Scream if you have to. Just don’t give up. Because your story is needed now more than ever.

Growing up as a Black woman with undiagnosed ADHD, I constantly felt like I was a problem. I wasn’t diagnosed until college, and by then, I had internalized the belief that my struggles were all my fault. That feeling stayed with me, and it taught me something important. It showed me how easily students, especially Black and low-income students, can be misunderstood, mislabeled, or ignored altogether. I’ve witnessed firsthand how poverty and instability affect students in my community. While volunteering for the Pajaro Valley Unified School District, I saw children of immigrant field workers falling behind in their education. Many families could not afford stable housing, and some students lived in homeless encampments. Others were pulled out of school during the off-season just to help their families survive. These children carry emotional and psychological burdens that are rarely addressed because the schools meant to support them are underfunded and overwhelmed. As a future school psychologist, I am committed to changing that. I want to create an environment where students are heard, valued, and supported. I will advocate for students who face systemic challenges, not just academically but emotionally and socially. My focus will be on early identification of learning and emotional needs, especially for neurodivergent students who are often overlooked. I want school to be a place where every student feels a sense of belonging and knows they deserve to succeed. Approximately 44 percent of K through 12 education funding comes from local property taxes. That means a child’s access to quality education depends heavily on the wealth of their neighborhood. Schools in low-income communities are often underfunded, their teachers are overworked, and students have limited access to updated textbooks, technology, and safe facilities. In some districts, teachers celebrate when their students receive books that are not torn or stained. That should not be considered a victory; it is a sign of how low the bar has fallen. How did we get here? How have we allowed a child’s future to depend on zip codes rather than potential? This is not just inequality. It is a violation of students’ rights. Over the past twenty-five years, students with disabilities have had the highest enrollment rates, yet they still face the lowest graduation rates. As someone living with ADHD, I understand what it feels like to fall through the cracks of a system that was never designed for students like me. My activism is rooted in lived experience. I’ve had to work while attending college full-time, take out loans, and cover all my expenses alone. I’ve gone without healthcare and dental care while striving for academic success. These struggles have only deepened my commitment to fight for a system where students never have to choose between survival and education. I want to be the kind of school psychologist I needed growing up. Someone who listens, believes, and reminds students that their voices matter. Because every child deserves to hear I understand you, I hear you, and I will fight for you.

Growing up Black in a home where therapy was not allowed nearly destroyed me. I was “overdramatic,” “too sensitive,” and told my pain wasn’t real. This mindset did not go through my life unpunished. When you have a childhood filled with deep, physical, and psychological pain, you scramble for ways to escape it. My oldest brother now lives in a mental institution, due to his addiction. My younger brother whom I’ve failed to protect, is an alcoholic. My older sister, my mirror and my heart, was addicted to cocaine, and last November she had taken her own life. I saw her pain. I warned them! But like me, she was labeled “overdramatic.” Now she’s gone. And I broke. The kind of grief that reshapes your bones. Some nights, I wanted to join her. But something inside whispered, not yet. How could I claim to advocate for mental health while letting myself drown? How could I honor my sister if I refused to fight for myself? So, I fought. I turned to those who never gave up on me. My partner, my chosen family, my friends. I leaned into therapy. I cried. I screamed. I tore through years of buried pain. Six months of intensive therapy reshaped everything. It wasn’t pretty. I was raw and exposed. But I was finally being seen. And I rose. For the first time, I could breathe without guilt. Smile without faking it. Love myself without apology. That healing didn’t just save me. It gave me purpose. As Vice President of Black Students United at California State University, Monterey Bay, I have used my pain and healing to fight for others. In one year, I have helped five students access counseling services. Students who told me they didn’t think they mattered until I showed them they did. When I speak at BSU events, students listen. Not because I am perfect, but because I am real. I tell them the truth. That healing is ugly and beautiful. The need for help is not a weakness. It is power! I tell them about my sister. About how I refuse to let her story die in vain. Mental health is not just a chapter in my story. It is the spine. It shapes my leadership, my academics, and my future. I am pursuing a career in school psychology to make sure no student feels like they are voiceless. I was molded by fire, but my story won’t end in ashes. I do this for my siblings, my chosen family, and every child who’s ever felt broken. This scholarship will help me finish my undergraduate degree and pursue graduate school to become a school psychologist. I’ll be the advocate I never had. To my big sis: I love you more than words will ever capture. I will carry your memory like a torch through every room I enter. You deserved better. I’m going to make sure the next generation gets better. And to anyone out there who thinks they’re too broken to heal, let me be the proof that you’re not. You don’t have to carry it alone. Make that first call. Say the words out loud. Cry if you need to. Scream if you have to. Just don’t give up. Because your story is needed now more than ever.

Growing up as a Black woman with undiagnosed ADHD, I constantly felt like I was a problem. . I wasn't diagnosed until college, and by then, I had internalized the idea that my struggles were all my fault for not being normal. Having that feeling stay with me throughout my life taught me something. It taught me how easily students, especially Black and low-income students, can be misunderstood, mislabeled, or ignored altogether. I’ve also seen how poverty and instability impact students in my community. I was a volunteer for the Pajaro Valley Unified School District, where children of immigrant field workers are often gravely behind in their education because their families can’t afford rent or stable housing. Some live in homeless encampments. Others are pulled out of school during the off-season just to survive. These students carry emotional and psychological burdens that rarely get addressed, because the schools meant to support them are chronically underfunded. As a future school psychologist, I plan to provide a new system of learning. Where students will be heard, and I will ensure that, despite the challenges, the students of my future location will be given every tool necessary to do their best in education. I want to be an advocate for students who face systemic challenges, not just academically, but emotionally and socially. I plan to focus on early identification of learning and emotional needs, especially for neurodivergent students who often go undiagnosed and unsupported. I will work every day to ensure that school is a place where every student can belong and that every student deserves to succeed. Approximately 44% of K–12 education funding comes from locals and their property taxes. That means the wealth of a community directly determines the resources available to its schools. If you don’t live in a rich neighborhood, I’m sorry, but your school will likely be underfunded, your teachers overworked, and your access to updated textbooks, technology, and facilities significantly limited. Teachers in these districts celebrate getting new copies of books without stains or tears. That’s how low the bar has fallen. How did we come to this? How have we allowed a child’s future to be bought instead of nurtured? This is more than inequality, it is a violation of students’ rights! In the past 25 years, students with disabilities have had the highest rates of enrollment, yet they still face the lowest graduation rates. As someone living with ADHD, I know what it’s like to fall through the cracks of a system that was never designed to support neurodivergent students, especially those from underrepresented backgrounds. These students deserve to have equal access to education, and as someone who has lived their story, I will put my entire career into changing the ending. My activism is driven by lived experience. I’ve had to work while attending school full-time, take out loans, and pay all of my expenses alone. I’ve gone without healthcare and dental care while pushing myself to succeed academically. That struggle has only strengthened my desire to fight for a system where students don’t have to choose between survival and success. This career isn’t just a goal, it’s a calling. I want to be the kind of school psychologist I wish I had growing up. One who listens, believes, and shows students that their voices matter. With my degree, I am going to build a future where disabled students, regardless of background, diagnosis, or income, are seen, supported, and given the chance to thrive. Why? Because these students deserve to hear I understand you, I hear you , and I will fight for you.

Growing up Black in a household where therapy was seen as a weakness nearly destroyed me. I was the “overdramatic” one. The “sensitive” one. The “shit-starter.” I could cry, beg, and scream on the floor, and my parents still wouldn’t believe me when I said I was hurting. I wasn’t allowed to have pain. So I swallowed it. My family’s silence wasn’t just painful, it was deadly. My oldest brother fell into addiction and now lives in a mental institution. My second-oldest brother died before I was even born because of the trauma and toxicity between my father and his first wife. My older sister, my heart, my friend, my mirror, was molested as a child because of her own mother’s selfishness. To hide the pain, my sister became addicted to cocaine and alcohol to try to hide her eyes from seeing his face. Until one night, she couldn’t take it anymore, and she took her life. It happened in November 2024. My sister, who had always been hurting, always surviving, always trying, was gone. I broke. Truly broke. I turned to the people who never gave up on me, my partner, my chosen family, my friends. I leaned on God when I felt like I had nothing else left. I screamed at the sky. I cried in therapy. I dug deep into the parts of myself I had buried for 22 years. And slowly, so slowly, I began to heal. Six months of intensive therapy reshaped everything. Today, as Vice President of Black Students United at California State University, Monterey Bay, I’ve used every ounce of my pain, my healing, and my voice to fight for others. In just one year, I’ve helped five students who are black men and women get into our personal growth and wellness counseling program. Five people who were where I once was. Five people who now know that they matter. They’ve told me that I helped them feel seen, helped them take that terrifying first step. That’s everything to me. That’s my purpose. When I speak at BSU events, students listen, not because I’m perfect or polished, but because I’m real. I tell them the truth. That healing is ugly and beautiful. That it’s okay to break. That needing help isn’t weakness, it’s power! I tell them about my sister. About how I refused to let her story die in vain. About how I am using my life to write the ending she deserved. And every time someone comes up to me afterward and says, “I thought I was the only one,” I know I’m doing what I was meant to do. Mental health is not just a chapter of my life; it is the spine of my story. It’s the thread that runs through my pain, my growth, my leadership, and my future. I will continue to speak, scream, write, and lead until no student has to suffer in silence as my sister did. Until no Black child is told they’re “too sensitive.” Until every family learns that silence kills and that healing is holy. To my big sis: I love you more than words will ever capture. I will carry your memory like a torch through every room. You deserved better. I’m going to make sure the next generation gets better. And to anyone out there who thinks they’re too broken to heal, let me be the proof that you’re not. You don’t have to carry it alone. Cry if you need to. Scream if you have to. Just don’t give up. Because your story is needed now more than ever.

Growing up Black in a home where therapy was not allowed nearly destroyed me. I was “overdramatic,” “too sensitive,” and told my pain wasn’t real. This mindset did not go through my life unpunished. When you have a childhood filled with deep, physical, and psychological pain, you scramble for ways to escape it. My oldest brother now lives in a mental institution, due to his addiction. My younger brother whom I’ve failed to protect, is an alcoholic. My older sister, my mirror and my heart, was molested as a child and died by suicide in November 2024. I saw her pain. I warned them! But like me, she was labeled “overdramatic.” Now she’s gone. And I broke. The kind of grief that reshapes your bones. Some nights, I wanted to join her. But something inside whispered, not yet. How could I claim to advocate for mental health while letting myself drown? How could I honor my sister if I refused to fight for myself? So, I fought. I turned to those who never gave up on me. My partner, my chosen family, my friends. I leaned into therapy. I cried. I screamed. I tore through years of buried pain. Six months of intensive therapy reshaped everything. It wasn’t pretty. I was raw and exposed. But I was finally being seen. And I rose. For the first time, I could breathe without guilt. Smile without faking it. Love myself without apology. That healing didn’t just save me. It gave me purpose. As Vice President of Black Students United at California State University, Monterey Bay, I have used my pain and healing to fight for others. In one year, I have helped five students access counseling services. Students who told me they didn’t think they mattered until I showed them they did. When I speak at BSU events, students listen. Not because I am perfect, but because I am real. I tell them the truth. That healing is ugly and beautiful. The need for help is not a weakness. It is power! I tell them about my sister. About how I refuse to let her story die in vain. Mental health is not just a chapter in my story. It is the spine. It shapes my leadership, my academics, and my future. I am pursuing a career in school psychology to make sure no student feels like they are voiceless. I was molded by fire, but my story won’t end in ashes. I do this for my siblings, my chosen family, and every child who’s ever felt broken. This scholarship will help me finish my undergraduate degree and pursue graduate school to become a school psychologist. I’ll be the advocate I never had. To my big sis: I love you more than words will ever capture. I will carry your memory like a torch through every room I enter. You deserved better. I’m going to make sure the next generation gets better. And to anyone out there who thinks they’re too broken to heal, let me be the proof that you’re not. You don’t have to carry it alone. Make that first call. Say the words out loud. Cry if you need to. Scream if you have to. Just don’t give up. Because your story is needed now more than ever.

Growing up Black in a household where therapy was seen as a weakness nearly destroyed me. I was the “overdramatic” one. The “sensitive” one. The “shit-starter.” I could cry, beg, and scream on the floor, and my parents still wouldn’t believe me when I said I was hurting. I wasn’t allowed to have pain. I wasn’t allowed to be broken. Because if I were, that meant something was wrong with our family, and in their eyes, that couldn’t be true. So I swallowed my pain. I silenced my tears. I wore a mask every single day because pretending was the only way to survive. By the time I turned 18, I wasn’t living, I was existing. I was a shell, numb and obedient, doing whatever my parents asked, no matter how much it suffocated me. I struggled with anxiety so intense it stole my breath, depression that made getting out of bed feel impossible, and binge eating that became my only comfort. But no one noticed. Or maybe they did notice and didn’t care. Either way, I was alone. And I was tired. My family’s silence wasn’t just painful, it was deadly. My oldest brother fell into addiction and now lives in a mental institution. My second-oldest brother died before I was even born because of the trauma and toxicity between my father and his first wife. My older sister, my heart, my friend, my mirror, was molested as a child because of her own mother’s selfishness. Her light dimmed early, and I watched her carry more pain than anyone should ever have to bear. And then, she took her life. It happened in November 2024. My sister, who had always been hurting, always surviving, always trying, was gone. I leaned on God when I felt like I had nothing else left. I screamed at the sky. I cried in therapy. I dug deep into the parts of myself I had buried for 22 years. I relived every moment of pain, every dismissal, every lie I’d told myself to survive. And slowly, so slowly, I began to heal. Six months of intensive therapy reshaped everything. There were weeks I didn’t think I’d make it. I was raw, exposed, stripped bare. But for the first time, I was finally being seen. I found the pieces of myself that I thought were gone forever. I found strength I didn’t know existed. And I emerged from that fire still standing. No. Not just standing, Rising! Today, as a future school psychologist, I plan to focus on early intervention in low-income schools. I will advocate for mental health screenings that begin in preschool and kindergarten so children with developmental delays, behavioral challenges, or emotional distress are recognized early. I want to work with teachers and parents to create trauma-informed environments where every child feels safe and understood. I also hope to expand access to culturally responsive counseling that affirms students' identities and recognizes the unique challenges they face. When students feel seen, they engage more, trust more, and learn more. To my big sis: I love you more than words will ever capture. I will carry your memory like a torch through every room I enter. You deserved better. I’m going to make sure the next generation gets better. And to anyone out there who thinks they’re too broken to heal, let me be the proof that you’re not. You don’t have to carry it alone. Make that first call. Cry if you need to. Scream if you have to. Just don’t give up. Because your story is needed now more than ever.

I have been blessed in this life to be a Black Woman. Of course, it comes with pain, sacrifice, and self-awareness. But that’s not all that we are. We have strength like no other, our skin dances in the sun from how much it loves it, we are humble no matter who we come across. We have love, kindness, we are protectors. We are also given eyes to see the world in a way that no one else can see, so that we can relate and advocate for the pain of others. That is why Black is so Beautiful. This is who I am. Serving as Vice President of Black Students United (BSU) at California State University, Monterey Bay has been one of the most meaningful parts of my life. I have organized fundraisers, hosted events, and advocated for equity and representation on campus. But BSU is not just a club to me. It is my family. The people I have met through this organization have loved me, supported me, and reminded me of who I am in moments when I forgot. Because of that, I give everything I have to them. I put their needs before my own, not out of obligation, but because I truly want our students to feel that no matter where you are you have a place in your community. In addition to my work with BSU, I am also a member of the Africana Heritage Research Collaborative. Through this role, I conduct research that centers Black cultural narratives and promotes epistemic decolonization. I analyze films, study representation, and present research that pushes for how we have fought for our education over time. Sharing this work through the Undergraduate Research Opportunities Center has allowed me to use our research to promote change and bring awareness to our local communities. My commitment to my community is rooted in how I was raised. My family taught me that success means nothing if you are not bringing others with you. I carry this value into every room I enter. Whether I am mentoring a new student, organizing a campus event, or advocating for policy change, I do it to make life better for someone else. That is what community means to me. After graduation, I plan to become a school psychologist with a focus on serving low-income students and students of color. I want to ensure that young people who are often ignored or misunderstood receive the mental health care and educational support they deserve. My work at CSUMB is just the beginning. I am committed to a lifetime of building spaces where Black students feel safe, seen, and celebrated. BSU may be one chapter in my journey, but the love and purpose I found there will carry me through everything I do. These are not just classmates or peers. They are my family. And I will never stop fighting for them.

My name is Amaya Watson. I'm a Californian born and raised, and I’m also a psychology major at California State University, Monterey Bay. I’m studying to become a school psychologist because I want to make a lasting impact in marginalized communities, especially among students with diagnosed and undiagnosed disabilities in underfunded public school systems. Growing up as a Black woman with undiagnosed ADHD, I constantly felt like I was falling short, but I didn’t know why. I wasn't diagnosed until college, and by then, I was instilled with this voice of doubt that maybe I couldn’t do it. That experience shaped everything I believe about education and mental health. It taught me how easily students, especially Black and low-income students, can be misunderstood, mislabeled, or ignored altogether. I’ve also seen how poverty and instability impact students in my community through volunteering at PVUSD. In the Pajaro Valley Unified School District, children of immigrant field workers often miss school because their families can’t afford rent or stable housing. Some live in homeless camps. Others are pulled out of school during the off-season just to survive. These students carry emotional and psychological burdens that rarely get addressed because schools that are underfunded are barely holding themselves together, let alone their students. As a future school psychologist, I plan to dedicate myself to fighting for every student to be able to receive the education they deserve. I want to be an advocate for students who face systemic challenges, not just academically but emotionally and socially. I will speak out and work harder than anyone else for these students because I know what school is like when nobody does. I’ve had to work while attending school full-time, take out loans, and pay all of my expenses alone. I can’t even take care of my basic needs like going to a dentist. My teeth are in pain, but I can’t possibly afford to get my tooth removed, let alone buy groceries. I have to hold myself down while pushing myself to go above and beyond so that I can still stay in the race for my education. That struggle has only strengthened my desire to fight for a system where students don’t have to choose between survival and success. This career isn’t just a goal. It’s a calling. I want to be the kind of school psychologist I wish I had growing up. One who listens, believes, and shows students that their voices matter. Through empathy, culturally grounded practice, and systemic change, I hope to build a future where all students, regardless of background, diagnosis, or income, are seen, supported, and given the chance to thrive.

Everyone talks about students with disabilities. People say how sad it must be, how hard their lives are, but no one really talks about what it feels like to live that reality. I can tell you firsthand, it is more than hard. Most of the time, it is devastating. Growing up with undiagnosed ADHD, I felt like I was born a problem. I studied for hours every day, but no matter how hard I worked, I could not keep up. My parents did not want to admit something might be wrong, so they decided I was just lazy. That I did not care. That I was not trying hard enough. Their need for me to be "normal" became my burden. Every time my parents were upset I was at the root of it. I was punished every other day for a part of me I couldn't control. I was forced to wear dirty clothes to highschool to embarrass me into trying harder. My birthday parties would be canceled because my grades were not "good enough" to deserve celebration. No one cared that I was trying. They only saw a girl who was not meeting expectations. And because of that, I believed I did not deserve love or kindness. I screamed for therapy, for support, for someone to just listen! But my family refused. My parents were completely in denial and, could not face the idea that I might need help, so I was left to carry it all by myself. This is not how I let my story end. After years of silently struggling, I hit my breaking point. I was ready to drop out of college. I had no job, my GPA was falling apart, and I did not see a future for myself. I told my partner and friends that I could not keep going and they refused to let me fall. They helped me breathe, helped me regroup, and reminded me that I mattered. With their support, everything changed. My mentor helped me get a job on campus and encouraged me to switch my major to psychology. My partner convinced me to seek a diagnosis and start therapy. That was the turning point. After this I started out with intensive therapy and had several evaluations done. Each service provider came to the same conclusion: I had ADHD and I needed medication yesterday. Within one semester of starting ADHD treatment and accommodations, my semester GPA rose from a 1.2 to a 3.2. I began to understand my mind instead of blaming it. I enrolled in six months of intensive therapy and faced years of trauma and shame. I started to forgive myself. I began to heal. Now, I attend biweekly therapy to manage my mental health. I use all of my accommodations including extended test time and note-taking support. I also prioritize rest, self-care, and exercise to stay grounded. Mental health still affects me, but it no longer controls me. Most of all, I have turned my pain into purpose. As a psychology major and future school psychologist, I want to fight for students who feel invisible, unheard, or misunderstood. I want to be the person who tells them what I wish someone had told me. You are not broken. You are not a failure. You are worthy of love, support, and success exactly as you are.

Growing up as a Black woman with undiagnosed ADHD, I constantly felt like I was falling short, but I didn’t know why. I wasn't diagnosed until college, and by then, I had internalized the idea that my struggles were personal failures instead of signs that the system had failed to support me. That experience shaped everything I believe about education and mental health. It taught me how easily students, especially Black and low-income students, can be misunderstood, mislabeled, or ignored altogether. I’ve also seen how poverty and instability impact students in my community. I was a volunteer for the Pajaro Valley Unified School District, where children of immigrant field workers often miss school because their families can’t afford rent or stable housing. Some live in homeless encampments. Others are pulled out of school during the off-season just to survive. These students carry emotional and psychological burdens that rarely get addressed, because the schools meant to support them are chronically underfunded. As a future school psychologist, I plan to provide trauma-informed, culturally responsive mental health services in low-income school districts. Where students will be heard, and I will ensure that, despite the challenges, the students of my future location will be given every tool necessary to do their best in education. I want to be an advocate for students who face systemic challenges, not just academically, but emotionally and socially. I plan to focus on early identification of learning and emotional needs, especially for neurodivergent students who often go undiagnosed and unsupported. I will work every day to ensure that school is a place where every student can belong and that every student deserves to succeed. Approximately 44% of K–12 education funding comes from locals and their property taxes. That means the wealth of a community directly determines the resources available to its schools. If you don’t live in a rich neighborhood, I’m sorry, but your school will likely be underfunded, your teachers overworked, and your access to updated textbooks, technology, and facilities significantly limited. Teachers in these districts celebrate getting new copies of books without stains or tears. That’s how low the bar has fallen. How did we come to this? How have we allowed a child’s future to be bought instead of nurtured? This is more than inequality, it is a violation of students’ rights. In the past 25 years, students with disabilities have had the highest rates of enrollment, yet they still face the lowest graduation rates. As someone living with ADHD, I know what it’s like to fall through the cracks of a system that was never designed to support neurodivergent students, especially those from underrepresented backgrounds. I wasn’t diagnosed until college, and by then, I had already internalized the belief that my struggles were a personal failure, rather than a symptom of a system that failed to identify and support me. My activism is driven by lived experience. I’ve had to work while attending school full-time, take out loans, and pay all of my expenses alone. I’ve gone without healthcare and dental care while pushing myself to succeed academically. That struggle has only strengthened my desire to fight for a system where students don’t have to choose between survival and success. This career isn’t just a goal, it’s a calling. I want to be the kind of school psychologist I wish I had growing up. One who listens, believes, and shows students that their voices matter. With my degree, I am going to build a future where disabled students, regardless of background, diagnosis, or income, are seen, supported, and given the chance to thrive.

Growing up Black in a household where therapy was seen as a weakness nearly destroyed me. I was the “overdramatic” one. The “sensitive” one. The “shit-starter.” I could cry, beg, and scream on the floor, and my parents still wouldn’t believe me when I said I was hurting. I wasn’t allowed to have pain. I wasn’t allowed to be broken. Because if I were, that meant something was wrong with our family, and in their eyes, that couldn’t be true. So I swallowed my pain. I silenced my tears. I wore a mask every single day because pretending was the only way to survive. By the time I turned 18, I wasn’t living, I was existing. I was a shell, numb and obedient, doing whatever my parents asked, no matter how much it suffocated me. I struggled with anxiety so intense it stole my breath, depression that made getting out of bed feel impossible, and binge eating that became my only comfort. But no one noticed. Or maybe they did notice and didn’t care. Either way, I was alone. And I was tired. My family’s silence wasn’t just painful, it was deadly. My oldest brother fell into addiction and now lives in a mental institution. My second-oldest brother died before I was even born because of the trauma and toxicity between my father and his first wife. My older sister, my heart, my friend, my mirror, was molested as a child because of her own mother’s selfishness. Her light dimmed early, and I watched her carry more pain than anyone should ever have to bear. And then, she took her life. It happened in November 2024. My sister, who had always been hurting, always surviving, always trying, was gone. And my father, the man who ignored her for ten years out of spite, called her “the worst thing” he ever knew. For years, he had manipulated me into believing that, too. I hated myself for that. I hated that I hadn’t known better. But more than anything, I hated that I had spent so long warning them. Telling them she was struggling. Telling them she was depressed. Telling them she needed help. But just like me, she was labeled as dramatic. And now she was gone. I broke. Truly broke. The kind of grief that changes your bones, that rewires your soul. There were nights when I screamed into my pillow until my throat burned. Nights, I couldn’t move. Nights, I wanted to join her to make the pain stop. But something inside me whispered, “No.” I couldn’t go. Not yet. How could I claim to advocate for mental health while letting myself drown? How could I honor my sister if I refused to fight for myself? So I fought. I turned to the people who never gave up on me, my partner, my chosen family, my friends. I leaned on God when I felt like I had nothing else left. I screamed at the sky. I cried in therapy. I dug deep into the parts of myself I had buried for 22 years. I relived every moment of pain, every dismissal, every lie I’d told myself to survive. And slowly, so slowly, I began to heal. Six months of intensive therapy reshaped everything. There were weeks I didn’t think I’d make it. I was raw, exposed, stripped bare. But for the first time, I was finally being seen. I found the pieces of myself that I thought were gone forever. I found strength I didn’t know existed. And I emerged from that fire still standing. No. Not just standing, Rising! Today, I feel light. I feel strong. I can smile without faking it. I can breathe without guilt. I can love myself without apology. And that self-love didn’t just save me, it allowed me to step into a role I was born for. As Vice President of Black Students United at California State University, Monterey Bay, I’ve used every ounce of my pain, my healing, and my voice to fight for others. In just one year, I’ve helped five students get into our personal growth and wellness counseling program. Five people who were where I once was. Five people who now know that they matter. They’ve told me that I helped them feel seen, helped them take that terrifying first step. That’s everything to me. That’s my purpose. When I speak at BSU events, students listen, not because I’m perfect or polished, but because I’m real. I tell them the truth. That healing is ugly and beautiful. That it’s okay to break. That needing help isn’t weakness, it’s power! I tell them about my sister. About how I refused to let her story die in vain. About how I am using my life to write the ending she deserved. And every time someone comes up to me afterward and says, “I thought I was the only one,” I know I’m doing what I was meant to do. Mental health is not just a chapter of my life, it is the spine of my story. It’s the thread that runs through my pain, my growth, my leadership, and my future. I will continue to speak, scream, write, and lead until no student has to suffer in silence as my sister did. Until no Black child is told they’re “too sensitive.” Until every family learns that silence kills and that healing is holy. To my big sister: I love you more than words will ever capture. I will carry your memory like a torch through every room I enter. You deserved better. I’m going to make sure the next generation gets better. And to anyone out there who thinks they’re too broken to heal, let me be the proof that you’re not. You don’t have to carry it alone. Make that first call. Say the words out loud. Cry if you need to. Scream if you have to. Just don’t give up. Because your story is needed now more than ever.

Education is not a privilege; it is a right. A right that should never be determined by wealth, zip code, or social status. Yet in the United States, access to quality education is often dictated by the affluence of a neighborhood. This is especially harmful to young children who are in critical stages of development. For many of them, the early years determine whether they begin their educational journey with confidence or with barriers that will take years to overcome. Approximately 44 percent of K-12 education funding comes from local property taxes. That means the financial status of a community directly determines the resources available to its schools. In underfunded districts, teachers are overworked, classrooms are overcrowded, and basic learning materials are outdated or missing. I’ve seen this firsthand in my local community, particularly within the Pajaro Valley Unified School District. Children of immigrant field workers are falling behind, not because they lack motivation or intelligence, but because their families often cannot afford stable housing or childcare. Many students live in homeless camps and face food insecurity. Families are sometimes forced to un-enroll their children from school when there is no seasonal work. These children are not failing; the system is failing them. I chose to pursue a career in school psychology because I want to be part of the solution. I want to support early childhood development by ensuring that all children, regardless of income, disability status, or home life, receive the care, support, and validation they deserve from the beginning. My own experience with undiagnosed ADHD showed me how damaging it can be to feel misunderstood or ignored. I was not diagnosed until college, and for years I believed I was lazy or incapable. That belief was not rooted in truth but in a lack of support. If I had been identified and supported earlier, my academic and emotional journey would have been very different. As a future school psychologist, I plan to focus on early intervention in low-income schools. I will advocate for mental health screenings that begin in preschool and kindergarten so children with developmental delays, behavioral challenges, or emotional distress are recognized early. I want to work with teachers and parents to create trauma-informed environments where every child feels safe and understood. I also hope to expand access to culturally responsive counseling that affirms students' identities and recognizes the unique challenges they face. At California State University, Monterey Bay, I am part of the Africana Heritage Research Collaborative, where I study Black cultural narratives and challenge Eurocentric perspectives in education. This research has helped me understand how important it is for children to see themselves in their curriculum and in their caregivers. Representation builds self-worth. When students feel seen, they engage more, trust more, and learn more. My long-term goal is to create a nonprofit organization that supports early childhood development in underfunded public schools. I want to provide training for educators on identifying learning differences and offer free, accessible mental health services for students and families. I believe the early years are where change begins. If we nurture children with empathy, equity, and understanding, we give them the foundation to thrive for a lifetime.

My name is Amaya Watson, and I’m a psychology major at California State University, Monterey Bay. I’m studying to become a school psychologist because I want to make a lasting impact in marginalized communities, especially among students with diagnosed and undiagnosed disabilities in underfunded public school systems. Growing up as a Black woman with undiagnosed ADHD, I constantly felt like I was falling short, but I didn’t know why. I wasn't diagnosed until college, and by then, I had internalized the idea that my struggles were personal failures instead of signs that the system had failed to support me. That experience shaped everything I believe about education and mental health. It taught me how easily students, especially Black and low-income students, can be misunderstood, mislabeled, or ignored altogether. I’ve also seen how poverty and instability impact students in my community. In the Pajaro Valley Unified School District, children of immigrant field workers often miss school because their families can’t afford rent or stable housing. Some live in homeless encampments. Others are pulled out of school during the off-season just to survive. These students carry emotional and psychological burdens that rarely get addressed, because the schools meant to support them are chronically underfunded. As a future school psychologist, I plan to provide trauma-informed, culturally responsive mental health services in low-income school districts. I want to be an advocate for students who face systemic challenges, not just academically, but emotionally and socially. I plan to focus on early identification of learning and emotional needs, especially for neurodivergent students who often go undiagnosed and unsupported. I will work to build school-wide mental health programs that validate students' identities and equip educators to recognize and respond to their needs. Outside the classroom, I serve as a researcher with the Africana Heritage Research Collaborative, where I examine the intersection of education, media, and racial representation. My work focuses on epistemic decolonization, challenging Eurocentric narratives, and advocating for more inclusive frameworks in academic spaces. This research has shown me that mental health and education are deeply connected to identity and visibility. When students don’t see themselves reflected in the systems around them, it harms their self-worth and engagement. My activism is driven by lived experience. I’ve had to work while attending school full-time, take out loans, and pay all of my expenses alone. I’ve gone without healthcare and dental care while pushing myself to succeed academically. That struggle has only strengthened my desire to fight for a system where students don’t have to choose between survival and success. This career isn’t just a goal, it’s a calling. I want to be the kind of psychologist I wish I had growing up. One who listens, believes, and shows students that their voices matter. Through empathy, culturally grounded practice, and systemic change, I hope to build a future where all students, regardless of background, diagnosis, or income, are seen, supported, and given the chance to thrive.

If I could change one thing in education, it would be how we serve minority communities in underfunded public schools. Education is not a privilege, it is a right. A right that should never be determined by wealth, zip code, or social status. Yet in the United States, the reality is far from this ideal. Access to quality education is still largely dictated by neighborhood affluence, and that disparity has devastating consequences for the students who need support the most. Approximately 44% of K–12 education funding comes from locals and their property taxes. That means the wealth of a community directly determines the resources available to its schools. If you don’t live in a rich neighborhood, I’m sorry, but your school will likely be underfunded, your teachers overworked, and your access to updated textbooks, technology, and facilities significantly limited. Teachers in these districts celebrate getting new copies of books without stains or tears. That’s how low the bar has fallen. How did we come to this? How have we allowed a child’s future to be bought instead of nurtured? This is more than inequality, it is a violation of students’ rights. In the past 25 years, students with disabilities have had the highest rates of enrollment, yet they still face the lowest graduation rates. As someone living with ADHD, I know what it’s like to fall through the cracks of a system that was never designed to support neurodivergent students, especially those from underrepresented backgrounds. I wasn’t diagnosed until college, and by then, I had already internalized the belief that my struggles were a personal failure, rather than a symptom of a system that failed to identify and support me. In my local community, particularly within the Pajaro Valley Unified School District (PVUSD), I’ve witnessed even more alarming inequities. Children of immigrant field workers are falling behind, not because they lack motivation or intelligence, but because their families can’t afford stable housing. Families have been unenrolling their kids from school because when crops are out of season, they have no money to live here! Many live in homeless camps, struggling just for food, let alone education. When students are forced to wake up in cars, miss meals, or sleep in unsafe conditions, how can we expect them to thrive academically? We can’t. And yet, we place the blame on them when they fall behind, rather than acknowledging the systemic neglect they face. It is a slap in the face to know that the government has let issues like these run so deep in our country, and yet continues to defund accessible education. Education should be the great equalizer. It should be the force that lifts people out of poverty, not a mechanism that reinforces it. Every child, regardless of income, disability status, or immigration background, deserves the chance to learn, grow, and reach their full potential in a system that genuinely values them. Yet our policies and practices tell a different story, one of selective access, silent exclusion, and inequality passed off as normal. This is a real life crisis, people, and we need to wake up! This is why I’ve chosen to become a school psychologist. My goal is not just to work in education, but to transform it. I plan to dedicate my life’s work to advocating for students who are most often ignored or misunderstood. That includes children with disabilities, English language learners, students from low-income families, and youth facing trauma and instability. My focus will be on creating inclusive, trauma-informed, and culturally responsive environments where every student feels seen and supported. I am currently a member of the Africana Heritage Research Collaborative at California State University, Monterey Bay, where I advocate for epistemic decolonization in academic research. My work focuses on analyzing Black films and media to explore cultural narratives and challenge Eurocentric frameworks in education. This research has sharpened my understanding of the deep-rooted biases that influence not just what we teach, but how we teach it. It’s shown me how important it is for students to see themselves reflected in the curriculum and in leadership. My dream is to create a nonprofit organization that works directly with underfunded schools to train educators on recognizing learning differences in diverse students and implementing mental health resources that are both inclusive and accessible. I want to serve as a bridge between students and the support systems they’ve been denied for too long. To me, this is not just a profession, it’s a calling. I’ve lived these experiences, and I carry them with me into every classroom, every training, and every conversation I have about equity in education. I know what it’s like to be overlooked. I know how it feels to struggle in silence. And I know what it means to have just one person believe in you. I intend to be that person for the next generation. If I could change anything in education, it would be this: that no student is ever made to feel like their life or potential is less valuable because of where they live, how they learn, or what they can afford. Every student deserves more than survival, they deserve to be seen, heard, and empowered. And I will spend my life working to make that change real.

Mental Health is work. To get to a place of reflection and stability takes every ounce of your being. How can you find hope in a situation that's hopeless? That is the question that plays in your head every single day. You want to leave this headspace so badly, but you don't know how. The very first step is to self-reflect. Where is my depression and anxiety coming from? Well for me my depression and anxiety came from lots of things. My household was a huge part of it. My parents are narcissistic and when I lived with them, they were severely emotionally abusive. It caused me to be on edge and terrified to speak my mind. Then another aspect was my grades I could never get decent grades and consistently failed tests. I tried to ask my parents for help but they would call me a procrastinator and lazy. Once I realized that I had to make changes. This is one of the biggest beliefs that I developed during my battle with my mental health. If you want things to change you need to make bold changes. It will be hard, sad, and heartbreaking. Even if these changes turn your whole life around they must be made to make progress. I moved far away to university and after two semesters I disconnected myself from my parents. I understand a lot of people believed I needed this relationship, but I couldn't do it anymore. I had been in therapy trying to work on my trauma and change our relationship so I could be happier, but they invalidated me. After that, I knew I needed to leave, and I was devastated. However, a few weeks had passed and I had already felt my anxiety lifting. It felt like the weight of their pressure was gone and I could breathe again. The second was my grades. I always had a feeling that I had a learning disability, but my parents would always brush me off. Since I removed their presence I had the confidence to validate myself and speak about my concerns to my therapist. After a few surveys and sessions, she was able to suggest that I had ADHD. When I heard the symptoms everything made sense. My memory in the classroom, my inability to pay attention, and the anxiety I would receive before tests. After my therapist's recommendation and a conversation with my psychiatrist, I was able to be diagnosed with ADHD. Ever since my diagnosis, my career has changed for the better. I went from a 1.5-2.0 average to a 3.0 average in one semester. It is incredible. I now finally feel like I belong in my education and I found my dream career because of my mental health journey. I want to become a psychologist to establish mental awareness within the education system. It is not fair that students struggle and fail through school due to being undiagnosed. It should be an environment of prosperity and equal opportunity. We need more mental health resources for students, more diverse and inclusive learning opportunities, and more psychologists available in high schools. I want everyone to have a chance to do their best, but we can't get better if we don't recognize these issues in our early education.