My name is Amie Boakye, and for much of my life, I have been someone who appears strong from the outside. I am a researcher, an advocate, a daughter of immigrants, and someone preparing to begin my PhD in neuroscience this fall. But behind every accomplishment is a story that many people never see. My journey with mental health has shaped who I am and why I have chosen the path I am on. I have lived with major depressive disorder, ADHD, and anxiety, and there have been seasons where my own mind felt like my biggest obstacle. Depression has taken me to places where getting out of bed felt impossible. There were days when basic tasks like showering, responding to messages, or taking care of myself felt overwhelming. Anxiety made me question every decision, every achievement, and whether I truly belonged in the spaces I worked so hard to enter. One of the hardest parts of living with mental illness is that people often cannot see the battle happening internally. They see the grades, the research, the leadership, and the ambition. They do not always see the moments where I had to fight just to keep moving forward. For a long time, I believed strength meant never struggling. I thought I had to hide the difficult parts of my story because admitting I was struggling felt like admitting I was not capable. Over time, I learned that asking for help and continuing despite hardship are some of the strongest things a person can do. My experiences with mental health have also shaped the work I want to do with my life. Through my studies in psychology and neuroscience, I became interested in understanding trauma, behavior, and the ways our experiences shape the brain. My work with wrongfully convicted individuals showed me how often people's pain, trauma, and mental health struggles are ignored or misunderstood. I have seen how a lack of support can change the trajectory of someone's entire life. This is why I will begin my PhD studying the neuroscience of criminal behavior and trauma. I want to contribute to a future where mental health is treated as an essential part of understanding people, not something hidden away or ignored. I want to help create systems that recognize the humanity behind every diagnosis, every mistake, and every struggle. Mental illness has affected my family as well. As the child of Ghanaian immigrants, I grew up in a family where sacrifice, perseverance, and responsibility were deeply valued. Like many immigrant families, conversations about mental health were not always easy. There can be pressure to be strong, to keep going, and to overcome challenges quietly. Learning to prioritize mental health has been a journey not only for me but also for understanding how we can create more open conversations within families and communities. My mental health struggles have not taken away from my ability to achieve my goals. They have shaped my empathy, my purpose, and my determination to help others. They have taught me that behind every person is a story we may not understand, and that compassion can change lives. I do not want my story to be defined by the hardest moments I have experienced. I want it to be defined by the fact that I kept going, and by my commitment to helping others do the same.

I don't think people realize how lonely it can be to be a black woman chasing something that very few people around you have ever done. There have been so many moments where I questioned whether I was asking for too much. This past year completely changed my life. I lost my job and suddenly found myself trying to figure out how to survive while my plans for the future felt like they were falling apart. I moved home with my parents, have been working 50 hour weeks, and started saving every dollar because I'm due to start my PhD in October. Growing up, I learned early that education was something no one could take away from me. But being a black woman in academia has also meant constantly feeling like I have to prove that I belong. I've walked into rooms where I was the only black woman. I've had people underestimate me before I ever opened my mouth. I've learned that confidence isn't always something you feel. Sometimes it's something you choose because no one else is going to hand it to you. The reason I keep going is because my research isn't just about earning a title. It comes from the people whose stories have changed me. Over the past several years, I've had the privilege of working alongside wrongfully convicted individuals. Sitting across from someone who lost decades of their life for a crime they didn't commit changes the way you see the world. You stop seeing criminal justice as headlines or statistics and start seeing birthdays that were missed, children who grew up without a parent, families that were torn apart, and lives that can never truly be given back. Those conversations taught me that there is almost always a story beneath someone's circumstances. Trauma, poverty, mental illness, systemic failures, and bias often shape lives long before someone ever enters a courtroom. They are also why I want to study the neuroscience of criminal behavior and trauma. I want to better understand how adversity changes the brain and how that knowledge can help us build systems focused on healing, prevention, and rehabilitation instead of only punishment. My commitment to people has never stopped at research. Whether serving communities through humanitarian work or advocating for people whose voices are too often ignored, I've learned that real change happens when we choose to stand beside others, especially when society has looked away. Those experiences have reinforced my belief that science should never exist in isolation. Research should improve lives. It should help people who have been overlooked, misunderstood, or forgotten. Everything I've experienced has made me more certain that this is where I'm supposed to be. The setbacks have taught me resilience and my financial struggles have taught me humility. I still worry about how I will pay for rent, groceries, transportation, and the basic cost of surviving while pursuing the education I have spent years fighting for. I am doing everything I can, working, fundraising, applying for grants, and refusing to let finances be the reason this dream ends. My goal has never been success for myself alone. I want my work to create opportunities, understanding, and hope for people whose stories are too often misunderstood. I want to contribute to a world where justice is informed by science, compassion, and humanity. If my journey can make that possible, then every obstacle I've faced has been worth it.

I’ve learned that when it comes to mental health, honesty matters more than sounding impressive, so I’m going to write this the way I would to someone who actually knows me. I’ve tried to kill myself three times. I say that plainly because that is the reality I survived, and because it is the foundation of why I am here. Mental illness was not something I observed from a distance or learned about in a textbook. It lived in my body. It convinced me, more than once, that the world would be better without me in it. I am alive today not because I was strong every moment, but because at certain moments I held on long enough for help to reach me. That changed how I see people in pain forever. In one year, I lost eight friends to death. Some were violent. Some were sudden. Some were slow and devastating. Grief stopped being an event and became the background noise of my life. I learned how to go to class while mourning. How to laugh while missing people who would never answer again. How to keep breathing while carrying loss that still to this day feels unbearable. That year taught me something no course ever could; something I can't quite put into words just yet. I’m also an athlete, and honestly, movement saved me when words couldn’t, but at times it made everything worse. Running, training, stretching, pushing my body gave me an outlet, but if you’ve ever been on a team where the coach destroys every ounce of who you are and kills your love for the sport, you know exactly what I mean. Athletics taught me discipline, but more than that, it taught me how to sit with discomfort without quitting on myself. There were days my body was the only thing I trusted to keep me here. That complicated relationship between mental health and movement is something I carry into how I understand healing. Healing isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s just choosing to show up anyway. I've always felt this internal pull toward psychology, trauma, and justice. If you asked my parents, they would tell you I've been weirdly obsessed with this since 5 years old. I’ve spent time in prisons. I’ve listened to people who were wrongfully convicted. I’ve sat with stories that made it painfully clear how often trauma is punished. When you hear someone explain how their worst moment became their life sentence, you don’t forget it. It changes how you think about mental health, responsibility, and care. I want to work in mental health because I know what it feels like to be dismissed, misunderstood, or written off. I want to be the kind of professional who sees the whole person, not just the diagnosis. I care deeply about serving marginalized communities. I also speak openly about mental health on my social media platform because silence almost killed me, and I refuse to let it take someone else without a fight. I want to build a career with a basis in honesty, advocacy, and dignity. Mental health didn’t just influence my beliefs or my career goals. It shaped me. I’m here because someone once helped me stay. I want to be that someone for others.

At its core, the life of my dreams is one where I am no longer living in survival mode. In my dream life, I wake up without the constant knot in my stomach wondering if rent will clear, if groceries will stretch another week, or if one unexpected expense will unravel everything I’ve worked so hard to hold together. I have stability. I have a safe place to live. I have food on the table without having to calculate every dollar or choose between necessities. That sense of security is not something I take lightly, because I know intimately what it feels like to live without it. The life of my dreams is one where my time, energy, and intellect are no longer consumed by simply trying to stay afloat, but instead are fully directed toward the work I feel called to do. I am able to focus deeply on my graduate studies, research, and professional development without exhaustion constantly chasing me. I am present, not burnt out. I am learning, not just surviving. In that life, my education is not just for me. It becomes a tool I use to directly serve others. I see myself working in criminal neuroscience and justice reform, researching how trauma reshapes the brain and how that science can be used to prevent harm, expose injustice, and restore dignity. I am sitting across from individuals who have been wrongfully convicted, listening to their stories, helping translate their pain into evidence that cannot be ignored. I am contributing to research, policy, and advocacy that challenges a system that too often criminalizes trauma instead of understanding it. The life of my dreams also includes using my voice far beyond academic spaces. I currently have a social media platform with over 125,000 people, and in my dream life, that platform is not just numbers, it is impact. It is a space where I speak honestly about mental health, justice, healing, and ambition. It is where I show what it looks like to pursue education while struggling, to care deeply about the world without becoming hardened by it. I want to continue using that platform to educate, uplift, and reach people who may never step into a classroom but still deserve access to knowledge, hope, and truth. As a Black woman, the life of my dreams means freedom from the pressure to constantly prove that I deserve to be in the room. It means inspiring young Black girls who see themselves in me to believe that they can be soft and strong, academic and athletic, intellectual and creative. I want them to see that there is no single way to be brilliant, no single path to success, and no limit on what they are allowed to dream. I dream of having the time and resources to surf and dive, passions that make me feel so alive, and deeply connected to nature. Being in the ocean reminds me how small I am and how vast the world is, and that perspective keeps me humble and hopeful. The life of my dreams is one where I am not constantly choosing between my basic needs and my purpose. It is a life where I am stable enough to be generous, grounded enough to lead, educated enough to challenge injustice, and visible enough to inspire others to believe in themselves.

As an African American woman who has lived with depression, anxiety, ADHD, and suicidal thoughts, I understand firsthand how untreated mental health challenges can limit opportunity, deepen trauma, and perpetuate cycles of harm. My academic focus is in criminal neuroscience, where I study how trauma and mental illness can alter neural pathways and influence behavior. Many crimes are not inevitable; they are consequences of unaddressed mental health issues. I want to contribute to change through multiple avenues. I envision trauma-informed mental health programs in schools and community centers, offering counseling/therapy that are low-cost or sliding-scale for families who cannot otherwise afford care. Early intervention can transform a child’s trajectory, providing the support they need before trauma compounds. I want to advocate for policy reforms that fund mental health services for low-income and BIPOC youth, integrating care directly into education systems and community programs. I want to create educational campaigns for adults to recognize trauma and mental health struggles early, while reducing stigma that too often isolates children and families. I also plan to use evidence from my research to inform programs and interventions, ensuring they are data-driven and effective at preventing cycles of trauma and crime. My lived experience, academic focus, and dedication to advocacy drive me to create lasting change. I want every child who experiences trauma to know that help is available, that their mental health matters, and that early intervention can change their life and thus, our society.

No one tells you how to survive college with mental illness. They hand you brochures about therapy, stress management, and self-care, but they rarely tell you what it feels like to be trapped in your own mind, to feel exhaustion pressing down on your chest even after a full night of sleep, or to struggle with responsibilities that everyone else seems to handle effortlessly. By the time I reached seventh grade, I had already attempted to take my life once. Two years later, I tried again. By the end of my freshman year of college, I attempted for a third time. I woke up two days later on my roommate’s deflated bean bag, fully aware that I had been barely surviving. I hadn’t told anyone except my closest friend. I had posted vague cries for help on social media, hoping someone would understand the despair I could not articulate myself. My name is Amie Maxine Awura-Afua Boakye. I am African American, a student, a dreamer, a woman who has carried the weight of mental illness silently while striving to exceed in every way. In a period of seven months, I was diagnosed with three mental illnesses: Major Depressive Disorder, Anxiety Disorder, ADHD. Each diagnosis felt like a mirror, reflecting the ways my mind and body had been fighting, often without my conscious permission. I’ve taken 24 and 25 credit hours in semesters when my mental health made even breathing feel like a challenge. I cheered on a competitive team while my quite literally planning my way out. I studied, I showed up, I smiled, I survived. These experiences have shaped every part of who I am. They have taught me that resilience is not always graceful. They have taught me that relationships require honesty and vulnerability, that it is okay to lean on others, and that the people who stay are the ones who matter most. They have shown me that the world is not always fair, that systemic barriers and hidden prejudices exist, but that empathy, courage, and persistence can turn suffering into understanding. My mental health struggles have also shaped my goals. I want to advocate for students like me, for people whose pain is invisible, whose achievements are often overshadowed by the battles they fight privately. I want to build spaces where mental health is not stigmatized, where asking for help is seen as strength. I want to live with intention, to prioritize emotional well-being as fiercely as I pursue academic and professional success. I have learned that survival is not just staying alive; it is moving forward, learning, and growing, even when your body and mind are screaming no. It is falling forward when falling back seems inevitable. And in that truth, I have found purpose, empathy, and a deep, unshakable commitment to live fully and help others do the same. My journey has been painful and at times unbearable, but it has given me wisdom and perspective. It has taught me that to truly understand the world and the people in it, one must experience both its darkness and its light, and embrace both with courage and compassion.