A silver roll of duct tape sits in the front pocket of my backpack. It follows me everywhere I go, and about once a week, it comes out. It solves many challenges, from broken projects to falling lights. It’s my go-to tool. In my life, I aspire to be just as much of a problem solver in everything, from academics to personal challenges. I joined my school's math team freshman year, the first time our school had one in thirty years. However, we had little resources, and while our amazingly resilient coach was doing as much as he could, he was also an underpaid, overworked, very stressed-out high school math teacher in a crumbling school. It would've been unfair to weigh him down with the burden of finding and creating study materials, so I took the initiative. I scrounged every corner of the internet and compiled a mass of resources for our team. Similarly, I joined theatre and HighQ during my sophomore year and did the same. I'd make study materials, raise money, and handle all the administrative tasks. I learned how to manage people, rally support, and run an organization. I'd do everything I could to make up for the fact that our school didn't have many things to offer our students. And yet, as many problems as I patched up, there was always another. One of the same type. One neither I nor my roll of duct tape could fix. Our community had a public health issue- a mental health kind. To realize this issue, it's important to understand that nearly everyone here in El Paso is brown. Consequently, you don't visibly stand out if you're like me, an American-born Desi. But living on the border, being queer, and Desi gives me a great deal of insight into the unique stress our communities face, especially in mental health. In both Desi and Hispanic cultures, stigma shrouds mental health like a heavy fog, sinking its teeth into us, preventing us from seeking out help. It hurts our community, and if you're queer, the impact worsens. Even when people venture to seek it out, it's often not accessible. I watched as the people around me, my friends and family, were straining silently against the weight of various mental health issues. I felt helpless. Night after night, the blue light of my phone would illuminate my face as I tried to discourage them from destructive behavior. A dear friend had confided in me about her struggles, but her fear of being perceived as dishonorable paralyzed her from getting any help. She couldn't see a future with her in it. She couldn't envision a world where queer minorities were able to live, where they could survive through all the trials and tribulations of being queer, and where they could access psychiatric care. The layers of our ordeals, being constantly villainized and scrutinized, stack on top of us. It pulls us into the pit of despair and leads many of us to combat severe psychological burdens. For a sixteen-year-old to figure out how to mitigate that is an insurmountable task. Nevertheless, it's something that I do want to change. I want to become a psychiatrist. I want to make a world where instead of suffering in silence, my friend could come to my clinic where I’d help them with their struggles and provide them with further resources. Like the silver roll of duct tape in my bag, I aim to grow to be someone who is resilient, works to mend what is broken, and alleviates the mental health issues that plague our communities.