Existential OCD. That was one of several thing my therapist told me I have. Existential OCD is a subset of OCD where the obsessive, unwanted thoughts all have to do with questions about death, morality, and the potential for an afterlife. This diagnosis, out of all of them, is probably the ones I'd consider to put the biggest amount of my life into perspective: the nights where I'd have panic attacks about whether I was good enough to go to Heaven, the times where I was sure I'd done something that couldn't be forgiven even by a God described as loving, the countless stories I'd written where death and grief were at the forefront. It all made sense. But it didn't make things easier. Not right away. I had confirmation: my thoughts weren't necessarily rational. Great. Unfortunately, there was still the matter of coping. So what did I do? I thought even more about it. Every story I write (and I write a lot, since I'm going to college for it) has something involving death or souls or where we go after we die. Every time I go to church or look at a bible, I look through what it says about morality. But most of all, every time I go outside at night, I look to the stars. This will always either calm me down or make my anxiety worse, but when I look up at the night sky, I'm reminded that it's one moment. One of many. And this reframing is so important to my mental health. The other thing I do? I share. My friends and family have plenty of struggles to go around, so we often end up leaning on each other for it. All of these methods in dealing with my brain have helped my with my goals. First, it solidified to me that I need to live life. Everyone dies, and we don't know what, if anything, happens directly after. But when we find out, then I hope it'll bring a sense of understanding to the world. Second, it reminded me why I write: to connect with people. When I share my stories, I do it with the hope that others might feel seen, and with that, they'll realize they aren't alone. Finally, it reminds me that I'm not alone. I don't have to keep all this confusion and grief and restlessness inside. I don't have to let it bury me under its weight. And even if I do, I have people who will dig me out. It's still hard sometimes. It never really stop. There are still plenty of times where it feels like my heart is trying to rip itself from my body. But it gets better. And that's what's most important.

My favorite teacher my sophomore year of high school was Mr. Kenley. He taught Creative Writing, and it was the highlight of a particularly bad school year for me. I'd always loved writing; in fact, by the time I actually entered his class, I'd already won third place in a local short story contest and gotten a poem put in a local anthology. But it wasn't until Mr. Kenley's class that I felt I truly understood how transformative writing could be and what a powerful tool it was. In that first class, we learned that every story has a heart: the thing that drives the author's message. Maybe it was a memory, maybe it was a feeling; what mattered was that, as an author, you were putting a piece of yourself into every single sentence. At first, I didn't know much about my own heart; as such, I wasn't necessarily sure how to insert a part of it into my stories. but as Mr. Kenley explained the art of storytelling further, I knew exactly what to write about. I am queer. I am also transgender. And with those two things come a lot of grief. Grief for lost friends, lost opportunity, and lost community is prevalent when you're a queer person, even if you don't lose anyone close to you. Grief is always tearing at the edges of your being and attempting to make its home in your chest. So, the first story I wrote was about a boy who could see ghosts. And not just see ghosts- he was surrounded by them. And the only other person he'd been able to connect with about it is gone. Except he's not a ghost. It's a very lonely, fearful story. And my Creative Writing teacher encouraged it. Mr. Kenley looked at the story and told me to keep going. So I did. I still have that story, about the boy who was surrounded by ghosts and had seen them his whole life. I'm still working on putting it together. But that wouldn't have even been possible if not for Mr. Kenley. I want to go to college to get a degree in English and Creative Writing. But before his class, I'd only ever really considered writing a private hobby, never to be shared with anyone but close friends and maybe some family. But now? Writing is my voice. It's how I make sense of the world, and how I can help others make sense of it, too. And I have Mr. Kenley to thank for that. I hope that one day, when I publish something for real, I can dedicate it to him.

When my family first went to see Wicked, I was going in completely blind. I had no idea how it would be different or what it would add to the world of The Wizard of Oz that I'd already been familiar with. Then I actually watched it. To me, Wicked is a story about someone who has been deemed an outcast finally getting a chance to try and change the world. It is about fighting back against injustice and standing with the oppressed. I am queer. I've been public about this fact since middle school. In doing so, several people throughout my middle and high school career have felt obliged to drop their unasked for two cents about my identity. From the boy in Debate who called all transgender people mentally ill to the girl in Speech who compared gender identity to children pretending to be cats, being openly queer and trans has always opened the door for hateful people. Wicked features themes of bullying and discrimination like this prominently. But that isn't the only thing it does. It also displays the fact that a person can fight back against these acts. In the finale of Wicked, Elphaba, played by Cynthia Erivo, sings that "Everyone deserves a chance to fly." This line might be my favorite in the whole movie. Every time I hear it, it reminds me that I don't have to just take hate from peers. I don't even have to listen to them! Instead, it shows that I can focus on supporting those around me and myself. I can speak up about these things and, as the movie puts it, "defy gravity." And, as Cynthia Erivo sings in the final line, "No wizard that there is or was is ever gonna bring me down."

My most prominent memory of my entire high school experience was in me debate class during my sophomore year. I was one of two students who was openly transgender. During our model government unit, a student that had previously expressed transphobic and homophobic views looked me and that student in the eyes and stated that all transgender people were mentally ill and needed to be institutionalized. When the teacher brought this account to our school's administration, they did nothing, stating that he'd simply been using his first amendment right to free speech. This wasn't his first or last act of hate speech, but it's the one that sticks in my mind due to how he'd looked me directly in the eyes while making this comment. later, in a speech class taught by the same teacher, I gave a speech about queer mental health in relationship to school climate. After I'd given my speech, the floor was open to questions. Most were fairly harmless. But the final question was asked by a girl in the class who strayed from my stated topic to ask my opinion on gender-affirming surgeries, specifically in regards to minors. This caused a small argument, during which she compared being transgender to children playing pretend (she specifically brought up pretending to be cats, which is a comment I've seen before). I've always loved writing. I remember writing stories as far back as second grade. But now, as I've grown up in a place where I've heard people seek to invalidate being transgender, queer, or otherwise LGBTQ+, much of my writing has found anew purpose. Most of it includes explicitly queer characters going through hardships. The motivation behind this is simple: I want to normalize having queerness within media. I want stories where queer issues are front and center, and through writing, I can be a part of that. a quote that I've always seen in every school I've attended is "Be the change you wish to see in the world." Well, here I am: a queer, trans writer seeking to add my own little bit of diversity into the world of literature. Recently, I entered the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards with a short story centered around a gay couple. It won a Gold Key award for my region, so it is now being judged for the national competition. Since it received a regional award, it will be published in a Hoosier Writing Project anthology. For me, this has two important things about it: the first is that it lets me know that my writing skills have evolved over time. But the second and arguably more important aspect is that it shows that queerness has a place in the writing world. It shows anyone who reads that story that they matter, and that their identities are real. I never changed the minds of the people in my public speaking classes. But in my writing, I can show so many others that they have a place in the world. And honestly? I think that's the best I could ever hope for.