Living with Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder (ARFID) has shaped much of my life. It impacts how I view food, my body, and my mental health. My journey with ARFID involved three inpatient treatments—at 14, 21, and 24 years old—totaling nearly two years in care. Throughout these experiences, I faced intense physical and emotional challenges, but they have ultimately led to growth and transformation, especially in how I navigate motherhood. At 21, I experienced the most difficult physical challenge of my life. I was severely underweight, and refeeding—reintroducing food into my system—was grueling. Vomiting episodes were frequent, and I had to be fed through a nasogastric (NG) tube. The physical toll was immense, but the emotional weight was heavier. It wasn’t just the discomfort, but the realization that my body had reached a point where I couldn’t trust it to function normally. As I began to heal physically, I knew I had to face even bigger mental battles. Perfectionism was something I’d always struggled with. I held myself to impossibly high standards, whether it was in academics, personal goals, or even my recovery. Learning to give myself grace—allowing room for mistakes and acknowledging my humanity—was perhaps the hardest part of my treatment. It required unlearning years of self-criticism and accepting myself as I was, flaws and all. At 24, during my final treatment, I received a diagnosis of autism. This diagnosis was a turning point. For years, I had been told that certain traits of mine—being overly rigid in routines or highly sensitive to social situations—were problems or made me ‘weird.’ Understanding that these were part of my neurodivergence helped me accept these parts of myself, which I had long been ashamed of. It was a profound shift in how I viewed myself and became an essential part of my healing. Motherhood introduced a new set of challenges. I worried that my history with food would make me overly controlling of my son’s eating habits or lead to unhealthy anxieties about his food choices. However, what I discovered was a surprising source of healing. Watching my son develop his relationship with food has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. He approaches food with curiosity, trying new things, spitting out what he doesn’t like, and even choking occasionally. But each time, he returns to the table, resilient and willing to try again. This process has been healing for me. My son’s resilience has shown me that food is not something to fear, and I’ve learned to apply the lessons I gained in treatment to my role as a mother. I focus on fostering a positive relationship with food and his body, making sure that we celebrate what his body can do rather than how it looks. I have also drawn on the insights I gained from other patients, many of whom struggled with body-image-based eating disorders. This understanding has made me more conscious of how I talk about bodies, both my own and my son’s, ensuring that I create an environment of self-acceptance for him. My journey with ARFID and my autism diagnosis has been long and difficult, but it has also been transformative. The tools I gained in treatment have allowed me to approach life with grace and compassion, both for myself and as a mother. While I still face challenges, I now know how to navigate them without the self-criticism that once defined me. My experiences have also deepened my empathy for others facing similar struggles, and I hope to use my journey to contribute to mental health advocacy in the future.

Living with Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder (ARFID) and managing my mental health has shaped both my academic performance and personal life. Over the years, I’ve spent nearly two years in inpatient treatment, and I also received an autism diagnosis in my mid-twenties. While these challenges have affected how I engage with school and life, I’ve learned invaluable strategies to prioritize my mental health and achieve balance. When I was 21, I faced the most difficult period of my life due to ARFID. I became severely underweight, and the refeeding process, involving a nasogastric (NG) tube, was physically and mentally exhausting. My perfectionism compounded the difficulty—this mindset made it hard to accept anything less than perfection in my studies, leading to intense academic pressure. I often felt overwhelmed by my desire to meet unrealistic expectations, and this took a toll on my schoolwork. The emotional weight of failure affected my focus, productivity, and overall academic performance. However, through treatment, I learned one of the most important lessons: giving myself grace. I began to understand that failure isn’t the end but a part of growth. As I applied this self-compassion to my studies, I was able to relieve some of the pressure I had placed on myself. Rather than striving for perfection, I started to focus on progress. This shift in mindset allowed me to build more sustainable study habits and, ultimately, improve my academic outcomes. My autism diagnosis at 24 gave me further clarity on how to manage my mental health in both academic and personal settings. I realized that the sensory overload I often experienced in busy environments and my need for routine were related to my neurodivergence. Understanding this allowed me to create structured routines that accommodate my needs and help me focus in school. I now know that I perform best when I have a clear schedule, a quiet study environment, and time for self-care. To prioritize my mental health, I’ve taken several important steps while attending school. I create clear boundaries around my time, ensuring that I take regular breaks to prevent burnout. I also advocate for myself when necessary, asking for accommodations such as extended time on assignments or exams. This has been key to managing stress while still meeting academic requirements. I've learned that seeking help is not a sign of weakness but a way to ensure my success, both academically and personally. My personal life, particularly my role as a mother, has also been deeply impacted by my mental health journey. At first, I worried that my experiences with food and anxiety would negatively affect my son. However, watching him develop his relationship with food has been unexpectedly healing. He approaches food with curiosity and resilience, which has helped me view both food and my body with more kindness. This newfound perspective has also improved my ability to handle the stresses of school and parenting, teaching me balance and patience in both areas. While my mental health challenges are ongoing, I now have the tools to manage them effectively. Through the lessons I’ve learned in treatment and the experiences of being a mother, I’ve developed resilience and self-compassion. Prioritizing my mental health has allowed me to navigate academic challenges while staying grounded in my personal life. By creating a strong foundation of self-care, clear communication, and realistic expectations, I have been able to balance my mental health with my academic and personal responsibilities successfully.

iving with Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder (ARFID) has shaped much of my life, impacting how I view food, my body, and my mental health. My journey with ARFID involved three inpatient treatments—at 14, 21, and 24 years old—totaling nearly two years in care. Throughout these experiences, I faced intense physical and emotional challenges, but they have ultimately led to growth and transformation, especially in how I navigate motherhood. At 21, I experienced the most difficult physical challenge of my life. I was severely underweight, and refeeding—reintroducing food into my system—was grueling. Vomiting episodes were frequent, and I had to be fed through a nasogastric (NG) tube. The physical toll was immense, but the emotional weight was heavier. It wasn’t just the discomfort, but the realization that my body had reached a point where I couldn’t trust it to function normally. As I began to heal physically, I knew I had to face even bigger mental battles. Perfectionism was something I’d always struggled with. I held myself to impossibly high standards, whether it was in academics, personal goals, or even my recovery. Learning to give myself grace—allowing room for mistakes and acknowledging my humanity—was perhaps the hardest part of my treatment. It required unlearning years of self-criticism and accepting myself as I was, flaws and all. At 24, during my final treatment, I received a diagnosis of autism. This diagnosis was a turning point. For years, I had been told that certain traits of mine—being overly rigid in routines or highly sensitive to social situations—were problems or made me ‘weird.’ Understanding that these were part of my neurodivergence helped me accept these parts of myself, which I had long been ashamed of. It was a profound shift in how I viewed myself and became an essential part of my healing. Motherhood introduced a new set of challenges. I worried that my history with food would make me overly controlling of my son’s eating habits or lead to unhealthy anxieties about his food choices. However, what I discovered was a surprising source of healing. Watching my son develop his relationship with food has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. He approaches food with curiosity, trying new things, spitting out what he doesn’t like, and even choking occasionally. But each time, he returns to the table, resilient and willing to try again. This process has been healing for me. My son’s resilience has shown me that food is not something to fear, and I’ve learned to apply the lessons I gained in treatment to my role as a mother. I focus on fostering a positive relationship with food and his body, making sure that we celebrate what his body can do rather than how it looks. I have also drawn on the insights I gained from other patients, many of whom struggled with body-image-based eating disorders. This understanding has made me more conscious of how I talk about bodies, both my own and my son’s, ensuring that I create an environment of self-acceptance for him. My journey with ARFID and my autism diagnosis has been long and difficult, but it has also been transformative. The tools I gained in treatment have allowed me to approach life with grace and compassion, both for myself and as a mother. While I still face challenges, I now know how to navigate them without the self-criticism that once defined me. My experiences have also deepened my empathy for others facing similar struggles, and I hope to use my journey to contribute to mental health advocacy in the future.

Living with Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder (ARFID) has shaped much of my life. It impacts how I view food, my body, and my mental health. My journey with ARFID involved three inpatient treatments—at 14, 21, and 24 years old—totaling nearly two years in care. Throughout these experiences, I faced intense physical and emotional challenges, but they have ultimately led to growth and transformation, especially in how I navigate motherhood. At 21, I experienced the most difficult physical challenge of my life. I was severely underweight, and refeeding—reintroducing food into my system—was grueling. Vomiting episodes were frequent, and I had to be fed through a nasogastric (NG) tube. The physical toll was immense, but the emotional weight was heavier. It wasn’t just the discomfort, but the realization that my body had reached a point where I couldn’t trust it to function normally. As I began to heal physically, I knew I had to face even bigger mental battles. Perfectionism was something I’d always struggled with. I held myself to impossibly high standards, whether it was in academics, personal goals, or even my recovery. Learning to give myself grace—allowing room for mistakes and acknowledging my humanity—was perhaps the hardest part of my treatment. It required unlearning years of self-criticism and accepting myself as I was, flaws and all. At 24, during my final treatment, I received a diagnosis of autism. This diagnosis was a turning point. For years, I had been told that certain traits of mine—being overly rigid in routines or highly sensitive to social situations—were problems or made me ‘weird.’ Understanding that these were part of my neurodivergence helped me accept these parts of myself, which I had long been ashamed of. It was a profound shift in how I viewed myself and became an essential part of my healing. Motherhood introduced a new set of challenges. I worried that my history with food would make me overly controlling of my son’s eating habits or lead to unhealthy anxieties about his food choices. However, what I discovered was a surprising source of healing. Watching my son develop his relationship with food has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. He approaches food with curiosity, trying new things, spitting out what he doesn’t like, and even choking occasionally. But each time, he returns to the table, resilient and willing to try again. This process has been healing for me. My son’s resilience has shown me that food is not something to fear, and I’ve learned to apply the lessons I gained in treatment to my role as a mother. I focus on fostering a positive relationship with food and his body, making sure that we celebrate what his body can do rather than how it looks. I have also drawn on the insights I gained from other patients, many of whom struggled with body-image-based eating disorders. This understanding has made me more conscious of how I talk about bodies, both my own and my son’s, ensuring that I create an environment of self-acceptance for him. My journey with ARFID and my autism diagnosis has been long and difficult, but it has also been transformative. The tools I gained in treatment have allowed me to approach life with grace and compassion, both for myself and as a mother. While I still face challenges, I now know how to navigate them without the self-criticism that once defined me. My experiences have also deepened my empathy for others facing similar struggles, and I hope to use my journey to contribute to mental health advocacy in the future.

Mental health is not just important—it is foundational to every aspect of life. My journey with Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder (ARFID) and my autism diagnosis has shaped my understanding of mental wellness and its critical role in my ability to function, grow, and thrive. Through these experiences, I’ve learned that maintaining mental health is an ongoing process, requiring self-awareness and self-compassion. ARFID has influenced my relationship with food and my body since childhood. At 14, I faced my first inpatient treatment and at 21, I experienced my most challenging hospitalization. Severely underweight, I went through the physically painful and mentally exhausting process of refeeding, requiring an NG tube for nutrition. It was during this time that I realized recovery wasn’t just about restoring my body—it required healing emotionally and mentally from the damage caused by the disorder. One of the most important lessons I learned in treatment was the value of self-compassion. As a perfectionist, I had always held myself to impossibly high standards. This mindset fueled my disorder and made it difficult for me to accept setbacks. Through treatment, I came to understand that mental wellness wasn’t about perfection but about allowing myself to be human. I had to learn to forgive myself and recognize that I didn’t have to be flawless to be worthy of care or progress. This shift in mindset was crucial to my recovery and remains central to how I maintain my mental health today. At 24, I was diagnosed with autism, which gave me another important perspective on mental health. For years, I struggled with feeling “different”—too rigid, too sensitive, and too anxious. The diagnosis helped me realize that these traits weren’t flaws but part of my neurodivergence. Embracing this allowed me to reframe my approach to mental health, focusing on accepting myself rather than fighting against my nature. Maintaining my mental health now involves several strategies. Mindfulness is essential in keeping me grounded and focused on the present, preventing me from being overwhelmed by anxious thoughts. I also prioritize rest, self-care, and reflection, recognizing that these are not indulgences but necessary for sustaining well-being. Another key part of maintaining my mental health is fostering supportive relationships. During my inpatient treatments, I formed deep connections with people who were experiencing similar struggles. These friendships showed me the importance of having a community that understands and supports my mental health journey. Surrounding myself with people who value respect my boundaries and understand me has given me more resilience and helped me to be more capable of facing challenges. Mental wellness for me is about creating a space where I feel safe, accepted, and understood. Through self-compassion, mindfulness, and support from others, I’ve built a foundation for my mental health that allows me to navigate life with strength and resilience. In conclusion, I believe mental health is important because it shapes how we live, grow, and relate to the world. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to pursue my goals or maintain meaningful relationships. By maintaining my own mental wellness, I’ve turned my challenges into sources of strength, and I strive to continue caring for my well-being while encouraging others to do the same.

Mental health can be an imperceptible challenge, a silent power that influences our perspective, relationships, and even the roads we travel in life—often unbeknownst to us at first. My mental health journey has been dominated by Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder (ARFID), a condition that has had devastating impacts on my physical well-being while also constructing dark chasms in how I view myself, relate to others, and foresee my career path. I’ve lived with ARFID for as long as I can remember. It has dictated my relationship with food and created endless barriers between me and a healthy body. I have been an inpatient three times, confronting both the physical consequences of my disorder and the emotional struggles underlying it. Each experience—at 14, 21, and 24—brought different struggles and valuable lessons. When I was 21, treatment marked a particularly tough chapter in my life. I was severely underweight, and the refeeding process was grueling. Vomiting, intense pain, and NG tube feedings were all part of it. Refeeding saved my life but symbolized the lowest point in my battle with ARFID. Amid the pain, however, there was hope—a step toward healing. I learned that healing was more than physical; the hardest battles are often fought in the mind. Throughout my life, I held myself to impossible standards. As a perfectionist, I believed I needed to perfect everything, including my eating disorder, to deserve acceptance. Failure wasn’t an option. Learning to give myself grace was one of the biggest lessons during my treatment. I realized I could no longer measure my worth by perfection. Mistakes are part of being human, and my recovery required that I forgive myself. My mental health journey also shaped how I relate to others. At 24, I was diagnosed with autism, a revelation that was a turning point. For years, I struggled with aspects of my personality—my routines, hypersensitivity, and intense focus—that seemed “too much” for others. My diagnosis gave me a new lens through which to understand myself. What I once saw as flaws were now attributes of neurodivergence. Embracing this brought me a level of self-compassion I had never known, crucial to furthering my recovery. Motherhood has been a transformative part of my journey. As my son grew, I worried that my anxieties about food would pass down to him. However, his curiosity, resilience, and freedom around food taught me that food can be an experience, not a roadblock. His innocent approach reminded me that setbacks are opportunities to learn and try again. Watching my son’s healthy relationship with food began my healing. I realized my fears didn’t have to define either of us. I became intentional about how I spoke to him, focusing on the positive and encouraging a sense of strength. This helped me heal my relationship with food and body image. My experiences with ARFID, autism, and self-compassion have shaped my passion for mental health advocacy. I aim to address mental health challenges by studying economics. While it may not seem connected, economics allows me to tackle the societal and structural issues impacting mental health. Economic policies, inequality, and access to resources profoundly affect people’s well-being. I want to help create systems that prioritize mental health and support vulnerable populations. Economics helps us understand resource allocation and societal conditions. Through my studies, I want to improve systems for those with mental health conditions, food insecurities, and vulnerabilities. My goal is to work in public policy or nonprofit organizations to advocate for better mental health care, food security, and reduced economic inequality. Recovery isn’t linear, but I now have tools and self-compassion to approach challenges with grace. The resilience I built through refeeding, inpatient treatment, and motherhood has made me stronger than I imagined. In the future, I hope to use my experiences to advocate for others on similar journeys. Mental health is a societal issue, and through economics, I believe I can make a meaningful impact. I want to create spaces where mental health is prioritized, where people embrace their whole selves, and where policies reflect a commitment to everyone’s well-being.

One of the challenges I have been facing all my life is Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder, or ARFID for short. This eating disorder has deeply shaped my relationship with food, my body, and even my mind. It's rarely discussed on the same level as other eating disorders, but it's been a part of my story for as long as I can remember. I've been hospitalized as an inpatient three times: at ages 14, 21, and 24. In total, these treatments spanned just under two years. Each phase involved intense physical and emotional struggles. But what stands out most is the resilience I built, the grace I learned to extend to myself, and how this journey has influenced my role as a mother. Perhaps the toughest physical challenge came at age 21. By that time, my ARFID had left me severely underweight, and the treatment, called refeeding, was incredibly hard on my body. I vomited frequently, and my health had deteriorated so much that I needed to receive nutrition through an NG tube. It was a truly scarring experience. It wasn't just the physical pain or discomfort, but the realization that my body had become so starved it could no longer handle food as it should. The NG tube was lifesaving, yet it symbolized my rock bottom. As my body slowly improved through refeeding, the bigger battle was in my mind. Like many with eating disorders, I am a perfectionist. I had spent years holding myself to impossibly high standards, believing that if I wasn't excelling in every aspect of life—school, work, or even my eating disorder—I was failing. Failure, to me, was never an option. The hardest lesson in treatment was learning to give myself grace, to accept that I am human and I will make mistakes. It meant unlearning years of self-criticism and allowing myself to exist without judgment. During my treatment at age 24, I was diagnosed with autism, which was a kind of epiphany for me. I'd spent so long feeling like parts of myself were 'too much' or 'weird' to others, and I was often told that I thought too much, was too rigid in routines, or too sensitive in social situations. Understanding that these traits were part of my neurodivergence, not personal flaws, was incredibly liberating. I began to embrace these as features of myself rather than things to be ashamed of. This diagnosis allowed me to view myself with more compassion, and it became a pivotal piece of my healing process. Not long after my last treatment stay, I became a mother, I faced new challenges posed by my eating disorder. As my son grew, I was worried that my anxieties about food would affect him negatively. I feared I would obsess over his eating or that he might develop food-related issues. But instead, I found something beautiful and unexpected: a source of healing. One of the most rewarding experiences of my life has been watching my son develop his relationship with food. He approaches food with curiosity, trying new things- and sometimes deciding he doesn’t like them. He has thrown up, choked a little, and spat out foods he didn’t enjoy, but he always returns to his plate, willing to try again. Watching this has been profoundly healing for me. My son has taught me that food is an experience, not a burden. He eats because he is hungry, not because of internal struggles over control or fear. His innocent approach has helped me reframe my thinking about food for both him and me. It reminded me that it’s not the setbacks that define us but the willingness to keep trying. These years were not about learning to live with ARFID; the tools I gained from treatment were invaluable, but this journey was more about transforming my relationship with myself. Treatment gave me the framework to enter motherhood with a healthy, loving relationship with food and body image. I learned to speak about bodies in positive, empowering ways—a lesson reinforced through the friendships I formed with other patients. Many of them struggled with body-image-based eating disorders, and their experiences highlighted how we talk about our bodies affects our sense of self-worth. This has made me very conscious of how I speak to my son about his body, emphasizing that he is strong and capable rather than focusing on appearance. My journey with ARFID has been comprehensive, filled with resilience, grace, and transformation. The physical toll has been great, but the mental and emotional tolls have been equally challenging. Yet through these struggles, I have learned to give myself the compassion I deserve, embracing parts of myself that others may not understand. This newfound self-acceptance has influenced how I mother my son. He has become a source of healing I never expected, and his curiosity about food has brought an unexpected peace into my life. I know my journey is far from over. Recovery is not linear, and old fears and anxieties still resurface from time to time. But now, armed with the tools, support, and self-awareness, I can face these challenges with grace. These experiences have deepened my empathy for others facing similar issues and sparked a passion for mental health advocacy and education. The lessons I’ve learned are ones I hope to share with others, aiming to create a world that prioritizes mental health, self-compassion, and acceptance.

The direct impact currency has on individuals, families, and communities has always intrigued me. While pursuing my associate's degree at the Community College of Aurora, I became increasingly aware of the discipline's potential to illuminate and exacerbate social inequity. I started working for the Department of Motor Vehicles under the State of Colorado Department of Revenue (DMV). During my time in this position, my interest grew into a passion. Individuals are affected by economics in several predictable (and unpredictable) ways. I worked at the DMV, where I could observe the poverty cycle up close. Most people do not simply forget when their car needs to be renewed; they just cannot afford to do it. When they eventually find the funds to renew, they discover that there are additional expenditures because of late fees. After paying their late fines they can purchase a two-week temporary tag. If they cannot pay the renewal in full by the due date, late fines start to accrue once more. If they are discovered to have expired license plates or tags, they will be subject to court-mandated fines. Vehicle registration funds road maintenance and local emergency services, from a financial standpoint, it is necessary. However, I believe that this framework ignores the disproportionately negative effect that late fees have on low-income communities. People struggling just to make ends meet are more likely to have to pay late fees; thus putting them at further risk of having to face catastrophic legal consequences. I led the effort to create a second grace period for car registration renewals in the State of Colorado. My local elected officials accepted and advanced this idea and pushed it up to the state-level government. When this policy was changed in January 2024, it gave those who didn't have the money a bit more time to come up with the money they needed. After I saw some of the systemic barriers that low-income communities experience when doing something as simple as renewing their vehicles, I felt that something needed to change. While the policy I advocated for provides a short-term period of relief, it highlights the need to address the underlying causes of poverty in a more direct manner. I am eager to apply my passion and expertise toward the development and implementation of policies that promote economic equity. My experience working at the DMV revealed to me how systems of the economy may aggravate social inequity. This experience was difficult and disheartening, but it only solidified the commitment I have to better the world around me. By getting a Bachelor of Science in Economics at Metropolitan State University of Denver, I hope that I will gain a better understanding of how economic policies influence the individual. I hope that I can make a more equitable society through research, policymaking, and encouraging community participation. I believe that by evaluating economic institutions through a humanistic lens, we can create a world that provides more chances to a broader spectrum of individuals.

The direct impact currency has on individuals, families, and communities has always intrigued me. While pursuing my associate's degree at the Community College of Aurora, I became increasingly aware of the discipline's potential to illuminate and exacerbate social inequity. I left Community College of Aurora with my associate's degree in the Spring of 2020. I started working for the Department of Motor Vehicles under the State of Colorado Department of Revenue (DMV). During my time in this position, my interest grew into a passion. Individuals are affected by economics in several predictable (and unpredictable) ways. I worked at the DMV, where I could observe the poverty cycle up close. Most people do not simply forget when their car needs to be renewed; they just cannot afford to do it. When they eventually find the funds to renew, they discover that there are additional expenditures because of late fees. After paying their late fines they can purchase a two-week temporary tag. If they cannot pay the renewal in full by the due date, late fines start to accrue once more. If they are discovered to have expired license plates or tags, they will be subject to court-mandated fines. Vehicle registration funds road maintenance and local emergency services, from a financial standpoint, it is necessary. However, I believe that this framework ignores the disproportionately negative effect that late fees have on low-income communities. People struggling just to make ends meet are more likely to have to pay late fees; thus putting them at further risk of having to face catastrophic legal consequences. I led the effort to create a second grace period for car registration renewals in the State of Colorado. My local elected officials accepted and advanced this idea and pushed it up to the state-level government. When this policy was changed in January 2024, it gave those who didn't have the money a bit more time to come up with the money they needed. After I saw some of the systemic barriers that low-income communities experience when doing something as simple as renewing their vehicles, I felt that something needed to change. While the policy I advocated for provides a short-term period of relief, it highlights the need to address the underlying causes of poverty in a more direct manner. I am eager to apply my passion and expertise toward the development and implementation of policies that promote economic equity. My experience working at the DMV revealed to me how systems of the economy may aggravate social inequity. This experience was difficult and disheartening, but it only solidified the commitment I have to better the world around me. By getting a Bachelor of Science in Economics at Metropolitan State University of Denver, I hope that I will gain a better understanding of how economic policies influence the individual. I hope that I can make a more equitable society through research, policymaking, and encouraging community participation. I believe that by evaluating economic institutions through a humanistic lens, we can create a world that provides more chances to a broader spectrum of individuals.

Once a vague feeling, love became tangible to me the first night I cradled my newborn son, Rolland. The world seemed to center around the creaking of my rocking chair and his little snores. But our feeble sanctuary would not last. This serenity was destroyed by his father's increasingly disturbing pattern of domestic violence. The abuse slowly crept in under the disguise of 'stress.' I looked up appropriate paternal postpartum behavior online because I was starting to doubt my own sanity. I felt incapable of accepting my shifting reality. Rolland's screams pierced through the peace of a quiet morning. I knew from the way he cried for me that something was very wrong. I sprinted to the nursery to find my partner towering over my baby, their features respectively twisted into expressions of horror and terror. The loving man I thought I knew had disappeared and was replaced by a brutal stranger. Motherly instinct took control. I snatched Rolland away and told his dad to get out; when he refused, I dialed 911. I started the divorce process and immediately got a protective order. I lost my job due to an inability to find childcare quickly enough. Fear became my constant companion and I hid myself as well as my young son away in my single-bedroom apartment. I felt paralyzed. Once vibrant, I shut down and began focusing solely on day-to-day survival. This isolation continued until eviction forced me into a women's shelter. There, a stark realization hit: the inaction I had chosen to protect Rolland and me had, itself, become another danger. I began contacting the individuals who had made a positive impact on my life. My old college friend was the one I needed to change my life, and the life of my son, for the better. He offered perspective, a place to stay, and above all, emotional support. I moved our few possessions into his spare room and was filled with a sense of hope. After I found daycare, I began accepting odd jobs. When my friend encouraged me to re-enroll in college, I knew deep down that he was right. The entire situation made the power of community more apparent. Abusers frequently wield seclusion as a weapon, they distort the real world to slowly weaken their victims over time. It feels impossible to get out when you are alone in doing so. I made a promise to myself to never let my son or I get caught in a cycle of abuse again. Family and friends are lifelines, which I will always guard and appreciate moving forward. One of the hardest roads I could take as a single mom is to go back to college. Nevertheless, my resolve is fueled by my love for my son and the iron-clad support from my community. My goal is to end the cycle of domestic abuse and provide others the tools they need to find success despite the financial and economic barriers they face. My aim is to use my degree to make the world a place where more women and children can get the help they need to stop simply existing and begin to thrive

The direct impact currency has on individuals, families, and communities has always intrigued me. While pursuing my associate's degree at the Community College of Aurora, I became increasingly aware of the discipline's potential to illuminate and exacerbate social inequity. I left Community College of Aurora with my associate's degree in the Spring of 2020. I started working for the Department of Motor Vehicles under the State of Colorado Department of Revenue (DMV). During my time in this position, my interest grew into a passion. I worked at the DMV, where I could observe the poverty cycle up close. Most people do not simply forget when their car needs to be renewed; they just cannot afford to do it. When they eventually find the funds to renew, they discover that there are additional expenditures because of late fees. After paying their late fines they can purchase a two-week temporary tag. If they cannot pay the renewal in full by the due date, late fines start to accrue once more. If they are discovered to have expired license plates or tags, they will be subject to court-mandated fines. Vehicle registration funds road maintenance and local emergency services, from a financial standpoint, it is necessary. However, I believe that this framework ignores the disproportionately negative effect that late fees have on low-income communities. People struggling just to make ends meet are more likely to have to pay late fees; thus putting them at further risk of having to face catastrophic legal consequences. I led the effort to create a second grace period for car registration renewals in the State of Colorado. My local elected officials accepted and advanced this idea and pushed it up to the state-level government. When this policy was changed in January 2024, it gave those who didn't have the money a bit more time to come up with the money they needed. After I saw some of the systemic barriers that low-income communities experience when doing something as simple as renewing their vehicles, I felt that something needed to change. While the policy I advocated for provides a short-term period of relief, it highlights the need to address the underlying causes of poverty in a more direct manner. I am eager to apply my passion and expertise toward the development and implementation of policies that promote economic equity. My experience working at the DMV revealed to me how systems of the economy may aggravate social inequity. This experience was difficult and disheartening, but it only solidified the commitment I have to better the world around me. By getting a Bachelor of Science in Economics at Metropolitan State University of Denver, I hope that I will gain a better understanding of how economic policies influence the individual. I hope that I can make a more equitable society through research, policymaking, and encouraging community participation. I believe that by evaluating economic institutions through a humanistic lens, we can create a world that provides more chances to a broader spectrum of individuals.

Once a vague feeling, love became tangible to me the first night I cradled my newborn son, Rolland. The world seemed to center around the creaking of my rocking chair and his little snores. But our feeble sanctuary would not last. This serenity was destroyed by his father's increasingly disturbing pattern of domestic violence. The abuse slowly crept in under the disguise of 'stress.' I looked up appropriate paternal postpartum behavior online because I was starting to doubt my own sanity. I felt incapable of accepting my shifting reality. Rolland's screams pierced through the peace of a quiet morning. I knew from the way he cried for me that something was very wrong. I sprinted to the nursery to find my partner towering over my baby, their features respectively twisted into expressions of horror and terror. The loving man I thought I knew had disappeared and was replaced by a brutal stranger. Motherly instinct took control. I snatched Rolland away and told his dad to get out; when he refused, I dialed 911. I started the divorce process and immediately got a protective order. I lost my job due to an inability to find childcare quickly enough. Fear became my constant companion and I hid myself as well as my young son away in my single-bedroom apartment. I felt paralyzed. Once vibrant, I shut down and began focusing solely on day-to-day survival. This isolation continued until eviction forced me into a women's shelter. There, a stark realization hit: the inaction I had chosen to protect Rolland and me had, itself, become another danger. I began contacting the individuals who had made a positive impact on my life. My old college friend was the one I needed to change my life, and the life of my son, for the better. He offered perspective, a place to stay, and above all, emotional support. I moved our few possessions into his spare room and was filled with a sense of hope. After I found daycare, I began accepting odd jobs. When my friend encouraged me to re-enroll in college, I knew deep down that he was right. The entire situation made the power of community more apparent. Abusers frequently wield seclusion as a weapon, they distort the real world to slowly weaken their victims over time. It feels impossible to get out when you are alone in doing so. I made a promise to myself to never let my son or I get caught in a cycle of abuse again. Family and friends are lifelines, which I will always guard and appreciate moving forward. One of the hardest roads I could take as a single mom is to go back to college. Nevertheless, my resolve is fueled by my love for my son and the iron-clad support from my community. My goal is to end the cycle of domestic abuse and provide others the tools they need to find success despite the financial and economic barriers they face. My aim is to use my degree to make the world a place where more women and children can get the help they need to stop simply existing and begin to thrive

The direct impact currency has on individuals, families, and communities has always intrigued me. While pursuing my associate's degree at the Community College of Aurora, I became increasingly aware of the discipline's potential to illuminate and exacerbate social inequity. I left Community College of Aurora with my associate's degree in the Spring of 2020. I started working for the Department of Motor Vehicles under the State of Colorado Department of Revenue (DMV). During my time in this position, my interest grew into a passion. Individuals are affected by economics in several predictable (and unpredictable) ways. I worked at the DMV, where I could observe the poverty cycle up close. Most people do not simply forget when their car needs to be renewed; they just cannot afford to do it. When they eventually find the funds to renew, they discover that there are additional expenditures because of late fees. After paying their late fines they can purchase a two-week temporary tag. If they cannot pay the renewal in full by the due date, late fines start to accrue once more. If they are discovered to have expired license plates or tags, they will be subject to court-mandated fines. Vehicle registration funds road maintenance and local emergency services, from a financial standpoint, it is necessary. However, I believe that this framework ignores the disproportionately negative effect that late fees have on low-income communities. People struggling just to make ends meet are more likely to have to pay late fees; thus putting them at further risk of having to face catastrophic legal consequences. I led the effort to create a second grace period for car registration renewals in the State of Colorado. My local elected officials accepted and advanced this idea and pushed it up to the state-level government. When this policy was changed in January 2024, it gave those who didn't have the money a bit more time to come up with the money they needed. After I saw some of the systemic barriers that low-income communities experience when doing something as simple as renewing their vehicles, I felt that something needed to change. While the policy I advocated for provides a short-term period of relief, it highlights the need to address the underlying causes of poverty in a more direct manner. I am eager to apply my passion and expertise toward the development and implementation of policies that promote economic equity. My experience working at the DMV revealed to me how systems of the economy may aggravate social inequity. This experience was difficult and disheartening, but it only solidified the commitment I have to better the world around me. By getting a Bachelor of Science in Economics at Metropolitan State University of Denver, I hope that I will gain a better understanding of how economic policies influence the individual. I hope that I can make a more equitable society through research, policymaking, and encouraging community participation. I believe that by evaluating economic institutions through a humanistic lens, we can create a world that provides more chances to a broader spectrum of individuals.

Once a vague feeling, love became tangible to me the first night I cradled my newborn son, Rolland. The world seemed to center around the creaking of my rocking chair and his little snores. But our feeble sanctuary would not last. This serenity was destroyed by his father's increasingly disturbing pattern of domestic violence. My rose-colored glasses minimized the red flags, and so I disregarded them. Due to mental health problems, my ex-husband lost his job and I agreed he could stay home with Rolland while I worked. This hopeful decision to bond father and son turned into a dangerous gamble. Under the disguise of 'stress', the abuse slowly crept in. I looked up appropriate paternal postpartum behavior online because I was starting to doubt my own sanity. I felt incapable of accepting my shifting reality. Rolland's screams pierced through the peace of a quiet morning. I knew from the way he cried for me that something was very wrong. I sprinted to the nursery to find my partner towering over my baby, their features respectively twisted into expressions of horror and terror.  The loving man I thought I knew had disappeared and was replaced by a brutal stranger. Motherly instinct took control. I snatched Rolland away and told his dad to get out; when he refused, I dialed 911. I started the divorce process and immediately got a protective order. I lost my job due to an inability to find childcare quickly enough. Fear became my constant companion and I hid myself as well as my young son away in my single-bedroom apartment. I felt paralyzed. Once vibrant, I shut down and began focusing solely on day-to-day survival. This isolation continued until eviction forced me into a women's shelter. There, a stark realization hit: the inaction I had chosen to protect Rolland and me had, itself, become another danger. I began contacting the individuals who had made a positive impact on my life. My old college friend was the one I needed to change my life, and the life of my son, for the better. He offered perspective, a place to stay, and above all, emotional support. I moved our few possessions into his spare room and was filled with a sense of hope. After I found daycare, I began accepting odd jobs. When my friend encouraged me to re-enroll in college, I knew deep down that he was right.  The entire situation made the power of community more apparent. Abusers frequently wield seclusion as a weapon, they distort the real world to slowly weaken their victims over time. It feels impossible to get out when you are alone in doing so. I made a promise to myself to never let my son or I get caught in a cycle of abuse again. Family and friends are lifelines, which I will always guard and appreciate moving forward. One of the hardest roads I could take as a single mom is to go back to college. Nevertheless, my resolve is fueled by my love for my son and the iron-clad support from my community. My goal is to end the cycle of domestic abuse and provide others the tools they need to find success despite the financial and economic barriers they face. My aim is to use my degree to make the world a place where more women and children can get the help they need to stop simply existing and begin to thrive

The direct impact currency has on individuals, families, and communities has always intrigued me. While pursuing my associate's degree at the Community College of Aurora, I became increasingly aware of the discipline's potential to illuminate and exacerbate social inequity. I left Community College of Aurora with my associate's degree in the Spring of 2020. I started working for the Department of Motor Vehicles under the State of Colorado Department of Revenue (DMV). During my time in this position, my interest grew into a passion. Economics is a field that impacts individuals in a variety of predictable (and unpredictable) measures. I watched the cycle of poverty happen in a very intimate way at my position at the DMV.  Most individuals do not simply forget when their vehicle needs renewed, they cannot afford to get it done. When, finally they have the money to renew, they come in to find it costs extra due to late fees. Then, they purchase a two-week extension by covering their late fees and buying a two-week temporary tag. When that tag expires, late fees begin to build again. After they are caught with expired plates or tags, they face fines through court systems. Vehicle registration serves a utilitarian purpose: maintaining roads and facilitating emergency services. However, this framework often overlooks the disproportionate impact fines and fees have on marginalized communities. Individuals struggling financially are more likely to face late fees, accruing debt, and potentially life-altering legal repercussions. Recognizing this systemic inequity, I spearheaded a campaign to establish a second grace period for vehicle registration renewals within Douglas County. The higher-ups agreed and took this concept to a state level. This policy change, implemented in January 2024, offered a small but crucial lifeline to those facing economic hardship. After I witnessed a small portion of the systemic barriers faced by individuals struggling to pay their vehicle renewals, a passion was ignited in me to create positive change. While the policy adjustment I championed offers temporary relief, it underscores the need for more comprehensive solutions. Addressing the root causes of poverty such as income inequality and access to reliably legal transportation, requires a multifaceted approach. I am eager to contribute my passion and logistical skills towards developing and implementing policies that promote economic equity to provide opportunities for upward mobility.  My experiences at the DMV illuminated how economic systems are capable of perpetuatuating inequality. This first-hand exposure was frustrating and demoralizing - But it only solidified the commitment I have to my community. By pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Economics at Metropolitan State University of Denver, I aim to develop a deeper understanding of how economic policies shape lives. Whether through research, policymaking, or communal engagement, I aspire to create a more equitable society. I believe that by auditing economic systems through a lens of equity, we can create a world where more of us have an opportunity to thrive.

Love, once a fuzzy ideal, solidified for me the night I cradled my newborn son, Rolland. The world quieted to his soft snores and the sway of my rocking chair. But this fragile sanctuary wouldn't last. Escalating domestic violence by his father shattered our peace. Rose colored glasses blinded me to the red flags - I dismissed early warning signs. My ex, struggling with mental health issues, lost his job. Hoping to ease his burden, I agreed he could stay home with Rolland while I worked. This decision, made with optimism, morphed into a dangerous gamble. The abuse crept in subtly, disguised as stress. Questioning my sanity, I searched online to see what behavior others deemed ‘normal’ during paternal postpartum. Accepting my developing reality felt insurmountable. One harrowing morning, Rolland's cries pierced my exhaustion. Rushing to the nursery, a scene branded itself into my memory: my partner towering over our terrified infant, both faces contorted – one with rage, the other with terror. The man I knew vanished, replaced by a stranger capable of unimaginable cruelty. Instinct took over. I snatched Rolland, ordered his father out, and called the police. I filed for a protection order and began divorce proceedings. I lost my job due to an inability to find childcare quickly enough. Fear became my constant companion and I hid myself as well as my young son away in my single bedroom apartment. I felt paralyzed. Once vibrant, I shut down and began focusing solely on day-to-day survival. This isolation continued until eviction forced me into a women's shelter. There, a stark realization hit: the inaction I had chosen to protect Rolland and I had itself become dangerous. I started reaching out to individuals who had made positive impacts on my life. A lifeline emerged through an old friend I met at college years ago. He offered support, accommodation, and most importantly, perspective. With renewed hope, I moved our few things into his spare room. I found childcare and began working odd jobs. Upon his advice, I re-enrolled in college. This experience exposed the power of my community. Abusers often wield isolation as a weapon, distorting reality into whatever they dictate. If you have nobody else, escape feels impossible. I vowed to never again allow myself or Rolland to be trapped in such a suffocating and dangerous situation. My friends and family are a lifeline that I will continue to fiercely guard and deeply appreciate. As a single mother, I'm devoted to being a positive role model for my son. My ultimate goal is to form partnerships with nonprofit organizations and government agencies with the aim of establishing and implementing effective support systems for vulnerable communities. For now, I conscientiously exemplify public service to him by continuing to lead a community-based initiative to assemble and distribute packages to the homeless on Thanksgiving every year. By involving individuals from various backgrounds, including those without financial means, I foster a sense of connectedness and shared responsibility for the people around us. Attending college while I am a single parent is one of the most challenging paths I could walk. Yet, the love I have for my son and the unwavering support of my community fuel my determination. I am committed to breaking the cycle of domestic violence and empowering others to do the same. Through my education, I aspire to create a world where more women and children have access to the support they need to stop surviving, and begin to thrive.

Love, once a fuzzy ideal, solidified for me the night I cradled my newborn son, Rolland. The world quieted to his soft snores and the sway of my rocking chair. But this fragile sanctuary wouldn't last. Escalating domestic violence by his father shattered our peace. Rose colored glasses blinded me to the red flags - I dismissed early warning signs. My ex, struggling with mental health issues, lost his job. Hoping to ease his burden, I agreed he could stay home with Rolland while I worked. This decision, made with optimism, morphed into a dangerous gamble. The abuse crept in subtly, disguised as stress. Questioning my sanity, I searched online to see what behavior others deemed ‘normal’ during paternal postpartum. Accepting my developing reality felt insurmountable. One harrowing morning, Rolland's cries pierced my exhaustion. Rushing to the nursery, a scene branded itself into my memory: my partner towering over our terrified infant, both faces contorted – one with rage, the other with terror. The man I knew vanished, replaced by a stranger capable of unimaginable cruelty. Instinct took over. I snatched Rolland, ordered his father out, and called the police. I filed for a protection order and began divorce proceedings. I lost my job due to an inability to find childcare quickly enough. Fear became my constant companion and I hid myself as well as my young son away in my single bedroom apartment. I felt paralyzed. Once vibrant, I shut down and began focusing solely on day-to-day survival. This isolation continued until eviction forced me into a women's shelter. There, a stark realization hit: the inaction I had chosen to protect Rolland and I had itself become dangerous. I started reaching out to individuals who had made positive impacts on my life. A lifeline emerged through an old friend I met at college years ago. He offered support, accommodation, and most importantly, perspective. With renewed hope, I moved our few things into his spare room. I found childcare and began working odd jobs. Upon his advice, I re-enrolled in college. This experience exposed the power of my community. Abusers often wield isolation as a weapon, distorting reality into whatever they dictate. If you have nobody else, escape feels impossible. I vowed to never again allow myself or Rolland to be trapped in such a suffocating and dangerous situation. My friends and family are a lifeline that I will continue to fiercely guard and deeply appreciate. As a single mother, I'm devoted to being a positive role model for my son. My ultimate goal is to form partnerships with nonprofit organizations and government agencies with the aim of establishing and implementing effective support systems for vulnerable communities. For now, I conscientiously exemplify public service to him by continuing to lead a community-based initiative to assemble and distribute packages to the homeless on Thanksgiving every year. By involving individuals from various backgrounds, including those without financial means, I foster a sense of connectedness and shared responsibility for the people around us. Attending college while I am a single parent is one of the most challenging paths I could walk. Yet, the love I have for my son and the unwavering support of my community fuel my determination. I am committed to breaking the cycle of domestic violence and empowering others to do the same. Through my education, I aspire to create a world where more women and children have access to the support they need to stop surviving, and begin to thrive.

Love, once a fuzzy ideal, solidified for me the night I cradled my newborn son, Rolland. The world quieted to his soft snores and the sway of my rocking chair. But this fragile sanctuary wouldn't last. Escalating domestic violence by his father shattered our peace. Rose-colored glasses blinded me to the red flags - I dismissed early warning signs. My ex, struggling with mental health issues, lost his job. Hoping to ease his burden, I agreed he could stay home with Rolland while I worked. This decision, made with optimism, morphed into a dangerous gamble. The abuse crept in subtly, disguised as stress. Questioning my sanity, I searched online to see what behavior others deemed ‘normal’ during paternal postpartum. Accepting my developing reality felt insurmountable. One harrowing morning, Rolland's cries pierced my exhaustion. Rushing to the nursery, a scene branded itself into my memory: my partner towering over our terrified infant, both faces contorted – one with rage, the other with terror. The man I knew vanished, replaced by a stranger capable of unimaginable cruelty. Instinct took over. I snatched Rolland, ordered his father out, and called the police. I filed for a protection order and began divorce proceedings. I lost my job due to an inability to find childcare quickly enough. Fear became my constant companion and I hid myself as well as my young son away in my single-bedroom apartment. I felt paralyzed. Once vibrant, I shut down and began focusing solely on day-to-day survival. This isolation continued until eviction forced me into a women's shelter. There, a stark realization hit: the inaction I had chosen to protect Rolland and me had, itself, become another danger. I started reaching out to individuals who had made positive impacts on my life. A lifeline emerged through an old friend I met at college years ago. He offered support, accommodation, and most importantly, perspective.  With renewed hope, I moved our few things into his spare room. I found childcare and began working odd jobs. Upon his advice, I re-enrolled in college.  This experience exposed the power of my community. Abusers often wield isolation as a weapon, distorting reality into whatever they dictate. If you have nobody else, escape feels impossible. I vowed to never again allow myself or Rolland to be trapped in such a suffocating and dangerous situation. My friends and family are a lifeline that I will continue to fiercely guard and deeply appreciate.  As a single mother, I'm devoted to being a positive role model for my son. My ultimate goal is to form partnerships with nonprofit organizations and government agencies to establish and implement effective support systems for vulnerable communities. For now, I conscientiously exemplify public service to him by continuing to lead a community-based initiative to assemble and distribute packages to the homeless on Thanksgiving every year. By involving individuals from various backgrounds, including those without financial means, I foster a sense of connectedness and shared responsibility for the people around us.  Attending college while I am a single parent is one of the most challenging paths I could walk. Yet, the love I have for my son and the unwavering support of my community fuel my determination. I am committed to breaking the cycle of domestic violence and empowering others to do the same. Through my education, I aspire to create a world where more women and children have access to the support they need to stop surviving and begin to thrive.