My journey with mental health has been shaped by both biology and experience. I live with tuberous sclerosis, a genetic neurological condition that also brought epilepsy and neuropsychiatric challenges including ADHD, learning differences, anxiety, and depression. I was not diagnosed until my first seizure during my freshman year of high school. The diagnosis brought long-awaited clarity to struggles that had followed me for years. It also revealed that my father carried the same condition, which may have contributed to his own severe mood disorder and the abusive behaviors that shaped much of my childhood. Where my father turned to alcohol to cope, I made a different choice. I committed myself to therapy, medication, and relentless hard work to rise above my diagnosis and build a life defined by purpose rather than limitation. Still, the path was not easy. After years of a difficult relationship with my father, one particularly painful argument pushed me into despair. On January 26, 2021, I reached a breaking point and impulsively grabbed a handful of pills. Recognizing the seriousness of the moment, my mom, a pediatrician, asked that I be brought to her clinic so she could take me for evaluation after work. When I arrived and met her outside, we unknowingly walked into a nightmare: a gunman had taken the practice hostage. We ran, hid, and called 911. For six hours we waited while a SWAT team surrounded the building. When it ended, we learned that my mom’s partner, my pediatrician,had been murdered. During those terrifying hours, something inside me shifted. Faced with life-and-death uncertainty, I realized I wanted to live, and I wanted my life to matter. In the months that followed, I began intensive therapy to process the trauma and address my complex PTSD. When another conflict with my father resulted in me being kicked out just two months after the shooting, my mother stepped in, gained full custody, and helped me enter the Pathlight partial hospitalization program. Throughout my life she had advocated for the supports I needed, sitting beside me to reteach material I struggled to learn, fighting for therapy, medication, and school accommodations. With her support, I continued choosing growth. I turned my pain into advocacy. I organized rallies for gun safety, canvassed and fundraised for candidates supporting common-sense gun legislation, and founded a Students Demand Action chapter at my school. I was later selected to represent my district in a student advocacy group called VOICE. At the same time, I discovered a passion working with students with disabilities through Partners in PE. Drawing on the coping strategies I learned in therapy, I helped students with autism navigate anxiety and sensory overwhelm by creating safe, supportive spaces where they felt understood. My experiences with medical and mental health challenges have given me a deep understanding of resilience and of the unique realities faced by people who move through the world differently. With the right medication for my complex neurologic journey, applying the many tools I have learned, and sheer determination I am currently making straight A's my senior year! I plan to pursue a double major in psychology and theater, with the goal of becoming a therapist who works with individuals with disabilities, helping others find the same strength, voice, and hope that attending to my mental health and advocacy helped me discover. .

My journey with mental health has been shaped by both biology and experience. I live with tuberous sclerosis, a genetic neurological condition that also brought epilepsy and neuropsychiatric challenges including ADHD, learning differences, anxiety, and depression. I was not diagnosed until my first seizure during my freshman year of high school. The diagnosis brought long-awaited clarity to struggles that had followed me for years. It also revealed that my father carried the same condition, which may have contributed to his own severe mood disorder and the abusive behaviors that shaped much of my childhood. Where my father turned to alcohol to cope, I made a different choice. I committed myself to therapy, medication, and relentless hard work to rise above my diagnosis and build a life defined by purpose rather than limitation. Still, the path was not easy. After years of a difficult relationship with my father, one particularly painful argument pushed me into despair. On January 26, 2021, I reached a breaking point and impulsively grabbed a handful of pills. Recognizing the seriousness of the moment, my mom, a pediatrician, asked that I be brought to her clinic so she could take me for evaluation after work. When I arrived and met her outside, we unknowingly walked into a nightmare: a gunman had taken the practice hostage. We ran, hid, and called 911. For six hours we waited while a SWAT team surrounded the building. When it ended, we learned that my mom’s partner, my pediatrician, had been murdered. During those terrifying hours, something inside me shifted. Faced with life-and-death uncertainty, I realized I wanted to live, and I wanted my life to matter. In the months that followed, I began intensive therapy to process the trauma and address my complex PTSD. When another conflict with my father resulted in me being kicked out just two months after the shooting, my mother stepped in, gained full custody, and helped me enter the Pathlight partial hospitalization program. Throughout my life she had advocated for the supports I needed, sitting beside me to reteach material I struggled to learn, fighting for therapy, medication, and school accommodations. With her support, I continued choosing growth. I turned my pain into advocacy. I organized rallies for gun safety, canvassed and fundraised for candidates supporting common-sense gun legislation, and founded a Students Demand Action chapter at my school. I was later selected to represent my district in a student advocacy group called VOICE. At the same time, I discovered a passion working with students with disabilities through Partners in PE. Drawing on the coping strategies I learned in therapy, I helped students with autism navigate anxiety and sensory overwhelm by creating safe, supportive spaces where they felt understood. My experiences with medical and mental health challenges have given me a deep understanding of resilience and of the unique realities faced by people who move through the world differently. I plan to pursue a double major in psychology and theater, with the goal of becoming a therapist who works with individuals with disabilities, helping others find the same strength, voice, and hope that attending to my mental health and advocacy helped me discover. .

From Adversity to Advocacy On January 26, 2021, I crouched behind a car, whispering directions to 911, terrified that speaking too loudly might be the last sound I ever made. Minutes earlier, a gunman had taken my mom’s office hostage. Fighting off paralyzing fear, we realized we were still in danger and ran to a neighboring office. When the police arrived, we were instructed to lie on the ground to avoid potential gunfire or damage from explosives. After an eight-hour standoff, we learned my mom’s partner, my pediatrician, had been killed. I didn’t choose to be a survivor, but I chose to turn trauma into action. I organized rallies for gun safety, canvassed and phone banked for candidates supporting common sense gun laws, founded a Students Demand Action chapter at my school, and represented my district in VOICE, a student advocacy group. As Malala Yousafzai powerfully wrote in I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood up for Education and was Shot by the Taliban “When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.” Activism taught me that silence is a choice. My choice not to be silent led me to make another decision. At my school, Partners in PE pairs students with disabilities with “partners” in a physical education course. As a “partner”, this experience deepened my commitment to advocacy. By working with students whose voices are often unheard, I discovered my passion for a future career serving children with disabilities. Through this opportunity I have learned that many of these students are easily overwhelmed. I found I could use tools gained through my trauma therapy to help them feel grounded and safe. One student becomes calmer by tapping my hand, and when I sense his distress, I gently offer my palm. Another connects by touching my head. I use visualization techniques I learned from therapy to help students picture calming places in their minds. Two of my students particularly love back scratches and are able to engage better when offered this connection. I thoroughly enjoy helping them build confidence, connection, and communication. I’ve learned that not every voice is expressed in the same way. Some children use signs, some use devices, and some are still learning how to speak, but every voice matters. One month into freshman year, I had a seizure. After months of tests and a hospital stay, I was diagnosed with Tuberous Sclerosis and epilepsy. The condition explained the learning challenges I had faced since childhood. I’ve had to work harder than most, but it’s given me a fierce work ethic, and a deeper understanding of what it means to learn differently. My epilepsy provides me unique insight into the needs of students with disabilities, many of whom face similar neurologic issues. These three experiences, surviving trauma, working with students with disabilities and navigating my own medical journey with epilepsy, didn’t just shape who I am; they shaped the advocate I am becoming. My goal in college is to continue building the skills and knowledge that will allow me to make a meaningful impact for children with disabilities. I intend to champion voices too often overlooked, combining my education with my personal experience to build a more inclusive world for all children.

On January 26, 2021, I crouched behind a car, whispering directions to 911, terrified that speaking too loudly might be the last sound I ever made. Minutes earlier, a gunman had taken my mom’s office hostage. Fighting off paralyzing fear, we realized we were still in danger and ran to a neighboring office. When the police arrived, we were instructed to lie on the ground to avoid potential gunfire or damage from explosives. After an eight-hour standoff, we learned my mom’s partner, the other physician in the practice, had been killed. I didn’t choose to be a survivor, but I chose to turn trauma into action. I organized rallies for gun safety, canvassed for candidates supporting common sense gun laws, founded a Students Demand Action chapter at my school, and represented my district in VOICE, a student advocacy group. As Malala Yousafzai powerfully wrote in I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood up for Education and was Shot by the Taliban “When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.” Activism taught me that silence is a choice. My choice not to be silent led me to make another decision. At my school, Partners in PE pairs students with disabilities with “partners” in a physical education course. As a “partner”, this experience deepened my commitment to advocacy. By working with students whose voices are often unheard, I discovered my passion for a future career serving children with disabilities. Through this opportunity I have learned that many of these students are easily overwhelmed. I found I could use tools gained through my trauma therapy to help them feel grounded and safe. One student becomes calmer by tapping my hand, and when I sense his distress, I gently offer my palm. Another connects by touching my head. I use visualization techniques I learned from therapy to help students picture calming places in their minds. Two of my students particularly love back scratches and are able to engage better when offered this connection. I thoroughly enjoy helping them build confidence, connection, and communication. I’ve learned that not every voice is expressed in the same way. Some children use signs, some use devices, and some are still learning how to speak, but every voice matters. One month into freshman year, I had a seizure. After months of tests and a hospital stay, I was diagnosed with Tuberous Sclerosis and epilepsy. The condition explained the learning challenges I had faced since childhood. I’ve had to work harder than most, but it’s given me a fierce work ethic, and a deeper understanding of what it means to learn differently. My epilepsy provides me unique insight into the needs of students with disabilities, many of whom face similar neurologic issues. These three experiences, surviving trauma, working with students with disabilities and navigating my own medical journey with epilepsy, didn’t just shape who I am; they shaped the advocate I am becoming. My goal in college is to continue building the skills and knowledge that will allow me to make a meaningful impact for children with disabilities. I intend to champion voices too often overlooked, combining my education with my personal experience to build a more inclusive world for all children. This scholarship is so important to help me afford St Edwards, an Austin college that keeps me close to my medical community. My mom is the sole provider for my brother and I. My mother gained sole custody when I was in 7th grade after a series of abusive events. My father has not contributed in years and is currently homeless.

On January 26, 2021, I crouched behind a car, whispering directions to 911, terrified that speaking too loudly might be the last sound I ever made. Minutes earlier, a gunman had taken my mom’s office hostage. Fighting off paralyzing fear, we realized we were still in danger and ran to a neighboring office. When the police arrived, we were instructed to lie on the ground to avoid potential gunfire or damage from explosives. After an eight-hour standoff, we learned my mom’s partner, the other physician in the practice, had been killed. I didn’t choose to be a survivor, but I chose to turn trauma into action. I organized rallies for gun safety, canvassed for candidates supporting common sense gun laws, founded a Students Demand Action chapter at my school, and represented my district in VOICE, a student advocacy group. As Malala Yousafzai wrote in I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood up for Education and was Shot by the Taliban “When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.” Activism taught me that silence is a choice. My choice not to be silent led me to make another decision. At my school, Partners in PE pairs students with disabilities with “partners” in a physical education course. As a “partner”, this experience deepened my commitment to advocacy. By working with students whose voices are often unheard, I discovered my passion for a future career serving children with disabilities. Through this opportunity I have learned that many of these students are easily overwhelmed. I found I could use tools gained through my trauma therapy to help them feel grounded and safe. One student becomes calmer by tapping my hand, and when I sense his distress, I gently offer my palm. Another connects by touching my head. I use visualization techniques I learned from therapy to help students picture calming places in their minds. Two of my students particularly love back scratches and are able to engage better when offered this connection. I thoroughly enjoy helping them build confidence, connection, and communication. I’ve learned that not every voice is expressed in the same way. Some children use signs, some use devices, and some are still learning how to speak, but every voice matters. One month into freshman year, I had a seizure. After months of tests and a hospital stay, I was diagnosed with Tuberous Sclerosis and epilepsy. The condition explained the learning challenges I had faced since childhood. I’ve had to work harder than most, but it’s given me a fierce work ethic, and a deeper understanding of what it means to learn differently. My epilepsy provides me unique insight into the needs of students with disabilities, many of whom face similar neurologic issues. Towards the end of 7th grade the court granted my mom full custody after a series of abusive events with my father. My mom is the sole provider for my brother and I and manages to hold down a career as a pediatrician. I am inspired by her work ethic and ability to make sure all of our emotional and medical needs are met. These experiences, surviving trauma, working with students with disabilities and navigating my own medical journey with epilepsy, didn’t just shape who I am; they shaped the advocate I am becoming. My goal in college is to continue building the skills and knowledge that will allow me to make a meaningful impact for children with disabilities. I intend to champion voices too often overlooked, combining my education with my personal experience to build a more inclusive world for all children.

From Adversity to Advocacy On January 26, 2021, I crouched behind a car, whispering directions to 911, terrified that speaking too loudly might be the last sound I ever made. Minutes earlier, a gunman had taken my mom’s office hostage. Fighting off paralyzing fear, we realized we were still in danger and ran to a neighboring office. When the police arrived, we were instructed to lie on the ground to avoid potential gunfire or damage from explosives. After an eight-hour standoff, we learned my mom’s partner, the other physician in the practice, had been killed. I didn’t choose to be a survivor, but I chose to turn trauma into action. I organized rallies for gun safety, canvassed and phone banked for candidates supporting common sense gun laws, founded a Students Demand Action chapter at my school, and represented my district in VOICE, a student advocacy group. As Malala Yousafzai powerfully wrote in I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood up for Education and was Shot by the Taliban “When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.” Activism taught me that silence is a choice. My choice not to be silent led me to make another decision. At my school, Partners in PE pairs students with disabilities with “partners” in a physical education course. As a “partner”, this experience deepened my commitment to advocacy. By working with students whose voices are often unheard, I discovered my passion for a future career serving children with disabilities. Through this opportunity I have learned that many of these students are easily overwhelmed. I found I could use tools gained through my trauma therapy to help them feel grounded and safe. One student becomes calmer by tapping my hand, and when I sense his distress, I gently offer my palm. Another connects by touching my head. I use visualization techniques I learned from therapy to help students picture calming places in their minds. Two of my students particularly love back scratches and are able to engage better when offered this connection. I thoroughly enjoy helping them build confidence, connection, and communication. I’ve learned that not every voice is expressed in the same way. Some children use signs, some use devices, and some are still learning how to speak, but every voice matters. One month into freshman year, I had a seizure. After months of tests and a hospital stay, I was diagnosed with Tuberous Sclerosis and epilepsy. The condition explained the learning challenges I had faced since childhood. I’ve had to work harder than most, but it’s given me a fierce work ethic, and a deeper understanding of what it means to learn differently. My epilepsy provides me unique insight into the needs of students with disabilities, many of whom face similar neurologic issues. These three experiences, surviving trauma, working with students with disabilities and navigating my own medical journey with epilepsy, didn’t just shape who I am; they shaped the advocate I am becoming. My goal in college is to continue building the skills and knowledge that will allow me to make a meaningful impact for children with disabilities. I intend to champion voices too often overlooked, combining my education with my personal experience to build a more inclusive world for all children.

One month into freshman year, I had a seizure. After months of tests and a hospital stay, I was diagnosed with Tuberous Sclerosis and epilepsy. The condition explained the learning challenges I had faced since childhood. I’ve had to work harder than most, but it’s given me a fierce work ethic, and a deeper understanding of what it means to learn differently. I learned the importance of self advocacy in school. I communicated with teachers frequently and often came in early or stayed late to make sure I had mastered the materials. With this work ethic and achieving seizure control with the right medication and dosing, my grades continued to improve. I'm currently making straight A's my senior year. My epilepsy provides me unique insight into the needs of students with disabilities, many of whom face similar neurologic issues. At my school, Partners in PE pairs students with disabilities with “partners” in a physical education course. As a “partner”, this experience deepened my commitment to advocacy. By working with students whose voices are often unheard, I discovered my passion for a future career serving children with disabilities. Through this opportunity I have learned that many of these students are easily overwhelmed. I found I could use tools gained through my trauma therapy to help them feel grounded and safe. One student becomes calmer by tapping my hand, and when I sense his distress, I gently offer my palm. Another connects by touching my head. I use visualization techniques I learned from therapy to help students picture calming places in their minds. Two of my students particularly love back scratches and are able to engage better when offered this connection. I thoroughly enjoy helping them build confidence, connection, and communication. I’ve learned that not every voice is expressed in the same way. Some children use signs, some use devices, and some are still learning how to speak, but every voice matters. Working with students with disabilities and navigating my own medical journey with epilepsy, didn’t just shape who I am; they shaped the advocate I am becoming. My goal in college is to continue building the skills and knowledge that will allow me to make a meaningful impact for children with disabilities. I intend to champion voices too often overlooked, combining my education with my personal experience to build a more inclusive world for all children. As Malala Yousafzai powerfully wrote “When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.”

One month into freshman year, I had a seizure. After months of tests and a hospital stay, I was diagnosed with Tuberous Sclerosis and epilepsy. The condition explained the learning challenges I had faced since childhood. I’ve had to work harder than most, but it’s given me a fierce work ethic, and a deeper understanding of what it means to learn differently. I learned the importance of self advocacy in school. I communicated with teachers frequently and often came in early or stayed late to make sure I had mastered the materials. With this work ethic and achieving seizure control with the right medication and dosing, my grades continued to improve. I'm currently making straight A's my senior year. My epilepsy provides me unique insight into the needs of students with disabilities, many of whom face similar neurologic issues. At my school, Partners in PE pairs students with disabilities with “partners” in a physical education course. As a “partner”, this experience deepened my commitment to advocacy. By working with students whose voices are often unheard, I discovered my passion for a future career serving children with disabilities. Through this opportunity I have learned that many of these students are easily overwhelmed. I found I could use tools gained through my trauma therapy to help them feel grounded and safe. One student becomes calmer by tapping my hand, and when I sense his distress, I gently offer my palm. Another connects by touching my head. I use visualization techniques I learned from therapy to help students picture calming places in their minds. Two of my students particularly love back scratches and are able to engage better when offered this connection. I thoroughly enjoy helping them build confidence, connection, and communication. I’ve learned that not every voice is expressed in the same way. Some children use signs, some use devices, and some are still learning how to speak, but every voice matters. Working with students with disabilities and navigating my own medical journey with epilepsy, didn’t just shape who I am; they shaped the advocate I am becoming. My goal in college is to continue building the skills and knowledge that will allow me to make a meaningful impact for children with disabilities. I intend to champion voices too often overlooked, combining my education with my personal experience to build a more inclusive world for all children. As Malala Yousafzai powerfully wrote “When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.”

On January 26, 2021, I crouched behind a car, whispering directions to 911, terrified that speaking too loudly might be the last sound I ever made. Minutes earlier, a gunman had taken my mom’s office hostage. Fighting off paralyzing fear, we realized we were still in danger and ran to a neighboring office. When the police arrived, we were instructed to lie on the ground to avoid potential gunfire or damage from explosives. After an eight-hour standoff, we learned my mom’s partner, the other physician in the practice, had been killed. I didn’t choose to be a survivor, but I chose to turn trauma into action. I organized rallies for gun safety, canvassed and phone banked for candidates supporting common sense gun laws, founded a Students Demand Action chapter at my school, and represented my district in VOICE, a student advocacy group. As Malala Yousafzai powerfully wrote in I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood up for Education and was Shot by the Taliban “When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.” Activism taught me that silence is a choice. My choice not to be silent led me to make another decision. At my school, Partners in PE pairs students with disabilities with “partners” in a physical education course. As a “partner”, this experience deepened my commitment to advocacy. By working with students whose voices are often unheard, I discovered my passion for a future career serving children with disabilities. Through this opportunity I have learned that many of these students are easily overwhelmed. I found I could use tools gained through my trauma therapy to help them feel grounded and safe. One student becomes calmer by tapping my hand, and when I sense his distress, I gently offer my palm. Another connects by touching my head. I use visualization techniques I learned from therapy to help students picture calming places in their minds. Two of my students particularly love back scratches and are able to engage better when offered this connection. I thoroughly enjoy helping them build confidence, connection, and communication. I’ve learned that not every voice is expressed in the same way. Some children use signs, some use devices, and some are still learning how to speak, but every voice matters. Eva Marie Lewis, an activist from Chicago, stated: “To be an activist is to speak; to be an advocate is to listen. Society can’t move forward without both.” When I heard this, I could not help but think of my own lived experience. One month into freshman year, I had a seizure. After months of tests and a hospital stay, I was diagnosed with Tuberous Sclerosis and epilepsy. The condition explained the learning challenges I had faced since childhood. I’ve had to work harder than most, but it’s given me a fierce work ethic, and a deeper understanding of what it means to learn differently. My epilepsy provides me unique insight into the needs of students with disabilities, many of whom face similar neurologic issues. These experiences, surviving trauma, working with students with disabilities and navigating my own medical journey, didn’t just shape who I am; they shaped the advocate I am becoming. My goal in college is to continue building the skills and knowledge that will allow me to make a meaningful impact for children with disabilities. I look forward to taking advantage of internships that provide opportunities to learn from experts in this field. I intend to champion voices too often overlooked, combining my education with my personal experience to build a more inclusive world for all children.

From Adversity to Advocacy    On January 26, 2021, I crouched behind a car, whispering directions to 911, terrified that speaking too loudly might be the last sound I ever made. Minutes earlier, a gunman had taken my mom’s office hostage. Fighting off paralyzing fear, we realized we were still in danger and ran to a neighboring office. When the police arrived, we were instructed to lie on the ground to avoid potential gunfire or damage from explosives. After an eight-hour standoff, we learned my mom’s partner, the other physician in the practice, had been killed.   I didn’t choose to be a survivor, but I chose to turn trauma into action. I organized rallies for gun safety, canvassed and phone banked for candidates supporting common sense gun laws, founded a Students Demand Action chapter at my school, and represented my district in VOICE, a student advocacy group. As Malala Yousafzai powerfully wrote in  I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood up for Education and was Shot by the Taliban “When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.”   Activism taught me that silence is a choice.   My choice not to be silent led me to make another decision. At my school, Partners in PE pairs students with disabilities with “partners” in a physical education course. As a “partner”, this experience deepened my commitment to advocacy.  By working with students whose voices are often unheard, I discovered my passion for a future career serving children with disabilities.    Through this opportunity I have learned that many of these students are easily overwhelmed.  I found I could use tools gained through my trauma therapy to help them feel grounded and safe.  One student becomes calmer by tapping my hand, and when I sense his distress, I gently offer my palm. Another connects by touching my head. I use visualization techniques I learned from therapy to help students picture calming places in their minds. Two of my students particularly love back scratches and are able to engage better when offered this connection.  I thoroughly enjoy helping them build confidence, connection, and communication. I’ve learned that not every voice is expressed in the same way. Some children use signs, some use devices, but every voice matters.       Eva Marie Lewis, a young activist from Chicago, stated: “To be an activist is to speak; to be an advocate is to listen. Society can’t move forward without both.”  When I heard this, I could not help but think of my own lived experience.   One month into freshman year, I had a seizure. After months of tests and a hospital stay, I was diagnosed with Tuberous Sclerosis and epilepsy. The condition explained the learning challenges I had faced since childhood. I’ve had to work harder than most, but it’s given me a fierce work ethic, and a deeper understanding of what it means to learn differently. My epilepsy provides me insight into the needs of students with disabilities, many of whom face similar neurologic issues.   These three experiences, surviving trauma, working with students with disabilities and navigating my own medical journey, didn’t just shape who I am;  they shaped the advocate I am becoming. My goal in college is to continue building the skills and knowledge that will allow me to make a meaningful impact for children with disabilities. I look forward to taking advantage of internships that provide direct opportunities to learn from experts in this field. I intend to champion voices too often overlooked, combining my education with my personal experience to build a more inclusive world for all children.

From Adversity to Advocacy    On January 26, 2021, I crouched behind a car, whispering directions to 911, terrified that speaking too loudly might be the last sound I ever made. Minutes earlier, a gunman had taken my mom’s office hostage. Fighting off paralyzing fear, we realized we were still in danger and ran to a neighboring office. When the police arrived, we were instructed to lie on the ground to avoid potential gunfire or damage from explosives. After an eight-hour standoff, we learned my mom’s partner, the other physician in the practice, had been killed.   I didn’t choose to be a survivor, but I chose to turn trauma into action. I organized rallies for gun safety, canvassed and phone banked for candidates supporting common sense gun laws, founded a Students Demand Action chapter at my school, and represented my district in VOICE, a student advocacy group. As Malala Yousafzai powerfully wrote in  I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood up for Education and was Shot by the Taliban “When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.”   Activism taught me that silence is a choice.   My choice not to be silent led me to make another decision. At my school, Partners in PE pairs students with disabilities with “partners” in a physical education course. As a “partner”, this experience deepened my commitment to advocacy.  By working with students whose voices are often unheard, I discovered my passion for a future career serving children with disabilities.    Through this opportunity I have learned that many of these students are easily overwhelmed.  I found I could use tools gained through my trauma therapy to help them feel grounded and safe.  One student becomes calmer by tapping my hand, and when I sense his distress, I gently offer my palm. Another connects by touching my head. I use visualization techniques I learned from therapy to help students picture calming places in their minds. Two of my students particularly love back scratches and are able to engage better when offered this connection.  I thoroughly enjoy helping them build confidence, connection, and communication. I’ve learned that not every voice is expressed in the same way. Some children use signs, some use devices, but every voice matters.       Eva Marie Lewis, a young activist from Chicago, stated: “To be an activist is to speak; to be an advocate is to listen. Society can’t move forward without both.”  When I heard this, I could not help but think of my own lived experience.   One month into freshman year, I had a seizure. After months of tests and a hospital stay, I was diagnosed with Tuberous Sclerosis and epilepsy. This explained the learning challenges I had faced since childhood. I’ve had to work harder than most, but it’s given me a fierce work ethic, and a deeper understanding of what it means to learn differently. My epilepsy provides me unique insight into the needs of students with disabilities, many of whom face similar neurologic issues.   These three experiences, surviving trauma, working with students with disabilities and navigating my own medical journey, didn’t just shape who I am;  they shaped the advocate I am becoming. My goal in college is to continue building the skills and knowledge that will allow me to make a meaningful impact for children with disabilities. I look forward to taking advantage of internships that provide opportunities to learn from experts in this field. I intend to champion voices too often overlooked, combining my education with my personal experience to build a more inclusive world for all children.

On January 26, 2021, I crouched behind a car, whispering directions to 911, terrified that speaking too loudly might be the last sound I ever made. Minutes earlier, a gunman had taken my mom’s office hostage. Fighting off paralyzing fear, we realized we were still in danger and ran to a neighboring office. When the police arrived, we were instructed to lie on the ground to avoid potential gunfire or damage from explosives. After an eight-hour standoff, we learned my mom’s partner, the other physician in the practice, had been killed.   I didn’t choose to be a survivor, but I chose to turn trauma into action. I organized rallies for gun safety, canvassed and phone banked for candidates supporting common sense gun laws, founded a Students Demand Action chapter at my school, and represented my district in VOICE, a student advocacy group. As Malala Yousafzai powerfully wrote in  I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood up for Education and was Shot by the Taliban “When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.”   Activism taught me that silence is a choice.   My choice not to be silent led me to make another decision. At my school, Partners in PE pairs students with disabilities with “partners” in a physical education course. As a “partner”, this experience deepened my commitment to advocacy.  By working with students whose voices are often unheard, I discovered my passion for a future career serving children with disabilities.    Through this opportunity I have learned that many of these students are easily overwhelmed.  I found I could use tools gained through my trauma therapy to help them feel grounded and safe.  One student becomes calmer by tapping my hand, and when I sense his distress, I gently offer my palm. Another connects by touching my head. I use visualization techniques I learned from therapy to help students picture calming places in their minds. Two of my students particularly love back scratches and are able to engage better when offered this connection.  I thoroughly enjoy helping them build confidence, connection, and communication. I’ve learned that not every voice is expressed in the same way. Some children use signs, some use devices, and some are still learning how to speak, but every voice matters.       Eva Marie Lewis, a young activist from Chicago, stated: “To be an activist is to speak; to be an advocate is to listen. Society can’t move forward without both.”  When I heard this, I could not help but think of my own lived experience.   One month into freshman year, I had a seizure. After months of tests and a hospital stay, I was diagnosed with Tuberous Sclerosis and epilepsy. The condition explained the learning challenges I had faced since childhood. I’ve had to work harder than most, but it’s given me a fierce work ethic, and a deeper understanding of what it means to learn differently. My epilepsy provides me unique insight into the needs of students with disabilities, many of whom face similar neurologic issues. These three experiences, surviving trauma, working with students with disabilities and navigating my own medical journey, didn’t just shape who I am;  they shaped the advocate I am becoming. My goal is to continue building the skills and knowledge that will allow me to make a meaningful impact for children with disabilities. I look forward to taking advantage of internships that provide opportunities to learn from experts in this field. I intend to champion voices too often overlooked, combining my education with my personal experience to build a more inclusive world for all children.

On January 26, 2021, I crouched behind a car, whispering directions to 911, terrified that speaking too loud might be the last sound I ever made. Minutes earlier, a gunman had taken my mom’s office hostage. Fighting off paralyzing fear, we realized we were still in danger and ran to a neighboring office. When the police arrived, we were instructed to lie on the ground to avoid potential gunfire or damage from explosives. After an eight-hour standoff, we learned my mom’s partner, the other physician in the practice, had been killed. I didn’t choose to be a survivor, but I chose to turn trauma into action. I organized rallies for gun safety, canvassed and phone banked for candidates supporting common sense gun laws, founded a Students Demand Action chapter at my school, and represented my district in VOICE, a student advocacy group. As Malala Yousafzai powerfully wrote in I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood up for Education and was Shot by the Taliban “When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.” Activism taught me that silence is a choice. My choice not to be silent led me to make another decision. At my school, Partners in PE pairs students with disabilities with “partners” in a physical education course. As a “partner”, this experience deepened my commitment to advocacy. By working with students whose voices are often unheard, I discovered my passion for a future career serving children with disabilities. Through this opportunity I have learned that many of these students are easily overwhelmed. I found I could use tools gained through my trauma therapy to help them feel grounded and safe. One student becomes calmer by tapping my hand, and when I sense his distress, I gently offer my palm. Another connects by touching my head. I use visualization techniques I learned from therapy to help students picture calming places in their minds. Two of my students particularly love back scratches and are able to engage better when offered this connection. I thoroughly enjoy helping them build confidence, connection, and communication. I’ve learned that not every voice is expressed in the same way. Some children use signs, some use devices, and some are still learning how to speak, but every voice matters. Eva Marie Lewis, a young activist from Chicago, stated: “To be an activist is to speak; to be an advocate is to listen. Society can’t move forward without both.” When I heard this, I could not help but think of my own lived experience. One month into freshman year, I had a seizure. After months of tests and a hospital stay, I was diagnosed with Tuberous Sclerosis and epilepsy. The condition explained the learning challenges I had faced since childhood. I’ve had to work harder than most, but it’s given me a fierce work ethic, and a deeper understanding of what it means to learn differently. My epilepsy provides me unique insight into the needs of students with disabilities, many of whom face similar neurologic issues. These experiences, surviving trauma, working with students with disabilities and navigating my own medical journey, didn’t just shape who I am; they shaped the advocate I am becoming. My goal in college is to continue building the skills and knowledge that will allow me to make a meaningful impact for children with disabilities. I look forward to taking advantage of internships that provide opportunities to learn from experts in this field. I intend to champion voices too often overlooked, combining my education with my personal experience to build a more inclusive world for all children.

From Adversity to Advocacy On January 26, 2021, I crouched behind a car, whispering directions to 911, terrified that speaking too loudly might be the last sound I ever made. Minutes earlier, a gunman had taken my mom’s office hostage. Fighting off paralyzing fear, we realized we were still in danger and ran to a neighboring office. When the police arrived, we were instructed to lie on the ground to avoid potential gunfire or damage from explosives. After an eight-hour standoff, we learned my mom’s partner, the other physician in the practice, had been killed. I didn’t choose to be a survivor, but I chose to turn trauma into action. I organized rallies for gun safety, canvassed and phone banked for candidates supporting common sense gun laws, founded a Students Demand Action chapter at my school, and represented my district in VOICE, a student advocacy group. As Malala Yousafzai powerfully wrote in I Am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood up for Education and was Shot by the Taliban “When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.” Activism taught me that silence is a choice. My choice not to be silent led me to make another decision. At my school, Partners in PE pairs students with disabilities with “partners” in a physical education course. As a “partner”, this experience deepened my commitment to advocacy. By working with students whose voices are often unheard, I discovered my passion for a future career serving children with disabilities. Through this opportunity I have learned that many of these students are easily overwhelmed. I found I could use tools gained through my trauma therapy to help them feel grounded and safe. One student becomes calmer by tapping my hand, and when I sense his distress, I gently offer my palm. Another connects by touching my head. I use visualization techniques I learned from therapy to help students picture calming places in their minds. Two of my students particularly love back scratches and are able to engage better when offered this connection. I thoroughly enjoy helping them build confidence, connection, and communication. I’ve learned that not every voice is expressed in the same way. Some children use signs, some use devices, and some are still learning how to speak, but every voice matters. Eva Marie Lewis, a young activist from Chicago, stated: “To be an activist is to speak; to be an advocate is to listen. Society can’t move forward without both.” When I heard this, I could not help but think of my own lived experience. One month into freshman year, I had a seizure. After months of tests and a hospital stay, I was diagnosed with Tuberous Sclerosis and epilepsy. The condition explained the learning challenges I had faced since childhood. I’ve had to work harder than most, but it’s given me a fierce work ethic, and a deeper understanding of what it means to learn differently. My epilepsy provides me unique insight into the needs of students with disabilities, many of whom face similar neurologic issues. These three experiences, surviving trauma, working with students with disabilities and navigating my own medical journey, didn’t just shape who I am; they shaped the advocate I am becoming. My goal in college is to continue building the skills and knowledge that will allow me to make a meaningful impact for children with disabilities. I look forward to taking advantage of externships and internships that provide direct opportunities to learn from experts in this field. I intend to champion voices too often overlooked, combining my education with my personal experience to build a more inclusive world for all children.