In April 2021, I started writing my pain on my body. Perfectly straight lines, strategically positioned because they had to be even. I thought the physical pain would ease the pain going on internally inside my head. I got to choose how many times, how deep, and where I wanted them. It gave me a sense of control when my life felt like it was slipping through my fingertips. It was the only way I knew how to cope. Everyone deals with emotional pain differently. For me, it was taking a razor blade and slicing my thighs until I could see the cut and blood. Each cut was worse than the one before. I was silently fighting this battle, and for a while, it was the only way I thought I could cope with my overwhelming emotions of feeling invisible, angry, ashamed, and alone. I started wearing pants to dance and cheer practice so no one could see what I was doing to my own body. I didn’t want to appear weak. Putting a smile on my face at each practice and every day at school, to go home and find the comfort of the razor blade. While it wasn’t every night, it happened a few times a month. Hiding it from my mom was the worst. I wanted to tell her how badly I needed help, but I couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing her. That was until February 9th, 2022. It was 11 at night. It was the worst I'd ever cut. Blood pouring down my legs, sitting there on my bed, shaking and frozen. My mom came to say goodnight, and I never want to see that look on her face again. The fear, the panic, the immediate tears. I thought, “ What have I done?” She wasn’t supposed to know that's how I cope. From that moment, I knew that I needed to stop. I needed to find a way to "recalibrate" and prioritize myself again. For me, my journey with mental health shifted when I finally found the courage to seek out help. I realized that to be the best version of myself, I needed to be open enough to share my thoughts with someone trained to help process emotional pain. While it hasn't been an easy journey, finding positive coping outlets and trusting a counselor to help me establish healthy habits has been incredibly empowering and life-changing. My scars on my upper thighs serve as a reminder of my body's healing process. While each scar was physically healing, I was also emotionally healing. I've learned how important it is to listen to others, to support others, and to help destigmatize mental health struggles. We talk about physical ailments openly, but we shy away from talking about mental health. To me, that needs to change. It's a huge reason I am pursuing a nursing degree. I want to be a nurse that young adults can rely on. A skilled nurse, especially one working with pediatrics or teens, must determine what isn’t being said. Sometimes, what isn’t said reveals the most. There has to be a connection formed where the patient feels enough trust to let someone in and share revealing thoughts that could be the key to unlocking both mental and physical healthcare needs. My scars will never fade, nor can they be easily concealed. But, they don’t define who I am. Instead, they are a part of my beautiful, broken story of becoming who I’m meant to be. If my story can help even one person, I will share it openly and honestly.

When I was little, I always told people I would be a doctor in Florida. Somewhere in a box in our attic is a “When I Grow Up” worksheet from Kindergarten that shows a picture of me with a stethoscope and helping someone. My mom says I used to play doctor with my baby dolls and would gravitate toward picture books about visiting the doctor. One of my favorites was "The Berenstain Bears Go to the Doctor". The desire to help others has always been ingrained in me from a very young age. In my junior year of high school, I took a course called Human Services, and I had the opportunity to intern at Littleton Regional Hospital in Littleton, NH. I spent time with the nurses in the OBGYN/Obstetrics unit. I was fortunate enough to witness the birth of a beautiful baby girl. I know it is rare for an intern to see a live birth, let alone a high school intern. I was amazed by the professionalism of the nurses. Everyone had a specific role, and it was clear that everyone wanted to ensure the safety of the mom and baby. I was in awe of seeing a life be born. There was an instant connection between the mom and baby, unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. At that moment, I knew I wanted to be a nurse. I wanted to experience what those nurses experienced and be there for a mom like they were for the mom in the room. There is a vulnerability that's displayed, and an unspoken connection between all. The personal essay I sent to colleges was risky because it contained vulnerable information. The essay started with the sentence, “I used to write my pain on my body.” It went on to describe some pivotal paths of my life where personal trauma led to coping with emotional pain negatively. The essay demonstrated to readers that scars can be both physical and emotional. My battles with my mental health in my middle school and early high school years are another reason why I am so invested in becoming a nurse. A skilled nurse, especially one working with pediatrics or teens, must determine what isn’t being said. Sometimes, what isn’t said reveals the most. There has to be a connection formed where the patient feels enough trust to let someone in and share revealing thoughts that could be the key to unlocking healthcare needs. At a young age, I lost my grandmother to metastatic breast cancer. It was a loss that impacted the entire family. She was stubborn and didn’t see her provider until it was too late. She didn’t seek care because she was scared. I think this happens far too often. People often avoid seeking medical care due to fear or lack of resources. I want to change that type of mindset. I want to be the nurse people turn to when they are worried, fearful, overwhelmed, or have other emotions. I want to help break the cycle and make a difference. While many change their career goals, the only thing that has changed about mine is that I now want to be a nurse, specifically a pediatric nurse in the NICU. (Although, one never knows what may unfold! While I know the journey won't be easy, I am passionate about pursuing a career that leverages my strengths, provides care to others, and enables me to interact with patients in a manner that offers support, guidance, reassurance, and hope. I plan on using that Kindergarten drawing as my motivator.

In April 2021, I started writing my pain on my body. Perfectly straight lines, strategically positioned because they had to be even. I thought the physical pain would ease the pain going on internally inside my head. I got to choose how many times, how deep, and where I wanted them. It gave me a sense of control when my life felt like it was slipping through my fingertips. It was the only way I knew how to cope. I started wearing pants to dance and cheer practice so no one could see what I was doing to my own body. I didn’t want to appear weak. Putting a smile on my face at each practice and every day at school, to go home and find the comfort of the razor blade. No, it wasn’t every night, but a few times every month. Hiding it from my mom was the worst. I wanted to tell her how badly I needed help, but I couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing her. She didn’t deserve that. I was silently fighting this battle alone. For a while, it was the only way I thought I could endure my overwhelming emotions of feeling invisible, angry, ashamed, and alone. That was until February 9th, 2022. It was 11 at night. It was the worst I'd ever done. Blood pouring down my legs, sitting there on my bed, shaking but frozen. My mom came to say goodnight, and I never want to see that look on her face again. I thought, “ What have I done?” She wasn’t supposed to know that's how I cope. From that moment, I knew that I could never do it again. Still raised perfectly, the scars on my upper thighs serve as a reminder of the body's healing process. While each scar was healing, I was also healing. I started recognizing myself again. I started being able to resist the urge to act on the feeling that I needed to cut. The thought still crosses my mind in moments, but I’ve learned healthy coping mechanisms. I've learned that asking for help isn't a sign of weakness; it's a sign of strength. I've found a counselor I trust and have started to use my voice to share. I've learned how important it is to listen to others, to support others, and to help destigmatize mental health struggles. Mental health advocacy is crucial, and ensuring that young adults are aware of all available mental health resources is a key part of the solution. We talk about physical ailments openly, but we shy away from talking about mental health. To me, that needs to change. It's a significant reason I am pursuing a degree in pediatric nursing. I want to be someone young adults can rely on. A skilled nurse, especially one working with pediatrics or teens, must determine what isn’t being said. Sometimes, what isn’t said reveals the most. This is why it is so essential for me to be the nurse children turn to and trust. I want to help break the mental health cycle and make a difference. For me, my scars will never go away, nor can they be easily covered. They will remain forever, a reminder to myself and all who notice that I have a story worth telling. I may have experienced emotional and traumatic experiences, but they don’t define who I am. Instead, they are a part of my beautiful, broken story of becoming who I’m meant to be. If my story can help even one person, I will share it openly and honestly.

There is a song by Paris Paloma titled, "Labour" that captures so much of what women have endured and continue to endure in society. It's a song that resonates with me and when I am feeling a bit down or deflated, I tend to blast it in my car to offer some inspiration. It's a beautiful lyrical masterpiece that uses strong metaphors and imagery to convey a powerful message to women. In some ways, it is like a call to action, suggesting that women rally together, support each other, and break free from the cycle of societal expectations. The lyrics in "Labour" are the epitome of empowerment. Empowerment is one of those words that holds so much meaning. In the educational and workforce setting, it's a word that signifies inner strength. For women who may continue to face situations that test beliefs, values, and self worth; empowerment is what lifts each other up, provides support, offers encouragement, and wraps each other in love. It can't exist without others acknowledging and highlighting strengths. In some ways, empowerment is the key to success. It is vital to preserving and pursuing passions and goals. It's a catalyst for change. Personally, I have endured trauma that deeply impacted my self concept. There were times when I second guessed my worth, my purpose, my value. It is easy to compare myself to others. I sometimes fall into the trap of feeling as though I am supposed to succumb to societal expectations or standards depicted in the song "Labour". It wasn't until a teacher challenged me to really self-reflect that I began to see myself differently. I stopped comparing myself to others and started, instead, to look for opportunities to spark change. In some ways, I began to accept challenges placed before me as motivating moments to say to myself, "just watch me." For every "you can't do that" to "you aren't smart enough for that" to "that's not something women are good at"; I've decided to use the words as fuel for moving forward. Words, even negative words, have become my inspiration. There are too many times when women let words deter them. I decided I didn't want to keep allowing that to unfold. Empowerment can't really thrive if there isn't genuine appreciation and belief in the abilities of others and if there isn't a community that rallies and lifts one another up. Now, more than ever, women need other women to be each others greatest cheerleaders. There is strength in knowing that others have your back and will be there to catch you if you happen to fall. In life, there are so many risks. Those risks are only worth taking when you have the confidence and belief from others (and in yourself); when you feel empowered. To further express my thoughts on what empowerment means to me, I have created an acrostic poem that captures the essence of the word and how its impacted my life. Embracing opportunities Maintaining my identity Providing encouragement Overcoming obstacles Welcoming change Enthusiastically supporting others Resisting self sabotage Meeting expectations Effectively communicating Never giving up Transforming the narrative

When I was little, I always told people I would be a doctor in Florida. Somewhere in a box in our attic is a "When I Grow Up" worksheet from Kindergarten that shows a picture of me with a stethoscope and helping someone. My mom says I used to play doctor with my baby dolls and would gravitate toward picture books about visiting the doctor. One of my favorites was The Berenstain Bears Go to the Doctor. The desire to help others has always been ingrained in me from a very young age. In my junior year of high school, I had the opportunity to intern in an Obstetrics and Gynecology (OB/GYN) unit. I was fortunate enough to witness the birth of a beautiful baby girl. I know it is rare for an intern to see a live birth, let alone a high school intern. I was in awe of seeing a life be born. There was an instant connection between the mom and baby, unlike anything I'd ever witnessed. At that moment, I knew I wanted to be a nurse. I wanted to experience what those nurses experienced and be there for a mom in the way those nurses were there for the mom in the room. The personal essay I submitted to colleges was risky due to its sensitive content. The essay started with the sentence, "I used to write my pain on my body." It went on to describe some pivotal paths of my life where personal trauma led to coping with emotional pain negatively. My battles with my mental health in my middle school and early high school years are another reason why I am so invested in becoming a nurse. A skilled nurse, especially one working with pediatrics or teens, must know what isn't being said. Sometimes, what isn't said reveals the most. I want to be the type of nurse who truly knows her patients and helps them feel comfortable talking about mental health. At a young age, I lost my paternal grandmother to metastatic breast cancer. This loss impacted my family greatly because it could have been prevented if my grandmother had sought care sooner. She was worried about the cost of care and waited to seek treatment until cancer had already ravaged her body. Knowing what I know now about free mammogram screening programs, I wish my grandmother had access to the technology and resources that assist lower-income individuals. She is another reason why I am so passionate about pursuing a career in nursing. I want to make sure that her story doesn't end with the loss of her life. In the past year, I have watched my maternal grandmother lose her mobility, fine motor skills, communication skills, and her short-term memory. She's been experiencing seizures that are impacting her entire neuromuscular system. She's been undergoing further tests to determine the exact cause of her rapid deterioration. It's heartbreaking to witness, and as a nurse, I want to be part of the cutting-edge research being conducted that might provide earlier treatment for patients like my grandmother. Reflecting on the photo that sits in a box in the attic, the only thing that has changed about my career goal is that I now aspire to be a nurse rather than a doctor. (Although, one never knows where the journey will take me!) I want to be the nurse people turn to when they are worried, fearful, frustrated, overwhelmed, or any other emotion that surfaces. I want to make a difference. I learned of this scholarship through the Bold.org scholarship site.

In April 2021, I started writing my pain on my body. Perfectly straight lines, strategically positioned because they had to be even. I thought the physical pain would ease the pain going on internally inside my head. I got to choose how many times, how deep, and where I wanted them. It gave me a sense of control when my life felt like it was slipping through my fingertips. It was the only way I knew how to cope. Everyone deals with emotional pain in their unique way. For me, it was taking the razor blade and slicing my thighs until I could see the cut and blood. Each cut was worse than the one before. I thought, "It has to be deeper than the other one". I was silently fighting this battle alone. For a while, it was the only way I thought I could cope with my overwhelming emotions of feeling invisible, angry, ashamed, and alone. I started wearing pants to dance and cheer practice so no one could see what I was doing to my own body. I didn't want to appear weak. Putting a smile on my face at each practice and every day at school, to go home and find the comfort of the razor blade. No, it wasn't every night, but a few times every month. Hiding it from my mom was the worst. I wanted to tell her how badly I needed help, but I couldn't stand the thought of disappointing her. She didn't deserve that. That was until February 9th, 2022. It was 11 at night. It was the worst I'd ever cut. Blood pouring down my legs, sitting there on my bed, shaking but frozen. My mom came to say goodnight, and I never want to see that look on her face again. The fear, the panic, the immediate tears. I thought, "What have I done?" She wasn't supposed to know that's how I cope. From that moment, I knew that I could never do it again. Still raised perfectly, the scars on my upper thighs serve as a reminder of the body's healing process. While each scar was healing, I was also healing. I started recognizing myself again. I started being able to resist the urge to act on the feeling that I needed to cut. The thought still crosses my mind in moments, but I've learned healthy coping mechanisms. I've learned that asking for help isn't a sign of weakness; it's a sign of strength. I've learned how important it is to listen to others, to support others, and to help destigmatize mental health struggles. For me, dancing became my positive coping outlet. I've been dancing since I was five, but started to see it more as a form of positive expression. I also began to focus on my desire to make a difference and threw myself into my academic pursuits. Mental health advocacy and awareness are huge reasons I am pursuing a nursing degree. I want to be a nurse whom young adults can rely on. My scars will never fade, nor can they be easily concealed. They will remain forever, a reminder to myself and to all who notice that I have a story worth telling. Something I shouldn't be ashamed of, and something I've grown accustomed to not being ashamed of. I may have experienced emotional and traumatic experiences, but they don't define who I am. Instead, they are a part of my beautiful, broken story of becoming who I'm meant to be. If my story can help even one person, I will share it openly.

When I was little, I always told people I would be a doctor in Florida. Somewhere in a box in our attic is a “When I Grow Up” worksheet from Kindergarten that shows a picture of me with a stethoscope and helping someone. My mom says I used to play doctor with my baby dolls and would gravitate toward picture books about visiting the doctor. One of my favorites was The Berenstain Bears Go to the Doctor. The desire to help others has always been ingrained in me from a very young age, particularly in supporting women. In my junior year of high school, I had the opportunity to intern in an Obstetrics and Gynecology (OB/GYN) unit. I was fortunate enough to witness the birth of a beautiful baby girl. I know it is rare for an intern to see a live birth, let alone a high school intern. I was amazed by the professionalism of the nurses. Everyone had a specific role, and it was clear that everyone wanted to ensure the safety of the mom and baby. There was an instant connection between the mom and baby, unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. At that moment, I knew I wanted to be a nurse. I wanted to experience what those nurses experienced and be there for a mom in the way those nurses were there for the mom in the room. The personal essay I sent to colleges contained vulnerable information. The essay started with the sentence, “I used to write my pain on my body.” The essay demonstrated to readers that scars can be both physical and emotional. My battles with my mental health in my middle school and early high school years are another reason why I am so invested in becoming a nurse. A skilled nurse, especially one working with pediatrics or teen girls, must know what isn’t being said. Sometimes, what isn’t said reveals the most. There has to be a connection formed where the patient feels enough trust to let someone in and share the secrets. It took me a while to find that trust, but once I did, I was able to work on my mental health more positively. I want to be the type of nurse who truly knows her patients and helps them feel comfortable talking about mental health. At a young age, I lost my paternal grandmother to metastatic breast cancer. This loss impacted my family greatly because it could have been prevented if my grandmother had sought care sooner. She was worried about the cost of care and waited to seek treatment until cancer had already ravaged her body. Knowing what I know now about free mammogram screening programs, I wish my grandmother had access to the technology and resources that assist lower-income individuals. She is another reason why I am so passionate about pursuing a career in nursing. I want to make sure that her story doesn’t end with the loss of her life. I want women with similar backgrounds to her to feel empowered to advocate for themselves. As I reflect on the photo that sits in a box in the attic, the only thing that has changed about my career goal is that I now aspire to be a nurse rather than a doctor. (Although, one never knows where the journey will take me!) I am eager to become the nurse I aspire to be, which is the nurse people turn to when they are worried, fearful, frustrated, overwhelmed, or any other emotion that surfaces. As a nurse, I want to make a difference.

Throughout my entire childhood, Uncle "CJ" was my favorite person. He moved in with my family and me when my grandma (his mom) passed away in 2011. He quickly became my built-in best friend. He lived with us for almost two years. He would do everything with my brother and me. Our favorite thing was having our special picnic meal together in the backyard, an activity we called “Sushi Outside.” To this day, anytime I eat sushi, I am reminded of him. One day, Uncle CJ just stopped living with us. It was the morning when my brother raced upstairs to tell our dad, “Uncle CJ is blue like a Smurf!” After that, it was chaos. No, he didn't die, but he did overdose on pills. He was taken to the hospital via ambulance. After that incident, my dad kicked him out of the house because he was afraid it would happen again. My Uncle CJ went into a treatment center. I didn’t see Uncle CJ again until I was seven years old. We went to visit him in the new apartment where he was living. I was so excited to see him. We went on a tour of the VT Teddy Bear Company with him. I was too little to see that his addiction had gotten worse, but my mom noticed. A few months later, he was arrested and went to prison. He was released, but shortly after, he ended up going back. The next time I saw him again was when I was twelve years old at my dad's and stepmom's wedding. After that, the family lost touch with him. It wasn’t until the end of 2023 that I learned how bad his addiction had worsened. He'd become a fentanyl and heroin user. He got so bad that Narcan was needed on him. My dad and stepmom even keep Narcan in a cupboard, just in case it is required. I am amazed that he is still here. I like to think that my grandma kept him alive from Heaven and wanted to see him get better. In December 2023, my uncle finally decided that he wanted to seek help. He went to rehab and was there for about a month and a half. He became clean and got a job, and I got to see him for the first time since 2019 on March 16th, 2024. It was the longest he has remained clean since he started using over ten years ago. But sadly, it didn't last. My Uncle CJ's story is not unique. The addiction cycle is vicious, and sometimes, it seems impossible to break. His addiction didn't just impact him; it impacted all of us. It is hard to watch someone "self-destruct." It is an arduous journey and one that requires support. I learned that one of the only ways to break the cycle is when the addicted individual is genuinely willing to put in the hard work of counseling therapies, like cognitive behavioral therapy. There must be a strong network of support that extends even beyond the immediate family to help prevent relapse. For me, the addiction journey of my uncle has shown me flaws in our mental health system and drug and alcohol rehabilitation programs. In some ways, watching his struggles has been a factor in my decision to become a nurse. I want to help those with mental health challenges find positive coping methods. I want to make a difference. I think back to those "Sushi Outside" moments, and I am reminded of the innocence of childhood that was lost because of addiction.

Light lavender in hue with colored butterflies and a polka dot trim. A mere 45in by 60in. Affectionately known as "my purple blankie." My comfort. My constant. The one thing that has never left me. It now has eleven different holes of varying sizes and is faded to a grayish/purple hue, symbolizing the storms I’ve weathered. One side is soft, and the other is worn-out sherpa. I’ve always had a favorite corner. The corner that my left hand naturally gravitates towards. Until the age of seven, holding my blankie in my left hand while my right thumb was in my mouth provided comfort like no other. Even after I stopped being a thumb sucker, I couldn't bare to let go of my deep attachment to my blankie. The blankie that's been through the last 17 years of my life with me. The blankie that spent every night with me and became a tissue to wipe my tears. Symbolic of both trauma and triumph. My purple blankie, my most cherished possession. Just like me, my blankie went through my parents' divorce. At the age of five, I thought my whole world had flipped upside down. My blankie wrapped around me like a cape as I chased my mom through the house, trying to make sure she was okay. She’s always been the rock of the family. I couldn't understand why she was so upset. It's one of my most vivid memories. I sat outside the bathroom door, gently rubbing my favorite corner of my blankie, waiting for her. When she opened the door, I knew something was wrong. I could tell by her face. Later, I realized that my dad wasn’t coming back to live with us. In the sweltering summer of 2012, our family of four (my mom, dad, brother, and I) became a family of three. My mom shared the news with my brother and me in our living room. I went from seeing my dad every day to seeing him every other weekend. I went from living in the house I had only known to moving into an apartment with my mom, brother, and our sweet dog, Maisy. While I had always been attached to my blankie, I started to rely on it heavily. My purple blankie comforted me at night when I couldn't cope with the emotions of being a split family. In my child's brain, I thought it would be a good idea if my mom, brother, and I moved in with my dad and his girlfriend. I thought we could be one big happy family. It wasn't until I was in middle school that I realized how naive I was to consider this. My definition of family was tainted. I didn't trust anyone. I began to experience episodes of rage. I also started to experience some OCD tendencies. I had to stick to a specific routine to get ready each morning, and if that were disrupted, I would have to start again. I'd cling to my purple blankie and take deep breaths. As the years went on, my mom and dad both eventually remarried. My purple blankie traveled back and forth with me from their homes, never leaving my side. With so much change happening, I felt a sense of relief in being able to hold onto something tightly. Eventually, I started spending most of my time with my mom. I think it was because I needed some sense of stability. The back and forth took a toll on my mental health. I always felt guilty. (I still do). I think divorce does that to a child. My purple blankie stuck with me during my first breakup, which was an emotionally difficult time for me. It stuck with me during my awkward middle school years when I was trying to decipher my true friends from “breadcrumb friends.” It was there for me when my dad and his new wife had two daughters, my younger sisters, now four and two years old. It was there for me during my lowest mental health moments, including when I was self-harming. It was also there for me during my most celebratory moments. My purple blankie helped to keep me centered. It brought me a sense of calm through chaos. To some, it will always be a dingy, faded, tattered, and torn purple blanket. To me, though, it symbolizes so much more. It is my constant, my comfort, my lifeline. It is a part of me. It is my story. Each hole represents a trauma or a triumph. Something tells me it will continue to be there for me, helping me navigate all the challenging milestones still to come. While it might be tattered, it makes me feel whole. My purple blankie, my forever protector.

In April 2021, I started writing my pain on my body. Perfectly straight lines, strategically positioned because they had to be even. I thought the physical pain would ease the pain going on internally inside my head. I got to choose how many times, how deep, and where I wanted them. It gave me a sense of control when my life felt like it was slipping through my fingertips. It was the only way I knew how to cope. Everyone deals with emotional pain in their unique way. For me, it was taking the razor blade and slicing my thighs until I could see the cut and blood. Each cut was worse than the one before. I thought, “It has to be deeper than the other one”. I was silently fighting this battle alone. For a while, it was the only way I thought I could cope with my overwhelming emotions of feeling invisible, angry, ashamed, and alone. I started wearing pants to dance and cheer practice so no one could see what I was doing to my own body. I didn’t want to appear weak. Putting a smile on my face at each practice and every day at school, to go home and find the comfort of the razor blade. No, it wasn’t every night, but a few times every month. Hiding it from my mom was the worst. I wanted to tell her how badly I needed help, but I couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing her. She didn’t deserve that. That was until February 9th, 2022. It was 11 at night. It was the worst I'd ever done. Blood pouring down my legs, sitting there on my bed, shaking but frozen. My mom came to say goodnight, and I never want to see that look on her face again. The fear, the panic, the immediate tears. I thought, “ What have I done?” She wasn’t supposed to know that's how I cope. From that moment, I knew that I could never do it again. Still raised perfectly, the scars on my upper thighs serve as a reminder of the body's healing process. While each scar was healing, I was also healing. I started recognizing myself again. I started being able to resist the urge to act on the feeling that I needed to cut. The thought still crosses my mind in moments, but I’ve learned healthy coping mechanisms. I've learned that asking for help isn't a sign of weakness; it's a sign of strength. I've learned how important it is to listen to others, to support others, and to help destigmatize mental health struggles. I believe that mental health advocacy is crucial, and ensuring that young adults are aware of all available mental health resources is a key part of the solution. We talk about physical ailments openly, but we shy away from talking about mental health. To me, that needs to change. It's a huge reason I am pursuing a nursing degree. I want to be someone young adults can rely on. My scars will never fade, nor can they be easily concealed. They will remain forever, a reminder to myself and to all who notice that I have a story worth telling. Something I shouldn’t be ashamed of, and something I've grown accustomed to not being ashamed of. I may have experienced emotional and traumatic experiences, but they don’t define who I am. Instead, they are a part of my beautiful, broken story of becoming who I’m meant to be. If my story can help even one person, I will share it openly.

In April 2021, I started writing my pain on my body. Perfectly straight lines, strategically positioned because they had to be even. I thought the physical pain would ease the pain going on internally inside my head. I got to choose how many times, how deep, and where I wanted them. It gave me a sense of control when my life felt like it was slipping through my fingertips. It was the only way I knew how to cope. Everyone deals with emotional pain in their unique way. For me, it was taking the razor blade and slicing my thighs until I could see the cut and blood. Each cut was worse than the one before. I thought, "It has to be deeper than the other one". I was silently fighting this battle alone. For a while, it was the only way I thought I could cope with my overwhelming emotions of feeling invisible, angry, ashamed, and alone. I started wearing pants to dance and cheer practice so no one could see what I was doing to my own body. I didn't want to appear weak. Putting a smile on my face at each practice and every day at school, to go home and find the comfort of the razor blade. No, it wasn't every night, but a few times every month. Hiding it from my mom was the worst. I wanted to tell her how badly I needed help, but I couldn't stand the thought of disappointing her. She didn't deserve that. That was until February 9th, 2022. It was 11 at night. It was the worst I'd ever cut. Blood pouring down my legs, sitting there on my bed, shaking but frozen. My mom came to say goodnight, and I never want to see that look on her face again. The fear, the panic, the immediate tears. I thought, "What have I done?" She wasn't supposed to know that's how I cope. From that moment, I knew that I could never do it again. Still raised perfectly, the scars on my upper thighs serve as a reminder of the body's healing process. While each scar was healing, I was also healing. I started recognizing myself again. I started being able to resist the urge to act on the feeling that I needed to cut. The thought still crosses my mind in moments, but I've learned healthy coping mechanisms. I've learned that asking for help isn't a sign of weakness; it's a sign of strength. I've learned how important it is to listen to others, to support others, and to help destigmatize mental health struggles. For me, dancing became my positive coping outlet. I've been dancing since I was five, but started to see it more as a form of positive expression. I also began to focus on my desire to make a difference and threw myself into my academic pursuits. Mental health advocacy and awareness are huge reasons I am pursuing a nursing degree. I want to be a nurse whom young adults can rely on. My scars will never fade, nor can they be easily concealed. They will remain forever, a reminder to myself and to all who notice that I have a story worth telling. Something I shouldn't be ashamed of, and something I've grown accustomed to not being ashamed of. I may have experienced emotional and traumatic experiences, but they don't define who I am. Instead, they are a part of my beautiful, broken story of becoming who I'm meant to be. If my story can help even one person, I will share it openly.

When I was little, I always told people I would be a doctor in Florida. Somewhere in a box in our attic is a "When I Grow Up" worksheet from Kindergarten that shows a picture of me with a stethoscope and helping someone. My mom says I used to play doctor with my baby dolls and would gravitate toward picture books about visiting the doctor. One of my favorites was The Berenstain Bears Go to the Doctor. The desire to help others has always been ingrained in me from a very young age. In my junior year of high school, I had the opportunity to intern in an Obstetrics and Gynecology (OB/GYN) unit. I was fortunate enough to witness the birth of a beautiful baby girl. I know it is rare for an intern to see a live birth, let alone a high school intern. I was in awe of seeing a life be born. There was an instant connection between the mom and baby, unlike anything I'd ever witnessed. At that moment, I knew I wanted to be a nurse. I wanted to experience what those nurses experienced and be there for a mom in the way those nurses were there for the mom in the room. A vulnerability is displayed, and an unspoken connection exists between all. The personal essay I submitted to colleges was risky due to its sensitive content. The essay started with the sentence, "I used to write my pain on my body." It went on to describe some pivotal paths of my life where personal trauma led to coping with emotional pain negatively. My battles with my mental health in my middle school and early high school years are another reason why I am so invested in becoming a nurse. A skilled nurse, especially one working with pediatrics or teens, must know what isn't being said. Sometimes, what isn't said reveals the most. I want to be the type of nurse who truly knows her patients and helps them feel comfortable talking about mental health. At a young age, I lost my paternal grandmother to metastatic breast cancer. This loss impacted my family greatly because it could have been prevented if my grandmother had sought care sooner. She was worried about the cost of care and waited to seek treatment until cancer had already ravaged her body. Knowing what I know now about free mammogram screening programs, I wish my grandmother had access to the technology and resources that assist lower-income individuals. She is another reason why I am so passionate about pursuing a career in nursing. I want to make sure that her story doesn't end with the loss of her life. In the past year, I have watched my maternal grandmother lose her mobility, fine motor skills, communication skills, and her short-term memory. She's been experiencing seizures that are impacting her entire neuromuscular system. She's been undergoing further tests to determine the exact cause of her rapid deterioration. It's heartbreaking to witness, and as a nurse, I want to be part of the cutting-edge research being conducted that might provide earlier treatment for patients like my grandmother. As I reflect on the photo that sits in a box in the attic, the only thing that has changed about my career goal is that I now aspire to be a nurse rather than a doctor. (Although, one never knows where the journey will take me!) I want to be the nurse people turn to when they are worried, fearful, frustrated, overwhelmed, or any other emotion that surfaces. I want to make a difference.

When I was little, I always told people I would be a doctor in Florida. Somewhere in a box in our attic is a "When I Grow Up" worksheet from Kindergarten that shows a picture of me with a stethoscope and helping someone. My mom says I used to play doctor with my baby dolls and would gravitate toward picture books about visiting the doctor. One of my favorites was The Berenstain Bears Go to the Doctor. The desire to help others has always been ingrained in me from a very young age. In my junior year of high school, I had the opportunity to intern in an Obstetrics and Gynecology (OB/GYN) unit. I was fortunate enough to witness the birth of a beautiful baby girl. I know it is rare for an intern to see a live birth, let alone a high school intern. I was in awe of seeing a life be born. There was an instant connection between the mom and baby, unlike anything I'd ever witnessed. At that moment, I knew I wanted to be a nurse. I wanted to experience what those nurses experienced and be there for a mom in the way those nurses were there for the mom in the room. There is a vulnerability that's displayed, and an unspoken connection between all. The personal essay I submitted to colleges was risky due to its sensitive content. The essay started with the sentence, "I used to write my pain on my body." It went on to describe some pivotal paths of my life where personal trauma led to coping with emotional pain negatively. My battles with my mental health in my middle school and early high school years are another reason why I am so invested in becoming a nurse. A skilled nurse, especially one working with pediatrics or teens, must know what isn't being said. Sometimes, what isn't said reveals the most. I want to be the type of nurse who truly knows her patients and helps them feel comfortable talking about mental health. At a young age, I lost my paternal grandmother to metastatic breast cancer. This loss impacted my family greatly because it could have been prevented if my grandmother had sought care sooner. She was worried about the cost of care and waited to seek treatment until cancer had already ravaged her body. Knowing what I know now about free mammogram screening programs, I wish my grandmother had access to the technology and resources that assist lower-income individuals. She is another reason why I am so passionate about pursuing a career in nursing. I want to make sure that her story doesn't end with the loss of her life. In the past year, I have watched my maternal grandmother lose her mobility, fine motor skills, communication skills, and her short-term memory. She's been experiencing seizures that are impacting her entire neuromuscular system. She's been undergoing further tests to determine the exact cause of her rapid deterioration. It's heartbreaking to witness, and as a nurse, I want to be part of the cutting-edge research being conducted that might provide earlier treatment for patients like my grandmother. Reflecting on the photo that sits in a box in the attic, the only thing that has changed about my career goal is that I now aspire to be a nurse rather than a doctor. (Although, one never knows where the journey will take me!) I want to be the nurse people turn to when they are worried, fearful, frustrated, overwhelmed, or any other emotion that surfaces. I want to make a difference.

In April 2021, I started writing my pain on my body. Perfectly straight lines, strategically positioned because they had to be even. I thought the physical pain would ease the pain going on internally inside my head. I got to choose how many times, how deep, and where I wanted them. It gave me a sense of control when my life felt like it was slipping through my fingertips. It was the only way I knew how to cope. Everyone deals with emotional pain in their unique way. For me, it was taking the razor blade and slicing my thighs until I could see the cut and blood. Each cut was worse than the one before. I thought, “It has to be deeper than the other one”. I was silently fighting this battle alone. For a while, it was the only way I thought I could cope with my overwhelming emotions of feeling invisible, angry, ashamed, and alone. I started wearing pants to dance and cheer practice so no one could see what I was doing to my own body. I didn’t want to appear weak. Putting a smile on my face at each practice and every day at school, to go home and find the comfort of the razor blade. No, it wasn’t every night, but a few times every month. Hiding it from my mom was the worst. I wanted to tell her how badly I needed help, but I couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing her. She didn’t deserve that. That was until February 9th, 2022. It was 11 at night. It was the worst I'd ever done. Blood pouring down my legs, sitting there on my bed, shaking but frozen. My mom came to say goodnight, and I never want to see that look on her face again. The fear, the panic, the immediate tears. I thought, “ What have I done?” She wasn’t supposed to know that's how I cope. From that moment, I knew that I could never do it again. Still raised perfectly, the scars on my upper thighs serve as a reminder of the body's healing process. While each scar was healing, I was also healing. I started recognizing myself again. I started being able to resist the urge to act on the feeling that I needed to cut. The thought still crosses my mind in moments, but I’ve learned healthy coping mechanisms. I've learned that asking for help isn't a sign of weakness; it's a sign of strength. I've learned how important it is to listen to others, to support others, and to help destigmatize mental health struggles. I believe that mental health advocacy is crucial, and ensuring that young adults are aware of all available mental health resources is a key part of the solution. We talk about physical ailments openly, but we shy away from talking about mental health. To me, that needs to change. It's a huge reason I am pursuing a nursing degree. I want to be someone young adults can rely on. My scars will never go away, nor can they be easily covered. They will remain forever, a reminder to myself and to all who notice that I have a story worth telling. Something I shouldn’t be ashamed of, and something I've grown accustomed to not being ashamed of. I may have experienced emotional and traumatic experiences, but they don’t define who I am. Instead, they are a part of my beautiful, broken story of becoming who I’m meant to be. If my story can help even one person, I will share it openly.

In April 2021, I started writing my pain on my body. Perfectly straight lines, strategically positioned because they had to be even. I thought the physical pain would ease the pain going on internally inside my head. I got to choose how many times, how deep, and where I wanted them. It gave me a sense of control when my life felt like it was slipping through my fingertips. It was the only way I knew how to cope. Everyone deals with emotional pain in their unique way. For me, it was taking the razor blade and slicing my thighs until I could see the cut and blood. Each cut was worse than the one before. I thought, “It has to be deeper than the other one”. I was silently fighting this battle alone. For a while, it was the only way I thought I could cope with my overwhelming emotions of feeling invisible, angry, ashamed, and, worst of all, alone. Each time, I hit the restart button on my “I Am Sober' app on my phone, sitting there numb, unsure of what else I could do. I started wearing pants to dance and cheer practice so no one could see what I was doing to my own body. I didn’t want to appear weak. Putting a smile on my face at each practice and every day at school, to go home and find the comfort of the razor blade. No, it wasn’t every night, but a few times every month. Hiding it from my mom was the worst. I wanted to tell her how badly I needed help, but I couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing her. She didn’t deserve that. That was until February 9th, 2022. It was 11 at night. It was the worst I'd ever cut. Blood pouring down my legs, sitting there on my bed, shaking but frozen. I zoned out, tears streaming down my face, holding onto my blankie when my mom came in to say goodnight. I never want to see that look on her face again. The fear, the panic, the immediate tears. I thought, “ What have I done?” She wasn’t supposed to know that's how I cope. She ran over and hugged me, and was at a loss for knowing what to do. She didn’t know whether to take me to the hospital; she just wanted to help me get better. From that moment, I knew that I could never do it again. It wasn’t easy. For the first time in almost a year, according to my app, I hadn’t relapsed. Three hundred and twenty-five days. I was so close. It was New Year's. I was alone in my room. Many things happened to me during that week. An overpowering feeling of deep emotion took over. I couldn't breathe, silent tears streaming out of my eyes, going back and forth, wondering if I would do it or not. I chose instead to turn to my academics. Still raised perfectly, the scars on my upper thighs serve as a reminder of the body's healing process. While each scar was healing, I was also healing. I started recognizing myself again. I started being able to resist the urge to act on the feeling that I needed to do it. The thought still crosses my mind in moments, but I’ve learned healthy coping mechanisms. They are not scars that will ever go away or that can be easily covered. They will remain forever, a reminder to myself and to all who notice that I have a story worth telling. Something I shouldn’t be ashamed of. My battles with my mental health in my middle school and early high school years are one of the reasons I am so invested in becoming a nurse. A skilled nurse, especially one working with pediatrics or teens, must know what isn’t being said. Sometimes, what isn’t said reveals the most. There has to be a connection formed where the patient feels enough trust to let someone in and share their secrets. It took me a while to find that trust, but once I did, I was able to work on my mental health more positively. I want to be the nurse who sparks change in destigmatizing mental health and helps young adults find the support and strength they need. While I may have experienced emotional and traumatic experiences, they don’t define who I am. Instead, they are a part of my beautiful, broken story of becoming who I’m meant to be. If my story can help at least one person, I will share it openly.

When I was little, I always told people I would be a doctor in Florida. Somewhere in a box in our attic is a “When I Grow Up” worksheet from Kindergarten that shows a picture of me with a stethoscope and helping someone. My mom says I used to play doctor with my baby dolls and would gravitate toward picture books about visiting the doctor. One of my favorites was "The Berenstain Bears Go to the Doctor". The desire to help others has always been ingrained in me from a very young age. In my junior year of high school, I took a course called Human Services, and I was able to intern at Littleton Regional Hospital in Littleton, NH. I spent time with the nurses in the OBGYN/Obstetrics unit. I was lucky enough to be able to witness the birth of a beautiful baby girl. I know it is rare for an intern to see a live birth, let alone a high school intern. I was amazed by the professionalism of the nurses. Everyone had a specific role, and it was clear that everyone wanted to ensure the safety of the mom and baby. I was in awe of seeing a life be born. There was an instant connection between the mom and baby, unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. At that moment, I knew I wanted to be a nurse. I wanted to experience what those nurses experienced and be there for a mom like those nurses were there for the mom in the room. There’s a vulnerability that is displayed and an unspoken connection between all. The personal essay I sent to colleges was risky because it contained vulnerable information. The essay started with the sentence, “I used to write my pain on my body.” It went on to describe some pivotal paths of my life where personal trauma led to coping with emotional pain negatively. The essay showed readers that scars can be physical and emotional. My battles with my mental health in my middle school and early high school years are another reason why I am so invested in becoming a nurse. A skilled nurse, especially one working with pediatrics or teens, must determine what isn’t being said. Sometimes, what isn’t said reveals the most. There has to be a connection formed where the patient feels enough trust to let someone in and share revealing thoughts that could be the key to unlocking healthcare needs. At a young age, I lost my grandmother to metastatic breast cancer. It was a loss that impacted the entire family. She was stubborn and didn’t see her provider until it was too late. She didn’t seek care because she was scared. I think this happens far too often. People don't seek out medical care because of fear. I want to change that type of mindset. I want to be the nurse people turn to when they are worried, fearful, overwhelmed, or have other emotions. I want to assist in breaking the cycle and making a difference. While many change their career goals, the only thing that has changed about mine is that I want to be a nurse instead of a doctor, specifically, a pediatric nurse in the NICU. While I know the journey won't be easy, I am passionate about pursuing a career that taps into my strengths, provides care to others, and allows me to interact with patients in a manner that offers support, guidance, reassurance, and hope. I plan on using that Kindergarten drawing as my motivator.

When I was little, I always told people I would be a doctor in Florida. Somewhere in a box in our attic is a “When I Grow Up” worksheet from Kindergarten that shows a picture of me with a stethoscope and helping someone. My mom says I used to play doctor with my baby dolls and would gravitate toward picture books about visiting the doctor. One of my favorites was "The Berenstain Bears Go to the Doctor". The desire to help others has always been ingrained in me from a very young age. In my junior year of high school, I took a course called Human Services, and I was able to intern at Littleton Regional Hospital in Littleton, NH. I spent time with the nurses in the OBGYN/Obstetrics unit. I was lucky enough to be able to witness the birth of a beautiful baby girl. I know it is rare for an intern to see a live birth, let alone a high school intern. I was amazed by the professionalism of the nurses. Everyone had a specific role, and it was clear that everyone wanted to ensure the safety of the mom and baby. I was in awe of seeing a life be born. There was an instant connection between the mom and baby, unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. At that moment, I knew I wanted to be a nurse. I wanted to experience what those nurses experienced and be there for a mom like those nurses were there for the mom in the room. There’s a vulnerability that is displayed and an unspoken connection between all. The personal essay I sent to colleges was risky because it contained vulnerable information. The essay started with the sentence, “I used to write my pain on my body.” It went on to describe some pivotal paths of my life where personal trauma led to coping with emotional pain negatively. The essay showed readers that scars can be physical and emotional. My battles with my mental health in my middle school and early high school years are another reason why I am so invested in becoming a nurse. A skilled nurse, especially one working with pediatrics or teens, must determine what isn’t being said. Sometimes, what isn’t said reveals the most. There has to be a connection formed where the patient feels enough trust to let someone in and share revealing thoughts that could be the key to unlocking healthcare needs. At a young age, I lost my grandmother to metastatic breast cancer. It was a loss that impacted the entire family. She was stubborn and didn’t see her provider until it was too late. She didn’t seek care because she was scared. I think this happens far too often. People don't seek out medical care because of fear. I want to change that type of mindset. I want to be the nurse people turn to when they are worried, fearful, overwhelmed, or have other emotions. I want to assist in breaking the cycle and making a difference. While many change their career goals, the only thing that has changed about mine is that I want to be a nurse instead of a doctor, specifically, a pediatric nurse in the NICU. I have committed to Nova Southeastern University's pre-nursing pathway. While I know the journey won't be easy, I am passionate about pursuing a career that taps into my strengths, provides care to others, and allows me to interact with patients in a manner that offers support, guidance, reassurance, and hope. I plan on using that Kindergarten drawing as my motivator.

When I was little, I always told people I would be a doctor in Florida. Somewhere in a box in our attic is a “When I Grow Up” worksheet from Kindergarten that shows a picture of me with a stethoscope and helping someone. My mom says I used to play doctor with my baby dolls and would gravitate toward picture books about visiting the doctor. One of my favorites was "The Berenstain Bears Go to the Doctor". The desire to help others has always been ingrained in me from a very young age. In my junior year of high school, I took a course called Human Services, and I was able to intern at Littleton Regional Hospital in Littleton, NH. I spent time with the nurses in the OBGYN/Obstetrics unit. I was lucky enough to be able to witness the birth of a beautiful baby girl. I know it is rare for an intern to see a live birth, let alone a high school intern. I was amazed by the professionalism of the nurses. Everyone had a specific role, and it was clear that everyone wanted to ensure the safety of the mom and baby. I was in awe of seeing a life be born. There was an instant connection between the mom and baby, unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. At that moment, I knew I wanted to be a nurse. I wanted to experience what those nurses experienced and be there for a mom like those nurses were there for the mom in the room. There’s a vulnerability that is displayed and an unspoken connection between all. The personal essay I sent to colleges was risky because it contained vulnerable information. The essay started with the sentence, “I used to write my pain on my body.” It went on to describe some pivotal paths of my life where personal trauma led to coping with emotional pain negatively. The essay showed readers that scars can be physical and emotional. My battles with my mental health in my middle school and early high school years are another reason why I am so invested in becoming a nurse. A skilled nurse, especially one working with pediatrics or teens, must determine what isn’t being said. Sometimes, what isn’t said reveals the most. There has to be a connection formed where the patient feels enough trust to let someone in and share revealing thoughts that could be the key to unlocking healthcare needs. At a young age, I lost my grandmother to metastatic breast cancer. It was a loss that impacted the entire family. She was stubborn and didn’t see her provider until it was too late. She didn’t seek care because she was scared. I think this happens far too often. People don't seek out medical care because of fear. I want to change that type of mindset. I want to be the nurse people turn to when they are worried, fearful, overwhelmed, or have other emotions. I want to assist in breaking the cycle and making a difference. While many change their career goals, the only thing that has changed about mine is that I want to be a nurse instead of a doctor, specifically, a pediatric nurse in the NICU. I have committed to Nova Southeastern University's pre-nursing pathway. While I know the journey won't be easy, I am passionate about pursuing a career that taps into my strengths, provides care to others, and allows me to interact with patients in a manner that offers support, guidance, reassurance, and hope. I plan on using that Kindergarten drawing as my motivator.

When I was little, I always told people I would be a doctor in Florida. Somewhere in a box in our attic is a “When I Grow Up” worksheet from Kindergarten that shows a picture of me with a stethoscope and helping someone. My mom says I used to play doctor with my baby dolls and would gravitate toward picture books about visiting the doctor. One of my favorites was "The Berenstain Bears Go to the Doctor". The desire to help others has always been ingrained in me from a very young age. In my junior year of high school, I took a course called Human Services, and I was able to intern at Littleton Regional Hospital in Littleton, NH. I spent time with the nurses in the OBGYN/Obstetrics unit. I was lucky enough to be able to witness the birth of a beautiful baby girl. I know it is rare for an intern to see a live birth, let alone a high school intern. I was amazed by the professionalism of the nurses. Everyone had a specific role, and it was clear that everyone wanted to ensure the safety of the mom and baby. I was in awe of seeing a life be born. There was an instant connection between the mom and baby, unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. At that moment, I knew I wanted to be a nurse. I wanted to experience what those nurses experienced and be there for a mom like those nurses were there for the mom in the room. There’s a vulnerability that is displayed and an unspoken connection between all. The personal essay I sent to colleges was risky because it contained vulnerable information. The essay started with the sentence, “I used to write my pain on my body.” It went on to describe some pivotal paths of my life where personal trauma led to coping with emotional pain negatively. The essay showed readers that scars can be physical and emotional. My battles with my mental health in my middle school and early high school years are another reason why I am so invested in becoming a nurse. A skilled nurse, especially one working with pediatrics or teens, must determine what isn’t being said. Sometimes, what isn’t said reveals the most. There has to be a connection formed where the patient feels enough trust to let someone in and share revealing thoughts that could be the key to unlocking healthcare needs. At a young age, I lost my grandmother to metastatic breast cancer. It was a loss that impacted the entire family. She was stubborn and didn’t see her provider until it was too late. She didn’t seek care because she was scared. I think this happens far too often. People don't seek out medical care because of fear. I want to change that type of mindset. I want to be the nurse people turn to when they are worried, fearful, overwhelmed, or have other emotions. I want to assist in breaking the cycle and making a difference. While many change their career goals, the only thing that has changed about mine is that I want to be a nurse instead of a doctor, specifically, a pediatric nurse in the NICU. I have committed to Nova Southeastern University's pre-nursing pathway. While I know the journey won't be easy, I am passionate about pursuing a career that taps into my strengths, provides care to others, and allows me to interact with patients in a manner that offers support, guidance, reassurance, and hope. I plan on using that Kindergarten drawing as my motivator.