@beansproutbrynn Thank you for this opportunity!

I've heard the word "recovery" since I was thirteen years old, going between nuclear purple bottles of Crème de Violette and freezer-stored Tito's as I attended mandatory IOP meetings to no avail. It was, by all accounts, only a word that I would find in the dictionary, not anything tangible or achievable. It wasn't until this past year-and-a-half that "recovery" became more than a phrase, and now, something real. Recovery means being able to go through life without a constant, nauseating feeling of something unlike myself. Recovery means being able to spend time with my friends and acquaintances without having to take a shot for "confidence". Recovery means not skipping out on time with my family just for a drink. Recovery means not constantly sneaking around on tip-toes or carefully constructed sentences to hide things from my family, friends, and therapists. Recovery doesn't mean eternal happiness, nor does it mean constantly being okay. Instead, recovery means life, and after all these years, I am finally living it.

Mental health, or the past lack thereof, has been a defining part of my life since birth. I was always "different" from my peers in school — something I later learned was due to my difficulty with social cues from autism — which caused me to develop extreme anxiety and heightened the symptoms of my obsessive-compulsive disorder. When I was only eleven, I spent my school days constantly planning my next move to alleviate the overwhelming feelings of shame, stress, and bone-chilling fear. Whether I was waking up or trying to think, my thoughts raced with questions and possibilities: 'should I hide in the bathroom during lunch, or should I try to sit next to my peers and sweat so much from my stress that my legs stick together? Should I make eye contact with my teacher during class and risk her thinking I'm weird, or should I not and then get singled out during class? Should I eat dinner and end up vomiting it up, or should I not eat dinner and not sleep all night? Should I do this? Should I do that?' It was these things that made me passionate about mental health and the importance of maintaining it, regardless of age, race, sex, or diagnosis. When I moved to an alternative school specifically for students struggling through their education, I realized just how common the things I felt were. This led me to become extremely interested in mental health and maintaining it. And as I did with everything else in life, I began to research. Whether it was peer-reviewed articles on the Internet or books from the intimidating psychology shelf at Barnes and Noble, I consumed everything I could to understand my and others' situation. And, as such, I believe mental health is important because of what makes life what it is: humans and our inherent goodness. These are things that should be preserved at all costs, no matter what someone may have done or been going through. With my focus on mental health and its preservation, I find it my duty not just to myself, but to others, to maintain my mental health. I do so through what I believe to be one of the most special things in life: education. I have dedicated myself to learning and growing, and just like I do in a classroom, I do so with my mental health and state of mind. I go to therapy, stay educated on my and others' mental health and the world around us, and spend time with my friends and family. As a pre-law student wishing to fight for those disadvantaged by mental disabilities in Section 504 cases, I find peace waking up every morning, because even if I slip up, even if I may have more mental blocks than my peers, I am on the right track.

For years, I never thought I could graduate high school, let alone attend college. As an autistic student with dyscalculia, I seemingly had the odds stacked against me — despite my high performances in other subjects and eagerness to learn, my disabilities contributed to me being seen as "lazy", "difficult", and, once said by my former counselor to my parents, "a lost cause". It wasn't until I began attending an alternative school dedicated to students struggling like me, however, that I realized that was the furthest from the truth. While my disabilities made me different than neurotypical students, I was just as capable as anyone else, and the education system needed serious reform. With these experiences defining my perspective and commitment to making a positive impact in the education sphere, I first majored in secondary education with the intention of being a high school English teacher to reform our system from the inside out. My education courses in my first semester gave me a unique perspective into how broken our education system is — as I toured countless schools, all jarringly alike to the ones I used to attend, I saw just how much work needed to be done to fix education once and for all. The children were miserable, the faculty disconnected, and the teachers deeply stressed. One even said, "if I knew it would be like this, I would have never decided to be a teacher". It was supposed to be a symbol of resilience, of the importance of the labor of teaching, but it only proved one point to me: far, far more work needs to be done when it comes to our students, and it needs to be done outside of the classroom. I began researching ways to get involved from curriculum development to student leadership. As I did, I focused on students with disabilities, where I found startling statistics that showed the lack of support. The National Longitudinal Transition Study-2 (NLTS2) reported that in the 2018-2019 academic year, the overall dropout rate for students with disabilities was 10.6%, compared to just 5.6% for students without disabilities. According to the National Center for Learning Disabilities, only 17% of high school students with learning disabilities receive the accommodations they need in the classroom. The National Assessment of Educational Progress (NAEP) found that students with disabilities consistently perform lower than their peers without disabilities in reading and math assessments. It was with that that I settled on education law — a field that needs far more competent, prepared, and most importantly, passionate, lawyers. Once I gain the financial aid I need to continue my second year of college, I wish to continue my studies and attend law school. Once graduated, I intend to specialize in Section 504 cases to advocate for students who were and are just like me: strong, capable, yet deeply disenfranchised by our broken education system. This effort is something I will work towards in a particularly unique way, with my determination, passion, and a deep sense of empathy making for a special approach that will pave the way for years to come. As I study undergraduate education, move into law school, and graduate, there is a quote that is sure to stick with me: "Education is the kindling of a flame, not the filling of a vessel." I will become the legal force that allows students to be empowered enough to learn on their own, no matter their different abilities, and I am fully prepared for the journey there.

For many years, I thought I wouldn't be able to graduate high school, let alone be accepted into a college; however, I was, and that is how I plan to inspire the youth. Going to an alternative school in an urban area, as well as volunteering there as an English T.A. upon my early graduation, has given me many experiences that have strengthened me as a pre-service teacher. There are countless students just like me who think they could never amount to anything due to their struggles. In fact, in my hometown of Mesa, Arizona, where I wish to teach, a disconcerting 8.7% of students complete less than high school while 1.7% receive no schooling at all — something I am committed to changing upon getting my degree in secondary education. With my unique passion for English, friendly but disciplined disposition, and experience with many youths' struggles — from self-doubt to depression to learning disabilities — I am dedicated to not just becoming a teacher, but becoming one that inspires students to do more than succeed academically. I want them to become the people that the world needs: caring, kind, and principled, regardless if they go into a trade school, university, or simply work after graduating or getting their G.E.D. There is a quote by William Butler Yeats I found that perfectly summarizes the way in which I will inspire my students: "education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire." When I will teach, I will not simply throw facts and lessons at my students; instead, through empathy and understanding, I will at the same level as them; five them the knowledge they need to think on their own; become self-empowered; and live their most fulfilling lives.

I remember when it started, but most importantly, I remember its end. Writing this essay was a struggle for me because of how easy it is to start from the beginning of my journey of self-discovery and recovery. That, even now, always leads to defenses for anorexia nervosa. To learn not to defend anorexia nervosa, I will be starting in this past year — when I reached the peak of my eating disorder, only to go down the slope into recovery, stronger than ever — because no matter how it began, what matters is what led me to where I am. In 2021, I had fully relapsed; I was BMI 16, yet when I looked in the mirror, I couldn't tell a difference from my starting weight. I knew I was underweight, sure, but I couldn't help but notice how my stomach still had rolls when I hunched over, or how my legs flattened when I sat down on the couch. At the start of my relapse, I'd told myself that my current weight was my ultimate goal — now, it was not. I had to get lower, lighter, better. My family members noticed, which gave me a thrill at first... until I realized how negatively it was affecting them. Still, I sided with anorexia nervosa, feeling like it was a person — a friend, even — instead of a mental illness. She was showing me self-control, grit, perseverance; why was my support system fighting that? But as my friends and family started criticizing their own bodies, portion sizes, and measurements, all because of the way I was behaving, it began getting harder to side with anorexia nervosa. Still, I did. She was the only thing I felt was keeping me afloat. Life went on — I wasn't thin enough to be comfortable with stopping it yet, anyway. I applied to colleges, succeeded in school, and worked long weeks. But I realized how hard it was to do the things I love... to write, read, listen, love. One September night, I bought a scale after my mother took mine away. She started crying. She said, "I don't know how to help anymore". It was that admission of helplessness that made me realize how far I'd gone. It wasn't just me anorexia nervosa was destroying... it was my friends and family too, and I couldn't side with a faceless monster over them. I went to a psychiatrist specifically for eating disorders, who helped me understand how my OCD factored into it — I was able to go onto medication and receive therapy to combat this. I saw a dietician who gave me a meal plan. I used veganism as an ethical stance to develop a healthier, happier relationship with food. I stopped seeing my body as a shrine to perfection and self-control, but as the thing keeping me alive. Currently, I don't know what BMI I am — I just know that I'm healthy. I can read without the words fading from my brain; I can go through days without having to lay down to rest; I do not shiver in the summer heat; I do not scare my friends and family. Instead, I love them. I give them warm hugs. I am now in year one of recovery, and had never imagined myself to be able to grow in such a way, with such dramatic changes to my outlooks and perspectives; I thought that anorexia nervosa would be with me forever, yet now, I am free. I am finally, finally free.

As someone who has had a long and varied struggle with alcohol — something that has, unfortunately, run through my family — recovery means so much to me. It means not having to lie to my family and friends just so I can get my next "fix" in; being able to wake up early without trying to decide when I should start drinking; knowing who truly is and is not my friend, beyond the alcohol and the smoke; and, most importantly, it means being a person again, beyond a bottle or a shot.

"Shadow of God" You live in the shadow of God but when you do this you walk on water and you turn all blindness to sight you have fought for this this right to practice this Church in the desert all the sacred waters that you’re below moving your hands soft in God-light only to be touched in these areas of truth these people do not understand but you do you’re of the prophets disgraced those years ago and so you were brought up in the Church you became the Church you know of their hatred you know persecution and you know they’re doing it to you your family has died but you are different you were born into this into choking on scripture into being something more than the blasphemy they spew untrue but there is salt in your mouth as you fall further into the fire see when Shadrach and Meshach and Abednego were thrown into fire they were delivered not unlike you today this is you being holy as you vomit on the floor this is you being kind to your- self as you lie to all the people you love this is you healing as you are set aflame your skin flakes black to red but you’re pious you will do it again if they hand it to you you will do it again if they don’t you will do it again you will burn everything to do it again this Church you have built can’t be destroyed it’s made of more than fire it is something untouched by heresy you are in the shadow of God and everyone else underneath you bury them in flame.

For many years in my education, I couldn't imagine myself graduating high school, let alone getting into college. Not only do I have autism and anxiety, but I have dyscalculia — a learning disability affecting mathematical reasoning and computation. While my teachers initially sat down with me and tried to explain the concepts I struggled with, they quickly became frustrated and began to chalk it up as "not trying". It wasn't until years after I got my diagnoses that things finally turned up, specifically when I began attending an alternative school for those with similar issues: El Dorado High School, a small public charter school in central Arizona. While my journey to success wasn't easy — in fact, it came with many difficulties I thought were near-impossible along the way — I graduated high school as a salutatorian, a Spirit of Leona awardee, and an up-and-coming secondary English education major out of state, far away from home, at the renowned Bradley University. If I had told my younger self that, she would have laughed; but here I am, doing what I thought was impossible. It was these experiences that shaped me into who I am, and who I am going to be: a teacher. There's nothing more beautiful than helping someone learn, than seeing the realization in their eyes when they finally understand... but with Education Week reporting on teacher satisfaction hitting an all-time low in the U.S. in 2022, and the findings from Yale Center for Emotional Intelligence and the Yale Child Study Center that students' personal feelings towards school were negative at a shocking near-75%, it appears that not enough students are getting the hands-on education they need. Because of this and my past experiences, I am working relentlessly to enter the teaching field to be the teacher that students need to push them to utilize their self-agency to become who they're meant to be in life. Whether it's different socioeconomic backgrounds, varying religions, or differing minority identities, I am looking to cultivate a class where students not only can learn, engage, but feel safe; be supported; become independent; and be pushed to pursue their passions, like I was by my teachers at the high school that changed my life. While researching in my American Education course — a class that is preparing me for the mandatory student-teacher program that takes you to volunteer at different schools, including those with less resources and economic stability — I found a quote that spoke to me and why I have chosen to make a positive impact through my career: "education is the kindling of a flame, not the filling of a vessel." Without good education — one that doesn't just hand you all the information, but gives you the agency to engage with it and make an impression on the world — we are lost in a world devoid of warmth, substance, and hope. I am not just wishing to aid students to grab hold of their education and self-sufficiently use it to make a change, but I know I'm going to; and that starts here.

Since coming out, I've had many people ask me how I knew I was a lesbian. I've heard many people's stories, all setting a precedent for that feel-good answer — one being of a bisexual woman meeting another she just knew was the one, another of a gay man dating a man at band camp, and the last of a lesbian kissing her middle-school crush after years of stolen glances. But the truth for me is that I knew I was a lesbian from how differently I — and the people I related to — were treated. I come from a religious family; I was raised Baptist by my father, a lifetime Christian, and my mother, a recent convert. Even as a toddler, I loved God; I was a serious child who found purpose in doing things "right", and doing those things in honor of a magical man in the sky, presumably made out of stars and mac-and-cheese and sunlight and other godly things from the perspective of a child, was what I thought life should be. But as I grew older, this contentment with God changed. It started in ways a child could agree with: hearing the sanctity of man and woman. But then, as I grew older, it reared its head in a way I felt was staring straight at me. A man and a man, and a woman and a woman, did not follow God's plan; so a man and a man, and a woman and a woman, were in direct defiance to God; and so a man and a man, and a woman and a woman, could not hold hands or kiss or do whatever came after, lest they endured hellfire and God's angry face looking down on them, no longer made of sunlight or flowers, but blood and spiders. I began wondering, 'what if I'm one of those people? The ones Jake said would burn when the time came? The ones who looked at others of the same flesh with evil eyes, waiting to pounce on them like a jaguar in the night?' So, I began hating myself; I loved God, but from what I heard, He didn't love me. I tried to fix myself for Him—to become someone who could kiss boys without the feeling of crawling spiders; I ran to men who should not have been talking to little girls, only to have my insides turned to coal; I pinched my legs when I saw girls I felt desire for; I slept hours and hours, with dreams of the bible passages I would be set aflame in; and I knew that I was the word a boy in my class said with disgust towards me: dyke. I strayed from religion for the years to come, and with that separation, I was given the space to come out to my parents. Now, after years of healing, I still love God; I recently converted to Greek Orthodoxy to find a denomination that better aligns with my values, and, admittedly, doesn't have connections to so much pain. But for years, I hated myself, and destroyed myself because of it; as an education major considering a religious studies or sociology minor, I wish to be the authority figure I needed in my life during those difficult years. I will cultivate a classroom where everyone, no matter their sexuality, race, or religion, knows they are not a sinner or a deviant or a bad person; I will always be there for my students; and I will never, ever let anyone feel how I felt for so many years.