For much of my life, I believed that control could protect me. As a young competitive gymnast, I found comfort in discipline, structure, and precision. If I worked hard enough and did everything right, I believed I could keep life predictable. Mental illness taught me how little control we sometimes have over the struggles of the people we love and ourselves. When I was eleven, my sister developed a debilitating eating disorder. I watched my best friend struggle in ways I could not understand, and I felt powerless to help her. For the first time, I saw how deeply mental illness could affect an entire family. I wanted to fix what was happening, but I could not. Years later, just before my seventeenth birthday, I experienced another devastating reminder of this reality when I lost both my aunt and my father to suicide. Their deaths left me with grief, but also confusion, anger, and questions I did not know how to answer. I had watched my father decline after a bike accident, transforming from the vibrant, outgoing person I knew into someone I barely recognized. Yet I could not reconcile his suffering with the love I knew he had for me. For years, I struggled with the question: If he loved me so deeply, why did he leave? I carried that confusion with me into college, where I began therapy. Therapy became an important part of rebuilding my relationship with myself and learning to process emotions I had spent years suppressing. I began to understand that grief does not always look like sadness, and that anger, fear, and even unhealthy patterns in relationships can emerge from pain that has never been addressed. Most importantly, I learned I did not have to control or suppress difficult emotions to move forward; I could acknowledge them, understand them, and allow myself to heal. These experiences also shaped my academic and professional path. I began studying psychology because I wanted to understand suffering, and not only why it occurs, but how it changes the way people see themselves and relate to others. That curiosity eventually led me to research trauma and self-development, and I am now pursuing my PhD in Counseling Psychology at the University of Denver. My family's experiences with mental illness have changed the way I understand people. I have become more aware that we rarely know the full story behind someone's behavior. Someone who seems distant may be overwhelmed. Someone who seems angry may be hurting. Someone who appears to have everything together may be struggling privately. I try to approach people with curiosity rather than judgment because I know how much can exist beneath the surface. Mental illness has profoundly affected my family, but it has also shaped who I am. It has taught me that suffering does not diminish a person's worth, that asking for help is a form of strength, and that compassion can begin with simply being willing to listen. I cannot change what my family has experienced, but I can choose what I build from it. I hope to use what I have learned to help others feel understood, supported, and less alone.

I used to believe that control could protect me. If I kept everything structured and predictable, nothing could fall apart. That belief took shape early, reinforced by years as a competitive gymnast, where discipline and precision gave me a sense of safety. Control meant peace of mind. That belief began to unravel when I was eleven, when my sister developed a debilitating eating disorder. I watched my best friend struggle in ways I could not understand, and for the first time, I experienced the helplessness of watching someone I loved suffer. What had once felt stable became uncertain. That illusion of control was completely shattered just before my seventeenth birthday, when I lost both my aunt and my father to suicide. The grief that followed was more complicated than sadness. It was confusion, anger, and an overwhelming sense of abandonment. I had watched my father decline after a bike accident, transforming from a vibrant, outgoing presence into someone I barely recognized. Still, I could not reconcile his suffering with the love I knew he had for me. If he loved me so deeply, why did he leave? I carried that question into my relationships, where fear of loss and an aching need for connection sometimes led me to seek reassurance in unhealthy ways. I was trying to fill a void I did not yet understand, while carrying emotions I did not know how to name. In college, therapy became a turning point in my relationship with myself. I remember sitting in sessions struggling to put words to emotions I had spent years avoiding. For the first time, I was not trying to control what I felt. I was learning to understand it. I began to recognize how much of my thinking and behavior had been shaped by unhealed grief, anger, and fear. Therapy taught me that emotions do not become less powerful when we acknowledge them; they become more understandable. I also began studying psychology, initially not because I had a clear career path, but because I was searching for answers. I wanted to understand why people suffer, how suffering shapes the way we relate to ourselves and others, and what can help people heal. That curiosity eventually led me to research focused on self-development following trauma, where I began exploring human behavior through both scientific and personal lenses. Over time, my understanding of my father and aunt changed. The question that once consumed me—How could they leave if they loved me?—gave way to a more compassionate understanding of psychological pain. I no longer see suicide as evidence of a lack of love, but as a reflection of suffering that can become so overwhelming that a person cannot see a path forward. If I could speak to them now, I would not ask why they left. I would tell them that I see their suffering, that they were not defined by their darkest moments, and that they did not have to be ashamed of needing help. That shift changed more than how I understood their deaths; it changed how I understand people. I became more aware of how much of another person's experience is invisible. Someone can appear successful while struggling privately. Someone can respond with anger when they are actually afraid. Someone can withdraw when what they need most is connection. I have learned to pause before judging what I see and ask instead: What might this person be carrying that I cannot see? That question has changed the way I approach my relationships—with greater patience, curiosity, and compassion. It has also shaped what I want to do with my life. I am now pursuing my PhD in Counseling Psychology at the University of Denver, where I am training to understand mental health within the context of people's identities, relationships, and broader environments. My experiences have taught me that effective mental health care requires more than treating symptoms; it requires creating spaces where people feel safe enough to be honest about their pain. I want to help individuals who feel isolated by their suffering find language for what they are experiencing and, ultimately, find a path forward. I cannot change what happened to my family, and I cannot control whether another person will struggle. What I can control is how I respond. I can choose to listen instead of assume, to ask instead of judge, and to make difficult conversations feel a little less frightening. The losses I have experienced will always be part of me, but they no longer define me. They have given me a deeper appreciation for connection, a greater compassion for unseen suffering, and a commitment to bringing what was once difficult to talk about into the light. What began as an attempt to understand why the people I loved could not keep going has become a lifelong commitment to understanding people more fully. I cannot change what I have lost, but I can choose what I build from it. I choose a life rooted in connection, understanding, and helping others find hope when they cannot yet see it for themselves.

Mental health is deeply important to me as a student because it is not just something I study; it is something I have lived. My understanding of mental health was shaped long before I entered academia, through personal experiences of grief, loss, and emotional survival. After losing my aunt and father to suicide and watching multiple close family members grapple with addiction, these experiences have forced me to confront how deeply mental health shapes a person’s ability to function, connect, and make meaning of their life. Over time, what began as personal pain became a driving force behind my academic and professional path. Studying psychology was not simply an academic choice for me; it was a way of trying to understand both myself and others. Through my undergraduate and graduate training, I began to connect lived experience with scientific frameworks for understanding trauma, resilience, and human behavior. Rather than distancing myself from my experiences, my education allowed me to engage with them more meaningfully and transform them into a source of purpose. During my time at Georgia Tech, I served as a mentor to younger psychology students. This role became one of the most meaningful ways I could contribute to my academic community. Many students entered the field feeling overwhelmed or uncertain about their path, and I often saw pieces of myself in them. I supported them not only academically, but also by normalizing the emotional weight that can come with studying human suffering. I encouraged open conversations about stress, self-doubt, and burnout, topics that are often overlooked in academic environments but are central to student mental health. In many ways, mentorship allowed me to extend the support I once needed to others who were just beginning their journeys. My advocacy for mental health has grown beyond mentorship. I am now pursuing a doctorate in counseling psychology, with a focus on multicultural counseling, cultural competence, and the effectiveness of psychotherapy. This focus reflects my belief that mental health care must not only be available but also responsive to individuals' diverse lived experiences. Too often, access to mental health support is limited by cultural stigma, financial barriers, or a lack of providers who understand the complexity of identity and context. Because of this, I believe that mental healthcare should be easily accessible, inclusive, and responsive to all populations, especially those who have historically faced barriers to seeking help. Advocacy, for me, means working toward systems in which people do not have to justify their suffering to receive care. It means pushing for environments in schools, communities, and clinical settings where mental health is treated with the same urgency and importance as physical health. On a smaller scale, I also advocate through everyday interactions. I try to create spaces where people feel safe expressing what they are going through without fear of judgment. Whether it is checking in on a peer, validating someone’s experience, or simply listening without trying to fix, I have learned that these small moments can have a meaningful impact. As a student, researcher, and future clinician, I hope to use my education not only to deepen my understanding but to help create a world where mental health is prioritized, accessible, and met with compassion.

Mental health is deeply important to me as a student because it is not just something I study; it is something I have lived. My understanding of mental health was shaped long before I entered academia, through personal experiences of grief, loss, and emotional survival. Those experiences forced me to confront how deeply mental health shapes a person’s ability to function, connect, and make meaning of their life. Over time, what began as personal pain became a driving force behind my academic and professional path. Studying psychology was not simply an academic choice for me; it was a way of trying to understand both myself and others. Through my undergraduate and graduate training, I began to connect lived experience with scientific frameworks for understanding trauma, resilience, and human behavior. Rather than distancing myself from my experiences, my education allowed me to engage with them more meaningfully and transform them into a source of purpose. During my time at Georgia Tech, I served as a mentor to younger psychology students. This role became one of the most meaningful ways I could contribute to my academic community. Many students entered the field feeling overwhelmed or uncertain about their path, and I often saw pieces of myself in them. I supported them not only academically, but also by normalizing the emotional weight that can come with studying human suffering. I encouraged open conversations about stress, self-doubt, and burnout, topics that are often overlooked in academic environments but are central to student mental health. In many ways, mentorship allowed me to extend the support I once needed to others who were just beginning their journeys. My advocacy for mental health has grown beyond mentorship. I am now pursuing a doctorate in counseling psychology, focusing on multicultural counseling, cultural competence, and the effectiveness of psychotherapy. This focus reflects my belief that mental health care must not only be available but also responsive to individuals' diverse lived experiences. Too often, access to mental health support is limited by cultural stigma, financial barriers, or a lack of providers who understand the complexity of identity and context. Because of this, I believe that mental healthcare should be easily accessible, inclusive, and responsive to all populations, especially those who have historically faced barriers to seeking help. Advocacy, for me, means working toward systems in which people do not have to justify their suffering to receive care. It means pushing for environments in schools, communities, and clinical settings where mental health is treated with the same urgency and importance as physical health. On a smaller scale, I also advocate through everyday interactions. I try to create spaces where people feel safe expressing what they are going through without fear of judgment. Whether it is checking in on a peer, validating someone’s experience, or simply listening without trying to fix, I have learned that these small moments can have a meaningful impact. Ultimately, mental health matters to me because I understand what it feels like when it is overlooked. As a student, researcher, and future clinician, I see my role as both learning and advocating, using my education not only to deepen my understanding but to help create a world where mental health is prioritized, accessible, and met with compassion.

I used to believe that control could protect me. If I kept everything structured and predictable, nothing could fall apart. That belief took shape early, reinforced by years as a competitive gymnast, during which discipline and precision fostered a sense of safety. Control, to me, meant peace of mind. That belief was shattered just one month before my seventeenth birthday, when I lost both my aunt and my father to suicide. There are no words that fully capture that kind of loss, but I once saw a sculpture that came close: a wire frame shaped like a person bent forward, weighed down by heavy rocks. That image looked exactly how my grief felt. I didn’t just feel sadness; it was confusion, anger, and a deep, aching sense of abandonment. I had watched my father change after a bike accident, saw pieces of him disappear long before he was gone. Still, I could not make sense of it. If he loved me so deeply, why did he leave? That question stayed with me. It followed me into my thoughts, my relationships, and the way I saw myself. Being a suicide loss survivor, you live with questions that never fully resolve. For a long time, I carried anger alongside grief. I felt abandoned by the person who was supposed to stay. Beneath that anger was something quieter but heavier, the fear that maybe love was not enough to keep someone here. In college, therapy became a turning point. For so long, I had tried to control my emotions, but healing did not come from control; it came from allowing myself to feel what I had been avoiding. Slowly, I began to understand how deeply my grief had shaped me. I also studied psychology during undergrad, seeking to find meaning in the human experience. I wanted to understand suffering. That search led me to a clinical research lab focused on development following trauma, where I began to see how pain can shape, but not define, a person. Over time, something shifted. My anger softened into compassion. I came to understand that suicide is not a reflection of a lack of love, but of overwhelming psychological pain. If I could speak to my father and aunt now, I would not ask why they left. I would tell them that I see how much they were hurting, that they were not weak, and that they were not alone with their heavy thoughts they carried each day. That understanding is where I began to find resilience, not in “moving on,” but in learning how to carry loss differently. I am pursuing a path to become a counseling psychologist at the University of Denver, with the goal of becoming someone who can sit with others in their pain and help them through it. The loss will always be part of me, but it has changed how I move through the world. I listen more closely. I try to understand before I react. I hold space for others in ways I once needed myself. I can choose what to do with my grief, and I choose to turn it into something that reaches outward, into connection, compassion, and hope for those who cannot yet see it for themselves.

I used to believe that control could protect me. If I kept everything structured and predictable, nothing could fall apart. That belief took shape early, reinforced by years as a competitive gymnast, during which discipline and precision fostered a sense of safety. Control meant peace of mind. That sense of control began to unravel when I was eleven, and my sister developed a debilitating eating disorder. I watched my best friend struggle in ways I could not understand, and for the first time, I felt powerless. What had once felt stable became uncertain. That illusion of control was shattered completely just before my seventeenth birthday, when I lost both my aunt and my father to suicide. The grief experienced after both suicides was not just sadness; in fact, it was more so confusion, anger, and an overwhelming sense of abandonment. I had witnessed my father’s decline after a bike accident, watching him transform from a vibrant, outgoing presence into someone unrecognizable. Still, I could not reconcile his love for me with his decision to leave. If he loved me so deeply, why did he go? That question followed me into my relationships, where I sought connection in unhealthy ways, trying to fill a void that I now understand as love, with nowhere to go. In college, therapy became crucial to mending a broken relationship with myself that I had developed in the wake of the loss. I remember sitting in many sessions, struggling to put words to emotions I had spent years avoiding. However, for the first time, I wasn’t trying to control what I felt; I was learning to understand it and how many of my actions and thought processes were the result of unhealed grief and resentment. I also chose to study psychology, not because I had a clear career path, but because I was searching for answers to understand others. I wanted to understand suffering: why it happens and how it can be eased. This curiosity led me to a clinical research lab focused on self-development following trauma, where I began to explore human behavior through both scientific and personal lenses. Over time, my perspective shifted. Where there was once anger toward my father and aunt, there is now compassion. I have come to understand suicidal ideation not as a lack of love, but as overwhelming psychological pain. If I could speak to them now, I would not ask why they left; I would tell them that I see their suffering, that it was not their fault, and that they were not alone to carry their burdens. This understanding shapes how I show up for others today: with empathy, patience, and a commitment to truly seeing people beyond their struggles. My experiences have defined my goals. I am now pursuing a path to become a counseling psychologist at the University of Denver, training in multicultural counseling. I aim to understand how diverse backgrounds shape mental health and how care can be more responsive and effective. My goal is to support individuals who feel they have reached their breaking point, and to offer that understanding I once needed. The losses I have experienced will always be part of me, but they no longer define me. Instead, they have deepened my appreciation for life and for the people around me. In everyday interactions, I pause and ask: What might this person be experiencing? How can I respond with compassion rather than judgment? What once felt like unbearable loss has become a catalyst for purpose. I cannot change what I have lost, but I can choose what I build from it, and I choose a life rooted in understanding, connection, and helping others find hope when they feel there is none.