For a long time, education was not something I saw as a pathway forward. It felt more like a place I passed through every day while waiting for my real life to begin. Over time, that changed. Education became the thing that gave me language for what I was experiencing, tools for navigating it, and hope that my future did not have to look like my past. It became the place where I learned not just facts, but who I am and who I want to become. I grew up in a home that was emotionally unstable. I learned early how to be hyper aware, how to stay quiet, how to adapt quickly to other people’s moods. That environment taught me survival skills, but it did not teach me safety, confidence, or self trust. For a long time I believed that feeling overwhelmed, anxious, or exhausted was just part of being alive. I did not know that life could feel steadier than that. School became my first point of contrast. In classrooms, I found structure. In teachers, I found adults who listened. In learning, I found a way to understand myself and the world around me. When I learned about psychology, even in small ways, I started to recognize patterns in my own life. I learned that my reactions made sense. That I was not broken. That trauma, stress, and mental health shape behavior in predictable ways. That knowledge gave me a sense of direction I had never had before. At the same time, education was not easy for me. I was diagnosed with dyslexia early on, and I struggled with focus, organization, and time management throughout my schooling. There were moments when I felt slow, behind, or incapable, even when I was trying my hardest. I had to learn how to work with my brain instead of against it. I learned how to ask for help, how to advocate for myself, how to build systems that support me rather than shame me. That process was frustrating, but it was also empowering. It taught me that effort does not always look like speed. That growth does not always look like perfection. That persistence matters more than ease. Over time, I stopped measuring myself by how effortlessly I could perform and started measuring myself by how honestly and consistently I showed up. Education also gave me a way to build something meaningful. When I realized my school did not have a theater program, I did not just feel disappointed. I decided to create one. I founded the theater club, directed the first production, and helped grow it into a lasting organization. That experience taught me leadership, communication, and responsibility in ways no textbook could. It showed me that education is not only about absorbing information, but about using what you learn to create change. Through these experiences, my goals became clearer. I want to study psychology and work in mental health. I want to support teenagers and young adults who feel unseen, overwhelmed, or misunderstood. I want to help people understand themselves with compassion rather than judgment. I want to be someone who creates safety, clarity, and healing in spaces where those things are often missing. I hope to use my education to build systems that support people rather than break them. Whether that looks like counseling, community programs, or advocacy, I want my work to be rooted in empathy and grounded in knowledge. I want to help turn pain into understanding and isolation into connection. The challenges I have faced have shaped not just my resilience, but my values. They have taught me that people are not problems to be fixed, but stories to be understood. They have taught me that survival is not the same as living, and that everyone deserves the chance to move beyond coping and into thriving. Education is how I am doing that. It is how I am learning to name what I feel, understand what I have experienced, and imagine what I can build. It has given me direction when I felt lost, language when I felt confused, and hope when I felt small. I am not pursuing education because I think it will magically fix my life. I am pursuing it because it gives me the tools to build one intentionally. One where I am not just reacting to the world, but participating in shaping it. One where I can use what I have learned, both in classrooms and in life, to create something gentler, wiser, and more humane than what I was given. That is the future I am working toward.

Mental health is important to me as a student because it affects everything. It shapes how I learn, how I relate to others, how I handle pressure, and how I see myself when things get hard. I have learned through personal experience that no amount of academic ability or motivation can compensate for poor mental health. When your mind is struggling, school becomes heavier, louder, and more exhausting than it should be. As a student, I have faced depression, anxiety, and the challenges that come with learning differences. There were periods when simply showing up felt like an accomplishment. I learned what it feels like to be physically present but mentally overwhelmed, to appear functional while quietly unraveling. Those experiences taught me that mental health is not separate from education. It is the foundation that makes learning possible. Because of this, I view mental health as something that deserves attention, care, and compassion rather than judgment or dismissal. I believe students are often pushed to perform without being given the tools to cope, and that silence around mental health only deepens shame. I know how damaging it can be when struggles are minimized or misunderstood, and that awareness has shaped how I move through my school community. One of the main ways I advocate for mental health is by creating spaces where students feel safe, seen, and valued. I founded my school’s theater club because I saw a gap for creative students who needed an outlet and a sense of belonging. Theater became more than performances. It became a space where students could express emotions, release stress, and feel accepted without explanation. I have watched students grow more confident, more connected, and more comfortable being themselves because they finally had a place where they belonged. In my leadership roles within the club, first as director, then vice president, and now president and director, I prioritize communication, flexibility, and empathy. I encourage students to speak up when they are overwhelmed. I check in when someone goes quiet. I make it clear that their worth is not tied to productivity. That kind of environment does not just help mental health, it changes how students see themselves. I also advocate through conversation. I am open about mental health in appropriate ways, especially with peers who feel isolated or confused by what they are experiencing. I listen more than I speak. I validate feelings instead of rushing to fix them. Sometimes advocacy is not a speech or a campaign. Sometimes it is letting someone know they are not alone. Mental health matters to me because I know what it is like to struggle quietly, and I do not want that silence to continue for others. As I move forward in my education, I plan to continue advocating for mental health through leadership, open dialogue, and eventually through a career in psychology. I want to help build environments where students are supported as whole people, not just measured by grades or achievements. Mental health is not an obstacle to success. It is the pathway to it.

Mental health has shaped nearly every part of my life, whether I understood it at the time or not. Growing up, I struggled with depression, anxiety, and a learning difference that made school feel heavier than it seemed for others. There were seasons where I felt disconnected from myself, from joy, and from the people around me. During those times, I learned what it feels like to be functioning on the outside while quietly struggling on the inside. That experience changed the way I see people. I no longer assume that what someone shows the world reflects what they are carrying. These experiences reshaped my beliefs about mental health. I do not see it as a weakness or a flaw, but as a fundamental part of being human. Everyone has a nervous system, an emotional world, and a story that shapes how they move through life. When mental health is ignored, people do not disappear. They suffer quietly. I believe that care, understanding, and support should be as normal and accessible as any other form of healthcare. My relationships have been deeply influenced by this perspective. I listen more carefully. I ask different questions. I pay attention not just to what people say, but to what they avoid saying. I have learned that presence matters more than advice, and that being safe is more important than being impressive. Because I have known what it feels like to feel unseen, I try to be someone who sees. These experiences are the reason I want to pursue psychology and work in the mental health field. I want to be the kind of professional who meets people where they are rather than where they are expected to be. I want to work with teenagers and young adults, especially those navigating anxiety, depression, learning differences, and difficult home environments. I want to help them understand that they are not broken, that their reactions make sense, and that they are capable of healing and growth. Through my career, I hope to make mental health care feel less intimidating and more human. I want to help reduce stigma by speaking openly, honestly, and compassionately about mental health. I want to be part of building systems that are supportive rather than punitive, preventative rather than reactive. Outside of formal education, I have already tried to create spaces where people feel safe and valued. I founded my school’s theater club to give students a place to express themselves, belong, and be seen. That experience showed me how much environments matter and how much people bloom when they are given safety, structure, and encouragement. I am pursuing a career in mental health not because I believe I have all the answers, but because I believe deeply in the importance of listening, learning, and walking alongside others as they find their own. I want to use my education to become someone who helps turn suffering into understanding, isolation into connection, and stigma into compassion. That is the impact I hope to make.

I plan to major in psychology because I want to understand people at a deep, structural level. How they think, how they heal, how they grow, and what they need in order to thrive. My interest in psychology comes from my own experiences watching how much environments, relationships, and systems affect mental health and motivation. I have seen how easily people are misunderstood, mislabeled, or overlooked when what they really need is support, context, and care. Psychology gives me the foundation to understand that complexity rather than reduce people to problems. At the same time, I plan to study business as a secondary focus because understanding people is only half of building something that lasts. The other half is knowing how to turn insight into structure. I am interested in entrepreneurship because it allows me to design systems that are not only functional, but humane. It allows me to create organizations, services, and spaces that reflect psychological understanding rather than ignore it. I am drawn to an entrepreneurial path because I am not content simply participating in systems that do not work well. I tend to notice where people fall through the cracks and feel compelled to build alternatives. I experienced this when I founded my school’s theater club. What started as a creative outlet became an exercise in leadership, organization, and sustainability. I learned that passion alone does not keep something alive. Structure does. That experience taught me that if you want something to exist long term, you must build it intentionally. I believe I will be successful as an entrepreneur not because I expect things to be easy, but because I expect them to be difficult and I am prepared for that. I am comfortable starting small, learning slowly, adjusting constantly, and staying committed when the initial excitement fades. I am reflective, adaptable, and willing to listen. I am not attached to being right. I am attached to being effective. Those traits matter far more than confidence or charisma. Most importantly, I approach entrepreneurship as a responsibility, not a performance. I want to build things that genuinely improve people’s lives, not just things that grow quickly or look impressive. I want my work to be ethical, sustainable, and grounded in care for the humans it affects. To me, a successful life is one where I am aligned with my values while creating something that serves others. It looks like meaningful work, financial stability, and the freedom to design systems that are healthier than the ones I inherited. It looks like staying curious, staying compassionate, and staying honest with myself about why I am building what I build. That is why I am pursuing psychology and entrepreneurship together. One helps me understand people. The other helps me serve them well.

Creativity, for me, has always been less about art for art’s sake and more about building what does not exist yet. I tend to notice gaps in systems, spaces where people fall through, and I feel an almost physical need to fix them. The first meaningful thing I created was my high school’s theater club. Before it existed, students who loved acting, writing, directing, or stagecraft had nowhere to go. There was no class, no club, no outlet. I had gone on a freshman field trip to tour a professional theater and left feeling both inspired and frustrated. I could see what was possible, but also how far away it felt from my daily life. So I decided to build something instead of waiting for it. I approached my principal, found a sponsor, recruited members, and wrote the proposal myself. The club started small and messy. I directed the first show with no budget, borrowed props, improvised costumes, and a lot of trial and error. But what mattered was that it worked. Students found a place to belong. Shy kids found their voices. Stressed kids found an outlet. Creative kids found a home. Over time the club grew into a structured organization with officers, rehearsals, productions, and a culture of mutual support. I served as director, then stepped back, then returned as vice president, and now as president and director again to ensure the club will survive after I graduate. What I created was not just a club, but a system that could sustain itself. That experience shaped how I approach problems. I start by identifying what is missing, then build something practical, flexible, and human centered to fill that gap. If I had the resources, I would build a mental health and academic support center for teenagers, especially those dealing with learning differences, anxiety, depression, or difficult home environments. Many students do not need discipline or pressure. They need understanding, tools, and safe adults. The center would combine counseling, tutoring, and life skills support in one place. Students could get help with schoolwork, therapy, executive functioning coaching, and emotional support without stigma. It would include group workshops on topics like emotional regulation, healthy relationships, study strategies, and self advocacy. It would partner with schools but exist outside of them so students could feel safe and autonomous. It would be accessible, low cost, and designed around what teens actually need, not what adults assume they need. The problem is not that teenagers are broken. The problem is that the systems around them are rigid, underfunded, and often unkind. I believe creative thinking is about designing better systems, not forcing people to fit into bad ones. I have already seen what happens when you build the right structure. People grow into it. That is what I want to keep doing. Finding what is missing, and creating it.

Preparing for college has not been a straight line for me. I was formally diagnosed with dyslexia in first grade, and from that moment on, school became something I had to approach differently than many of my peers. While others seemed to move effortlessly through reading, writing, and especially math, I often felt like my brain was constantly working against me. I flipped letters, mixed up numbers, and sometimes understood concepts clearly in my head but struggled to show that understanding on paper. This was frustrating and sometimes isolating, especially when I was pulled out of class for extra help and returned to find everyone already settled into their groups and routines without me. One of the biggest challenges I faced was learning how to advocate for myself. When you are young and struggling quietly, it is easy to believe that you are simply not trying hard enough or that something is wrong with you. It took time, maturity, and support from a few key adults to understand that dyslexia is not a lack of intelligence, but a difference in how the brain processes information. Once I understood that, I stopped seeing myself as broken and started seeing myself as capable, just in a different way. I learned strategies to slow down, double check my work, and ask for help when I need it. More importantly, I learned that perseverance matters more than perfection. These experiences have prepared me for higher education not because they were easy, but because they taught me resilience, patience, and empathy. I plan to study psychology and pursue a career in mental health, working with teenagers who feel misunderstood, overwhelmed, or “wrong” in the same way I once did. I know what it feels like to be struggling internally while trying to meet external expectations, and I want to be the kind of adult I needed when I was younger. Someone who listens without judgment and reminds students that they are not failures just because their path looks different. Mental health and learning differences are deeply connected, especially for young people who are still figuring out who they are. When students feel unseen or misunderstood, it affects their confidence, their motivation, and their sense of worth. I want to work in a field where I can support students academically and emotionally, helping them understand themselves rather than feel ashamed of who they are. In my own community, I have already tried to create spaces where students feel safe, seen, and valued. I founded my school’s theater club and helped it grow into a place where students can express themselves, build confidence, and find belonging. That experience showed me how powerful it is when people are given space to be fully themselves. Through my education and future career, I hope to continue creating that sense of safety and understanding, especially for students with learning differences and mental health challenges. My journey with dyslexia has shaped not only how I learn, but why I want to help others learn about themselves with compassion, not criticism. That is the impact I hope to make.

For much of my life, I thought feeling overwhelmed, anxious, and emotionally exhausted was just how everyone felt. I did not have the language for mental health when I was younger, only the constant feeling that something was wrong inside me or that I was failing at being a normal person. Over time, I learned that what I was experiencing had a name, and more importantly, that it was something I could work through instead of something I had to be ashamed of. Learning about mental health changed the way I see myself and the world. It helped me understand that my reactions were not signs of weakness, but responses to stress, emotional pressure, and an environment that did not always feel safe or supportive. I began working toward healing through reflection, learning healthy coping strategies, setting emotional boundaries, and allowing myself to ask for help. I am still on that journey, but I am no longer walking it in the dark. I now understand my emotions instead of fearing them. One of the most meaningful parts of my growth has been realizing how many other people are quietly struggling in the same way I once did. That realization has shaped how I treat others and how I want to spend my life. I listen more carefully. I notice when someone withdraws or changes. I offer patience instead of judgment. Sometimes the most powerful support is simply being someone who takes another person seriously. This mindset is something I practice every day through my involvement in theatre and leadership at my school. I founded our theatre club, directed our first production, and now serve as president and director in my senior year. Theatre has become a safe place for students to express emotions they cannot always put into words. I have watched shy students gain confidence, anxious students find belonging, and overwhelmed students find relief through creativity. Being part of that process has shown me how healing it can be to feel seen, heard, and valued. Because of my own experiences with mental health, I plan to pursue a degree in a mental health related field so I can become a therapist and work with teenagers. I want to be the adult I needed when I was younger. I want to help young people understand that their feelings make sense, that they are not broken, and that healing is possible even when their circumstances are difficult. In the future, I hope to raise awareness for mental health by continuing to speak openly about it, by advocating for mental health education in schools, and by creating spaces where students feel safe asking for help. I want to normalize conversations about anxiety, depression, trauma, and emotional wellbeing so fewer people feel alone in their struggles. My mental health journey has taught me empathy, resilience, and the importance of compassion. It has shown me that healing is not a straight line, but a process that requires patience and courage. I am still working toward becoming my healthiest self, but I now see that journey as a strength, not a weakness. It is the reason I want to dedicate my life to helping others find their way through the same darkness and into something lighter.

I am a senior who has learned very early that not everyone grows up in a home that feels safe, steady, or emotionally healthy. Because of that, I have spent much of my life trying to understand people, understand emotions, and understand how someone can be hurting so deeply on the inside that it shapes the way they treat others. Those experiences are the reason I want to become a therapist, especially for teenagers who feel confused, unheard, or like something is wrong with them when it is actually their environment that is unhealthy. Growing up, I often felt like I had to be the calm one, the observant one, and the emotionally responsible one in situations where I should not have had to be. I learned how easily adults can dismiss a young person’s feelings, or label them as dramatic, difficult, or broken instead of listening to what they are actually trying to say. That left me with a strong desire to be the adult I needed when I was younger. I want to be someone who tells teenagers that their feelings make sense, that they are not crazy, and that their pain deserves to be taken seriously. The place where I first learned how powerful that kind of support could be was theatre. During my freshman year, after going on a field trip to see a professional theatre program, I realized how deeply I wanted to be part of that world. My school did not have a theatre club, so I started one. I spoke to administrators, found a sponsor, recruited members, and directed our first production. It was intimidating, exhausting, and deeply meaningful. Over the next few years, my role in the club changed as I grew. I was a director, then just an actor, then vice president, and now in my final year I am president and director again. Each role taught me something different. Acting taught me empathy and perspective. Leadership taught me patience, communication, and how to support people with different personalities, stress levels, and needs. Theatre became more than an extracurricular activity. It became a safe place for students to express themselves, belong somewhere, and feel seen. Now, my focus is on making sure the club will survive after I graduate. I am building structure, mentoring younger members, and creating systems so that the next group of students has the tools they need to keep it alive. That matters to me because I know what it means to find one place that feels safe, creative, and supportive in an otherwise overwhelming world. The adversity I have faced has shaped me into someone who notices when others are struggling quietly. It has made me gentle, aware, and determined to build healthier spaces than the ones I grew up in. I do not want teenagers to feel alone in their confusion or pain the way I often did. I want to help them make sense of their emotions, their families, and themselves with kindness instead of shame. Through my future career as a therapist, I hope to help young people feel grounded, understood, and empowered. I want to be someone who brings light into places that feel dark, and calm into places that feel chaotic. That is how I plan to make a positive impact on the world, one person, one conversation, and one safe space at a time.

Mental health has shaped nearly every part of who I am — not just my goals, but how I see people, how I build relationships, and what kind of future I want to create. I’ve struggled with depression, anxiety, ADHD, and the lingering effects of growing up in an emotionally unstable household. For a long time, I believed these things made me broken. It took years to understand that my brain wasn’t the enemy — it was just doing its best to protect me. When I was younger, I thought strength meant pretending to be fine. I became good at performing that role — smiling when I felt like crying, working hard so no one could question my worth, and keeping everything bottled up until it inevitably spilt over. I lived in a constant cycle of burnout and guilt, convinced I wasn’t doing enough. Mental health wasn’t something we talked about openly in my home, and when I tried to bring it up, it usually ended in anger or dismissal. That silence hurt more than anything else. It taught me early on that vulnerability could be punished instead of met with compassion. Everything started to shift when I began high school. The combination of new responsibilities, social pressure, and my undiagnosed ADHD hit me harder than I expected. I found myself exhausted by the smallest things — schoolwork, conversations, even getting out of bed some mornings. I was constantly overwhelmed, constantly “too much.” But I also started finding people who saw through that. My friends became my lifeline. They were the first people to remind me that being human is not something to be ashamed of. They listened, encouraged, and reminded me that softness and strength can coexist. That’s when I started learning what healing actually looks like. It’s not a straight line, and it’s not glamorous. It’s messy, repetitive, and sometimes painfully slow. But in that process, I learned to show myself the same compassion I always offered everyone else. I began to recognise that the thoughts I used to see as weaknesses — overthinking, hyper-awareness, emotional sensitivity — could also be strengths. They made me a better friend, a better listener, and a more empathetic person. My experiences also made me realise how desperately we need more understanding around mental health — especially for young people. In school, I saw so many students struggling silently. Some masked it behind humour, others behind grades or rebellion. The truth was, a lot of us were just trying to survive environments that didn’t make space for our feelings. When I founded my school’s theatre club, I thought I was creating a space for creativity — but it quickly became something much deeper. Our little group became a haven for the misfits, the anxious, the overthinkers, and the quiet kids who needed a place to belong. Through acting, we found language for things we couldn’t say outright. We laughed, cried, and created something meaningful together. That experience showed me the power of empathy and connection in a way no classroom ever could. Those moments — the late-night talks, the shared vulnerability, the art that came from pain — are what made me realise I want to become a therapist. I want to dedicate my life to helping people unlearn shame, understand their minds, and build healthy relationships with themselves. I’ve seen firsthand how a single moment of understanding can change someone’s trajectory. I want to be that moment for others. I know what it feels like to sit in the dark, thinking no one would understand. I also know what it feels like when someone does — when a person meets your pain with patience instead of judgment. That kind of connection doesn’t erase the struggle, but it gives you enough light to keep going. That’s the light I want to offer to others. My mental health journey has changed how I view the world in every possible way. I’ve learned that everyone carries something invisible, and that kindness — real, deliberate kindness — can be life-saving. I’ve learned that healing isn’t about becoming who you were before the pain; it’s about creating someone new who can hold that pain with grace. I’ve learned that empathy is not just an emotion — it’s an act of courage. Now, when I look toward the future, I don’t just see a career. I see a mission. I want to be part of the movement that normalises talking about mental health — especially in communities and families where silence has been the default for too long. I want to advocate for accessible therapy, for trauma-informed schools, and for the idea that needing help is not weakness, it’s human. If you had told my younger self — the one crying quietly in her room, terrified she’d never feel “normal” — that one day she’d want to become a therapist, she wouldn’t have believed you. But now I know that the pain I’ve experienced hasn’t been for nothing. It’s shaped me into someone who can sit beside others in their darkness and say, “You’re not alone.” That’s what mental health has taught me: that our stories — the hard, messy, beautiful ones — are not something to hide from, but something to share. Because every time we speak them out loud, we make the world a little less lonely.

The idea for our school’s theatre club was born on a freshman field trip. Every year, the art students visit the Alabama Centre for the Arts, and that year, I joined the group touring the black box theatre. We got to see the catwalk, the lighting systems, and the costume workshop — even the dressing rooms where actors once prepared to step into other worlds. The tour ended too soon, and as we rode to the mall afterwards, one of the chaperones, Mrs Munger, asked what we thought of it. I told her that I wanted to go to the ACA one day and do something in theatre. Neither of us realised how quickly that dream would take shape. That same year, I started the school’s theatre club — the first in our history. I had to meet with the principal and explain why it was worth creating, even though he told me that we already had 51 clubs and ours “wouldn’t last past graduation.” That moment lit a fire in me. I was determined to prove that the arts do belong here, that performance can build confidence, communication, and community in ways that textbooks can’t. Now, three years later, our club has become a home for students who never quite fit anywhere else. We’ve produced plays, organised showcases, and built a creative community where students can express themselves and find belonging. Mrs Munger — the same teacher who chaperoned that field trip — became our sponsor and biggest supporter. What motivates me is seeing what theatre can do for people. It teaches empathy, teamwork, and courage — skills that ripple far beyond the stage. I want to keep expanding our impact by partnering with local arts organisations and bringing in guest speakers from the ACA to inspire future students, just like that field trip inspired me. I may have started this club because I loved theatre, but I’ve kept it going because I love what it’s done for others.

I was diagnosed with dyslexia in second grade. It started with simple letter flips — a b turning into a d, a six into a nine — but the consequences were anything but simple. Numbers became my biggest enemy, especially in math. Reading, oddly enough, became my safe place, even though it was supposed to be the hardest part. I loved stories too much to let a few backward letters stop me. Still, I couldn’t hide from how different I felt. In third grade, I was pulled out of class every day for special help. Each time I came back, my classmates were sitting together in groups on the floor, their books open, laughter filling the room. I’d walk in and quietly take a seat by myself. My only “friend” in that class usually sat somewhere else. It’s hard to feel small and separate when everyone else seems to belong. By sixth grade, my frustration had grown. My dyslexia classes took away the only part of my week I actually looked forward to — club time. I remember sitting in that small room, watching TV for an hour while my friends got to do what they loved. It wasn’t just boring; it felt like punishment for something I couldn’t control. But looking back, I can see that those moments taught me something important — not just about perseverance, but about the kind of person I want to be. I realized that the system wasn’t built for kids like me, and that sometimes, you have to carve out your own space to grow. That’s what I did in high school when I created the theater club. It started as a small dream, but it became a place where students — especially the ones who didn’t fit anywhere else — could express themselves and feel seen. The irony isn’t lost on me: the girl who once felt invisible in the back of a classroom now stands on a stage she helped build. Dyslexia didn’t just make learning harder; it made me fight for understanding, patience, and creativity — both for myself and for others. I still mix up numbers sometimes. I still have moments when I reread something three times just to make sure I got it right. But I don’t see those things as weaknesses anymore. They’re reminders of how far I’ve come. My IEP wasn’t a label — it was a bridge. It gave me the tools to adapt, the drive to prove I could, and the empathy to help others who are struggling quietly the way I once did. What motivates me to keep going is knowing that learning differently doesn’t mean learning less. It means finding new ways to understand the world — and maybe even teach it someday. I want to continue my education because every obstacle I’ve faced has made me more determined to turn what once held me back into something that propels me forward.

Cancer has a way of changing not just the person who battles it, but everyone who loves them. I learned that the hard way when my grandfather passed away after his second fight with cancer — this time, throat cancer. We were never especially close when I was younger, but near the end, I saw him more often. Watching him weaken was painful, but watching how deeply it hurt my dad was even harder. I still remember the day hospice came. My stepmom, Karissa, called to tell me, and I didn’t even know what hospice meant at the time. I was waiting for a friend to pick me up when the news hit me. I opened the door to her with tears running down my face, and she held my hand while my mom yelled in the background. A few days later, my grandpa was gone. That night, we sat in a Waffle House after my dad called us, trying to fill the silence with stories instead of funeral plans. I didn’t realize it then, but that night taught me something important — that in moments of loss, people need connection more than anything. Almost a year later, cancer touched my family again. My stepmom’s mother, Carol, passed after a year-long battle with a rare blood cancer. She wasn’t my grandmother by blood, but I loved her like she was. Carol was one of those people who could fill a room with light. She smiled at everyone, no matter who they were. Even near the end, she carried that same warmth. When she had to go to Texas for treatment, I thought she would come home again. But when my dad called to say she had been given a month to live, I knew things were different. Karissa flew out immediately, and I believe Carol held on just long enough to see her daughter one last time. At her funeral, Karissa spoke through tears about her mother’s joy — her constant smile, her kindness, her belief that life was meant to be shared. The way she talked about her mother’s spirit stayed with me. I realized that a person’s legacy isn’t just in what they accomplish, but in how they make others feel. Those experiences — of loss, of watching people I love face the impossible — changed how I see the world and what I want to do with my life. They taught me the importance of empathy, perseverance, and human connection. In business, I see a chance to build something that reflects those same values: to create opportunities that bring people together, to lead with compassion, and to make a difference that lasts beyond profit. My grandfather’s determination and Carol’s kindness both inspire the kind of leader I want to become — one who builds communities, not just companies. Their stories remind me that life is fragile, but impact is lasting. Cancer took people I loved, but it also gave me perspective. It taught me that success means using what you build to make others’ lives brighter. That’s the kind of future I want to work toward — one where I carry their legacy forward, not through grief, but through growth.

When I founded our school’s theater club three years ago, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. At the time, it was just an idea — a small hope that maybe I could build a space where creativity and connection could thrive. I had no roadmap, no budget, and no clue how to run a club. What I did have was a teacher who believed in me from the very beginning: Mrs. Munger. Mrs. Munger didn’t just support the theater club — she championed it. She saw potential where others saw uncertainty, and she gave me the encouragement and trust I needed to bring the idea to life. When I was overwhelmed by logistics or doubted whether anyone would even show up to auditions, she reminded me that every great project starts with a little chaos. Her faith in me transformed that uncertainty into determination. Through her mentorship, I learned that leadership is about more than organization and planning — it’s about creating space for others to shine. Mrs. Munger taught me to listen, collaborate, and adapt. When conflicts arose or nerves got high before a performance, she modeled calm confidence and reminded me that growth often comes from discomfort. She didn’t hand me answers — she asked questions that made me think deeper. Because of her, I became not just a better leader, but a more compassionate one. Before I met Mrs. Munger, I saw school as something you simply endured — a list of assignments to complete. She showed me what learning could really be: alive, curious, and human. Her approach to teaching went far beyond the standard curriculum. She encouraged us to explore characters through emotion and psychology, to see art as a mirror for empathy, and to recognize the strength in vulnerability. Her classroom became a place where I could express myself freely, and that freedom rippled outward into every part of my life. Under her guidance, the theater club grew into something beautiful. It became a safe haven for students who didn’t feel they belonged anywhere else — a place where voices trembling with stage fright became voices filled with pride. Watching others grow within the space I helped build, with Mrs. Munger always cheering us on from the sidelines, has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. The most meaningful lesson she taught me is that courage doesn’t always look like confidence. Sometimes, courage is trying again after failure, or speaking up when you feel small. It’s daring to create something new when no one else believes it can be done. Founding the theater club taught me all of that — but it was Mrs. Munger who gave me the courage to start. Because of her, I now approach life with boldness and empathy. I’m not afraid to take initiative or to challenge old ideas. I’ve learned that creativity isn’t just art — it’s problem-solving, leadership, and community-building. Mrs. Munger helped me find my voice, and I’ll spend my life using it to make others feel seen, supported, and inspired — just like she did for me.

Social media has changed the way we see ourselves. For me, it wasn’t just a way to connect with people — it became a mirror I couldn’t stop looking into, one that constantly told me I wasn’t enough. When I was struggling with depression, I spent hours scrolling through Pinterest and Instagram, surrounded by images of perfect lives, perfect bodies, perfect happiness. It was easy to believe that everyone else had it all figured out while I was falling apart. At that time, I was battling more than sadness. My depression made it almost impossible to care about anything — school, hobbies, even the things I used to love. I would sit on the couch, staring at my phone, lost in a loop of comparison. Every time I saw another “aesthetic” post — the thin girls in soft lighting, the romanticized lives I could never live — something inside me ached. Without realizing it, I began eating less and less, thinking that maybe if I looked like them, I’d feel better. It never worked. I only felt weaker, more anxious, and more disconnected from reality. It took a long time for me to see how unhealthy that cycle was. My pediatrician diagnosed me with depression, and that was the first step toward recovery. Slowly, I started to rebuild. I learned to separate what I saw online from what was real. I realized that social media doesn’t show the full picture — just the highlights. Behind every perfect post is a person who might be struggling too. Once I stopped chasing perfection and started focusing on being healthy, not just “aesthetic,” I began to heal. Even now, I sometimes slip into old habits — endless scrolling, comparing myself, feeling restless for a life that only exists on a screen. But I’ve learned to catch myself. When I notice it happening, I set my phone down and ground myself in something real — reading, journaling, or spending time with people who make me feel seen instead of judged. My anxiety and ADHD sometimes pull me in opposite directions, but they’ve also taught me balance in a strange way. As my therapist once said, they regulate each other — my own little, messed-up superpower. I think social media’s impact on mental health comes down to one thing: it gives us a constant stream of unrealistic standards and not enough reminders that it’s okay to be human. To address that, we need more honesty online — more people sharing the imperfect, unfiltered parts of their stories. We also need schools and families to talk about how social media affects mental health, so that young people can recognize when it’s becoming harmful. I don’t want to go back to the person I was — the one who felt invisible and hollow. But I’m grateful for what that time taught me: that healing isn’t linear, that self-worth can’t be measured by likes or followers, and that even when you fall apart, you can rebuild yourself stronger than before. Social media once made me feel small. Now, I want to use it to make others feel seen — to remind them that they don’t have to be perfect to be worthy, and that peace is found not in the feed, but in real life.

Living with ADHD has shaped nearly every part of my education, even before I had a name for it. I was sixteen when my therapist gently told me that my struggles — the constant distractions, the racing thoughts, the forgotten assignments, the bursts of intense focus followed by long droughts of exhaustion — were symptoms of ADHD. It was the first time my experiences made sense. Unfortunately, when my mother found out, she became upset and refused to have me officially tested. That left me in a strange in-between: I knew what I was dealing with, but I didn’t have the formal support or accommodations that could have helped me. So, I had to learn how to help myself. For me, ADHD looks like two extremes. I either can’t bring myself to start something, or I throw myself into it so completely that I forget to sleep. I’ve read five-hundred-page books in three days, and I’ve also taken months to finish ones half that length. I can hyperfocus and create something amazing, but then forget to eat dinner or do another assignment. Time feels slippery to me — I often think tasks will take far longer than they actually do, which makes me procrastinate out of anxiety. Then, when I finally start, I realize it wasn’t as hard as I feared. My forgetfulness doesn’t help either; I’ve lost track of homework, deadlines, and sometimes even entire conversations. But even without an official diagnosis, I’ve learned to adapt. I started using systems that make sense for me — not for a neurotypical brain. I set alarms for everything, use color-coded planners, and break assignments into the tiniest steps possible. I celebrate small victories: finishing a page, turning in something early, remembering to rest. I’ve also learned to be kinder to myself. Instead of seeing my ADHD as a flaw, I’ve begun to see it as a different way of thinking — one that can be creative, passionate, and deeply focused when channeled right. ADHD has also taught me empathy. I understand what it feels like to be misunderstood, to have your struggles minimized or dismissed. That understanding has made me a better friend, classmate, and partner. When someone else is struggling — with focus, emotions, or just life — I listen without judgment because I know how much that can mean. Despite everything, I’ve stayed ambitious. I’ve worked hard to maintain good grades, stay involved in theater, and plan for my future career. I want to study psychology so I can help other teens who feel trapped by invisible battles — kids like me who know something is different but aren’t given the validation or support they deserve. Living with ADHD has not been easy, especially without acknowledgment from those around me. But I’ve learned that success isn’t about perfection — it’s about persistence. I’ve learned to sparkle in my own way: through resilience, creativity, and the determination to turn every challenge into a chance to grow.