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.