Given the opportunity, I would change the Black mental health crisis. We are twenty percent more likely to experience persistent symptoms of mental distress than our white counterparts. Despite the clear need for intervention, the generational stigma around mental health issues in Black households, along with income level and lack of healthcare, discourages thousands from seeking help. Furthermore, under two percent of American Psychological Association members are Black. I lacked an understanding of how severe the crisis is until I came face-to-face with mental illness in my own life. I was born into an African American family of seven - my mother and father, and four sisters. My mother is diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder, my oldest sister Kristen with ADHD and depression, and my second oldest sister Sydney with depression and anorexia. When I first became aware of the mental health issues that plagued my loved ones, I was terrified. As early as the age of ten, I witnessed firsthand the internal battles they fought by themselves. Seeing them try to pick up the pieces with countless failed visits to primary care physicians, psychiatrists, and licensed therapists made me question why so many medical professionals failed them. I soon recognized the difficulty of opening up to someone who is unable to relate to the unique experiences of a Black woman. My mother and sisters were experiencing barriers to progress that stemmed from a lack of culturally competent care. In the summer of 2020, like millions of Black Americans, I experienced my first true fight with mental health. Constant exposure to graphic media coverage of violence against Black people and mass uprisings was unnerving. Judgmental comments from naysayers +in friend and family circles, telling me feelings were invalid and simply made up only heightened my panic. A large issue that needs to be addressed in black communities is that struggling with mental health equates to weakness. Within a few months, I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder and advised to seek a therapist. Fortunately, through relationships my mother established during her battle, I received a recommendation for a young Black female therapist near me, someone whose client focus included my demographic. I now work with Taylour Neal, Licensed Clinical Mental Health Counselor Associate (LCMHCA), to develop personalized strategies to combat the immobilizing symptoms that come with severe anxiety. No person should have to work endlessly to find adequate help when already struggling. My drive to address this issue was amplified when I heard other young girls’ testimonies of being unable to find sufficient help. The ease with which I found a well-matched therapist is a rarity. In a way, my family’s past struggles made us well-equipped when mine came along. My privilege of being able to afford the help that I need and finding someone who understands what I am going through is something I will be forever grateful for. Now I talk with young Black teenage girls like myself to provide proper resources such as hotlines, breathing exercises, strategies, therapy options, and more. This is where my desire to study psychology all the way to the doctoral level to become a Pediatric Psychologist sparked. I hope to reduce the number of girls that experience what I have, without the necessary resources and support - I hope to be a Taylour for another young Black girl in the near future.

It is not uncommon to see mothers in grocery stores and shopping malls in noticeable distress because their child is compelled by unrestrained curiosity which leads to broken goods or kids uncontrollably whaling in protest at not having their way. The often tearful countenance of these mothers screams for relief while their lips remain still. It is likely that these parental behaviors stand out more to me than the blood-curdling juvenile shrills because I empathize with parents caught in this quandary. They appear to have exhausted every trick, strategy, and promise. I want to be like a first responder who swoops in to aid parents in crisis because I have a gift for children. Yes, from an early age it was known that I had this gift. In fact, I was dubbed, “The Baby Whisperer.” It is definitely an unusual mantle for someone so young. Clearly, this mantle suggests that I could somehow produce an uncommon connection, communication, and outcome with children. Such a connection is helpful in warding off tensions and troubles that create dreaded anxieties and fears in moms and dads. For example, I recall one child that was non-verbal and battled a developmental eating disorder. His challenges were driving his parents into a depression. Their inability to reach him or affect positive change in crucial areas of development caused them great shame. When I was given the opportunity to work with him, quickly, I found that I could communicate with him to both know and understand what he was saying or needing. He evidenced marked improvement in areas he was otherwise stunted or lagged. To see the amazement and appreciation for these changes on his mother’s face was compensation enough. The word spread rapidly and widely, and a profitable business emerged out of a desire to just use a gift that God gave me. The Bible says, “Your gifts will make room for you and bring you before great men '' and I can agree by saying that my gift was doing that and more. While many people let their gifts go untapped, those who are wise and discerning don’t fail to employ them for good. It can even translate into revenue. It is as though I had the best of both worlds; I enjoyed operating in an area of passion and got paid for it. More importantly, I had a deep desire, and even a need, to connect with these babies - again, it is my passion. I love the innocence, optimism, and imagination of children. Ultimately, this explains the profound tug in my heart to pursue training and a career in Pediatric Psychology. I now understand a quote that my dad shared from famed Notre Dame head coach Lou Holtz, “You have to do something you love. Work isn’t work when you love what you do.” Because I have identified a key talent gifted to me that is intended for the blessing of others, I should not have to work a day in my life past working toward my education.

The Black mental health crisis is our country’s next epidemic. We are twenty percent more likely to experience persistent symptoms of mental distress than our white counterparts, however, the generational stigma around mental health issues in Black households, along with income level and lack of healthcare, discourages thousands from seeking help. Furthermore, under two percent of American Psychological Association members are Black. I lacked understanding of how severe the crisis is until I came face-to-face with mental illness. I was born into an African American family of seven - my mother and father, and four sisters. My mother is diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder, my oldest sister with ADHD and depression, and my second oldest sister with depression and anorexia. When I became aware of the mental illness that plagued my loved ones, I was terrified. At age ten, I had to witness firsthand the battles they fought by themselves. Seeing them try to pick up the pieces with countless failed visits to primary care physicians, psychiatrists, and licensed therapists made me question why so many medical professionals failed them. I soon recognized the difficulty of opening up to someone who cannot relate to the unique experiences of a Black woman. My mother and sisters were experiencing barriers to progress that stemmed from a lack of culturally competent care. In the summer of 2020, like millions of Black Americans, I experienced my first true fight with mental health. Constant exposure to graphic media coverage of violence against Black people and mass uprisings was unnerving. Judgemental comments from naysayers invalidating my feelings only heightened my panic. Within a few months, I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder and advised to seek a therapist. Fortunately, through relationships my mother established during her battle, I found a young Black female therapist near me. I now work with Taylour to develop personalized strategies to combat the immobilizing symptoms that come with severe anxiety. Famed actress Taraji P. Henson’s shared in an interview, “Trying to find a culturally competent therapist was like looking for a purple unicorn with a gold horn.” Through her non-profit foundation, she has worked to eliminate the social stigma concerning mental health in urban Black communities. Her work inspired me to be another agent of change. No person should have to work endlessly to find adequate help when already struggling. My drive to address this issue was amplified after hearing other young girls’ testimonies of being unable to find sufficient help. The ease with which I found a well-matched therapist is a rarity. In a way, my family’s past struggles made us well equipped when mine came along. My privilege of being able to afford the help that I need, and finding someone who understands what I am going through is something I will be forever grateful for. I now speak to young Black teenage girls like myself to provide proper resources such as hotlines, breathing exercises, strategies, therapy options, and more. Through the power of social media, I have spoken with Black girls all across the nation who have similar stories as mine, but without access to the same help. While what I currently do is valuable, I want to do more. I hope to reduce the number of children who lack the necessary mental health support. I plan to pursue higher education in hopes of becoming a pediatric psychologist. I specifically want to work with youth in marginalized groups. I have no doubt that this is the field that I am called to walk in. Someday, I want to be the Taylour for another Black girl in need.

As I deboarded the plane and saw endless open fields, I developed a case of imposter syndrome and effectively withdrew from my surroundings. It was too late though; I was already here. That night my nerves skyrocketed at the dinner table. Here, I met sixty-nine students that I would spend the week with. At times, I made small talk; at others, I laughed at the jokes. However, when I heard his name spoken, I immediately froze. My parents are leaders in the community, and we have been raised to be leaders from an early age. So, this opportunity fit to participate in a leadership program, led by Four-Star General Tommy Franks. The camp focused on all things leadership. The itinerary included: a speech competition, an Ethics Bowl, a public speaking contest, team-building exercises, and more. When I accepted my invitation to this highly selective program, I knew that I was going to rural Mid-America, Oklahoma City, where I would undoubtedly meet people with different beliefs from mine. Frankly, I am used to being one of the few African Americans in the room. A personal protocol I live by is not to cast judgments on another simply on assumptions. So, I focused on this amazing opportunity to network with top students and guests from across the globe. Despite meeting several peers to that I could relate, I found myself being hyper-aware of every sight, sound, and conversation around me. As my peers were getting to know each other, I heard the name “George Floyd” - along with sarcastic snickers from a nearby table. Immediately I lost focus on everything else, except this conversation. I anxiously locked eyes with Joanna and Jeremiah, the only other Black students in the program. Our neighbors continued sharing their thoughts on the “Black Lives Matter” (BLM) Movement. They said it was unnecessary and over-dramatic. As much as I wanted to interject and correct them on all misjudgments and assumptions of BLM, I was terrified. They mocked multiple Black lives lost from police brutality. Out of the desire to not cause a ruckus on the first night, all three of us decided to not rebut. Instead, I decided to avoid them at all costs. Ironically, two of the five boys were assigned to my group in the “Ethics Bowl.” Being the only girl in the group was intimidating. Yet, I was determined to lead. One night as we studied, my privileged partners made what seemed like hundreds of ignorant “jokes”, until I could not stay silent anymore. That night we spoke of many global issues: from the Black Lives Matter movement and religious prejudice to casual sexism. While I cannot say that I changed their mind on every topic, I demonstrated leadership. I respected their point of view but demanded respect also. I encouraged them to open their minds and learn more. In the end, we were not the closest of friends, but we were able to respect each other, work together, and overall do a phenomenal job as a team.

My dream for my career is to promote mental health awareness in the Black community. African Americans are twenty percent more likely to experience persistent symptoms of mental distress than their white counterparts. Only one in three Black adults who need mental health care receive it. Black people are also more likely to battle stigmas concerning mental health issues as 63% of Black adults believe that mental illness is a sign of personal weakness. The lack of financial resources in the Black community and the distrust of the medical system exacerbate the issue. To top it off, under two percent of American Psychological Association therapist members are Black which creates another barrier for those in my community seeking professional help. I have a personal connection to the subject of mental health. My mother has suffered from depression and two of my four sisters have been treated by mental health professionals. This issue hit even closer to home when I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder during the beginning of the pandemic. I have been under the care of a therapist for over a year. I am so thankful that our family has access to care and has received the treatment we needed. Unfortunately, we are part of a very small percentage who received treatment in my community. I am ecstatic about becoming a pediatric psychologist and doing my part to advance mental health equity for black adolescents through practice, advocacy, and education in the Black community.

Fahrenheit 451, written by Ray Bradbury, is a dystopian novel about a society with fast-paced living, enthralled by new-age technologies. Instead of the typical day including periodic trips to the library or our civil servants working to better our lives, normal was turned on its head. Bradbury describes a world where people are arrested for walking too slowly; where speeding is not only praised but is expected. The government installed techniques of control that left citizens blinded to reality. Any unregulated literature posed a threat to this well-crafted, dysfunctional world. The removal of healthy readership invoked a chokehold on the flow of information. This created a new version of a fireman's job description: instead of putting out the fires, they started them. This book was written in 1953 when people were having trouble accepting people and their differing cultures and lifestyles. Although Bradbury's literary work depicted a different era, Fahrenheit 451’s plotline is still applicable today. Bradbury reflects on the issue of censorship by equating the ban of books with a ban of free thought. Today, we often pay attention to the sound bites, but not the substance. We can be blinded by ourselves, and to what is happening around us. I was once too busy “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” to realize that there is a mass genocide in China, or that 317 African girls were abducted from their school in Nigeria. I was lifted away by the wings of my Twitter bird and relegated unaware of the 40% increase of gun violence in my community of Greensboro, North Carolina. This book was a wake-up call for me. It matured my understanding of the importance of young people being engaged with world affairs. This book awakened me to the need for my voice being added to conversations of decision-making.

It is not uncommon to see mothers in grocery stores and shopping malls in noticeable distress because their child is compelled by unrestrained curiosity which leads to broken goods or kids uncontrollably whaling in protest at not having their way. The often tearful countenance of these mothers screams for relief while their lips remain still. It is likely that these parental behaviors stand out more to me than the blood-curdling juvenile shrills because I empathize with parents caught in this quandary. They appear to have exhausted every trick, strategy, and promise. I want to be like a first-responder who swoops in to aid parents in crisis because I have a gift with children. Yes, from an early age it was known that I had this gift. In fact, I was dubbed, “The Baby Whisperer.” It is definitely an unusual mantle for someone so young. Clearly, this mantle suggests that I could somehow produce an uncommon connection, communication, and outcome with children. Such a connection is helpful in warding off tensions and troubles that create dreaded anxieties and fears in moms and dads. For example, I recall one child that was non-verbal and battled a developmental eating disorder. His challenges were driving his parents into a depression. Their inability to reach him or affect positive change in crucial areas of development caused them great shame. When I was given the opportunity to work with him, quickly, I found that I could communicate with him to both know and understand what he was saying or needing. He evidenced marked improvement in areas he was otherwise stunted or lagged. To see the amazement and appreciation for these changes on his mother’s face was compensation enough. The word spread rapidly and widely, and a profitable business emerged out of a desire to just use a gift that God gave me. The Bible says, “Your gifts will make room for you and bring you before great men '' and I can agree by saying that my gift was doing that and more. While many people let their gifts go untapped, those who are wise and discerning don’t fail to employ them for good. It can even translate into revenue. It is as though I had the best of both worlds; I enjoyed operating in an area of passion and got paid for it. More importantly, I had a deep desire, and even a need, to connect with these babies - again, it is my passion. I love the innocence, optimism, and imagination of children. Ultimately, this explains the profound tug in my heart to pursue training and a career in Pediatric Psychology. I now understand a quote that my dad shared from famed Notre Dame head coach Lou Holtz, “You have to do something you love. Work isn’t work when you love what you do.” Because I have identified a key talent gifted to me that is intended for the blessing of others, I should not have to work a day in my life past working toward my education.

In a family of 5 girls, one must work hard to have a voice. Consequently, I entered school filled with laughter, ideas, and opinions. However, this all changed in the fourth grade. “Show-off.” “Will you ever stop raising your hand?” “Why don’t you shut up already!” These were among the kinder remarks directed toward me by a group of classmates who sought to humiliate anyone whom they viewed as deserving of their animus. Being raised in a loving and supportive family, and having attended a Christian School prior, I had no context of how to deal with such rage. Consequently, I retreated into myself; began feeling nauseous each morning prior to leaving for school, returning home each day in tears. I lost my ability to effectively communicate and landed at the doorstep of a psychologist, diagnosed with severe anxiety disorder. My naivety was my greatest weakness. I believed that I was meant to be friends with all of my classmates. It was only after two long years that I reconciled that I may not become friends with the world. However, I also reconciled that there was nothing wrong with me. Consequently, I entered the sixth grade with my voice and prepared to deal with anyone who sought to take it away. Rather than ignoring or shying away from being bullied, I chose to engage. “If I am raising my hand too frequently, what would be the appropriate number of times to raise my hand?” I then began speaking to each of my appointed bullies by name, “Good morning Faith, how are you?” By the end of sixth grade, I was friends with some of the most ardent bullies and an advocate for anyone who was being bullied. I recall a conversation with a former bully, Malaysia, who said, “Carmen, with all of the mean things I’ve said, you have never treated me the same. Why?” We spent the entire lunch period talking about our families and our values, which were quite different. Our homes and the ways in which we interacted with our families were worlds apart. The manner in which our parents modeled social behaviors was the manner in which we demonstrated social behaviors. We sat at the cafeteria table; we cried together; we are still friends. In the seventh grade, I became a more formal anti-bullying advocate by becoming a “Best Buddy.” Best Buddies is a national nonprofit organization whose focus is to connect students with intellectual or developmental disabilities with neurotypical and able-bodied peers. My first match was with Briana who had Down Syndrome. Nearing the end of the school year, I met Briana’s mother who was in tears telling my mother how Briana was mostly nonverbal all her life—and how our relationship had forever changed her life. Through Malaysia, a bully, and Briana, a victim of bullying, I learned that seeing the humanity and potential in everyone can guide our efforts in achieving new levels of understanding. Through my journey, I believe myself to be finding my way onto a pathway to becoming a successful advocate. While some find their voice through a bullhorn and protests, I have found mine through lunchtime conversations and intimate discussions. I am unsure that my purpose is yet to be revealed in its entirety, however, helping people is an indelible part of who I am. 

In a family of five girls, one must work hard to have a voice. Consequently, I entered school filled with laughter, ideas, and opinions. However, this all changed in the fourth grade. “Show-off.” “Will you ever stop raising your hand?” “Why don’t you shut up already!” These were among the kinder remarks directed toward me by a group of classmates who sought to humiliate anyone whom they viewed as deserving of their animus. Being raised in a loving and supportive family, and having attended a Christian School prior, I had no context of how to deal with such rage. Consequently, I retreated into myself; began feeling nauseous each morning prior to leaving for school, returning home each day in tears. I lost my ability to effectively communicate and landed at the doorstep of a psychologist, diagnosed with severe anxiety disorder. My naivety was my greatest weakness. I believed that I was meant to be friends with all of my classmates. It was only after two long years that I reconciled that I may not become friends with the world. However, I also reconciled that there was nothing wrong with me. Consequently, I entered the sixth grade with my voice and prepared to deal with anyone who sought to take it away. Rather than ignoring or shying away from being bullied, I chose to engage. “If I am raising my hand too frequently, what would be the appropriate number of times to raise my hand?” I then began speaking to each of my appointed bullies by name, “Good morning Faith, how are you?” By the end of sixth grade, I was friends with some of the most ardent bullies and an advocate for anyone who was being bullied. I recall a conversation with a former bully, Malaysia, who said, “Carmen, with all of the mean things I’ve said, you have never treated me the same. Why?” We spent the entire lunch period talking about our families and our values, which were quite different. Our homes and the ways in which we interacted with our families were worlds apart. The manner in which our parents modeled social behaviors was the manner in which we demonstrated social behaviors. We sat at the cafeteria table; we cried together; we are still friends. In the seventh grade, I became a more formal anti-bullying advocate by becoming a “Best Buddy.” Best Buddies is a national nonprofit organization whose focus is to connect students with intellectual or developmental disabilities with neurotypical and able-bodied peers. My first match was with Briana who had Down Syndrome. Nearing the end of the school year, I met Briana’s mother who was in tears telling my own mother how Briana was mostly nonverbal all her life—and how our relationship had forever changed her life. Through Malaysia, a bully, and Briana, a victim of bullying, I learned that seeing the humanity and potential in everyone can guide our efforts in achieving new levels of understanding. Through my journey, I believe myself to be finding my way onto a pathway to becoming a successful advocate. While some find their voice through a bullhorn and protests, I have found mine through lunchtime conversations and intimate discussions. I am unsure that my purpose is yet to be revealed in its entirety, however, helping people is an indelible part of who I am. 

I have made it a priority to give back to those less fortunate. The sight of people sleeping outside during the winter always moved me. Empathy inspires action for change but still leaves the need to be self-aware. In my city of Greensboro, North Carolina, over 1,000 people go to sleep homeless every night. When I decided to work to change this statistic, I prioritized educating myself on all forms of economic and health disparities first. Over the past four years, I have coordinated multiple service-learning projects. One is called “Sleep Out” which addresses the growing rate of homelessness. This project ventured outside of my comfort zone to partly see life through a homeless person’s perspective. Additionally, my efforts were channeled to gather resources and raise awareness. I collected donations of hygiene products, canned food, and winter essentials such as socks, hats, and blankets. I went to every house in my neighborhood asking for donations. As the president of my school’s Student Government Association, I coordinated a joint service project between my school, church, and a non-profit called Church Under The Bridge. We provided food, clothing, and ministry to this marginalized population. On one occasion, the temperature was 22 degrees, and as the temperature continued to drop, I remained outdoors. Even though I could have gone into my heated car, I knew that was the epitome of privilege. A part of our community service project is distributing the donated goods in care packages to multiple homeless shelters. As I handed a woman a care package and box of food, I watched her eyes well up with tears. I sat with her in a room at Urban Ministries, and I listened to her story. She explained how she lost everything in the span of a day. Hearing her genuine gratitude for the work that my school and church community offered was all the payment I needed, but I returned to my home with an even greater gift. I gained a deeper appreciation for the real need is human touch and affirmation. In an optimal situation, the resource inventory to effectively address the need would include humanity, compassion, and empathy. I believe that if these are in abundance then the financial needs will be addressed. I strongly believe that it was my presence that brought tears to her eyes, more than my provision. Many fortunate people have the ability to quickly donate their money to charities that provide resources to the homeless community, but few decide to donate their time and attention. My worldview was forever changed. I now possess the conviction that the power of human interaction, validation, and affirmation is priceless. The food goes as deep as the stomach, but an affirmation of a person's humanity touches the soul. I vowed, from that day onward, to continue to give of my resources, in the form of my care packages of course, but most importantly my ear and my presence.