When I moved from Taiwan to the United States for graduate school, I thought the biggest challenges would be academic pressure, cultural differences, and adjusting to the Missouri winter. I quickly learned I was wrong. The biggest challenge was getting approved for a phone plan. Apparently, in America, no credit history means you do not exist. The salesperson looked at my application, paused with genuine sympathy, and said, “Honey, you need a credit score.” That was the moment I realized building credit was not optional. It was survival. Growing up in a low-income household, I watched my mother stretch every dollar with a kind of quiet brilliance. She could turn a small food budget into a week of meals and make tuition payments appear through sheer determination. But we never talked about credit scores or interest rates. Those concepts belonged to another universe. When I became the first in my family to attend college and later moved abroad as an international student, I carried both pride and pressure. I wanted to make my family’s sacrifices worth it, but I also knew I had to learn financial literacy on my own. Building credit early became important to me because I did not want to repeat the insecurity I grew up with. My first financial victory in the United States was getting a secured credit card and depositing money I could barely afford. I used it only for groceries, coffee, and the occasional emergency boba tea. I kept my utilization low, paid every statement immediately, and celebrated every tiny increase in my credit score like I had won a national award. It sounds dramatic, but for someone starting with nothing, those small steps felt like rebuilding a life. Of course, I also learned a major financial lesson the hard way. During my first semester, I misunderstood how American health insurance worked and ended up with a medical bill that made me genuinely consider selling plasma. The panic was real. That bill taught me two things I will never forget. First, always read every policy three times. Second, always have an emergency fund even if it means eating instant noodles for a week. It was painful, but it pushed me to budget better, track my expenses carefully, and avoid letting fear drive my decisions. Today, I am a graduate student in mental health counseling and Medical Family Therapy. My motivation comes from my own experiences with financial instability, mental health struggles, and navigating a system that was not designed with international students in mind. I want to become a therapist who truly understands the financial pressures, immigration stress, and cultural challenges that so many clients face. Money is emotional. It affects self-worth, relationships, and mental health, especially for immigrants and BIPOC communities who often feel like they are building their lives from the ground up. My plan for my financial future is simple but steady. I will continue building credit responsibly, saving consistently, and educating myself about investments and long-term planning. I want the stability my mother never had and the freedom to focus on serving my community without fear of financial collapse. I also hope to share financial knowledge with other international students who are just beginning their journey and feel overwhelmed by a system that seems impossible to navigate. What motivates me is the belief that my story can be different from how it began. Building credit is not just about numbers. It is about writing a new chapter for myself, grounded in stability, dignity, and the possibility of giving back more than I once received.

My relationship with mental health began long before I understood psychology or neuroscience. I grew up in Taiwan in a low-income household where emotional pain was quietly endured, not spoken aloud. As a queer and BIPOC individual, I learned early that safety was conditional and that parts of myself had to remain unseen to survive. I carried anxiety, loneliness, and shame silently through adolescence and into adulthood. For years, I believed that resilience meant staying quiet and pushing forward. Eventually, that silence became too heavy to carry. The moment I reached out for help was the moment my understanding of mental health changed forever. My own mental health journey taught me that suffering is never just internal. It is shaped by culture, family systems, economic stress, and the ways marginalized people are asked to shrink themselves to fit into systems not built for them. These realizations reshaped my beliefs about healing. I no longer see mental health as an individual issue. I see it as a biological, relational, and political one. Healing requires safe relationships, access to care, cultural affirmation, and systems that welcome people who historically have been excluded. These insights transformed my relationships. I learned to seek connections grounded in honesty rather than perfection. I learned to let myself be supported rather than trying to carry everything alone. And I learned to show up for others with the same compassion I once withheld from myself. Mental health struggles made me softer rather than harder, and that softness became the foundation of the therapist I am becoming. My journey also shaped my professional commitment. I became a licensed social worker and counseling psychologist in Taiwan and later moved to Missouri to pursue graduate training in Medical Family Therapy. Clinical work gave me a language for what I lived through. Neuroscience helped me understand how trauma reshapes the brain. Family systems theory helped me make sense of relational patterns I once thought were personal failures. Working with clients navigating trauma, chronic illness, discrimination, and identity-related distress strengthened my conviction that mental health care must be culturally responsive and grounded in social justice. As a low-income international student in the United States, I experienced firsthand how systemic barriers affect mental health. I navigated financial instability, immigration stress, cultural isolation, and the emotional weight of practicing therapy in a second language. There were months when my anxiety came from choosing between tuition and basic necessities. These experiences deepened my empathy for clients who feel invisible within healthcare structures and reinforced my belief that mental health care must be accessible, multilingual, and culturally grounded. In my career, I plan to integrate clinical practice with advocacy and community leadership. My goal is to work in integrated behavioral health and trauma-informed medical settings where emotional and physical health are addressed together. I hope to develop programs for LGBTQIA communities, BIPOC families, immigrants, and international students who face disproportionate barriers to mental health support. I also hope to partner with nonprofits and policy organizations to expand equitable access, reduce stigma, and fight for structural changes that protect vulnerable communities. Ultimately, my mental health journey did not break me. It shaped me into someone who understands both the scientific and emotional dimensions of suffering, someone who can sit with another person’s pain without looking away, and someone committed to building a world where healing is possible for everyone. Through my career, I hope to offer the safety, affirmation, and understanding I once needed, and to help create systems where no one has to face their darkest moments alone.

My experience with meth use reshaped my understanding of addiction, the human nervous system, and the essential role of relationships in healing. When I first used meth, I did not recognize that I was responding to overwhelming stress, unresolved trauma, and a body stuck in chronic hyperarousal. All I knew was that I wanted a moment of relief. I did not understand how quickly meth could alter my dopamine pathways, impair executive functioning, and disrupt my ability to regulate emotion. Within a short time, I saw my motivation collapse, my thinking become clouded, and my life narrow as my neurobiology changed. Recovery required rebuilding both my life and my brain. Through support, structure, and therapeutic accountability, I slowly regained the ability to think clearly, manage emotions, and reconnect with others. This process transformed my beliefs about addiction. I came to understand that substance use disorders are biopsychosocial conditions shaped by neurochemical vulnerability, trauma histories, cultural expectations, and systemic inequities. My lived experience taught me that recovery is not about willpower. It is about receiving comprehensive, evidence-informed care that honors the full complexity of a person’s life. My relationships were deeply affected as well. Addiction pulled me away from people I cared about, not by choice but because my brain could no longer sustain presence and emotional connection. Recovery taught me that healing happens through relationship. Supportive relational environments help regulate the nervous system, reduce shame, and create the stability needed for long-term change. These insights later guided my decision to pursue Medical Family Therapy, a field that understands healing as both an intrapersonal and relational process. My journey with meth fundamentally shaped my career path. After becoming a licensed social worker and counseling psychologist in Taiwan, I came to the United States to deepen my clinical training and to study the intersection of addiction, trauma, and family systems. I wanted to understand addiction not only as a neurological condition, but as a systemic issue shaped by family patterns, access to care, cultural stigma, and community support. My goal is to work in integrated behavioral health and addiction treatment settings that combine medical care with family-based interventions. Research consistently shows that recovery outcomes improve when families or chosen families are involved in treatment, and my own experience affirms that people heal in connection rather than in isolation. I am actively training to become the kind of clinician who can bridge medical, psychological, and relational domains of care. I hope to develop programs that bring together trauma-informed therapy, family systems work, harm reduction principles, and neurobiological education. I want to support LGBTQIA, BIPOC, immigrant, and marginalized communities who often face significant disparities in addiction treatment and who rarely receive culturally grounded and affirming care. My experience with substance abuse did not define my life, but it shaped my purpose. It taught me the science of addiction, the importance of compassion, and the power of relationships in healing. Most importantly, it gave me the determination to serve others who are still searching for a path back to themselves.

Growing up in a low-income household taught me to navigate uncertainty long before I understood the word resilience. My family often had to choose which bills could wait and which needs were the most urgent. I learned early that stability cannot be taken for granted, and that perseverance is not a personality trait but a daily practice of refusing to give up. These experiences shaped the way I move through the world. They taught me to work hard, ask for help when needed, and hold compassion for those who are also fighting to move forward with limited resources. These lessons guide my path today as a graduate student in mental health. I am working toward becoming a Medical Family Therapist who serves marginalized communities, including LGBTQIA+, immigrant, and low-income individuals who often hesitate to seek care. I draw on my lived experience when sitting with clients in distress, because I know what it feels like to be overwhelmed, afraid, and unsure where to turn. I give back through clinical training, nonprofit involvement, and community education focused on trauma, stigma reduction, and accessible mental health support. I am also actively building my research and clinical skills so I can develop programs that reduce barriers for underserved communities. My background has shaped not only my determination but also my purpose. I plan to use the strength I earned through struggle to create spaces where others can find safety, dignity, and hope.

My commitment to service began long before I entered the fields of social work and mental health. Growing up in a low-income family in Taiwan and becoming the first in my family to pursue higher education, I learned early how structural barriers shape people’s lives. As a queer individual who often felt unsafe within traditional institutions, I saw how silence, stigma, and limited resources leave already marginalized people without support. Service became my way of pushing back against that silence. It became the foundation of how I choose to live my life. Before coming to Missouri, I worked as a licensed social worker and counseling psychologist in Taiwan. I served LGBTQIA+ communities, people living with HIV, survivors of violence, and individuals navigating chronic illness. Much of this work happened in nonprofit and medical settings, where I provided crisis intervention, trauma-informed counseling, case management, and community outreach. I also helped develop programs that combined mental health support with social services, recognizing that healing requires both emotional care and structural support. These experiences showed me how the nonprofit sector often fills the gaps left by underfunded systems and how important it is to have leaders who understand the lived realities of the people they serve. When I moved to Missouri to pursue graduate training in Medical Family Therapy, I brought with me the values and responsibilities shaped by years of clinical work. I also arrived with new vulnerabilities as a low-income international student. Without access to federal aid and with limited work opportunities, every semester came with financial uncertainty. The fear of not being able to continue my education was constant. These challenges deepened my empathy and sharpened my understanding of how policies, funding structures, and immigration status influence mental health. They also reinforced my belief that service must go beyond individual treatment and extend into advocacy and systemic change. In Missouri, I continue to give back through both clinical practice and nonprofit involvement. In my training, I support clients facing trauma, identity-related stress, chronic illness, and cultural displacement. Many of my clients are LGBTQIA+ youth, BIPOC students, immigrants, or first-generation individuals navigating overwhelming systems. I also collaborate with community organizations to create culturally responsive mental health resources, reduce stigma, and expand access to affordable care. Giving back means showing up not only as a clinician but also as someone who understands how it feels to fall through the cracks. Looking forward, I hope to integrate clinical practice with nonprofit leadership and policy reform. I plan to work within hospital-based behavioral health or community agencies that partner with schools, legal systems, and survivor support programs. My goal is to help build trauma-informed systems that protect, empower, and uplift survivors of violence and vulnerable communities. I also hope to contribute to statewide coalitions in Missouri that advocate for expanded funding for community mental health centers, standardized trauma-informed training across service providers, and equitable reporting mechanisms for survivors. I want to support policies that ensure multilingual access, culturally grounded care, and early intervention programs that reduce long-term harm. Ultimately, I hope to use my clinical expertise, nonprofit leadership experience, and lived perspective to help build systems that do not wait for crisis to occur but actively work to prevent it. My ambition is to create a world, starting with the communities around me in Missouri, where care is accessible, dignity is protected, and no one has to navigate suffering alone.

I came to Missouri as a first-generation college student from a low-income family in Taiwan, carrying both the hope of a different future and the weight of knowing exactly how systems fail people who do not fit neatly into them. Growing up queer in a community where trauma was quietly endured rather than spoken about, I learned early how devastating silence can be. I also learned that safety is not guaranteed. These experiences planted the earliest seeds of why I chose social work, but it was working directly with survivors of sexual violence that transformed this path into a conviction that will shape the rest of my career. Before moving to Missouri, I served as a licensed social worker and counseling psychologist in Taiwan, working alongside survivors in hospitals, crisis centers, and community clinics. I sat with individuals who were terrified to tell their stories. I watched families fracture under the pressure of shame. I witnessed survivors question whether their pain mattered. These moments taught me that trauma is not only an individual wound but also a political one. Survivors are harmed not only by what happened to them, but by the systems that refuse to protect them or to hold perpetrators accountable. After arriving in Missouri for graduate training, my understanding of sexual violence deepened. Missouri is a state where survivors often face long waits for forensic exams, limited access to trauma-informed counseling, fragmented reporting procedures, and inconsistent campus protections. Yet it is also a place filled with advocates, medical professionals, and students fighting to change these realities. Being here has shown me both the urgency of the problem and the possibility of meaningful reform. Clinically, I am committed to trauma-informed therapy that restores power, dignity, and safety to survivors. In my training, I work with individuals navigating post-traumatic stress symptoms, dissociation, shame, complex grief, and the relational ruptures that follow sexual violence. I focus on interventions that are culturally grounded and survivor centered, especially for LGBTQIA+, BIPOC, immigrant, and international survivors who often hesitate to report because they fear being dismissed or misunderstood. But I also know that therapy alone cannot dismantle sexual violence. Policy must change. Systems must change. Culture must change. This is why I engage in policy-oriented advocacy focused on strengthening Missouri’s response to sexual violence. I support efforts to expand SANE nurse availability, improve campus Title IX transparency, increase funding for survivor-centered programs, and standardize trauma-informed training across law enforcement, healthcare providers, and universities. I advocate for multilingual and culturally specific services so that survivors from diverse communities are not left behind. I work to promote prevention education that teaches consent, healthy relationships, and bystander intervention from adolescence onward. My work is guided by one belief: survivors should not have to fight alone, and they should never be retraumatized by the very systems meant to protect them. My future goal is to remain in Missouri as a clinical social worker specializing in trauma and sexual violence while partnering with policy organizations and statewide coalitions. I want to help build a Missouri where every survivor has timely access to medical care, legal support, and trauma-informed counseling, regardless of identity, income, or background. I am passionate about social work because it gives me a way to turn my lived experience into advocacy and my clinical training into action. Through both therapy and policy reform, I hope to help create a Missouri where survivors’ voices are honored, where systems protect rather than silence, and where healing is not a privilege but a right.

My decision to pursue a career in mental health is rooted in my experience as a first-generation college student from a low-income family in Taiwan. I grew up watching my family navigate healthcare with hesitation, often avoiding hospitals due to cost, stigma, or fear of being misunderstood. As a queer person, I also learned early how emotional pain is magnified when there are no safe spaces to name it. These experiences shaped my understanding of health as an interplay between biological, psychological, and sociocultural systems, and they fueled my desire to become a clinician capable of addressing these complexities with both scientific rigor and human compassion. Before coming to the United States, I earned licensure as both a social worker and a counseling psychologist in Taiwan, working extensively in medical environments. In hospitals and community health centers, I supported patients presenting with chronic diseases, psychiatric disorders, neurocognitive decline, functional impairment, and acute psychophysiological stress responses. I conducted biopsychosocial assessments, facilitated family systems interventions, and collaborated with multidisciplinary teams that included physicians, nurses, occupational therapists, physical therapists, and case managers. These clinical experiences sharpened my understanding of integrated care models and taught me how mental health symptoms often manifest through somatic pathways long before a patient is ready to articulate distress. I also worked deeply with LGBTQIA+ individuals and people living with HIV, many of whom faced structural barriers, minority stress, and medical mistrust. Through crisis counseling, HIV empowerment programs, and trauma-informed interventions, I witnessed the profound gap between the mental health needs of marginalized communities and the availability of competent, culturally responsive services. Each client reminded me why this work matters and why our healthcare system must evolve. My path to the United States for graduate training in Medical Family Therapy was driven by my commitment to clinical excellence, but it has been marked by significant financial hardship. As a low-income international student, I have no access to federal aid and extremely limited employment options. Every semester brings the anxiety of tuition deadlines, rising medical insurance costs, and the basic expenses of survival. There have been months when I skipped meals or delayed medical appointments because I simply could not afford them. This financial instability has not weakened my commitment. It has intensified my understanding of how socioeconomic determinants of health impact emotional functioning, treatment adherence, and patient outcomes. These lived experiences shape my future goals. I hope to become a Medical Family Therapist working in hospital-based behavioral health, integrated primary care, or specialty medical clinics. I aim to provide systemically informed, culturally grounded interventions to patients with chronic illness, identity-related distress, or complex psychosocial needs. I want to develop clinical programs that increase access for low-income families, BIPOC communities, LGBTQIA+ individuals, and first-generation students who often struggle to navigate healthcare systems designed without them in mind. Ultimately, I hope to merge clinical practice with advocacy work, contributing to structural changes that make mental healthcare more equitable and more attuned to the lived experiences of marginalized populations. I chose this career path because I believe deeply that healing is not simply the absence of symptoms. It is the presence of dignity, safety, and culturally resonant care. My ambition drives my training, my financial need keeps me grounded in empathy, and my experience as a first-generation student fuels my determination to open doors for people who have long been left outside the healthcare system.

I was born and raised in Taiwan, where healthcare was understood as a shared responsibility and where illness affected entire families, not just individuals. Growing up queer in a culture where emotional struggles were often minimized taught me early how deeply people suffer when they feel unseen or unheard. These experiences shaped my desire to work in mental health, and over time, they led me into the medical system as both a licensed social worker and a counseling psychologist. Before coming to the United States, I worked in hospitals and community clinics in Taiwan, supporting patients facing chronic illness, psychiatric diagnoses, disability, and major life transitions. I met families who were terrified by medical uncertainty, patients struggling to adapt to long-term treatment, and individuals whose emotional pain showed up as physical symptoms. I collaborated with physicians, nurses, occupational therapists, and rehabilitation teams, helping them understand how a patient’s family dynamics, cultural background, and emotional history shaped their recovery. These moments showed me that medical care becomes truly healing only when emotional and relational needs are addressed with the same seriousness as physical symptoms. My work with LGBTQIA+ individuals and people living with HIV further deepened this conviction. Many clients entered medical settings already bracing for misunderstanding or stigma. Through hotline counseling, narrative-based HIV programs, and mental health outreach, I saw how deeply people needed providers who understood their identities and fears. These experiences confirmed that the healthcare system needs more professionals trained to hold cultural complexity and emotional vulnerability with care. When I moved to the United States to pursue my master’s degree in Medical Family Therapy, my commitment to this field only intensified. But the transition was far more difficult than I expected. I faced isolation, cultural disorientation, and the challenge of practicing therapy in a second language. What shaped me most, however, was the financial instability that followed me through every semester. International students cannot access federal financial aid and have very limited work opportunities. Rent, tuition, health insurance, and unexpected medical bills created a level of stress that often kept me awake late into the night. There were days when I sat in class carrying the fear that I might not be able to afford to continue, even though this work is everything I believe in. This financial pressure shaped me emotionally and professionally. It taught me what it feels like to live with constant uncertainty, to make impossible choices, and to hide fear while trying to stay strong for others. These personal experiences gave me deep empathy for patients who face structural barriers, economic strain, or cultural displacement. They strengthened my determination to serve people who live at the margins of healthcare access. My ambition is to become a Medical Family Therapist who bridges emotional and medical care with compassion, cultural humility, and clinical depth. I want to work in hospitals or integrated behavioral health clinics supporting patients with chronic illness, identity conflict, trauma, and financial or cultural barriers to treatment. I hope to collaborate with medical teams to create healthcare spaces where emotional pain is taken seriously, where culture is honored, and where patients receive care that acknowledges the fullness of their lives. Ultimately, I want to build a healthcare career where no patient feels invisible, where emotional support is accessible to all, and where healing is grounded in dignity, understanding, and connection.

1. My path into mental health was shaped by both personal struggle and professional witness. Growing up queer in Taiwan, I learned early how silence, stigma, and cultural expectations can wound a person long before they ever enter a therapy room. These experiences led me to pursue licensure as both a social worker and a counseling psychologist in Taiwan, where I provided care for LGBTQIA+ individuals, people living with HIV, families in crisis, and BIPOC communities within Taiwan’s diverse cultural landscape. Sitting with clients through trauma, identity pain, and systemic oppression taught me that healing requires more than skill. It requires presence, cultural humility, and deep respect for resilience. Moving to the United States to pursue my master’s degree in Medical Family Therapy magnified those lessons. As a BIPOC international student, I navigated loneliness, cultural dislocation, and the emotional weight of conducting therapy in a second language. But the most persistent burden was financial. With no access to federal aid and extremely limited work opportunities, every tuition payment and medical bill carried the fear that my education could abruptly end. This financial precarity shaped my mental health and sharpened my awareness of how structural inequity shapes the lives of immigrant, BIPOC, and marginalized clients. These lived challenges continue to guide the therapist I am becoming. I want to be someone who understands both the visible and invisible struggles my clients carry, because I have carried them too. 2. If I could change one part of today’s mental healthcare system, I would transform how we train and support clinicians to work with culturally diverse and marginalized communities. Many BIPOC and LGBTQIA+ clients avoid therapy not because they do not believe in mental health, but because they fear being misunderstood or harmed by clinicians who are not trained to understand their experiences. I have seen this repeatedly in my clinical work, both in Taiwan and in the United States. A truly equitable system must invest in developing a diverse mental health workforce and provide funding for BIPOC, LGBTQIA+, and immigrant clinicians who face financial and structural barriers to licensure. It must also require comprehensive training in anti-oppressive practice, intersectionality, trauma-responsive care, and cultural humility. When clinicians are trained to recognize systemic injustice, they can finally offer care that honors clients’ full humanity. Representation and informed practice are not luxuries. They are necessities. 3. Teletherapy has opened doors for many clients who were previously shut out of care, including LGBTQIA+ youth hiding their identities, immigrants who need linguistic or cultural matching, and individuals in rural or underserved communities. In my own clinical work, I have seen teletherapy provide safety for clients who fear in-person stigma and flexibility for those balancing multiple jobs or caregiving roles. Yet teletherapy also reveals inequities. Many marginalized clients lack stable internet, private space, or the technology required to fully show up. For some cultural communities, relational warmth and embodied presence are vital parts of trust-building and can feel harder to cultivate virtually. To innovate meaningfully, we must create community telehealth hubs, fund low-cost technology access, expand multilingual digital support, and continue training clinicians in virtual rapport-building and trauma sensitivity. Teletherapy will only reach its full potential when the technology reflects the people it aims to serve. With intentional design, it can become a powerful doorway to equity, connection, and healing across language, identity, geography, and culture.

I was born and raised in Taiwan, where conversations about mental health often remained quiet and where LGBTQIA+ identity carried cultural stigma. Growing up queer in an Asian context taught me what it means to feel unseen, to navigate silence, and to search for spaces where I could simply exist without fear. These early experiences shaped my commitment to mental health long before I entered the profession. In Taiwan, I became both a licensed social worker and a counseling psychologist. I supported individuals facing trauma, discrimination, family conflict, and systemic barriers that limited their ability to seek help. These professional experiences revealed how deeply culture shapes healing and how urgently marginalized communities need affirming, culturally competent care. My dedication to community grew through volunteer work with LGBTQIA+ hotlines, HIV storytelling organizations, and BIPOC-centered support networks. In each space, I witnessed how healing happens when people are finally heard in their own language, their own identity, and their own truth. I also witnessed how often people hesitate to seek mental health support because providers do not understand their cultural or queer experiences. These encounters anchored my belief that mental health is not only clinical. It is relational, political, and rooted in justice. My own mental health experiences sharpened this calling. When I moved to the United States to pursue a master’s degree in Medical Family Therapy, the transition was far more painful than I expected. I faced loneliness, cultural dislocation, and the pressure of practicing therapy in English while adjusting to new clinical norms. As a BIPOC international student, I also carried significant financial strain. Without access to federal aid and with limited work opportunities, every semester brought fear and uncertainty. Tuition, medical bills, and basic living expenses created a level of stress that often felt overwhelming. There were moments when I questioned whether I belonged in graduate school at all. Yet it was precisely in this vulnerability that my purpose deepened. My anxiety helped me understand the emotional realities that many clients face when they live at the intersections of race, queerness, immigration status, and financial precarity. My isolation helped me recognize the importance of community-based healing. My financial struggles taught me humility and empathy that no textbook could have offered. Today, my career aspiration is to unite my background as a Taiwanese social worker and counseling psychologist with my U.S. training in medical family therapy. I aim to serve LGBTQIA+, BIPOC, immigrant, and international student communities who often encounter systemic barriers when seeking care. I want to build therapy spaces where racial and queer identities are affirmed, where cultural context is honored, and where clients feel understood rather than pathologized. I also hope to collaborate with community organizations to expand low-cost services, reduce stigma, and strengthen mental-health literacy for marginalized groups. My activism is grounded in the belief that healing is a form of justice. I hope to challenge inequities in mental health systems, advocate for culturally competent practice, and amplify voices that have long been silenced. Ultimately, I want to serve as a bridge between cultures and communities. My lived experience, my professional background, and my identity guide me toward a future where I can help people reclaim dignity, safety, and hope. Through the mental health services I provide, I aim to create spaces where marginalized communities not only survive but thrive.

When I left Taiwan to pursue graduate training in medical family therapy in the United States, I carried with me both my academic ambition and the spiritual grounding shaped by the Presbyterian Church in Taiwan. My faith taught me that God calls us to serve the vulnerable and to work for justice. My cultural upbringing taught me perseverance, responsibility, and respect for the generations before me who endured hardship with resilience. These two foundations guided me as I stepped into a new country, hoping to develop the skills needed to serve marginalized communities. Yet when I arrived, I quickly discovered that my greatest challenge would not be academic. It would be financial survival. As an international student, I had no access to federal financial aid and extremely limited work opportunities. Tuition, insurance, rent, food, textbooks, and unexpected expenses quickly exceeded what I had saved. Every payment felt like a reminder that my future here was fragile. At the same time, I was adjusting to English academic writing, learning a new clinical system, and trying to navigate loneliness without family nearby. The pressure of financial fear and cultural transition created a level of stress I had never experienced. One evening, after receiving a medical bill that I could not afford, I felt something inside me collapse. I sat in my apartment wondering whether my calling to become a therapist would end simply because I lacked the money to continue. In that moment, I turned to prayer the way I learned in the Presbyterian Church in Taiwan. I spoke honestly to God about my fear and exhaustion. I also allowed my cultural memory to steady me. I remembered my grandparents who survived scarcity with dignity. I remembered how Taiwanese communities support one another through quiet strength. I remembered my parents’ faith and the belief that God walks with us through uncertainty. Prayer gave me enough clarity to take one step forward. I reached out to professors and admitted my situation. I shared my struggles with classmates. I searched for scholarships and emergency funds. I found a small Taiwanese church in St. Louis that welcomed me with warmth. Slowly, support began to appear in ways I could not have planned. My financial challenges did not disappear, but my faith helped me see them not as proof that I was failing, but as part of the path God was shaping for me. This experience deepened my sense of mission. I want to serve communities who carry fear, instability, and shame, because I have carried these feelings myself. I want to bring compassion to clients who feel overwhelmed by life’s weight, because I know how it feels to sit in that uncertainty. My financial struggle became part of the wisdom I will one day bring into my work as a therapist. Today, I still face financial need and the complexities of studying far from home. Yet I move forward with the strength of my faith and the resilience of my culture. I trust that each difficulty is forming me into someone who can serve with sincerity, humility, and courage. I continue to believe that God is guiding me, and that the path I am walking will allow me to give back to the communities that shaped me and to the ones I am called to serve.

I became a fan of Wicked long before I ever had the chance to see a real Broadway stage. I first listened to “Defying Gravity” through cheap headphones in my bedroom in Taiwan, a place where I was quietly learning my queerness while pretending everything was normal. Hearing Elphaba sing about stepping into her power felt like a private revelation. I did not have the words for it then, but I felt something shift. Here was a character who was misunderstood, judged, and labeled “wrong” simply for existing, yet she chose herself anyway. As a queer kid who often felt different without understanding why, I held onto that. Years later, when I moved to the United States for graduate school, Wicked began to feel even more personal. Suddenly I was the one arriving at a new “university,” trying to survive cultural confusion, academic expectations, and the occasional panic about whether I belonged here at all. In many ways, I felt like Elphaba stepping into Shiz with equal parts hope and pure chaos. If Elphaba could handle flying, surely I could handle writing clinical notes. The queerness of Wicked is part of why I love it. Not just in the way fans lovingly joke about “Elphaba and Glinda sharing one brain cell and one bed,” but in the deeper themes: chosen family, defying societal norms, daring to exist outside imposed boxes, and loving someone enough that it changes you “for good.” These themes resonate with the LGBTQIA+ community, and they certainly resonate with me. When Elphaba sings about being seen for the first time, it feels like the emotional experience of every queer person who has ever found community after years of hiding. As someone who volunteers in LGBTQIA+ settings and now trains as a therapist, Wicked mirrors what I see in real life. Healing often begins when someone simply recognizes your humanity. Growth often begins when someone finally believes in your worth. Elphaba finds that through Glinda. I found it through queer community and service work in the United States. That shared experience of connection makes Wicked feel like home. But I am also a fan because Wicked is funny. Elphaba’s sarcasm is exactly the type of humor queer people use to survive. Glinda’s persistent optimism reminds me of that one overly cheerful friend you want to judge but secretly need. Their dynamic holds both chaos and tenderness, the same mix that defines many queer friendships. Songs like “The Wizard and I” fueled my teenage dreams. “For Good” makes me emotional every time I think about the friends, mentors, and chosen family who shaped my journey across continents. And “Defying Gravity” continues to remind me that embracing my identity is not rebellion. It is transformation. Ultimately, I am a fan of Wicked because it taught me that being different is not a flaw. It is a beginning. It taught me that the world may try to tell you who you should be, but you still get to decide who you become. And as someone who crossed oceans to build a life that feels true and free, that lesson is the closest thing to magic I know.

As a non United States citizen who came to this country to study and serve, my definition of the American Dream is rooted in community, identity, and healing. It is not only the pursuit of a better life for oneself. It is the hope that one can build a life that uplifts others, especially those whose voices have been historically overlooked. For me, the American Dream is the possibility of living truthfully as a queer person, contributing meaningfully to LGBTQIA+ communities, and creating spaces where people feel safe enough to be fully themselves. Growing up in Taiwan, I understood queerness as something whispered rather than celebrated. When I arrived in the United States, I found communities where LGBTQIA+ people gathered to support one another, share their stories, and care for each other in ways that felt deeply transformative. As a volunteer in queer support groups, HIV advocacy efforts, and community arts based initiatives, I witnessed how healing begins when people feel recognized and affirmed. These moments shaped my understanding of the American Dream. It is the freedom to build chosen families and communities of care, even when traditional structures fail to provide acceptance. My training in mental health taught me that recovery and empowerment do not develop in isolation. People heal through connection, empathy, and the presence of others who understand their lived experiences. In my volunteer work with queer youth, immigrant clients, and individuals navigating depression, trauma, or identity conflict, I realized that the American Dream becomes real when people have access to support systems that honor their humanity. Every story I heard reminded me that belonging is not a luxury. It is a basic need. As an international student, I carry the awareness of my status every day. There are restrictions on employment, limitations in resources, and moments when I feel like an outsider observing but not fully participating in the world around me. Yet through LGBTQIA+ community work, I found a deeper sense of home than any visa could offer. Service allowed me to create connection despite borders and to contribute despite constraints. It gave me purpose during times when my future felt uncertain. For me, the American Dream is the hope that my work in mental health can become a bridge for others who also feel caught between cultures, identities, and expectations. I want to use my training to support queer and immigrant communities who often navigate systems that do not fully understand their histories. The dream is not only about success. It is about responsibility. It is about ensuring that the path I am walking becomes a little easier for the person who comes after me. I do not see the American Dream as a promise of individual achievement. I see it as a collective vision shaped by compassion and courage. It is the belief that healing is possible, that identity is worth celebrating, and that every person deserves a safe space to grow. Even though I am not a citizen, I feel connected to this dream through my service, my advocacy, and my commitment to building communities where everyone can breathe, belong, and become.

Recovery, especially from meth use, is the slow and courageous act of returning to myself. It is learning to rebuild trust in my body and mind after a period when I felt lost, disconnected, and unsure if I deserved another chance. Recovery is not about erasing the past. It is the process of understanding it with honesty and compassion, and choosing not to let it define the limits of my future. As someone now training to be a therapist, I understand recovery as the restoration of safety, the rebuilding of internal coherence, and the gentle reconnection to meaning and relationships. It is learning to tolerate my own emotions again and discovering healthier ways to soothe pain that once felt unbearable. Recovery also means accepting that healing is uneven. Some days feel hopeful and bright. Other days feel heavy and uncertain. Every day I choose recovery, I practice believing in my own possibility. Most of all, recovery is awakening. It is the commitment to live honestly, to reach for support when I need it, and to imagine a future larger than anything I once believed I could have. It is choosing growth, choosing gentleness, and choosing myself again and again.

Out of all of Taylor Swift’s legendary performances-from stadium-shaking Eras Tour moments to her country roots on small stages, the one that moves me most is her acoustic performance of “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” on Saturday Night Live in 2021. It was ten minutes without costume changes, backup dancers, pyrotechnics, or even the comfort of a band. Just Taylor, a guitar, one spotlight, and ten years of heartbreak condensed into a single performance so emotionally raw that I, an international grad student from Taiwan trying very hard to pretend I was fine, ended up crying quietly into my textbook at 3 a.m. What makes this performance so powerful to me isn’t just the song, it’s the courage it takes to stand there and perform a wound that once reshaped you. Watching Taylor sing those lyrics as the woman she grew into, reclaiming a story she once lived as a girl, felt like witnessing emotional alchemy. And honestly, it also felt gay. Not in the literal sense, but in the “I have felt too deeply for someone who barely acknowledged my existence” kind of way, the queer experience of loving intensely in silence, of longing that feels both embarrassing and poetic. When Taylor sang “and I was never good at telling jokes, but the punchline goes…” I swear she was speaking directly to all of us who have ever fallen in love with someone who absolutely should not have been the main character in our emotional narrative. For me, that performance became a mirror. I had just moved to St. Louis, navigating a new country, a new language rhythm, and a new loneliness that even FaceTiming family in Taiwan couldn’t fix. I was balancing graduate school, clinical internship hours, and, because I have impeccable timing, a heartbreak involving someone I definitely shouldn’t have liked. Watching Taylor articulate her story with such honesty helped me acknowledge my own feelings, which I had been avoiding in true immigrant-eldest-child fashion. What also struck me was how unpolished the performance felt in the best possible way. Her voice cracked. Her eyes welled. She smiled at memories only she fully understood. She wasn’t trying to be perfect; she was trying to be true. And that truthfulness inspired me not just as a person, but as someone training to be a therapist. It reminded me that healing isn’t neat. Storytelling isn’t linear. And sometimes empowerment looks like saying, “Yes, it hurt, but look at me now.” In a world where performing often means hiding, Taylor chose exposure. In an industry that rewards spectacle, she chose stillness. And in a moment when she could have reinvented the song into something safer, she chose to open the old wound and show that it no longer controlled her. That, to me, is what The Life of A Showgirl means: longevity not built on glitter, but on truth. Her SNL performance also taught me a surprisingly practical lesson: it is possible to be dramatic and self-aware at the same time. As someone who writes long emotional texts and then immediately regrets them, I appreciate that skill deeply. Ultimately, the reason this performance moves me most is because it taught me that survival can be soft, theatrical, queer-coded, painfully honest, and still beautiful. Taylor showed me that your story can hurt and still belong to you. That heartbreak can be both a tragedy and a power anthem. And that sometimes, one spotlight is enough to illuminate the version of yourself you’re becoming.

I didn’t expect Sabrina Carpenter to become such an important part of my life. In fact, the first time I listened to her, I was sitting in my St. Louis apartment, overwhelmed by graduate school readings, uncertain about my future, and once again falling for a straight man I absolutely should not have fallen for. It felt like a personal talent at that point. And right when my emotional life was a beautiful disaster, I accidentally played “please please please.” And suddenly, Sabrina was narrating my entire existence. That song, with its perfect mix of pleading, humor, self-awareness, and heartbreak, felt like it was written for international grad students who keep making questionable romantic choices. When she sings “please, please, please… don’t prove me right”, I felt spiritually attacked and also comforted. It was the moment I realized Sabrina didn’t just write songs. She wrote survival guides. Her music arrived in my life during a difficult transition. I had moved from Taiwan to the U.S., balancing academic pressure, culture shock, financial worries, and the loneliness of starting over. Her songs played during late-night papers, early morning drives to internship sites, and long walks back from the clinic when I questioned everything about myself, my decisions, my identity, my relationships, even my English grammar. The magic of Sabrina is that she can take heartbreak and make it funny without diminishing the pain. Songs like “because i liked a boy” and “please please please” made me laugh out loud at experiences I usually tried to hide. She taught me that vulnerability isn’t weakness, sometimes it’s a punchline, and sometimes it’s a breakthrough. As a queer Taiwanese student training to be a couple and family therapist, her ability to transform emotional chaos into humor is not only inspiring; it’s therapeutic. Her work helped me understand parts of myself I didn’t know how to articulate. Adjusting to life in the U.S., navigating my queer identity, and repeatedly falling into unrequited situationships felt isolating. Sabrina’s evolution from her early albums to emails i can’t send to Short n’ Sweet mirrored my own journey of learning to take up space, to be louder, braver, and more honest. “please please please” in particular taught me something unexpected: it’s okay to want more. To ask for better. To hope someone will show up for you, while still keeping your humor intact in case they don’t. That song gave me permission to stop shrinking myself in relationships, friendships, and even academic spaces. Sabrina also gave me community. At her shows, surrounded by queer joy, laughter, and unapologetic self-expression, I finally felt like I belonged, not just as a fan, but as a human being navigating two cultures, one heart, and too many responsibilities. Her concerts felt like temporary homes where I didn’t have to translate myself. Most importantly, Sabrina Carpenter taught me that healing can be soft, dramatic, witty, and loud all at once. Her music became the emotional background of my graduate life, the soundtrack to my PhD application season, and the reason I learned to laugh at my own heartbreak instead of hiding it. That’s why I’m a fan, not just of her music, but of the way she has shaped my courage, humor, and sense of self. Sabrina didn’t just impact my playlists; she impacted how I live.

Mental illness has profoundly shaped my life and the person I am becoming. Growing up in a family where emotions were often unspoken, I learned early how silence can deepen suffering, and how presence and compassion can begin to heal it. When a close family member struggled for years with depression and anxiety, I witnessed not only their pain but also how it rippled through the entire family. That experience opened my eyes to the invisible ways mental illness touches relationships, communication, and daily life. Our home sometimes felt like two worlds, the one we showed to others, and the quiet one filled with unexpressed fear, sadness, and care. As the eldest child, I often found myself bridging those two spaces, trying to bring calm when emotions ran high. I didn’t always have the right words, but I learned that showing up mattered that simply sitting beside someone during their hardest moments could offer comfort. Those early lessons of empathy and patience eventually became the foundation of my career path. Years later, when I began my training in Couple and Family Therapy at Saint Louis University, I realized how deeply those experiences had influenced me. I approach every client with the same mindset I learned at home: that healing does not come from judgment or fixing, but from understanding. In my practicum, I work with individuals and families coping with depression, anxiety, ADHD, and relationship stress. I see how mental illness affects not just the person struggling, but everyone around them, the same truth I once lived within my own family. What once felt like a painful chapter in my life has become a source of insight and purpose. Because I know how isolating mental illness can feel, I strive to create a space in therapy where people feel seen, safe, and valued. I focus on helping clients and families rebuild communication, rediscover compassion, and learn that vulnerability is not weakness, but connection. Outside the therapy room, I extend this mission through community projects that combine storytelling and art to reduce stigma around mental health. By helping people share their experiences creatively, I’ve seen how visibility can transform shame into strength. Each story reminds me that healing happens not in isolation, but in community. Mental illness has taught me humility, resilience, and the power of empathy. It showed me that understanding is an act of care, and that small gestures of compassion can change the course of someone’s day, or even their life. Those lessons now guide my academic and professional journey. I hope to continue serving individuals and families affected by mental illness, while training future therapists to approach every client with openness and cultural sensitivity. Ultimately, what distinguishes me is not only my commitment to mental health, but the personal understanding I bring to it. I have seen both the pain and the possibility within mental illness. It taught me to believe in growth even in uncertainty, and to see care as a collective responsibility. That belief continues to guide my work, my studies, and my everyday interactions. Mental illness once challenged my family’s ability to connect but it also gave us the chance to learn new ways of loving each other. Through my work as a therapist, I hope to help others find that same possibility: that even in the midst of struggle, there is room for hope, for understanding, and for healing together.

Helping others with their mental health has been at the heart of my education, work, and identity. As a master’s student in Couple and Family Therapy at Saint Louis University, I provide therapy to individuals, couples, and families facing anxiety, ADHD, and relational challenges. My clinical focus is helping people feel understood rather than pathologized, recognizing that neurodiversity, including ADHD, reflects difference, not deficiency. In my practicum, I have supported clients whose ADHD symptoms affect their relationships, self-esteem, and daily functioning. Many have internalized shame from being labeled as “distracted” or “unmotivated.” I use strength-based and Emotionally Focused Therapy approaches to help clients and their loved ones identify emotional patterns, improve communication, and build empathy for each other. Rather than focusing solely on symptom management, I help clients reconnect with their strengths, creativity, intuition, and resilience and learn to design environments that work with their brains instead of against them. Beyond clinical work, I have been involved in community projects that bridge art, storytelling, and mental health. I’ve organized exhibitions and workshops where participants use creative expression to process emotions and share experiences of living with invisible conditions like ADHD. These projects help transform stigma into visibility and foster public understanding of neurodiversity as a natural part of human variation. In the future, I hope to integrate therapy, research, and teaching to make mental health care more accessible for neurodivergent individuals. My goal is to develop family-based and telehealth interventions that educate parents, partners, and educators about ADHD from a relational and systemic perspective. I also plan to mentor future clinicians in culturally responsive, neurodiversity-affirming care, so that mental health support reaches people who have long felt misunderstood or excluded. Ultimately, my studies have taught me that emotional support begins with deep listening with creating spaces where people can feel safe, seen, and valued. Whether in the therapy room, classroom, or community, I strive to build those spaces every day so that individuals with ADHD and other mental health challenges can move from self-doubt toward self-acceptance, and from isolation toward connection.

What makes me unique is that my path to higher education has been guided not only by ambition, but by a deep sense of care for people, for stories, and for justice. As a queer Taiwanese social worker and family therapist-in-training, I have dedicated my life to creating spaces where people can belong, heal, and be seen in their full humanity. The Adam Montes Pride Scholarship represents not only financial support, but also an affirmation of the values I strive to live by: courage, compassion, and community. My journey began in Taiwan, where I worked as a licensed social worker serving individuals and families facing stigma due to gender, sexuality, or HIV status. Many of my clients were rejected by their families or unable to access mental health care because of discrimination. Those experiences shaped my belief that healing must happen not only within individuals but also within systems that we must transform the environments that make people feel unworthy of care. After coming to the United States to pursue my master’s degree in Couple and Family Therapy at Saint Louis University, I carried that mission with me. As an intern at the Queer & Trans Wellness Clinic and Diversified Health & Wellness Center, I provide therapy for LGBTQIA+ clients and couples, many of whom struggle with intersectional challenges such as racism, migration stress, or living with HIV. These experiences continually remind me that mental health is inseparable from social justice. My proudest accomplishment has been helping clients find voice and visibility, whether through therapy, art exhibitions, or community projects. Beyond clinical work, I serve as a board member of the Taiwan HIV Story Association, where I help organize storytelling exhibitions that use art to humanize HIV experiences. In 2024, our collective presented POZ Movement at the International AIDS Conference in Munich, featuring works created by people living with HIV. Standing beside them, I realized that visibility is itself a form of healing, that sharing stories can challenge stigma more powerfully than statistics ever could. These experiences inspire my goal of becoming a scholar-practitioner who bridges family therapy, health disparities, and community-based storytelling. I plan to pursue a Ph.D. focused on developing culturally grounded, family-centered interventions for LGBTQIA+ and HIV-affected populations. My dream is to establish a cross-cultural research and training initiative between the U.S. and Taiwan, promoting inclusive mental health care across contexts. What distinguishes me from other applicants is my ability to navigate and connect multiple worlds, clinical, academic, artistic, and cultural. I approach therapy not just as treatment, but as collaboration and advocacy. I see research not as numbers alone, but as a way to honor lived experience. My intersectional identity allows me to translate between languages, systems, and stories, and to build bridges across difference with empathy and creativity. Receiving the Adam Montes Pride Scholarship would allow me to continue this work with greater stability and impact. It would help me dedicate more time to serving marginalized communities and to mentoring future therapists of color who often lack representation in academia. Most of all, it would affirm that my vision, a world where care is accessible, affirming, and rooted in justice is worth building. In every role I take, therapist, researcher, artist, advocate I carry the same message: that pride is not only celebration, but commitment. It means showing up for others, transforming pain into purpose, and creating communities where everyone has the freedom to heal and to thrive. That is what I have built so far, and what I will continue to build with gratitude, persistence, and pride.

Living alongside a chronic medical condition, both in my own life and within my family has reshaped the way I understand strength, care, and hope. It has not only influenced my personal journey but also shaped my vision for how I want to contribute to the world: by helping others find meaning and connection even in the midst of pain. There are moments when illness or limitation quietly rearranges life’s rhythm. Routines become uncertain, plans require flexibility, and energy must be carefully measured. At first, I saw these realities as barriers. Over time, though, they became my greatest teachers. They taught me to slow down, to listen deeply to my body and to others, and to measure progress not by speed but by intention. I learned that resilience does not mean ignoring vulnerability, it means living fully with it. This experience transformed how I relate to people and how I view care. I came to see that illness is not only a medical event but also a relational one, it affects families, friendships, and one’s sense of belonging. It exposes how much we depend on one another and how healing is often found in connection rather than cure. These insights drew me toward the field of family therapy, where I could explore how relationships can nurture resilience even when health cannot be “fixed.” What inspires me most is the courage I’ve witnessed in people who live with uncertainty every day. Their persistence reminds me that purpose can coexist with pain, and that joy can grow in unexpected spaces. In moments when I feel limited, I think of the people who continue to create, love, and dream despite their challenges. Their stories motivate me to use my energy not only to overcome but to give back to turn my empathy into action. In my clinical work, I strive to create spaces where individuals and families feel seen and supported in their full humanity, not defined by a diagnosis or condition. I am drawn to integrative, community-based approaches that expand access to care for those living with chronic illness or marginalized identities. Through research, teaching, and advocacy, I hope to build systems that recognize mental and physical health as inseparable, and that empower people to tell their own stories of endurance and transformation. On a personal level, navigating life with chronic limitations has also deepened my compassion for myself. I’ve learned to celebrate small victories, to rest without guilt, and to approach others’ struggles without judgment. It has given me a quiet kind of confidence, the understanding that even when circumstances cannot be changed, perspective can. This inner shift continues to shape how I show up as a therapist, student, and community member: with patience, humility, and hope. Ultimately, the condition that once felt like a constraint has become a compass. It guides me toward empathy, toward research that honors lived experience, and toward a vision of care that is both inclusive and sustainable. I want to help others discover that their stories, too, hold power that within every limitation lies the possibility of connection and growth. By transforming challenge into purpose, I hope to model what I’ve learned firsthand: that healing is not the absence of struggle, but the presence of compassion. And through that compassion, I aim to build a world where every person, regardless of their health or circumstance feels worthy of care, capable of meaning, and part of a community that believes in their strength.

What I want to build is a bridge, a sustainable connection between clinical mental health care and the communities that have historically been left out of it. I hope to build an integrative model of family therapy that is culturally responsive, community-based, and accessible through both in-person and telehealth formats. My vision is to make therapy not only a place of treatment but also a space of empowerment, storytelling, and belonging. As a family therapist-in-training, I have witnessed how many marginalized groups, such as LGBTQ+ individuals, immigrants, and people living with HIV face barriers to care because of cost, stigma, or lack of culturally competent providers. In my clinical work, I see that mental health challenges are rarely individual; they are relational, shaped by family, culture, and social systems. What I want to build responds directly to that reality: a network where mental health services grow from within the community itself. I hope to design and test community-embedded therapy programs that combine family-based interventions, peer support, and art-based storytelling. For example, I imagine a model where therapists collaborate with local organizations to offer low-fee group therapy alongside creative workshops, spaces where people can tell their stories, create art, and learn coping strategies together. These spaces could exist both physically and virtually, supported by telehealth platforms to reach rural and under-resourced populations. Building this vision will also shape my own future. It will allow me to grow as a clinician-researcher who not only practices therapy but also contributes to developing evidence-based approaches that reflect diverse realities. It will deepen my commitment to social justice and equip me to mentor future therapists to see healing as collective work. For my community, this effort would mean that therapy is no longer something distant or unaffordable, but something that feels local, relatable, and sustainable. It would mean that people, especially those at the intersection of multiple identities can find affirmation, not alienation, in mental health care. In essence, what I want to build is not only a model or a project, but a movement: one that redefines what care looks like, who it is for, and how it can grow. By building this bridge, I hope to make healing more accessible and to remind others, and myself that resilience begins when people are truly seen, heard, and supported together.

My vision is to bridge the gap between community care and professional therapy through culturally informed, evidence-based models that meet people where they are. As a family therapist trained in both clinical practice and social work, I see how structural barriers, financial, cultural, and systemic limit access to mental health care. My unique contribution lies in integrating clinical knowledge with community engagement and digital innovation to expand reach without compromising quality. First, I aim to develop telehealth-adapted models of Emotionally Focused and Family Therapy that remain relational, interactive, and low-cost. By using technology creatively—such as group tele-sessions, digital storytelling, and peer-support networks—we can provide continuity of care to marginalized communities, including LGBTQ+ and HIV-affected populations, who often experience isolation and stigma. Second, I plan to build partnerships between universities, nonprofits, and community health centers to train future therapists in community-based, culturally responsive practice. Through open-access training materials and sliding-scale service models, students can gain supervised experience while clients receive affordable care. Ultimately, my contribution is a sustainable framework that unites clinical excellence with social justice: therapy that listens to diverse stories, leverages digital access, and empowers communities to heal together. I believe mental health care should not be a privilege, it should be a shared human right.

Being part of the disabled community has changed the way I see the world and the way I see people. Living with mental health challenges—specifically Major Depressive Disorder—and working closely with others who navigate physical, emotional, and invisible disabilities have taught me that strength looks very different from what society often imagines. For a long time, I thought strength meant perfection or independence. Now, I understand that true strength is found in vulnerability, interdependence, and the courage to keep showing up even when life feels uncertain. When I was first diagnosed with depression, I didn’t think of myself as “disabled.” The word felt distant, something that belonged to other people, not to me. But as I learned more about the community, I began to recognize that mental illness is also a form of disability—one that can affect every aspect of a person’s life, from relationships to work to identity. That realization opened my eyes to how society often defines worth and productivity in narrow ways, leaving little room for those whose bodies or minds function differently. Becoming part of the disabled community taught me to value accessibility, empathy, and collective care. I learned that inclusion is not just about meeting physical needs but about recognizing diverse ways of thinking, feeling, and being. Through therapy, advocacy, and my current training in Couple and Family Therapy, I’ve seen how small changes in systems, whether in language, policy, or mindset can make a huge difference in people’s sense of belonging. This perspective has reshaped my professional goals. I want to contribute to creating spaces where people with disabilities, visible or invisible, are not defined by limitations but recognized for their resilience and insight. As a future therapist and researcher, I aim to design interventions that honor disability as a form of diversity, not deficiency. I want to challenge the stigma that still surrounds mental health and disability, especially in cultures where silence and shame often prevent people from seeking help. Being part of this community has also deepened my empathy. I’ve learned to listen differently to notice the pauses, the fatigue, the courage behind simple words like “I’m okay.” It has made me more patient in both my professional and personal relationships. I no longer see disability as something that separates people, but as something that can connect us through shared experiences of vulnerability and perseverance. In the future, I hope to use my experience to advocate for inclusive healthcare and education systems. I want to help train future clinicians to understand disability from a relational and cultural perspective, emphasizing that accessibility is not charity, it’s justice. My goal is to bridge research, therapy, and community work to create environments where everyone can thrive, regardless of ability. The disabled community has taught me that there is profound beauty in imperfection. It has shown me that asking for help is not weakness but wisdom, and that every person deserves to exist in spaces that affirm their worth and humanity. This understanding has become the foundation of how I move through the world with compassion, awareness, and the determination to make it more inclusive for others. My experience as part of the disabled community is not just a chapter in my life; it is a compass. It points me toward a future where empathy guides leadership, where difference is not something to be fixed but something to be understood, and where healing is not just individual but collective. That is the world I want to help build one conversation, one relationship, and one act of understanding at a time.

For much of my early adulthood, I carried two forms of silence, one about my mental health, and one about my identity as a gay man growing up in a traditional Taiwanese family. For years, I believed that being strong meant hiding pain. I tried to meet everyone’s expectations, to be the good son, the reliable friend, the steady student. But beneath that calm surface, I was fighting an invisible battle with major depression, a condition that slowly stripped away my confidence and joy. At my lowest point, I felt disconnected from everything that once gave me meaning. The pressure to stay silent about both my mental health and my sexuality made the darkness heavier. It was not just sadness; it was the constant feeling of being unseen, of existing between two worlds that rarely met. I didn’t have the language to describe what was happening, but I knew I couldn’t keep living that way. Reaching out for help became an act of survival. I began therapy, something uncommon and even frowned upon in my culture. Talking openly for the first time was terrifying but liberating. My therapist helped me name emotions I had long buried, fear, guilt, shame, and loneliness and taught me that vulnerability is not a flaw but a form of truth. Slowly, I learned to rebuild a relationship with myself, to accept my identity, and to find meaning in community. That experience changed everything. It taught me that healing is not about erasing pain but transforming it. Through recovery, I found strength in authenticity and empathy. I also found purpose. My journey led me to pursue a master’s degree in Couple and Family Therapy, where I now study the intersection of relationships, mental health, and cultural identity. As a bilingual and queer therapist-in-training, I work with individuals and families navigating experiences like my own, people who have been told to stay silent about their truth. My lived experience allows me to sit with others’ pain without judgment. When a client tells me they feel “too different” or “too broken,” I can genuinely say, “I understand.” I’ve learned that one of the most powerful things a therapist can offer is presence, the willingness to witness someone’s story without turning away. What once felt like a source of shame has become the foundation of my empathy and purpose. Being part of the LGBTQIA+ community has also shaped how I understand resilience. I’ve learned that identity is not something to overcome but to embrace. It means finding power in visibility, community, and connection. My experiences with depression and queer identity have given me a deeper understanding of how systems, family, culture, religion, and healthcare can both harm and heal. That awareness fuels my goal to create inclusive, culturally responsive models of therapy that affirm people’s full humanity. This journey has taught me that healing is not linear, and self-acceptance is not a destination but a practice. I continue to learn every day, through my clients, my mentors, and the communities that have shown me what it means to belong. In the end, both my struggles and my survival have given me a mission: to turn silence into understanding, and pain into purpose. My story is no longer just about depression or coming out, it’s about learning to live fully, honestly, and compassionately, and helping others do the same.

My experience with Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) has profoundly shaped my identity, my relationships, and the direction of my life’s work. In my early twenties, I went through one of the darkest and most transformative periods of my life. What began as exhaustion and self-doubt slowly turned into a deep sense of emptiness that I could no longer hide. Every day felt like moving through fog; simple tasks became heavy, and I questioned whether my life had meaning. At the time, I didn’t have the words to describe what I was going through, I only knew that I was falling apart inside while trying to appear “fine” to everyone around me. Eventually, the pain became too heavy to carry alone. Reaching out for help was not easy; in my culture, mental illness is still often misunderstood or stigmatized. But I reached a point where I realized that silence was far more dangerous than vulnerability. With the encouragement of a close friend, I sought therapy. That decision changed my life. Through therapy, I began to understand depression not as a weakness, but as a signal, a message that something within me needed care and compassion. My therapist helped me name emotions I had buried for years: fear, shame, grief, and longing. Learning to articulate those feelings was the first step toward reclaiming myself. I discovered that healing is rarely linear; it is slow, uncertain, and deeply human. There were setbacks, but each time I learned something about resilience, the kind that grows not from strength alone, but from honesty and connection. My recovery journey fundamentally changed the way I see the world. It taught me that everyone carries invisible battles and that kindness can mean everything to someone who is struggling. I became more sensitive to others’ emotions and more patient in relationships. Where I once hid my pain, I now try to create space for others to speak theirs. I learned that love is not about fixing someone; it is about being present, even in the silence. This experience also reshaped my career path and purpose. Before, I thought of helping professions as something external, supporting others through structured interventions. After living through depression, I understood that healing is relational. It happens between people, in moments of empathy and understanding. That realization led me to pursue my master’s degree in Couple and Family Therapy, where I could study how relationships influence mental health and how families can become sources of healing rather than pain. In my clinical training, I often draw on my lived experience to connect with clients who feel hopeless or alone. I understand what it’s like to sit in that darkness, and I also know that it’s possible to find light again. My experience with MDD has given me not just empathy, but a sense of responsibility, to use my insight to support others, especially those who may not yet have the words to describe their suffering. Looking forward, I hope to continue my journey toward licensure and eventually pursue a Ph.D. focused on family-based and culturally responsive mental health interventions. I want to study how relational dynamics and social context shape emotional well-being, especially among LGBTQ+ and immigrant communities who often face compounded barriers to care. Major Depressive Disorder changed me, but it did not define me. It taught me that vulnerability is not the opposite of strength, it is its foundation. My journey through depression gave me clarity about who I want to be: a therapist, a researcher, and a human being who believes that healing is always possible when compassion meets courage.

Being a first-generation student means more than being the first in my family to attend graduate school, it means carrying the hopes, sacrifices, and quiet dreams of generations before me. I grew up in Taiwan, in a family that valued hard work and compassion, but higher education abroad felt like an unreachable goal. When I decided to pursue my master’s degree in Couple and Family Therapy in the United States, I wasn’t just following my own dream, I was expanding what was possible for my family. The journey has not been easy. As an international and first-generation student, I have navigated complex systems, academic, financial, and cultural largely on my own. I have had to learn how to advocate for myself, seek mentorship, and manage uncertainty with limited resources. There were times when I doubted whether I belonged, especially when balancing coursework, clinical training, and part-time work while being far from home. Yet every challenge became a lesson in persistence. I learned that resilience doesn’t mean doing everything alone, it means finding strength in connection, asking for help, and continuing to move forward even when the path feels unclear. What drives me most is the belief that healing begins in relationships. My work as a family therapy trainee has shown me how connection can transform pain into growth. I am especially passionate about supporting LGBTQIA+ individuals and families living with HIV/AIDS, drawing from my earlier work in Taiwan’s community health sector. These experiences taught me that even small acts of understanding can create ripple effects of change. I want to dedicate my career to developing family-based, culturally responsive interventions that promote health and resilience for marginalized communities. This scholarship would not only ease my financial burden but also allow me to focus more deeply on my clinical and research goals. As a first-generation student, every bit of support makes a tangible difference, it means fewer hours spent worrying about tuition and more energy invested in learning, serving, and growing. It would help me continue working toward licensure, engage in community-based research, and ultimately pursue a Ph.D. focused on health equity and family well-being. My dream is to become a scholar and clinician who bridges cultures, systems, and stories, someone who helps families find strength in connection, just as I have found mine through this journey. Being a first-generation student has taught me that success is not measured by perfection but by persistence, purpose, and compassion. This scholarship would not only bring me closer to my goals, it would also honor the legacy of everyone who helped me believe that education can be both personal healing and collective hope.

I grew up in Taiwan, where I learned early that language is more than words, it is connection, culture, and care. My first language is Mandarin Chinese, but English has long been the bridge between my local experiences and the global world I wanted to understand. Today, as a graduate student in Couple and Family Therapy at Saint Louis University, my bilingual identity shapes how I see people, relationships, and healing. My path to this field began through years of social work in Taiwan, where I provided counseling and community support for LGBTQIA+ individuals and families affected by HIV/AIDS. Those experiences taught me that every story is layered with culture and emotion, and that listening across differences requires more than empathy, it requires translation, both linguistic and relational. When I later moved to the United States for advanced training, I found that bilingualism became one of my greatest tools for connection. It allowed me to hold space for clients who, like me, navigate multiple worlds and languages while searching for belonging. Being bilingual, however, also comes with challenges. At times, I have struggled to find the exact English words to capture emotions that feel natural in Mandarin. Some concepts of family, duty, or intimacy do not translate neatly across languages, and I’ve had to learn to pause, reflect, and sometimes create new expressions that honor both cultures. In professional settings, I’ve occasionally felt self-conscious about my accent or phrasing, worrying that language might overshadow the quality of my ideas. Yet these challenges have strengthened my patience, humility, and determination to communicate with clarity and heart. The benefits of being bilingual far outweigh the difficulties. Moving between two languages has given me a deep appreciation for perspective, how people make meaning, how families express care, and how identity can expand rather than divide. In therapy, it helps me attune to subtle cultural cues and recognize when silence, tone, or rhythm speak louder than words. Bilingualism has also nurtured creativity; I often find that thinking in both Mandarin and English opens new ways to understand theory, research, and human experience. After graduation, I plan to continue my training toward licensure and doctoral study in Family or Medical Family Therapy. My long-term goal is to become a researcher, educator, and clinician who bridges cultural perspectives in health and family systems. I hope to develop community-based interventions that integrate emotional and physical well-being, particularly for LGBTQ+ and immigrant families who face barriers in traditional healthcare models. Through teaching and supervision, I want to mentor future therapists to work with cultural humility and relational awareness, skills that have been central to my own growth as a bilingual clinician. Being bilingual has also shaped how I understand resilience. Each time I switch between languages, I am reminded of adaptation, the ability to find one’s voice in different contexts without losing authenticity. That same resilience fuels my academic and professional journey. I carry my heritage as a source of strength, not limitation, and I hope to use it to amplify voices that are often unheard in research and therapy. In many ways, my bilingualism reflects who I am: someone who lives between cultures, values connection over perfection, and believes that diversity enriches every conversation. Post-graduation, I want to dedicate my career to creating spaces, both in therapy rooms and academic communities where multiple languages, stories, and identities are not just accepted but celebrated.

When my younger brother was diagnosed with Mitral Valve Prolapse, our family’s world quietly shifted. Overnight, medical language, heart monitors, and test results became part of our daily vocabulary. I was still young, but I could sense the anxiety that lingered in our home, the cautious optimism of my parents, the frustration my brother tried to hide, and the constant need to balance hope with fear. His condition reminded us that life could change at any moment, and that love sometimes means learning to live with uncertainty. At first, I felt helpless. I couldn’t fix his heart, and I didn’t know how to ease my parents’ worries. Yet, over time, I found that what truly made a difference was connection, the small, consistent gestures that said “we’re in this together.” We began to check in more often, to talk openly about fear, and to celebrate small victories like a normal test result or a symptom-free day. Through these moments, I discovered that illness affects not only the body but also the emotional bonds that sustain a family. This experience planted the seed for my later path in family therapy. It taught me that health is relational, that healing involves more than medical treatment; it requires understanding, communication, and shared resilience. In my current clinical training, I often reflect on those early lessons as I work with clients facing health and relational challenges. I’ve learned that families can be powerful agents of healing when they are given the tools to communicate with empathy and to transform fear into connection. My brother’s journey also shaped my research interests in family-based health interventions. I want to study how attachment patterns, cultural values, and family communication influence coping and recovery for people living with chronic illness. In particular, I hope to contribute to the development of interventions that integrate emotional and physical care, especially for marginalized or culturally diverse families who often face additional barriers in healthcare systems. What once felt like a painful family challenge has become the foundation of my professional identity. My brother’s courage continues to remind me that resilience is built in relationships, through patience, care, and understanding. His story inspires me to approach every client and every research question with compassion and curiosity. I want my work to help families find strength in connection, just as mine did, and to build a model of care that treats not just the disease, but the humanity at its center.