Don’t let the last name fool you - I am a proud Italian. My mother’s maiden name is a long Italian last name with twelve letters and, of course, ends in a vowel. My maternal grandmother’s family came to America from Sicily, my great grandfather’s family came from Piacenza. In fact, the only ancestor that does not hail from Italy is my paternal grandfather who is responsible for my Irish heritage and my fair coloring. At my core, deep in my soul, I am Italian. Sunday dinners at 1pm, homemade meatballs, fresh mozzarella, and warm Italian bread. Seven fishes on Christmas Eve; loud, spirited conversations at the dinner table; food, food, and more food. On a very surface level, this is what it means to be Italian, however, beneath the surface there is far more that defines us. I would have to say my greatest connection to my Italian heritage are the family values I have been raised with. From a young age, I grew up surrounded by extended family. When others would talk about their immediate family, they would mention the four or five people in their household. Not me. My “immediate family” were all the cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, aunts and uncles that weren’t actually related by blood, but it never seemed to matter. I felt sorry for my friends that did not have this type of family connection. I was sure their holidays and family get-togethers had to be dull in comparison to what was going on in my house. As I got older, I realized it was not just the fun and chaos that I appreciated about my Italian family. I looked to each of them and realized how I had been shaped by this collective group. I learned quick-wit and sarcasm from my grandfather; kindness and patience from my grandmother; strong work ethic from my uncles; thick skin and the ability to laugh at myself from my cousins. I could go on and on. They say it takes a village to raise a child and I am the perfect example of that old adage. I may not have realized it at the time, but I was a child reveling in the company of my family, soaking up all the values and characteristics that would shape the young adult I would become. My parents had learned from their parents and grandparents the importance of a good education. My great-great grandmother had opened her own store on the lower east side of Manhattan without the ability to read or write in English. She was determined to provide for her family and give them all the opportunities this great country had to offer. Here I am, generations later, still impacted by the determination of that immigrant woman. I chose to attend a private school in Brooklyn for high school as opposed to my zoned school so that I, too, would have access to greater opportunities. After four successful years as a varsity soccer player for my school, a volunteer for the homeless in my community, and an honor’s student with a 4.0 grade point average, I am now looking forward to the next phase of my education. I am ready to take the values instilled in me by my Italian heritage and share them in my college community. My dream is to study abroad in Rome or Florence and spend time visiting the hometowns of my ancestors. However far I may end up from home, I will not forget where I came from, nor will I lose the determination to make my family proud.

My body was battling its own immune system and, presently, I was losing. Ten milligrams of Methimazole, three times a day; twenty milligrams of Beta Blockers twice a day; three hundred milligrams of Iron, three times a day. It had been ten days since my official diagnosis: Grave’s Disease (awful name), an auto-immune disease impacting the thyroid. I had an accelerated heart rate, difficulty breathing, and chronic lethargy. In just a few months’ time I had gone from a varsity athlete to a kid who could barely pull herself out of bed in the morning. I listened as my doctor explained: “You will live with this for the rest of your life. You may eventually need to have your thyroid removed. You will likely be on medication indefinitely.” And yet none of those statements seemed to strike a chord as much as when I heard him say: “The thyroid is shaped like a butterfly.” The previous year I had learned the “Butterfly Effect.” I was intrigued by this notion that the world is deeply interconnected, such that one small occurrence can affect a much larger complex system. I began thinking about my own life and whether there had been a small series of events that had triggered something greater in me. As I pondered this, my mind raced with examples of the butterfly throughout my life. I have played soccer from a young age at a highly competitive level. At the start of each game, I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest, my mouth dry, and my stomach full of- you guessed it- butterflies. The butterflies were so intense that many times I would have to run off the field to vomit. Eventually, I ended up in the office of a sports psychologist, explaining to me how getting sick at the beginning of each game was my way of physically releasing the butterflies from my stomach before I was able to play. As time went on, I learned how to manage my performance anxiety. I realized that much like my auto-immune disease, I would likely live with it for the rest of my life. It was no longer a matter of how to get rid of the butterflies, but rather how to accept that they are a part of who I am. Ironically, it was not the overwhelming anxiety that kept me off the field my junior year, but rather that other singular butterfly-the thyroid. My body was too sick to play the sport I lived for, too sick to make it into school some days. Now, a year later, I have learned how to manage both butterflies as I was able to return to the field for my final high school soccer season. More importantly, I have experienced the “Butterfly Effect” firsthand. Though I did not realize it then, as I sat in that doctor's office at the age of twelve, the little wings of the universe were flapping, stirring in me a desire to one day become a sports psychologist. I want to take my personal experience in overcoming both physical and mental challenges and combine that with a degree in psychology to create my life's mission. I have a greater appreciation for what it means to be strong and healthy. I know that there may still be difficult days ahead, but I am much more confident in my ability to face them. In the end, it was not about releasing the butterfly as much as it was about embracing it.

My body was battling its own immune system and, presently, I was losing. Ten milligrams of Methimazole, three times a day; twenty milligrams of Beta Blockers twice a day; three hundred milligrams of Iron, three times a day. It had been ten days since my diagnosis: Grave’s Disease (awful name), an auto-immune disease impacting the thyroid. I had an accelerated heart rate, difficulty breathing, and chronic lethargy. In just a few months’ time I had gone from a varsity athlete to a kid who could barely pull herself out of bed in the morning. I listened as my doctor explained: “You will live with this for the rest of your life. You may eventually need to have your thyroid removed. You will likely be on medication indefinitely.” And yet none of those statements seemed to strike a chord as much as when I heard him say: “The thyroid is shaped like a butterfly.” The previous year, I had learned about the “Butterfly Effect.” I was intrigued by this notion that the world is deeply interconnected, such that one small occurrence can affect a much larger system. I began thinking about my own life and whether there had been a small series of events that triggered something greater in me. My mind raced with examples of the butterfly throughout my life. I have played soccer from a young age at a highly competitive level. Through each phase of my soccer career, the one constant was how I felt as I stepped onto the field at the start of each game. I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest, my mouth dry, and my stomach full of- you guessed it- butterflies. The butterflies were so intense that many times I would have to run off the field, vomit, and then run back on to play. Eventually, I would end up in the Manhattan office of an accomplished sports psychologist, explaining how getting sick at the beginning of each game was my way of physically releasing the butterflies from my stomach before I was able to play. As time went on, I learned how to manage my performance anxiety. I realized that much like my auto-immune disease, I would likely live with it for the rest of my life. It was no longer a matter of how to get rid of the butterflies, but rather how to accept that they are a part of who I am. Ironically, it was not the overwhelming anxiety that kept me off the field my junior year, but rather that other singular butterfly-the thyroid. My body was too sick to play the sport that I lived for, too sick to make it into school some days. Now, a year later, I have learned how to manage both butterflies as I was able to return to the field for my final season. More importantly, I have experienced the “Butterfly Effect” firsthand. Though I did not realize it then, as I sat in that psychologist's office, the little wings of the universe were flapping, stirring in me a desire to one day become a sports psychologist myself. I want to be able to go into communities in my hometown of New York City and work with young, aspiring athletes that may be facing their own adversity, preventing them from fulfilling their potential on and off the field. I realize that I am fortunate to be healthy again and to have the support team that I do, pushing me to pursue my educational goals and then to give back, and that is exactly what I plan to do.

It had been ten days since my official diagnosis: Grave’s Disease (awful name), an auto-immune disease impacting the thyroid. I had an accelerated heart rate, difficulty breathing, and chronic lethargy. In just a few months’ time I had gone from a varsity athlete to a kid who could barely pull herself out of bed in the morning. I listened as my doctor explained: “You will live with this for the rest of your life. You may eventually need to have your thyroid removed. You will likely be on medication indefinitely.” And yet none of those statements seemed to strike a chord as much as when I heard him say: “The thyroid is shaped like a butterfly.” There it was- the butterfly, the beautiful insect that held so much symbolism for me. The previous summer I had traveled abroad by myself to study psychology at the University College of London. As I sat in the lecture hall, I learned about the “Butterfly Effect.” I was intrigued by this notion that the world is deeply interconnected, such that one small occurrence can affect a much larger complex system. I began thinking about my own life and whether there had been a small series of events that had triggered something greater in me. As I pondered this, my mind raced with examples of the butterfly throughout my life. I have played soccer from a young age at a highly competitive level. Through each phase of my soccer career, the one constant was how I felt as I stepped onto the field at the start of each game. I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest, my mouth dry, and my stomach full of- you guessed it- butterflies. The butterflies were so intense that many times I would have to run off the field, vomit, and then run back on to play. Eventually, I would end up in the Manhattan office of an accomplished sports psychologist, explaining how getting sick at the beginning of each game was my way of physically releasing the butterflies from my stomach before I was able to play. As time went on, I learned how to manage my performance anxiety. I realized that much like my auto-immune disease, I would likely live with it for the rest of my life. It was no longer a matter of how to get rid of the butterflies, but rather how to accept that they are a part of who I am. Ironically, it was not the overwhelming anxiety that kept me off the field my junior year, but rather that other singular butterfly-the thyroid. Now, over a year later, I have learned how to manage both butterflies as I was able to return to the field and play my final high school season. More importantly, I have experienced the “Butterfly Effect” firsthand. You see, at the age of twelve, as I sat in that doctor’s office, I was intrigued by her profession. Though I did not realize it then, the little wings of the universe were flapping, stirring in me a desire to one day become a sports psychologist myself. As I consider my options as to which school I will find myself attending in the Fall, I am excited to start this journey of the next phase of my life, taking psychology classes, playing club soccer for my school, and studying abroad. I know that my years of overcoming personal challenges has lead me to this moment. In the end, it was not about releasing the butterfly as much as it was about embracing it.