Ultimately, what has inspired me to pursue a career supporting the intellectual disability community is a desire to see human beings thrive and live as comfortably as possible despite their challenges. It comes from a place of compassion and empathy as well as a personal and professional responsibility for the advancement of human rights and dignity of a person. Relationships with the families of those with intellectual disabilities strengthen this conviction, as their love for their family and their need for advocacy ignited my passion for supporting them. In addition, I am committed to protecting vulnerable individuals. Witnessing people being treated unfairly or being abused angers me, but it is a productive anger that shows me that there are problems to be solved in this system and calls me to direct my energy there. Part of this dedication is inspired from my own struggles with being bullied, mental health, and falling behind in school. Some disabilities can be obvious, however, some can appear as intentional irresponsible behavior. My wish for someone to have been more compassionate towards me as a child and provide extra support rather than punishment fuel my interest in education and therapeutic interventions. It is also important that information about different types of support is easily accessible. People with intellectual disabilities often struggle with communication and are misunderstood, their behavior is a form of communication that is often misinterpreted. In addition, when access to services for them is limited, care takers, families, and educators are spread thin, creating a lack of support for the individual with intellectual disabilities and those who care for them, increasing the chances of mistreatment and unmet needs. This highlights the need for advocacy and policy changes. I discovered my interest in supporting people with intellectual disabilities when I tutored a middle school student in English. It was clear that he was interested in games, animals, and computers, so I helped him by leveraging his interests, we read books about animals and practiced spelling through typing or spelling games. He needed frequent breaks and encouragement, but he developed skills that led to him improving academically despite his challenges. The relationship I built with that student showed me how important it can be for a child who is struggling with an intellectual disability to have extra support. I went on to college and worked as a tutor for college students who had a wide range of needs and abilities at my local community college. It was satisfying to be able to help people with an area I was skilled in. Then, I worked as a paraprofessional in a life skills classroom at a middle school. I learned about special education and different needs from that job and witnessed system failures. I developed helping relationships with many students, but I felt that their needs weren't being met. I encouraged students who internalized the stigma surrounding their intellectual disabilities and advocated for them by sharing research about different interventions and reporting when I noticed mistreatment. I also paid attention to their interests and made an effort to leverage them to make learning reinforcing rather than simply demanding. Now, I care for my cousin-in-law who is non-verbal, has an intellectual disability, and autism. I support him with daily living activities and collecting data to advocate for funding for services. Although he is unable to speak, he communicates in his own way. A few of his interests are music, car rides, and hugs. Caring for him has added to my perspective and inspired me to pursue my MSW, with it I aspire towards practicing care and advocacy.

When the person who is supposed to help guide you, protect you, and provide for you is never in your life because of substance abuse, the trajectory of your life is changed by it. This was the case for me, but it did not stop with my biological father. I grew up without him, I saw pictures of him, poetry he has written, and my mom tried her hardest to speak kindly of him. She said he was sick and had to leave, it took me some time after finding out that substance abuse was the disease to reconcile that sickness was a large part of the equation. It felt like a choice he had made, he chose opioids, heroin, and pills over his own family. However, substance abuse literally alters the brain and changes how it works. Addiction is not as simple as making a choice. On top of that, he worked in construction and he used drugs on the job, so while on a roof he lost control of his body and fell which caused brain trauma. I accepted and grieved that in a way, who he used to be had died before I ever met him. Unfortunately, substance abuse and addiction spread, from person to person and generation to generation. The root of my fathers addiction came from his father who introduced him to the heroine, and his mother who died of liver failure related to alcoholism. Alcohol and opioid addiction have impacted several other family members of mine, with one of my family members dying of an overdose in their 30's. Another contracted hepatitis C and passed away in their 40's. One family member suffers with diabetes, dental problems, and had jaundice two years ago, their liver in the process of failing. This family member continues to drink heavily daily. I have written an essay about my Uncle who I lost a few years ago, but I believe substance abuse along with other mental health challenges ultimately led to his early death in his 50s. He was told that he would die if he continued to drink, but it was not enough to stop him. Losing him, was the deepest cut of them all. Ultimately, I aspire to help people out of hope, because I was helped as a child through mental health counseling. My heart burns for all of the suffering I have witnessed and all I can think is there has to be a better alternative, maybe there is something I can contribute to help people and reduce this suffering. During one of my internships, I got to see one of my clients go to rehab for the very first time. I helped to run groups and heard peoples stories. I learned so much about how substance abuse affects the body and the brain and interventions, motivation interviewing, harm reduction, and stages of change. Although it is very sad, I find that people are having the worst time of their life and even facing death when struggling with substance abuse. So, if there is even one chance that me being there as a counselor can help them on a path to recovery or reduced harm, it's work worth doing.

Growing up I was very close to my uncle Andy. I never was all that interested in football but he loved it, so I would cheer on his team and draw pictures of them for him. He would tell me stories about being a medic in the army and when my mom had surgery, he took me out to get my mind off of it. We went fishing and walked all around Frederick visiting the best places to eat and he would tell me about the history. He used grow beautiful tomatoes and he was a great cook. I didn't take notice of the darker aspects of his life. I remember catching a sunfish and throwing it back with him. I remember him wrapping s'more's in foil by the camp fire until it got all deliciously gooey. I remember playing guitar hero and snuggling with his dogs. My relationship to him was precious because he knew my dad, and I had never known my dad because herione took him away. So, he was as close as I got to a father or knowing who my father was as a person. My uncle Andy spent most of his time in the basement or in the shed. I didn't think anything of it when every hour he asked me to bring him a beer. I guess it wasn't so unusual, everyone drank and smoked. I did wonder why he and my aunt were so distant from each other, but I was used to seeing complicated relationships too. Then, I wasn't allowed in the basement anymore. I didn't know why, but my mom and aunt said he needed his space. When I was old enough, they told me he was very depressed. He would sit outside in the freezing shed for hours. He would drink endlessly. He destroyed the basement. The doctor told him he would die if he didn't stop drinking. His legs would swell with fluids and he was diagnosed with diabetes. However, he couldn't stop drinking. He and my aunt separated and he got his own place. I didn't see him for years. Sometimes, we would communicate about his dog Sammy or his cat Rico. I would see pictures of tomato plants or him at a bar with some friends. But, I couldn't really know what he was going through. I was just a teenager. One day, my mom and I got a call that he was found dead. We went to help look for his cat who was missing. I remember the smell of that house. There were remnants of who he was; his poetry book that he published, his map of the world with tacks, his football collectors items and his music recording instruments. But we couldn't find Rico. What we did find was a house in shambles. The place was rancid. The toilets were filled with waste. His belongings were strewn about. Vomit and other bodily fluids were all around. We asked what happened to him, but there really wasn't an answer. One of his friends said he had cancer but refused treatment. There were many cans of empty beer and liquor bottles. I wish I hadn't been so young sometimes. Maybe I could have convinced him he had something to live for. I could have held his hand and told him he could get better, that I cared if he got better. I was in Highschool. I was too young to intervene. In the mess, I found his poetry book and when I read what he wrote I felt such a deep connection and understanding. It's all I have left of him. Here's a quote from my uncle Andy Tacman's book "Pop Top Mirrors and Plastic Stars," "Has your heart ever hurt so bad, You really just want to die, I mean ever been so sad, You don't even want to cry?" In my grief I understood that I couldn't go back and change what happened to him. I got through it by reading his poetry and silently promising that I would break this cycle of addiction and unmanaged depression. I would get help and encourage others to get help. I would use my knowledge of our experiences to help people overcome these struggles. I laughed and cried and felt inspired by his writing and his life. I sometimes go back and read his words after a hard day or year and it's like I can talk to him, and he'll tell he felt what I'm feeling. Despite what happened to him he left me with this, "Just try, Just cry, Just hold on, you'll find the right song." I will keep trying to find the right song uncle Andy, for you.