Mental health has been a silent thread in my life for as long as I can remember. It wasn’t something we talked about in my household — not because it wasn’t there, but because no one ever taught us how to name it. I grew up surrounded by broken pieces of people I loved: some battling addiction, others fighting internal wars they couldn’t explain. I watched grown adults go numb in front of me, not out of neglect, but out of survival. And in that silence, I began learning how to carry emotions I didn’t understand, how to make room for chaos without ever having space for my own pain. As a child, I often felt like I had to be the strong one — even when I was barely holding it together. I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. I became the listener, the caretaker, the one who tried to keep peace even when I was hurting. I swallowed my emotions, mistaking suppression for maturity. I learned early that vulnerability could be dangerous, that expressing sadness could be seen as weakness, and that mental health was something to either be ashamed of or ignored completely. But ignoring it didn’t make it go away. By the time I hit my teenage years, the pressure of being “okay” began to break me. I experienced anxiety that made me feel like I was constantly suffocating, even in a room full of people. I had nights where I couldn’t sleep, constantly overthinking, replaying things I’d said, or wondering if I was good enough — not just as a student, but as a daughter, a sister, a person. I didn’t know how to talk about it. I didn’t know if I was allowed to. Mental health, for me, became a quiet battle I fought behind closed doors. But eventually, I reached a point where I couldn’t keep pretending. That breaking point was also my turning point. I started asking for help — slowly, hesitantly — but it changed everything. I realized that I wasn’t alone, that my experiences were valid, and that healing wasn’t something to be ashamed of. That realization didn’t just help me — it transformed the way I saw the world. My beliefs shifted in ways I never expected. I no longer saw people as “broken” or “difficult” — I saw them as human, carrying stories they might be too afraid to share. I started to understand that everyone is going through something, even if they don’t talk about it. That awareness made me more compassionate, more patient, and more present in the lives of others. My own pain gave me the ability to empathize deeply, to listen without judgment, and to show up in ways that matter. It also changed my relationships. I stopped settling for surface-level connections. I began surrounding myself with people who supported my healing and encouraged growth. I learned how to set boundaries. I learned that love should feel safe. That it’s okay to outgrow people who only knew the broken version of you. My mental health journey helped me find my voice — not just in relationships, but in life. Most importantly, my experience with mental health directly influenced my career aspirations. I want to work in law enforcement, not because I want power, but because I want to make a difference in how people are treated — especially those whose struggles aren’t visible. I want to be the kind of officer who doesn’t just enforce laws, but understands the deeper layers behind people’s actions. I want to be a face of safety, not fear. Someone who sees the whole person, not just their mistakes. Too often, people dealing with mental health issues are misunderstood, criminalized, or written off. I want to be someone who changes that. I want to help build a system that recognizes trauma, that leads with compassion, and that holds space for humanity — even in the hardest situations. My personal experience gives me that lens, and I believe it’s what will make me a better professional, a better advocate, and a better person. In many ways, my mental health journey saved me — not just from silence, but from staying stuck in the version of myself that was never allowed to feel. Now, I walk through life with more understanding, more empathy, and more strength than I ever thought possible. I still have hard days, but I face them with the knowledge that healing is not linear, and strength is not found in pretending you’re okay — it’s found in continuing to show up anyway. My story is still being written, but one thing I know for sure: I’m not ashamed of where I come from, and I’m proud of who I’m becoming.

The most impactful person in my life is my dad. He wasn’t perfect, but he was everything I needed. He taught me without even trying. By watching him, I learned what it looks like to stand tall when life tries to break you. I learned that real strength doesn’t come from what you show the world, it comes from what you fight through when nobody’s watching. He never made excuses. He showed up, even when it hurt, even when it would’ve been easier to quit. Watching him made me want to be better, not just for myself, but for the people around me too. When he passed away, it felt like the world ripped itself apart. Nothing felt real for a long time. But even in his absence, he kept teaching me. Grief made me realize that everything he stood for didn’t die with him, it lived in me. His resilience, compassion, sense of responsibility to others, even when nobody thanked him for it. All of it became the foundation of who I am. These are the same habits and qualities I will bring into law enforcement. I don’t want to just wear a badge. I want to be the person who actually makes a difference. I want to be the one who listens before judging, who helps before assuming, who protects without needing a reason other than it’s the right thing to do. I want to show up for people the way my dad showed up for me, even when it wasn’t easy, even when nobody saw it. My dad didn’t live a life that made headlines. But he lived a life that mattered. That’s the kind of legacy I want to build. I want to serve my community with the same quiet strength, the same patience, the same ability to see people as human first. I know the reality of this career path. It’s not easy. It’s long hours, emotional weight, and dealing with people on the worst days of their lives. It’s stepping into situations where the right thing isn’t always the easy thing. But that’s what my father prepared me for without even knowing it. He taught me how to stay grounded when things get overwhelming. He taught me to lead with my heart but to protect my mind. That balance is what will allow me to survive the pressures of law enforcement and still remain human through it all. Another thing my dad showed me was that people will test your character when they think no one is watching. He never changed based on who was in the room. His loyalty, his morals, his kindness, it stayed the same whether it was a stranger or someone he loved. I want to be that kind of officer. Someone who doesn’t need a spotlight to do what’s right. Someone who treats every case, every person, every moment with the respect and dignity it deserves, no matter who’s looking. It would be easy to say I chose this path because I wanted to make a difference. But the truth is, I chose this path because I want to continue what my dad started. I want my life to be proof that the things he stood for didn’t die with him. I want to be the bridge between communities and trust. I want to be the kind of person who brings hope back into places where it’s been forgotten. And if I can do that, even just for one person, then I’ll know I made him proud.