Being a Black lesbian has shaped my mental health, my relationships, my career, and my understanding of what it means to feel accepted. Having to navigate the intersection of multiple identities is where I have not always felt fully understood or represented. These experiences have taught me that everything is deeply connected. Growing up, I learned that being different could come with consequences. I was raised in a traditional Caribbean Christian environment where conversations about sexuality were not discussed. Coming to terms with my identity was not an easy process. I had to navigate the fear of rejection, the pressure to fit into expectations that did not reflect who I was, and the challenge of understanding myself while also trying to determine whether others would accept me. My identity has also influenced my mental health. I have experienced anxiety and high-functioning depression, and there were times when I struggled to express what I was experiencing. When a person is already questioning whether they belong, it can be difficult to seek support if they are unsure whether they will be understood. I have experienced the emotional weight of feeling as though I needed to explain or defend parts of myself that should not require justification. Over time, I learned that accepting myself was essential to my well-being. Therapy and personal growth helped me understand that my identity was not something I needed to apologize for. I began to recognize that being a Black lesbian woman is not a limitation; it is an important part of my perspective and the way I understand the world. This process of self-acceptance has allowed me to become more confident, compassionate, and intentional in how I engage with others. In Boston, I have built spaces centered on LGBTQIA+ and BIPOC connection, culture, and belonging. I created a live queer dating show and other community experiences that give people opportunities to meet, laugh, form relationships, and experience joy. These spaces are important to me because I know what it feels like to search for community. I understand that representation is not simply about seeing someone who looks like you or shares your identity. It is also about being able to enter a space and feel that you do not have to make yourself smaller to belong. My professional goals are similarly shaped by these experiences. I am pursuing a PsyD in neuropsychology because I want to help create mental health care that is affirming, culturally responsive, and accessible, particularly for those who also hold marginalized racial and cultural identities and may face unique stressors that are not always adequately understood by providers. I want to contribute to a field where individuals can receive care without having to choose between their mental health and the authenticity of who they are. My LGBTQIA+ experiences have impacted me by teaching me the importance of acceptance, representation, and community. They have also given me a deeper understanding of how isolation and rejection can affect mental health, while connection and belonging can provide healing. I do not view my identity as something separate from my professional goals. It has shaped the kind of psychologist I hope to become and the communities I hope to serve. My journey has taught me that simply surviving an environment that does not fully understand you is not the same as belonging. I want to help create a world where people do not have to choose between being authentic and being accepted. Through my work, education, and community-building efforts, I hope to help others feel seen, supported, and empowered to live openly and fully.

I know more than sixty different types of shells, and I can spend hours walking along a beach looking for the next one that catches my eye. I turn them into jewelry, wall art, and gifts for the people I love. While many people admire shells for their colors, patterns, or unique shapes, what draws me to them goes much deeper. Searching for shells is one of the few times my mind becomes completely quiet. As a therapist, my brain is constantly processing. I spend my days listening deeply, helping clients untangle difficult emotions, and thinking several steps ahead. Even outside of work, my mind rarely slows down. But when I'm walking along the shoreline, looking for shells and pieces of sea glass, everything else fades into the background. My focus narrows to something beautifully simple: the next wave, the texture of the sand, and the possibility that the next shell might be unlike any I've found before. There is something incredibly grounding about that simplicity. In a world that constantly pushes us to do more, achieve more, and move faster, shells remind me that beauty doesn't have to be complicated. Sometimes it simply washes ashore. Over time, shells have become much more than a personal hobby. They have found their way into my work as a therapist. Recently, I began decorating my office with shells and sea glass. Many of the clients I work with are neurodivergent, and a common theme in our conversations is the feeling of being different. They often describe feeling misunderstood or believing that something about them needs to be fixed. That is when I point toward the shells. No two shells are exactly alike. Some are chipped, some are perfectly smooth, some are brilliantly colored, while others are worn almost white by years of waves and sand. Sea glass begins as something ordinary, often discarded or broken, but through time, movement, and persistence, it becomes softened, unique, and beautiful. None of them are mistakes. Their differences are exactly what make them special. I tell my clients that people are much the same way. Life shapes each of us differently. Our experiences, challenges, strengths, and even our scars contribute to who we become. We are not meant to look, think, or move through the world in exactly the same way. Our uniqueness is not something to hide; it is something to embrace. I keep bowls of shells and sea glass in my office that clients are welcome to take home. Some spend several minutes searching for the one that feels right. Others immediately know which piece belongs with them. I love watching that moment happen because it reminds me that sometimes we simply need something tangible to remind us of our own worth. I don't think my love for shells is what makes me stand out. Plenty of people enjoy the beach. Plenty of people collect beautiful things. What makes this passion meaningful is what it represents. Every shell tells a story of resilience, change, and individuality. Every piece of sea glass is proof that time and life's rough edges can transform something into something unexpectedly beautiful. If there is one thing I hope people remember after receiving one of my shells, it is this: standing out is not something to fear. Just like the shell that catches your eye among thousands scattered across the shore, our differences are often the very things that make us memorable. They remind us that perfection was never about fitting in. Sometimes the most beautiful things are the ones that were never meant to look like everything else.

I want to pursue a career in the nonprofit sector because I have seen firsthand what it looks like when care is truly centered around people, not profit. In my current role as a therapist in crisis care, I work within a nonprofit model that prioritizes meeting clients where they are both literally and emotionally. This philosophy is more than just a saying; it is the foundation of everything we do. It has shown me that meaningful change happens when individuals are treated with dignity, flexibility, and genuine understanding. The clients I serve often face some of the most complex and stigmatized challenges in our society. Many are experiencing homelessness, reentering the community after incarceration, struggling with substance use, or living with acute mental health diagnoses. These are individuals who are frequently overlooked or underserved by traditional systems. What makes my work in the nonprofit sector so impactful is that we do not expect clients to fit into rigid systems. Instead, we adapt our care to fit their realities. Whether it is helping someone secure stable housing, assisting with job or school applications, or guiding them through the process of obtaining essential documentation, our approach is holistic and deeply personalized. What I value most about this work is that it is rooted in advocacy. We are not just providing services; we are standing alongside our clients, helping them navigate systems that are often difficult to access and even harder to understand. This kind of support can be life-changing. I have witnessed individuals move from crisis and instability to a place of safety, purpose, and hope. Those transformations are not abstract they are real, tangible outcomes that reinforce why nonprofit work matters so deeply. However, one of the most challenging aspects of my experience is knowing that this level of care is not widely available. The program I work for operates in only three states, yet the need for this kind of person-centered, comprehensive support exists everywhere. This reality drives my long-term goals. I hope to contribute to the expansion of this model so that it can reach communities across all fifty states. Everyone, regardless of their circumstances or location, deserves access to care that sees them as a whole person rather than a set of problems to be managed. My commitment to the nonprofit sector is grounded in the belief that systems can and should be designed to uplift the most vulnerable. I want to be part of building and expanding programs that prioritize accessibility, compassion, and real-world impact. By continuing this work, I hope to help create communities where people are not defined by their hardships but supported in overcoming them. Ultimately, my goal is to amplify a model of care that I know works. The nonprofit sector provides the space to focus on people over profit, to innovate in ways that are responsive to real needs, and to create lasting, positive change. Through my work, I hope to extend the reach of transformative care and ensure that more individuals have the opportunity to rebuild their lives with the support they deserve.

Mental health is one of the most urgent global health challenges of our time, yet it is often treated as an individual struggle rather than a collective responsibility. What concerns me most is not just the rise in anxiety and depression but also the direction we are heading as a society in how we attempt to address it. As technology rapidly advances, especially with the growing presence of artificial intelligence in everyday life, we are at risk of replacing genuine human connection with convenient but ultimately insufficient substitutes. There is no doubt that AI has the potential to improve access to mental health resources. Chatbots, virtual therapists, and mental health apps can provide immediate, low-cost support to people who might otherwise have none. On the surface, this seems like progress. But mental health is deeply human. It relies on empathy, shared experience, vulnerability, and trusted qualities that cannot be fully replicated by algorithms. When people begin to rely on AI as a primary source of emotional support, it can unintentionally deepen the very isolation that contributes to poor mental health in the first place. In many ways, we are already seeing this shift. Despite being more digitally connected than ever, people are feeling increasingly alone. I would argue that during the COVID-19 pandemic, when physical distance was required, we were, in some ways, more emotionally connected than we are now. There was a shared sense of struggle, a collective understanding that encouraged people to check in on one another, to value relationships, and to prioritize community. Now, as life has returned to “normal,” many people have retreated inward. Social interactions are often replaced with screens, and meaningful conversations are shortened or avoided altogether. This growing isolation is not just a social issue; it is a health crisis. Loneliness has been linked to higher rates of anxiety, depression, and even physical health problems. When connection fades, people lose a critical support system that helps them process challenges and build resilience. Turning to AI for therapy may offer temporary relief, but it risks reinforcing a cycle where human relationships become less central, less practiced, and ultimately less accessible. At the same time, we cannot ignore the structural barriers that make mental health care difficult to access in the first place. Affordable health care is essential. For many individuals, therapy is a luxury rather than a basic service, which pushes them toward cheaper, automated alternatives. If we truly want to address the mental health crisis, we must ensure that professional, human-centered care is accessible to everyone, not just those who can afford it. I am passionate about finding a middle ground. Technology should not be rejected, but it should be used thoughtfully as a supplement, not a replacement. AI can help bridge gaps in access, but it should also guide people back toward human connection, not away from it. The goal should be to create a system where mental health care is both accessible and deeply personal, where people feel seen, heard, and supported by others. Ultimately, the solution to this growing “pandemic of loneliness” lies in remembering something simple but powerful: people need people. No innovation can replace the value of genuine connection. If we can combine accessible health care with a renewed emphasis on human relationships, we can begin to address not just the symptoms of mental illness but its root causes as well.

A rugby family, to me, is the one constant thread that has followed me through every chapter of my life. I have been playing for over a decade across D1, D2, club D1, club D2, club D3, WPL, and even playing internationally in China. No matter where I have gone or what has changed, rugby has always been there, steady, grounding, and welcoming. When life feels overwhelming or uncertain, I know exactly where to go: the pitch. There is something about practice that resets everything. And when I land in a new city, I do not feel like a stranger for long. I find a team, and instantly, I have found my people. Let us be real: when you are a rugby player, you are never truly alone in this lifetime. That sense of belonging is rare, and rugby gives it so freely. What I love most is that a “rugby family” is not limited to who is on the field. It is everyone, full-time players, part-time players, the ones who show up when they can, and even those who have had to step away (though I fully plan on being the 70-year-old still trying to sneak into a match). Once you are part of this community, you are in it for life. The support does not fade when the final whistle blows; it grows. Some of my closest friendships were formed over a decade ago through rugby, and I genuinely cannot imagine my life without those people. Whether we are playing together, cheering each other on, or just catching up, there is a deep, unspoken bond that comes from sharing this sport. As I head into my doctoral program, I know rugby will continue to be my anchor. On the days when everything feels like too much, it will be my outlet, my reset, and my reminder of my strength. I look forward to pushing my physical limits and showing up for my teammates and, most importantly, myself. I oddly enough look forward to running my twice-a-year Broncos to measure myself and remain competitive. I love the game because I am competing against myself to make myself better for my teammates, and to me, that is what rugby and being a part of a rugby family are about. Showing up as my best self so that on game day my teammates know I always have their backs on and off the pitch. I am excited to keep building connections, pushing myself, and sharing this next milestone with a community that has already given me so much.

Addressing my current and future student loan debt is something I approach with both intention and realism, especially as someone whose identity and lived experiences have shaped how I navigate education, opportunity, and financial stability. Growing up Black and gay in a traditional Southern Caribbean Christian household, I learned early on that access is not always guaranteed, and that building a future often requires both sacrifice and strategy. Because of this, I view my education not just as a personal goal, but as an investment in long-term stability, purpose, and community impact. To minimize my student loan debt, I have taken proactive and multifaceted steps. I recently applied for a $7,000 fellowship and am currently awaiting a pending interview. This opportunity would significantly reduce my financial burden while also supporting my academic and professional development. In addition, I secured a paid internship, with earnings that go directly toward my tuition. This allows me to gain hands-on experience in the mental health field while actively offsetting educational costs. I am also continuing to work in my current clinical role, which provides both financial support and continued professional growth. Balancing work and school is demanding, but it allows me to remain financially engaged in my education rather than relying solely on loans. Alongside this, I have contributed my own personal savings toward my tuition, reinforcing my commitment to being financially responsible and invested in my future. To further reduce expenses, I made the intentional decision to move back in with my parents. While this was not an easy choice, it has significantly decreased my cost of living and allowed me to redirect those funds toward my education. Additionally, I was fortunate to receive a generous scholarship from my school, and my employer is contributing financial support toward my tuition as well. These combined resources have made a meaningful difference in reducing my reliance on loans. Every financial decision I am making is rooted in the understanding that I am investing in myself. My education in mental health is not only a pathway to a career, but a commitment to serving underserved communities with culturally responsive care. By actively seeking funding opportunities, maintaining employment, reducing expenses, and utilizing available support systems, I am working to minimize debt while maximizing the value of my education. Ultimately, my goal is to graduate with as little financial burden as possible so I can focus on the work I am passionate about advocating for equitable mental health care and supporting individuals who, like me, have had to navigate systems that were not always built with them in mind.

My experience with mental health has shaped nearly every aspect of my life: my goals, my relationships, and the way I understand the world around me. Growing up Black and gay in a traditional Southern Caribbean Christian household meant learning early on that parts of who I was might not be accepted. That reality created an internal tension I carried for years. There was fear in expressing myself fully, and silence around mental health made it difficult to process those feelings in a healthy way. As a result, I became deeply attuned to how identity, culture, and environment influence mental well-being. These experiences directly shaped my goals. What began as a personal need for understanding evolved into a professional calling. I entered the mental health field not just to help others but to address the gaps I witnessed and personally experienced. One of the most defining moments in my journey was being nearly misdiagnosed with oppositional defiant disorder by a provider who failed to understand my behavior within its proper context. It was not until I worked with a Black clinician that I received an accurate diagnosis of ADHD. That experience fundamentally changed how I view care. It showed me how harmful it can be when clinicians rely on assumptions rather than cultural awareness, and it solidified my goal to provide thoughtful, culturally responsive assessments and treatment. My academic experiences further deepened this commitment. During my master’s program, I was one of only a few Black students in a predominantly White cohort. Classroom discussions often revealed how privilege shapes perspectives on care, access, and responsibility. I remember a peer expressing that she planned to work in affluent communities where she would not need to consider disparities or adjust her fees. While her honesty was striking, it also highlighted how easily systemic inequities can be overlooked. Moments like that pushed me to speak up, challenge narrow viewpoints, and advocate for a more inclusive understanding of mental health care. These experiences reinforced my goal of creating spaces where underserved communities are not an afterthought but a priority. My relationships have also been deeply influenced by my mental health journey. I have learned the importance of vulnerability, boundaries, and chosen family. In environments where I did not always feel accepted, I found support in people who affirmed my identity and encouraged my growth. These relationships taught me that connection is not just about proximity but about safety and understanding. They have shaped how I show up for others with empathy, patience, and a willingness to listen without judgment. Professionally, working with clients has expanded my understanding of how mental health intersects with systemic issues. Many of the individuals I work with have experienced misdiagnosis, stigma, and marginalization. They come from diverse backgrounds and carry complex diagnoses, yet their stories often share a common thread: they have not been fully seen or understood by the systems meant to support them. Witnessing this has strengthened my commitment to advocacy and ethical care. I strive to approach each person as a whole individual, rather than reducing them to labels or assumptions. Ultimately, my experience with mental health has shaped my understanding of the world as one that is deeply unequal but also full of possibility for change. It has taught me that healing is not just individual; it is communal and systemic. It has shown me the importance of humility, self-awareness, and continuous learning. Most importantly, it has given me a sense of purpose. I am committed to building a future where mental health care is equitable, culturally responsive, and rooted in genuine human connection so that others do not have to navigate the same barriers I once did.

Mental health and LGBTQIA+ experiences have profoundly shaped who I am, both personally and professionally. Imagine growing up Black and gay in a traditional Southern Caribbean Christian household. That was my reality, one where identity often felt like something to hide rather than embrace. The fear of rejection, the pressure to conform, and the silence surrounding mental health created an environment where I struggled internally without language or support to process what I was experiencing. These early experiences taught me how deeply stigma and cultural expectations can impact mental well-being. As I got older, those challenges followed me into academic and clinical spaces. During my master’s program, I was one of only a few Black students in a predominantly White cohort. Many classroom discussions revealed perspectives shaped by privilege, often overlooking the lived realities of marginalized communities. These moments were isolating, but they also reinforced how important it is to advocate for inclusive, culturally aware approaches to mental health. I learned to use my voice, even when it felt uncomfortable, to challenge assumptions and broaden conversations. My personal experiences with the mental health system also left a lasting impact. I was nearly misdiagnosed with oppositional defiant disorder by a provider who failed to understand my cultural background and behavior. It was not until I worked with a Black clinician that I was accurately diagnosed with ADHD. That experience was both validating and eye-opening. It showed me how easily individuals can be misunderstood when providers do not take the time to see them fully and how damaging those misinterpretations can be. Now, in my work with clients, I see similar patterns. Many individuals across different identities, including LGBTQIA+ clients, come into care carrying the weight of misdiagnosis, stigma, or being reduced to labels. Working with people diagnosed with conditions such as major depressive disorder, borderline personality disorder, and schizophrenia has deepened my understanding of how systemic biases affect treatment outcomes. These experiences have strengthened my commitment to providing care that is not only clinically sound but also culturally responsive and affirming. Ultimately, my journey has taught me the importance of visibility, empathy, and advocacy. Mental health is not separate from identity; it is deeply intertwined with it. Being Black and gay has influenced how I navigate the world, how I understand others, and how I approach care. While those experiences came with challenges, they also gave me purpose. I am committed to making sure that others feel seen, heard, and supported in ways I once needed but did not always receive.

What I want to build is not a single product or title but a space, one that centers culturally responsive mental health care for those who have too often been overlooked. Imagine growing up Black and gay in a traditional Southern Caribbean Christian household. That reality taught me early on how unsafe it can feel to exist fully and honestly and how silence around mental health can deepen that harm. Those experiences did not just shape me; they clarified what I want to create in my future. I want to build a practice and community network where individuals, particularly those from marginalized backgrounds, feel seen without having to explain or defend their identities. My goal is to create an environment where cultural context is not an afterthought but a foundation of care. This vision is rooted in both my personal journey and my professional experiences. During my master’s program, I often found myself navigating spaces where privilege shaped conversations about care, sometimes in ways that ignored the realities of underserved communities. Those moments reinforced my desire to build something different, something more equitable and intentional. Beyond clinical work, I aim to build stronger conversations around mental health within communities like my own, where stigma can still be a barrier. Whether through mentorship, outreach, or simply creating safe spaces for dialogue, I want to normalize vulnerability and emphasize that seeking help is not a weakness. I also recognize the privilege I hold through my education and professional opportunities, and I intend to use that access to advocate for systemic change and expand resources for those who may not otherwise have them. Building this future will positively impact me by allowing me to live in alignment with my values equity, empathy, and authenticity. More importantly, it will impact my community by creating spaces where people are not just treated, but truly understood. My goal is to ensure that others do not have to fight as hard to be seen, heard, and properly cared for as I once did.