There is a difference between a chronic illness and a disability. Not all disabilities are caused by chronic illnesses, and not all chronic illnesses are disabling. Mine, however, is. It’s unfortunate, too, because it didn’t have to be. I was born sick, but no one knew that. The defect on my sixth chromosome was invisible from the outside, and it used that to its advantage. For seventeen and a half years, my immune system ran rampant, completely unchecked. I complained of pain, and had my first x-ray at two years old, but everyone said it was fine, and in a lot of ways, it was. I pushed through the pain. I played sports, danced competitively, worked a job, and even captained my school’s dance team senior year. I beat the odds until I couldn’t anymore. A month after high school graduation, I stopped beating the odds. I stopped beating the odds because I couldn’t even get out of bed. It took six months to see a specialist because of my age. My pediatrician said I needed to see a rheumatologist, and that was true. The issue was this: I was too old for the children’s hospital to want to worry with me, and too young for any adult doctors to see me. In the six months that spanned between disability and diagnosis, I started college. I was lucky I picked a school close to home that I was planning to commute to, because I was in no state to live on my own. Four days after my eighteenth birthday, right as my first semester of college came to a close, I saw a rheumatologist, and he told me what had been happening in my body since the day I was born. Nonradiographic-axial spondyloarthritis, or nr-axSpa for short, is an inflammatory disease of the spine and sacroiliac joints. That explained the lifelong hip and back pain, and my inflammation levels explained why I was too tired to get out of bed most days. While pain has been the longest standing symptom of my diagnosis, fatigue is the most debilitating. While I have reached a point where I'm capable of getting out of bed and functioning most days, I can't drive during bad flares because of my history of falling asleep. As a commuter, this has resulted in me having to miss classes fairly regularly. My goal for this upcoming school year, my senior year, is to live on campus. I want to attend all of my classes, and go to on campus events because I know I'll be able to make it back to my bed safely each night. If I want to live on campus, I need scholarships. My tuition is almost completely covered through academic scholarships from high school, but paying out of pocket for the remainder plus living on campus just isn't feasible at this point. This scholarship would give me an opportunity to experience college in a way I never have before for my final year. I have accepted that I'm always going to have this disability, but I can choose to dwell on that, or to live through it, and I've decided that living is my favorite option.

I don’t remember ninth grade. Okay, that’s not entirely accurate, but I don’t remember much of it. In the bits and pieces that I do recall, I’m floating above myself, watching my body from an outsider’s perspective. I can still see it clearly. Today, I know there is a name for this. It’s called depersonalization, and it’s a psychological response to extreme stress. There’s one issue with that, though: there was no stressor. So, why was I in survival mode for an entire year? Rarely, anxiety disorders present themselves in unexpected ways. In clinical settings, this is called “atypical.” Even more rarely, anxiety disorders become so severe that “fight or flight” isn’t good enough. That’s where depersonalization comes into play. In depersonalization, the brain perceives something as so distressing or life-threatening that it decides to stop processing those emotions. This is what leads to the disconnected, “out of body” feeling. After ninth grade, I was diagnosed with extreme social anxiety disorder. According to my childhood doctor, it was one of the worst cases he’d ever seen. He put me on medication immediately, which is not the norm for pediatric patients. His reasoning? Talk therapy won’t help a kid who can’t talk. That was my stressor. The expectation of communicating with the people around me was so frightening that my brain determined it to be a threat to my life. It decided that if it couldn’t keep me from having to communicate, it would make it so I had no idea it was happening. Chronic depersonalization is a dissociative disorder. That word, “dissociative,” scares people. It makes them think you’re unstable, or like you can’t separate fantasy from reality. That’s the thing with dissociative disorders, though. We can separate fantasy from reality. We know we aren’t floating above ourselves, watching our lives like movies. We know that the way we experience life is not typical. The fact is that everyone dissociates from time to time. It’s a common phenomenon in response to stressful situations. The difference between dissociating and having a dissociative disorder is pretty similar to the difference between being anxious and having an anxiety disorder. Everyone experiences feelings of anxiety. It’s when those feelings start to interfere with day-to-day life that it becomes a disorder. The same is true for dissociation. I mentioned earlier that my childhood doctor said my case of social anxiety disorder was one of the worst he’d ever seen. What I waited to share was that he also said my recovery was one of the most amazing he’d ever seen. He tells my story (name omitted, of course) to parents who are scared their child will never function normally. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I will be reliant on medication most likely for the rest of my life. I’m okay with that. Medication gave me a life I never could have imagined before. It gave me the ability to learn, to go back to dancing, to graduate high school, and to fall in love. Some people think mental health medications don’t allow a person to be their true self. I am walking proof that that is not the case. The fourteen-year-old version of me who couldn’t talk to the doctor she’d been seeing since birth was not my true self. This version is. The version that loves animals, teaches dance, and irritates her boyfriend into oblivion. That’s who I am. That’s the person medication has allowed me to be. I still experience moments of depersonalization on occasion, but it’s far less common now. In fact, it’s so uncommon that it’s no longer considered a disorder. It doesn’t interfere with my life or my ability to function. I can go to school, hold a job, and even drive a car. Fourteen-year-old me never would have imagined that. My experiences with social anxiety disorder and chronic depersonalization have made me gentle. As cliché as it sounds, you really don’t ever know what someone is going through, or what demons they’re battling on the inside. Kindness may not be able to cure someone’s mental illness, but it certainly isn’t going to make it worse.

According to my mother, the first words she ever said to me were "you're going to college." I, of course, do not remember this. I was just a baby, so freshly born that I wasn't even cute yet. While I do not remember this first statement of my mother's, I do remember all of the times it was said to me throughout childhood and adolescence. As soon as my parents discovered that I could do well in school, they pushed me to be the best student possible. Now, that's not to say they pushed me too hard, because they really didn't. A thirteen year old version of myself may disagree, but at twenty, I'm well aware that my parents just wanted me to succeed, and they didn't see how I could do that outside of academics. That may seem harsh, but it's true. I wasn't a social child. In fact, I slept in my mother's bed until I was almost fifteen-years-old, and even though I grew up playing and competing in multiple sports, I was never exactly "athletically gifted," either. Both my parents grew up in poverty, and neither went to college. School was never Dad's forte, and even though Mom tried a time or two, it just wasn't for her, either. My parents have always stressed the fact that college isn't for everyone. In doing that, though, they also stressed the fact that it was for me, and I agreed. I'm sure their plan wasn't for me to study fine arts and become a librarian, but once they saw how much work it actually takes, they came around to the idea. When I finally started taking antidepressants, and I was able to see a world where I lived past eighteen, the idea of college became more appealing. No one would know me there. When I got to college, I wouldn't have a reputation as "the weird girl who doesn't talk." I could just be Lizzie. And that's what I did. I got to college, and I started talking to people. I formed relationships in my first semester, and even though they never really progressed to friendships, they were more than I'd had in years. Then, by semester two, I'd met my soulmate, best friend, and partner. Thirteen year old Elizabeth never thought she'd have any of those things. Now, I would be lying if I said it all went exactly according to my post-high school plan. It absolutely did not. I'm not pursuing a nursing degree, or even a psychology degree. The number one goal I had—to work in pediatric oncology—is no longer. I'm not going to be a nurse or a child-life specialist. I'm not even getting a bachelor's of science. Instead, I'm going to graduate college next year with two degrees: a bachelor's of fine arts in creative writing, and a bachelor's of arts in historical and literary studies. As a child, I always envisioned a future in which I was helping people. The most obvious choice then was, of course, medicine. Never mind the fact that English was always my best and favorite subject, or that I struggled severely in math. Sure, I loved writing, but I couldn't make a career out of it... could I? Believe it or not, I can! Maybe I won't ever make a real living off writing alone, but I can absolutely get a job that not only allows my creativity, but encourages it. When I dropped my nursing major and picked up creative writing, I'll admit that I was afraid I was getting a "nothing" degree. Everyone I've known has always looked down on fine arts, but at freshly eighteen, sitting in my academic advisor's office, I knew that was what I was supposed to do. I needed to write, no matter what the people around me thought. Later, I added my historical and literary studies major. With this, I'll be able to go on to graduate school for my master's degree in library science. I may even continue on for my doctorate. I want to be a librarian, particularly at a college or university. Even if I won't be able to help people in a medicinal sense, I want to be able to be a guide for students like myself. Students who may be afraid to chase after what they actually want, because society told them that it isn't good enough, or that it won't make enough money. My first three years of college have given me so much more than just an education. As cliche as it sounds, it's given me myself. I know who I am now, beyond my anxiety disorders and the expectations laid on me by the world. I talk to people. I know what I want and what I need to do to achieve it. I can say with confidence that I'm ready to go out into the real world. Because the world didn't end when I was fifteen, I have been able to become a person I can be proud of. I'm a person my parents don't have to worry about so much, even though they always will. College gave me a life worth living, and I'm so beyond glad I stuck around to experience it.

In 2021, a sweet, seven-year-old girl local to me was diagnosed with cancer. Stage IV intermediate-risk embryonal rhabdomyosarcoma, to be specific. In layman's terms, immature skeletal cells started multiplying rapidly, and spread across her little body. As a Dance, Hope, Cure ambassador, I followed her story closely until the day she was officially declared cancer-free. While working my first job, I handed out gold ribbon pins, the color for childhood cancer, to my coworkers, and we pinned them to our hats. When that now eight-year-old little girl came in with her mom for an ice cream, my coworker gave her a ribbon, too. In 2023, her cancer came back. She had just turned nine. There were less treatment options available to her this time, and a lot of them would not be covered by insurance. So, people all over our county worked to raise money for her treatment. In a world divided by politics, religion, and a million other things, an entire city came together for a little girl named Aubrey. I organized a car wash to raise money for her family. It was going to be held at the local Beef 'O' Brady's, and we were expecting a big turnout. So many people were willing to have their cars washed by a bunch of teenage girls, if it meant the money went to help Aubrey. Then, sometime the night before the carwash, Beef 'O' Brady's water went out. I was seventeen-years-old, posting on Facebook that even if we couldn't wash cars, we would still be working to raise money for Aubrey. Thus, an old-fashioned lemonade stand came to be, set up in the Beef 'O' Brady's parking lot. We sold lemonade and donuts, and stood at the side of the road collecting donations. At the end of the day, we made 495 dollars and some change for Aubrey. Is that the most money in the world? No, but to a seventeen-year-old, fresh out of high school with no fundraising experience, it felt like a huge feat. I was so proud to be able to hand that money over to Aubrey's family, and they were so grateful for every penny of it. Not once throughout Aubrey's journey did her family expect donations, but they appreciated every last one. This experience made me want to dive even deeper into childhood cancer advocacy. Did you know that pediatric cancer receives less than four percent of the National Cancer Institute's annual research budget, all while diagnosis rates continue to rise? It's despicable. It's scary. I was already an advocate before Aubrey, but I didn't realize the impact a little girl I only met once could have on me. She, in so many ways, is the reason I'm still so passionate. As passionate as I was the day this started, if not more. Aubrey passed away in March of 2025, right before her eleventh birthday. She had such a strong will to live. She was the first person to come out of a HIPEC surgery without a ventilator. She beat the odds over and over again. She was and is a miracle, and she deserved so much more than four percent. I would like to close this with a quote directly from Aubrey's mom, Lyndsi, after Aubrey's second relapse. It's a simple one, but it says absolutely everything: "Hey, we need more research and more options so babies like Aubrey don't have to live like this." (Aubrey's family has started a non-profit in her name, made official on what should have been her 11th birthday. It's Aubrey's Gifts of Hope on Facebook.)

According to my mother, the first words she ever said to me were "you're going to college." I, of course, do not remember this. I was just a baby, so freshly born that I wasn't even cute yet. While I do not remember this first statement of my mother's, I do remember all of the times it was said to me throughout childhood and adolescence. As soon as my parents discovered that I could do well in school, they pushed me to be the best student possible. Now, that's not to say they pushed me too hard, because they really didn't. A thirteen year old version of myself may disagree, but at twenty, I'm well aware that my parents just wanted me to succeed, and they didn't see how I could do that outside of academics. That may seem harsh, but it's true. I wasn't a social child. In fact, I slept in my mother's bed until I was almost fifteen-years-old, and even though I grew up playing and competing in multiple sports, I was never exactly "athletically gifted," either. Both my parents grew up in poverty, and neither went to college. School was never Dad's forte, and even though Mom tried a time or two, it just wasn't for her, either. My parents have always stressed the fact that college isn't for everyone. In doing that, though, they also stressed the fact that it was for me, and I agreed. I'm sure their plan wasn't for me to study fine arts and become a librarian, but once they saw how much work it actually takes, they came around to the idea. When I finally started taking antidepressants, and I was able to see a world where I lived past eighteen, the idea of college became more appealing. No one would know me there. When I got to college, I wouldn't have a reputation as "the weird girl who doesn't talk." I could just be Lizzie. And that's what I did. I got to college, and I started talking to people. I formed relationships in my first semester, and even though they never really progressed to friendships, they were more than I'd had in years. Then, by semester two, I'd met my soulmate, best friend, and partner. Thirteen year old Elizabeth never thought she'd have any of those things. College has given me so much more than just an education. As cliche as it sounds, it's given me myself. I know who I am now, beyond my anxiety disorders. I talk to people. I initiate conversations, even. When I met my partner, instead of seeing him across the room and putting my head down, I approached him. We had conversations, became friends, then best friends, and then more than that. Because the world didn't end when I was fifteen, I have been able to become a person I can be proud of. I'm a person my parents don't have to worry about so much, even though they always will. College gave me a life worth living, and I'm so beyond glad I stuck around to experience it.

The thing I most want to build is a combination of all those things. It's a physical space, a personal goal, a huge commitment, and it will foster so many relationships. It even has a name picked out: Limitless Dance Academy. I grew up in the dance studio. Even now, three years after graduation, I can identify the smell of Marley floors and hairspray at the first whiff. It immediately takes me back to being a kid, trying on costumes that had been custom made for my friends and me. In a lot of ways, it's strange to me that not every child has that experience. I grew up with a chronic illness—non-radiographic axial spondyloarthritis—but I am blessed enough to say that my diagnosis didn't disable me until seventeen, after I'd graduated and taken my final bow. Still, though, I spent the summer of my seventeenth year in bed, staring at the ceiling, and longing for the things I was once able to do. When I finally stopped feeling sorry for myself (mostly), I realized how privileged I was to grow up in a dance studio at all. My life could have been so much different if my diagnosis was just a little bit more severe, and that realization terrified me. I started Googling. Things like "classes for disabled dancers," "accessible dance studio," and "wheelchair dancers" filled my recent search bar, but the closest accessible studio to me was over an hour away. That's where Limitless Dance Academy comes into play. Now, I wasn't Googling all of those things for myself. Almost three years and a consistent course of biologic medications later, the symptoms of my illness are relatively well controlled. No, I was Googling those things because I found my calling. I was going to open a dance studio. Accessible dance studios, occasionally called "DanceAbilities" studios, are not a brand new concept, but LDA is. LDA won't be a regular competition studio with special needs classes on the side. It will be a fully accessible studio, maybe with a competition team on the side. While many accessible studios are designed with dancers with specific disabilities in mind (physical, developmental, or emotional), LDA will be made to accommodate everyone. I'm aware that this will be a big feat, but I know it's doable. I have drafted a floor plan for the studio with dozens of accommodations already made, including dimming lights in all studios, wider doorframes to fit wheelchairs of all sizes, and multiple single stalled, unisex restrooms that are large enough to accommodate wheelchairs, adult changing tables, and Hoyer lifts. By far my favorite part of the design, though, is the sensory room. Alongside sensory bags available at the front desk, LDA will have a sensory room that dancers can escape to for peace during moments of overwhelm. This allows sensory-sensitive dancers to enjoy the space at their level, in time.

1. Nonfiction Writing Prompt I was raised by white walls and crinkly paper sheets. Height scraped into a door frame, as well as measured against a stadiometer. My friends were nurses and x-ray techs, and my favorite movies were whatever was playing in the waiting room, even if I always secretly hoped it would be /Tangled/. I became desensitized to cold metal exam tables, and I was on a first name basis with my elementary school nurse. My childhood was spent with my head down, because holding it high while your nose is bleeding is bad. No one ever told me why that was; I had to figure it out for myself. Heavy lead aprons became my security blanket, while all the grown ups worried about the amount of radiation coursing through my tiny body. I only thrashed and screamed through one set of bloodwork, because after the first time, everyone knew I would never be unsubscribed from the dreaded “little pinch.” We added phlebotomists to my list of friends. The squeeze of a sphygmomanometer, blood pressure cuff, became all too familiar, and I found fun in fighting sleep after receiving anesthesia, even if it was a battle I never won. I’ve often found myself wondering if there’s a children’s hospital equivalent to the “class clown,” because that’s what I would’ve been. Cracking jokes as I was wheeled into the OR, and laughing at myself while in pain that would send anyone else to the emergency room. Maybe the equivalent would be the “hospital hysteric.” I reflect on the halls of my childhood hospital the same way you reflect on your local playground. I occasionally find myself longing for the days spent surrounded by those white walls, with rainbow tiles spread along the floor. A sick child eventually becomes a sick grown up, who is then thrown into the world of adult medicine, where there are no child-life specialists, and therapy dogs are few and far between. If they’re lucky, though, the children’s hospital will keep them until their twenties and beyond. I was not so lucky. I was carted off to an adult rheumatologist four days after my eighteenth birthday, to be poked and prodded all over again. The white walls are different there. They don’t hold paintings of sea creatures, or photos of smiling patients. Instead, new drug posters call those walls home. There are no hand prints from “graduated” patients, or rainbow chairs in the waiting rooms, but it smells the same. The crinkly paper sheets are the same. I find comfort in the smell of hand sanitizer and the feel of a paper sheet against my sensitive skin. I still fight sleep after anesthesia, and I promise to update if I ever win, but it’s different today. I’m no longer a kid waiting for her sickness to go away, but an adult who knows that it never will. I’m also an adult who can somehow drive past a children’s hospital and smile, though, because some of my fondest memories were created inside those white walls.

As a chronically ill child who eventually grew into a chronically ill adult, I've spent a lot of time around people with various medical devices. G-tubes, ports, cochlear implants, and wheelchairs are just a few of the many devices I was exposed to by middle school. While I never needed any of these devices as a child, I was always fascinated by them, and as an adult who now uses a cane when necessary, I've noticed a heavy lack of medical devices in children's literature. I am studying creative writing in school, and for the last few years, I have been sitting on an idea for a series of children's books all about different medical devices and conditions. These books would be marketed for the youngest of readers, and I would like children of all abilities to be exposed to them. They can be read to able-bodied children individually, as a way to teach them that some people look different, or need different tools, but that everyone is still equal. They can be read to children with various medical needs, both to educate them about their conditions and devices, and to show them characters that look like them. Finally, I want these books to be a tool teachers can use in the event they have a child with a medical condition in their class. Currently, I am working on a draft of what will hopefully be the first book in the series: "Carlos' Cool Crutches." It tells the story of Carlos, a young boy with cerebral palsy who uses forearm crutches. Carlos loves his crutches, because they allow him play with his friends and navigate the world more freely than he could without them. One of his favorite activities is sitting in the living room with his mama and abuelo, and decorating his crutches with things like colorful duct tape and animal stickers. Carlos has brown hair and eyes, as well as tan skin. He wears glasses, and is very proud of his red frames. People often underestimate him because of his cerebral palsy, but his parents work hard to advocate for him, because they know that he is just as capable as the other kids in his class, it just takes him longer to do certain things. One obstacle I've come across while brainstorming this idea is the fact that I am far from an artist. I've never been very good at drawing, not for lack of trying. It is just a fact, though, that while I can supply the words, I cannot provide the pictures for this project. I would love to recruit another disabled or chronically ill artist to do the illustrations for this project, but that is hard to do without a platform. I do have a writing Instagram account, but it is not very big, and I don't have many connections. I plan to keep trying, though, because I am extremely passionate about this project, as well as the other titles for it that I am thinking of. Attached is an incomplete first draft of "Carlos' Cool Crutches!"

Today, my professor told me I had a knack for talking to people. When she said it, she knew it would make me happy, but she didn't realize what it would do to the little, twelve-year-old girl who still lives inside of me That little girl, she looks a lot like me. She has my name, but no one calls her Lizzie yet. She has my eyes, and my lopsided smile, but she could not be further from the woman I am today. That little girl couldn't talk. Okay, okay, I'm embellishing a bit. She could talk, she just... didn't. She was scared, and when she was scared, the words didn't come. Her parents and a handful of close friends knew her voice well, but the doctor she'd seen since infancy didn't, nor did her teachers. There were a few places her voice came out, though. I imagine her volleyball coach can still hear the way she yelled "MINE!" after every ball, because on the court, nothing else mattered. She just wanted to win. At dance competitions, she cheered for every group, solo, duet, and trio, whether they were from her studio or not. She knew how it felt to have no one but your parents to cheer for you. As long as she was in the audience, no other dancer would have to feel that pain. She had a love inside of her that was far stronger than any anxiety. Then, it was March 13th, 2020, that little girl had just turned fourteen, and everything in her life came crashing down. The COVID-19 pandemic almost killed her, but it wasn't because she contracted the virus. COVID-19 closed the doors of her dance studio for months. It shut down her volleyball club. Everything that brought her joy was gone overnight. For over a year, that little girl was a shell of herself. She started high school and turned fifteen, but I truly don't remember one bit of it. In a lot of ways, contracting COVID-19 at the end of her freshman year saved that little girl's life. She left school one day and never went back, switching to online learning for the rest of her school career. Her pediatrician started her on a medication: Zoloft, because in his words, "I usually suggest therapy before medication, but that's not going to help if she can't talk to anyone." A combination of medication and desire to improve turned that little girl into the person I am today. At fourteen, I couldn't bring myself to envision a life past eighteen. I never would have imagined that, by my eighteenth birthday, I'd be in college, with a small group of friends who love me exactly how I am. I never would have guessed that at twenty, I'd be preparing for my senior year of college, in a loving relationship, and actually looking forward to the future instead of fearing it. I still rely on Zoloft—150 milligrams daily—to manage my severe anxiety. Between fourteen and twenty, I was diagnosed with four anxiety disorders and obsessive compulsive disorder, and I'll be the first to admit that it's taken work to stay on track while managing those things. Therapy, medication, and a strong support system have kept me going, though. My parents, partner, and best friend have been my biggest motivators, and I imagine they will be for a long, long time. I want to finish my degrees and continue growing because of them. I want to move out of Florida with my partner, and secure a job that will allow me to support my parents as they age. On top of all of that, though, I want to make the little girl I once was proud. I want to look back at her and tell her that she figured it out, and that even if it didn't all go according to her plan, she turned out pretty great.

I was diagnosed with non-radiographic axial spondyloarthritis at eighteen, but my journey with chronic illness and pain began long before that. I experienced my first pain flare when I was four, or at least that's when I articulated it for the first time. It was in my hips, which ached and creaked when I walked. Four-year-old hips aren't supposed to do that, as I later learned. My parents, the patient saints they are, took me to countless doctor's appointments over the years. I saw specialists, pediatricians, the works. It really felt like I saw every doctor under the sun, and they all just said the same thing: "growing pains." Dear reader, growing is not supposed to hurt. It is not supposed to make a child's wrist swell up to the size of a softball, or keep them out of PE for weeks at a time. Growing is not supposed to disable children. Most of the time, I was able to push through the pain. I was a competitive dancer, I played volleyball (though I admit I wasn't the best), and I graduated high school a year early. I was event the captain of my school's dance team senior year. Sometimes I needed breaks, or to sit out when it got really bad, but I managed, and I was proud of that. After graduation, though, came this weird, sick joke. Right as my life was supposed to begin, I found myself unable to get out of bed. Every step I managed to take felt like walking through knee-deep sea water, like my limbs suddenly weighed 500 pounds each. I could no longer drive, because falling asleep at the wheel is a bit of a dealbreaker for most parents. I spent about eighteen hours a day asleep. It was like a switch flipped. I went to bed one night relatively healthy, and I woke up disabled. It took five months after the fatigue began for me to see a rheumatologist, because at seventeen years and seven months of age, the pediatric doctors didn't want to start a new case with me, and the adult doctors couldn't see me as anything more than a liability. When I finally did see a doctor, though, it only took two blood tests to diagnose me: a C-reactive protein test, and an HLA-B27 test. While pain has been the longest standing symptom of my diagnosis, fatigue is the most debilitating. While I have reached a point where I'm capable of getting out of bed and functioning most days, I can't drive during bad flares because of my history of falling asleep. As a commuter, this has resulted in me having to miss classes fairly regularly. My goal for this upcoming school year, my senior year, is to live on campus. I want to attend all of my classes, and go to on campus events because I know I'll be able to make it back to my bed safely each night. If I want to live on campus, I need scholarships. My tuition is almost completely covered through academic scholarships from high school, but paying out of pocket for the remainder plus living on campus just isn't feasible at this point. This scholarship would give me an opportunity to experience college in a way I never have before for my final year. I have accepted that I'm always going to be sick, but I can choose to dwell on that, or to live through it, and I've decided that living is my favorite option.