My family and I were forever changed when my younger sister, Haley, was diagnosed with leukemia at eight years old. This marked the beginning of years filled with hospital visits, uncertainty, and emotional upheaval. My mom first took Haley to the doctor because she was feeling nauseous and appeared unusually pale; even moving from the couch to the car was painful. My memories of those first days are hazy—therapists have explained that sometimes the mind protects itself by locking away overwhelming experiences. I later learned that Haley was initially diagnosed with the flu, but as she was leaving the doctor’s office, she collapsed and was flown by helicopter to Seattle Children’s Hospital, marking the start of our family’s ordeal. Throughout her treatment, Haley fought bravely. My parents alternated staying by her side in the hospital, while I was often shuffled between grandparents. Eventually, we sold our house and moved closer to the hospital so we could be together more easily. When Haley's white blood cell counts and chemo schedule allowed, she would come home for short stretches—a precious week here and there. Each of us coped with the ordeal in our own way. My dad immersed himself in researching cancer trials and retreated into video games for an occasional escape. My mom, on the other hand, pushed her feelings down so she could stay strong for Haley. I became angry, jaded, and reactive at 10 years old. I’m not proud to say that I got into fights whenever someone mentioned Hayley or her illness. This led to multiple school transfers. Even before Haley was gone, grief was always present—grief for her suffering, for the loss of a normal childhood, and for the life we had before cancer. After three years and a bone marrow transplant from me—a 99% match—Haley went into remission. For a brief time, we felt hope. She even traveled to Hawaii for our aunt’s wedding. But soon my mom noticed Haley was lethargic and short of breath, and then the devastating news came: the cancer was back, stronger than ever. Treatments in Seattle failed, and as a last hope, the doctors agreed to a clinical trial at St. Jude’s in Memphis. Haley spent a month there, but her condition worsened, and I was called to say goodbye. She could no longer move or breathe on her own, and my parents had to make the unimaginable decision to let her go. Losing Haley has shaped who I am today. Recovery has been slow and full of setbacks, but with counseling and my family’s support, I learned that healing is a gradual process and relying on others is not a weakness. Over time, I found ways to channel my grief into empathy and perseverance. These experiences are the driving force behind my pursuit of a master’s in counseling. I want to help others find strength in their struggles and hope to become someone Haley would be proud of. By sharing my story and supporting others through their own hardships, I believe I can honor her memory and create a positive impact. My journey through loss has taught me the value of vulnerability, the importance of compassion, and the strength that comes from connecting with those who understand. These lessons inspire me every day to work toward a future where I can guide others toward healing and hope.

Supporting people with special needs isn’t just a goal for me—it’s personal. When I was a kid, I struggled a lot with learning. I remember staring at pages and seeing a jumble of words, feeling frustrated and left out while everyone else seemed to move on. Getting through school took a lot of persistence, some creative problem-solving, and the help of a few wonderful teachers who really cared. Those experiences made me more understanding and patient with others. I know what it’s like to feel different, and I want to be the person who helps someone else feel seen and supported. People with special needs have taught me a lot about what it means to keep going, even when things are tough. When I worked as a behavior technician, I met kids who just needed someone to actually listen and believe in them. One boy in particular hardly talked in group activities and sometimes acted out because he felt overwhelmed. We started small—just taking some deep breaths together or giving a high five when he tried. Over time, he joined in more and even started to look forward to group time. Seeing that change showed me that sometimes, just having someone who cares can make all the difference. My family and my time working in inclusive classrooms have been just as important in shaping who I am. I’ve seen how much it means when someone feels welcome and understood, and I want to help create that kind of space for others. That’s why I’m drawn to education and therapy—especially counseling—because it’s about meeting people where they are and finding what works for them. Sure, there are techniques and strategies, but I’ve learned that really listening and caring make all the difference. I want the people I work with to know they can trust me and that I’m on their side. Looking ahead, I’m excited to keep helping through counseling and just showing up for people. As a counselor, I want to be there for folks with special needs as they work through whatever comes their way—building confidence, learning new skills, and just figuring things out. Whether it’s one-on-one or in a group, I’ll encourage them to be themselves and keep moving forward. Mostly, I hope people leave our sessions feeling stronger and more comfortable with who they are. Someday, I’d like to help create programs that make it easier for everyone to feel included and independent, no matter the challenge. At the end of the day, I just want to help in a way that feels real and kind. My goal is simple: I want everyone to feel respected, have a shot at being independent, and know they belong. I’m looking forward to teaming up with families, teachers, health care workers, and advocates to build communities where everyone fits in. Down the road, I hope to help make learning easier and more fun for all kinds of people. What I’ve been through, and the kids I’ve met, have shown me that everyone has something special to give. I’m committed to helping people see that in themselves and feel like they matter.

My journey toward a master’s degree in mental health is deeply shaped by my personal experiences with trauma and loss. As a child, I witnessed the silent struggles of those close to me. The turning point came during my early teens, when my family fought for years as my younger sister battled cancer. I donated bone marrow in hopes of saving her, but she ultimately passed just before her twelfth birthday. This profound loss marked the onset of my own mental health challenges. In the months that followed, grief led me to self-harm as I tried to cope with overwhelming numbness. I later regretted these actions when I noticed the unintended impact on others who looked up to me, underscoring for me the lasting importance of breaking the stigma around mental health. These experiences fueled my curiosity about how trauma shapes the mind and inspired my interest in studying psychological resilience, coping mechanisms, and evidence-based therapeutic approaches in an academic setting. Processing my trauma showed me that reaching for help requires immense courage. Therapy and counseling were lifelines in my darkness, illuminating hope when I felt lost. These vital experiences ignited a passion for mental health advocacy in me. I became deeply aware of the power in creating safe spaces where people can be seen, understood, and empowered to share their pain. This realization drove my determination to pursue advanced studies so that I can help others find light in their darkest moments. Self-advocacy became my anchor in stormy waters. I learned to bravely face my triggers and express my needs, even when fear and shame threatened to silence me. Slowly, in sharing my pain with trusted friends and mentors, I discovered real strength in vulnerability and found resilience where I once felt broken. I now know that self-advocacy isn’t just for healing myself—it sparks hope in others who may still feel alone. In my approach to suicide awareness and prevention, I emphasize empathy and education. Sharing personal stories can help others feel less alone and encourage them to seek help. I am committed to community outreach and to working with organizations to provide accessible resources and reduce stigma. Looking ahead, my goal is to serve underrepresented communities by recognizing barriers such as cultural stigma, financial hardship, and a lack of representation that often hinder access to care. I plan to advocate for equitable mental health resources and collaborate with organizations supporting marginalized populations. By centering the voices and experiences of those most affected, I hope to create truly inclusive and supportive environments. My passion for mental health advocacy is rooted in lived experience, and I am determined to make a positive impact on others.