As someone who has struggled with my mental health since early childhood, I've been incredibly lucky to have a family both able and willing to provide the support I needed. This is certainly not the case for everyone, an unfortunate reality I've witnessed too many times, and I quickly learned the necessity of mental health support. I'm from a small town that experienced a series of young suicides during my four years in high school. The first was a seventeen year old boy who left school in the middle of the day and never came back. News spread quickly before the final bell, and never had I seen so many adults cry at once or heard the halls of a public school fall so silent. Students too affected, struck suddenly by grief or shock in the middle of class, visited the library. There, I heard a boy I knew, always loud and joking, on the phone with his mother. "Mama," he said, something he likely hadn't called her in years, "I just don't know what to do." Hearing him say that broke me because that was the crux of it for us all. No one knew what to do, but we had to do something. A friend and I formed a student group to advocate for better mental health practices in the school district, reduce the stigma around mental health, and work to bring in mental health resources to the community. We brought in speakers to the school and community to discuss the realities of mental health, hosted suicide prevention trainings, and wrote up relevant lesson plans for older students. As a student group, we worked with administration to change the high school schedule to include a short study period where students could access teachers if they needed academic help. This reduced stress for students and gave them time to connect with adults in the school. I also joined a local coalition focused on mental health efforts within the community at large, working to destigmatize mental health and bring resources to the town. In my last two years of high school, I served as a representative to the school board on the Safety and Wellness Committee. I threw myself into this work, and even spent some of my spare time on peer counseling websites trying to help other teens feel heard and understood. I plan to continue speaking out and learn from my experiences working with school administration and community leaders in order to continue advocating for change, especially having seen some of the ways it can happen. As an adult, I have the opportunity to open many more doors to contribute to the fight to end mental health stigma and support those with mental illnesses. My goal is to enter the mental health field as a therapist, so I can support people professionally. Mental health is something I'm incredibly passionate about, and I want to spend my life helping people, especially marginalized youth who feel unheard or unloved. Feeling seen is incredibly healing, and I want to provide that for others the way my family was able to for me. I plan to promote better mental health practices in schools, including ensuring that teachers are trauma informed, free counseling is provided, and children feel safe in an inclusive environment. Hopefully, children and adults alike will one day be unafraid to exist as they are and openly discuss mental health.

Living with mental illness, the most vital aspect of a healthy lifestyle is routine, which holds me together during hard times. In high school, before developing healthy habits, the slightest stressors sent me spiraling. The week before AP exams, I'd hole myself in my room, studying for hours on end, drinking so much caffeine my hands shook constantly, and ignoring my friends. After taking the exams, I'd crash, sleeping for half the day and having little energy or motivation. Soon, I began repeating this cycle much more frequently, and I admitted to myself it wasn't sustainable. Eventually, I realized I had no healthy routines to interrupt or prevent this, and I began creating some. Many of the habits I built focused on physical health, like my goals to exercise and eat at least three meals a day. Slowly, I built these habits up: dinner always included vegetables and protein and I made fitness goals for myself. I joined the Western Riding Team and began working out twice a week with my teammates. While I always struggled with motivating myself to exercise and feel comfortable in a gym, I soon found it to be a great way to make friends and improve my self-esteem. I quickly learned that because everyone's different and schedules get busy, traditional routines might not work for me, and I accepted that. One habit I had to adjust for myself was my goal of sleeping eight hours a night. While incredibly important, it felt infeasible as I approached finals week. Instead of giving it up, though, I looked for alternatives, and I implemented a biphasic sleep schedule for a few weeks, which worked much better with my schedule, left me less stressed, and still allowed me to get the proper amount of rest. Leaving behind the idea that the most popular path to success was the healthiest (or only) choice gave me room to implement beneficial routines without feeling overwhelmed. Having these routines to rely on helped me manage daily anxieties and kept me from sacrificing my well-being in stressful times. Other habits I've implemented for myself are for my mental health. I do my best to get outside every day, often on walks, which helps me ground myself in the beauty of nature and the serenity of a moment away from technology and schoolwork. My relationships with those I love are the most important part of my life, and I do my best to keep them strong. I set up a schedule with friends or family I can't see in person to call and catch up regularly, and even on busy days, I at least text my family to say hello. Finally, I try to bring as much light to my life as possible. I keep a list of little things I love: stargazing, cotton candy, and showing kids around the barn on campus. Whenever I'm feeling down, I look through it and remember how much joy I can find. The list consists of almost 300 items and grows every time I stop to smile at something small. This habit is so ingrained that my friends are well-accustomed to me pausing during a hike or conversation to tack something onto the list. Sometimes, they ask me to read from it, and the grins on their faces make the list, too. Focusing on my wellness has involved reevaluating and pouring energy into multiple aspects of my life to achieve balance. It can be difficult, and consistency is important, but these efforts have allowed me to grow, do my best work, and be proud of who I'm becoming.

After reading “Borges y Yo,” a short story where the author describes himself in terms of two separate people, I found that metaphor helpful in understanding different facets of who I am: myself, curious and sensitive, and Emma, the achiever. Emma’s the person things happen to, living in moments I’m afraid to. I leave handling crises to her; she’s calm in a storm, strategic, and quick on her feet. I laugh and make awkward jokes in serious moments as she rolls her eyes, ready with the right words I rarely seem to say. She speaks to my school and community, involving herself in the search for solutions. I stay awake at night, anxiously reliving conversations to pick apart potentially misconstrued points. I think of all that should’ve been said, and she lets me, silently taking notes. As confident as she is, she needs me as much as I need her-- if I didn’t share my sentiments and experiences, she’d have nothing to fight for. For as long as I can remember, I’ve suffered from anxiety disorders. In kindergarten, I’d hyperventilate to the point of tears every day, terrified of interacting with my classmates. I grew out of sobbing before school, but couldn’t leave behind fear or the habit I made of distancing myself from strong emotions. From there, Emma emerged. She thrived in the space she forged between pathos and I, but couldn’t embrace sentimentality. When we fought for control and although I learned to live with this fragile discordance, it took years for me to fully understand mental health outside the context of my struggles. During my time in high school, my community experienced a string of suicides, all young people. After the death of a high school senior, halls fell silent; I didn’t hear one of almost 800 teenagers utter a word, and I’d never seen so many adults cry. In grief, anger, and guilt, I met with other students, some of whom I’d never spoken to before, to discuss mental health, and more importantly, how to prevent future tragedies. We formed a student group working with school administration to help improve mental health practices in the district. We brought in speakers and resources, raised awareness, and helped change the high school schedule to reduce stress and promote connection. Fueled by my passion, Emma threw us into mental health efforts, joining nonprofits, sitting on a school board committee, and participating in countless training sessions. Standing proud as the youngest person in the room, she found space here to learn and advocate. She spoke from my heart, and people listened. Although we agree that we need each other, sometimes, Emma consumes me without permission. One night, my little brother woke me because his friend was considering suicide and he didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t there, but that was okay; he wanted Emma, the girl with so much training the right words came even to her sleep-fogged mind. As he read his friend's messages aloud, Emma armed him with knowledge from my unfortunately extensive experience talking people down from the edge. He transcribed her words, slowly guiding his friend to a calmer headspace. When we knew she was safe, Emma sent an email to the school, and the girl received professional help the next morning; she did her job well. Knowing where her responsibilities ended, though, she handed me the reins so I could embrace my brother. A smile appeared on my face— relief, fondness for my brother— and I’d say it was mine alone, but I know such deep-seated emotions bind us, seeping across already blurry lines.

As a generation, Millenials and Gen Z have been accused of being too sensitive, but it doesn't faze us. We respond that someone needs to care, and if we care too much, maybe it's just making up for lost time. Overexposed to news and media from a young age, we're fiery and passionate in a way that sustains us rather than burns us out. Juggling multiple perspectives in uncharted territory is more second nature than a circus act for us. We know we can't afford to be numb, so we choose optimism, fully understanding the struggles ahead of us. We call it juggling, not floundering. We choose to believe in our future and our ability not only to persevere, but to make the world a better place by having been a part of it. The first time I encountered the steadfastly determined optimism of my generation was in my freshman year of high school. After the school shooting in Parkland, Florida, I watched as teenagers across the country organized walk-outs, marches, and coalitions. In my school, I joined these efforts on a smaller scale, participating in walkouts, attending board meetings, and gathering with other students to discuss safety at our school with the administration. At first, it felt as if we were all driven by fear, shock, and anger. However, after many hours of hard work, it became apparent that although we felt angry and afraid, these emotions were born from love and hope. Had we not loved ourselves, each other, and our community, we wouldn't have been afraid. It was hope, the knowledge that things could improve, that sparked anger, passion, and action. Realizing this showed me how truly inspired I was by my peers and my generation at large, learning from their drive and leadership. Later that year, a different kind of tragedy found its way into my community. A student at my high school died by suicide and the issue of mental health in our town became glaringly impossible to ignore. News spread quickly before the final bell, and never had I seen so many adults cry at once or heard the halls of a school fall so silent. Students too affected, struck suddenly by grief or shock in the middle of class, gathered in the library. There, I heard a boy I knew, always loud and joking, on the phone with his mother. "Mama," he said, something he likely hadn't called her in years, "I just don't know what to do." Hearing him say that broke me because that was the crux of it for us all. I was afraid, and I was angry, yet again. Still, though, I loved; I hoped. No one knew what to do, but we had to do something. A friend and I formed a student group to advocate for better mental health practices in the school district, reduce the stigma around mental health, and work to bring mental health resources to the community. We brought in speakers to the school and community to discuss the realities of mental health, hosted suicide prevention training, and wrote up relevant lesson plans for older students. As a student group, we worked with the administration to change the high school schedule to include a short study period where students could access teachers if they needed academic help. This reduced stress for students and gave them time to connect with adults in the school. Alongside some of my peers, I joined a local coalition focused on mental health efforts within the community at large, working to destigmatize mental health and bring resources to the town. In my last two years of high school, I served as a representative to the school board on the Safety and Wellness Committee. My peers and I threw ourselves into this work and even spent some of our spare time on peer counseling websites trying to help other teens feel heard and understood. I think it's this coming together in advocacy, both on larger scales like with March For Our Lives and on smaller scales in every community, that defines our generation. What others criticize as fruitless, oversensitive, and dramatic, are the greatest acts of love we can make. We believe in a better world and don't fear the hard work and collaboration it requires of us. With every step in every fight for change, we hold hope close and let it lead us.

As someone who has struggled with mental health since early childhood, I've been incredibly lucky to have a family both able and willing to provide the support I need. They were intuitive enough to know something was wrong, and starting therapy and medication for my anxiety changed my life. However, these resources aren't known or available to everyone, an unfortunate reality I've witnessed too many times. I quickly learned the necessity of mental health support both from my own experiences and from others. I'm from a small town that experienced a series of young suicides during my four years in high school. The first was a seventeen-year-old boy who left school in the middle of the day and never came back. News spread quickly before the final bell, and never had I seen so many adults cry at once or heard the halls of a public school fall so silent. Students too affected, struck suddenly by grief or shock in the middle of class, visited the library. There, I heard a boy I knew, always loud and joking, on the phone with his mother. "Mama," he said, something he likely hadn't called her in years, "I just don't know what to do." Hearing him say that broke me because that was the crux of it for us all. No one knew what to do, but we had to do something. A friend and I formed a student group to advocate for better mental health practices in the school district, reduce the stigma around mental health, and work to bring mental health resources to the community. We brought in speakers to the school and community to discuss the realities of mental health, hosted suicide prevention trainings, and wrote up relevant lesson plans for older students. As a student group, we worked with administration to change the high school schedule to include a short study period where students could access teachers if they needed academic help. This reduced stress for students and gave them time to connect with adults in the school. I also joined a local coalition focused on mental health efforts within the community at large, working to destigmatize mental health and bring resources to the town. In my last two years of high school, I served as a representative to the school board on the Safety and Wellness Committee. I threw myself into this work, and even spent some of my spare time on peer counseling websites trying to help other teens feel heard and understood. I plan to continue speaking out and learn from my experiences working with school administration and community leaders to continue advocating for change, especially having seen some of the ways it can happen. As an adult, I have the opportunity to open many more doors to contribute to the fight to end mental health stigma and support those with mental illnesses. My goal is to enter the mental health field as a therapist, so I can support people professionally. Mental health is something I'm incredibly passionate about, and I want to spend my life helping people, especially marginalized youth who feel unheard or unloved. Feeling seen is incredibly healing, and I want to provide that for others the way my family was able to for me. I plan to promote better mental health practices in schools, including ensuring that teachers are trauma-informed, free counseling is provided, and children feel safe in an inclusive environment. Hopefully, children and adults alike will one day be unafraid to exist as they are and openly discuss mental health.

As I leave fifth period, I catch a glimpse of my teacher with tears in her eyes-- she's an emotional woman, and I think nothing of it. In sixth period, I hear whispers. By the next passing period, hallways teeming with almost 800 teenagers somehow fall silent. During lunch, a senior went home, found his father's hunting rifle, and posted an apology to his Snapchat story, telling his friends not to worry. His friends rushed to his house and found that he had died by suicide. This tragedy shook our small town to its core and left us all feeling hollow. As someone who'd struggled with mental illness for much of my life and seen many of my loved ones do the same, it was no less devastating, so I threw myself into mental health advocacy. I continued these efforts throughout high school, working with school administration and a town coalition, but every time we thought we neared progress, we were met with another young suicide. Our village saw five in just four years. I've suffered from mental illnesses for as long as I can remember, but my experiences with my community have led me to fully understand mental health as an issue outside of and larger than myself. I've become truly passionate about helping others with their mental health, which is why I'm pursuing degrees in psychology and neuroscience. As a child, my favorite phrase was "curiosity killed the cat," and I took it as a challenge. Although science classes were the highlight of my day, and I'd spend hours pouring over books, I never landed on a specific area of science that interested me most. In high school, I learned that I want to help people struggling with their mental health and simultaneously discovered a fascination with the human brain. I believe that having experienced mental illness in my own life and the lives of those close to me, as well as tragedy's shattering impact upon a community, I'm well equipped to approach research and scientific progress on these issues from a perspective that respects their inherent humanity and emotionality. That perspective is vital in ensuring the scientific community is asking questions in ways that benefit those impacted by what they're studying and improve lives. Despite its importance, I know that sometimes, humanity-focused approaches are often overlooked and undervalued in STEM. They can be seen as too "soft" to be valuable drivers of science, especially when such ideas are proposed by women, who are already underrepresented and stereotyped in STEM fields. As a woman motivated by the softer ideals of science, seeking to improve lives as much as to satisfy curiosity, I expect resistance. I've seen this bias against the vulnerable firsthand in school when my peers seem to gravitate instinctively toward fascinating ideas before they look to understand the needs of the communities they hope to serve. I see this most, and even in professionals, when it comes to issues disabled and neurodivergent people face. In research, treatment, and diagnostics, sometimes the most prominent goals seem to center on the comfort of non-disabled people by encouraging assimilation above comfort and quality of life. This puts the comfort of the majority over the wellbeing of the vulnerable, and does nothing to improve lives or create more accessible environments where people can thrive. I want to advocate for approaches that listen to and benefit disabled, neurodivergent, and mentally ill people. As scientists, I hope we can use curiosity as a tool, alongside compassion, to bring about positive change.

As someone who has struggled with my mental health since early childhood, I've been incredibly lucky to have a family both able and willing to provide the support I need. This is certainly not the case for everyone, an unfortunate reality I've witnessed too many times, and I quickly learned the necessity of mental health support. I'm from a small town that experienced a series of young suicides during my four years in high school. The first was a seventeen-year-old boy who left school in the middle of the day and never came back. News spread quickly before the final bell, and never had I seen so many adults cry at once or heard the halls of a public school fall so silent. Students too affected, struck suddenly by grief or shock in the middle of class, visited the library. There, I heard a boy I knew, always loud and joking, on the phone with his mother. "Mama," something he likely hadn't called her in years, "I just don't know what to do." Hearing him say that broke me because that was the crux of it for us all. No one knew what to do, but we had to do something. A friend and I formed a student group to advocate for better mental health practices in the school district, reduce the stigma around mental health, and work to bring mental health resources to the community. We brought in speakers to the school and community to discuss the realities of mental health, hosted suicide prevention trainings, and wrote lesson plans for older students. As a student group, we worked with the administration to change the high school schedule to include a short study period where students could access teachers if they needed academic help. This reduced stress for students and gave them time to connect with adults in the school. I also joined a local coalition focused on mental health efforts within the community at large, working to destigmatize mental health and bring resources to the town. In my last two years of high school, I served as a representative to the school board on the Safety and Wellness Committee. I threw myself into this work and even spent some of my spare time on peer counseling websites trying to help other teens feel heard and understood. I know I carry these tragedies with me in every step of my life. However, I take care to also carry the hope, empowerment, and community I found. Seeing how important and possible it is, I strive to create connections and spread kindness everywhere I go-- college, work, sports, and clubs. I plan to continue speaking out and learn from my experiences working with school and community leaders to continue advocating for change. As an adult, I have the opportunity to open many more doors to contribute to the fight to end mental health stigma and support those with mental illnesses. My goal is to enter the mental health field as a therapist, so I can support people professionally. Mental health is something I'm incredibly passionate about, and I want to spend my life helping people, especially marginalized youth who feel unheard or unloved. Feeling seen is incredibly healing, and I want to provide that for others the way my family was able to for me. I plan to promote better mental health practices in schools, ensuring teachers are trauma-informed, free counseling is provided, and children feel safe in an inclusive environment. Hopefully, children and adults alike will one day be unafraid to exist as they are and openly discuss mental health.

What excites me most about college is the opportunity to explore who I am in new ways without the pressure of people expecting me to be someone I've always been. I do my best to always appreciate the chance to dive into the unknown. Through this, I've met incredible people with fascinating stories, discovered joys big and small I'd never dreamed of, and learned more about myself than I could've imagined. In high school, I put a lot of pressure on myself to be a serious student and mental health advocate. While I still love school and am passionate about mental health, I've found that learning to take care of myself and enjoy my life lets me feel these passions more deeply and dive into curiosity joyfully. During my first year of college, I explored everything I could get my hands on: an equestrian team, classes and clubs I'd never heard of, and nights at the movies instead of in board rooms. I even decided I wanted to double major in psychology and biological sciences. All the while, I knew I'd return to my goal of being a family or child psychologist. Still, this freedom I granted myself allowed me to more genuinely understand myself and more fully experience the depths and nuances of my desire to help others. Learning to overcome my struggles with mental health puts into perspective how intensely I want to help others do the same. This summer, I'm working at a summer camp run by a counseling center, helping kids with mental illness and cognitive disabilities. Having taken a break to work on myself means I can carry that love for them without so heavily feeling the weight of worrying about them. Along with learning to find joy in my everyday life, diving into a new life opened doors for me to make a habit of taking care of myself in other ways. Joining an equestrian team encouraged me to work out with friends, and now we go to the gym twice a week and spend spring days hiking. My family didn't regularly eat together, but my friends and I do, which helps me take care of myself even on hard days. We set routines for ourselves, especially before finals week, and stick to them, ensuring that we all sleep and study enough while still remembering to enjoy ourselves. I do my best to get outside every day, often on walks, which grounds me in the beauty of nature and the serenity of a moment away from technology and schoolwork. My relationships with those I love are the most important part of my life, and I do my best to keep them strong. I set up a schedule with friends or family I can't see in person to call and catch up regularly, and even on busy days, I at least text my family to say hello. Finally, I try to bring as much light to my life as possible. I keep a list of little things I love, such as stargazing, cotton candy, and showing kids around the equestrian center on campus. Whenever I'm feeling down, I look through it and remember how much joy I can find. The list is over 200 items long and grows every time I stop to smile at something small. This habit is so ingrained that my friends are well accustomed to me pausing during a hike or conversation to quickly tack something onto the list. Sometimes, they ask me to read from it, and the grins on their faces when I do make the list every time.

The classic 'Style' is my favorite song from 1989. Despite being about a romantic relationship, I find the themes in the song easily applicable to any passion, reassuring a listener that with fire and determination, they can always bounce back. Passion, according to Taylor Swift, looks good on everyone and will never go out of Style. Any circumstances that might distance you from your goals don't have to stop you, and you can always go back home. For me, this has been an important message recently, as I took a break from work I'd been doing for years. Since I was in middle school, I've wanted to work in mental health, specifically in youth and family services. In high school, I experienced mental health issues personally and in my family, as well as seeing it through the lens of community loss when several young people in my town committed suicide. I worked hard to educate my community and advocate for changes in the school system. I served on the school board as a student representative, formed a student leadership committee, and joined a communitywide coalition. We implemented mental health lessons in schools, started support groups for adults, and brought speakers, educators, and resources to the community. While it was incredibly worthwhile and rewarding work, it emotionally drained me. Initially, like the song, I believed my fire alone could sustain me. This inspired me, and the knowledge that it could burn me out, or as Taylor Swift put it, "go up in flames," couldn't deter me. However, the burden soon grew heavier than I knew how to carry. As a child, administrators asked me to speak on behalf of hundreds of students and shared news of children my younger brother's age committing suicide. This all occurred in meetings where I needed to keep my composure, and I wasn't personally seeking the help I needed. Because of this, when I went to college, I needed a break from this work to discover who I am and how to experience joy lightheartedly. The knowledge that my passion would be there for me afterward brought me comfort. During my first year of college, I explored everything I could get my hands on: an equestrian team, classes and clubs I'd never heard of, and nights at the movies instead of in board rooms. I even decided I wanted to double major in psychology and biological sciences. All the while, I knew I'd return to my goal of being a family or child psychologist. Still, this freedom I granted myself allowed me to more genuinely understand myself and more fully experience the depths and nuances of my desire to help others. Learning how to overcome my struggles with mental health puts into perspective how intensely I want to help others do the same. This summer, I'm working at a summer camp run by a counseling center, helping kids with mental illness and cognitive disabilities. Having taken a break to work on myself means I can carry that love for them without so heavily feeling the weight of worrying about them. I care for them all deeply and am incredibly excited about everything I'm learning. Taylor Swift was right, and the fire didn't fade. It's stronger than before, and will never go out of style.

After reading “Borges y Yo,” a short story in which the author describes himself in terms of two separate people, I found that metaphor helpful in understanding different facets of who I am: myself, curious and sensitive, and Emma, the achiever. Emma’s the one things happen to, living in moments I’m afraid to. Handling crises is her domain; she’s calm in a storm and quick on her feet. I laugh and joke awkwardly in serious moments as she rolls her eyes, ready with the right words I rarely seem to say. She speaks out in my school and community, while I stay awake at night, anxiously reliving conversations to pick everything apart for potentially-misconstrued points. I think of all that should’ve been said, and she lets me, silently taking notes. As confident as she is, she needs me as much as I need her-- if I didn’t share my sentiments and experiences, she’d have nothing to fight for. For as long as I can remember, I’ve suffered from anxiety disorders. In kindergarten, I’d hyperventilate to the point of tears every day, terrified of interacting with my classmates. I grew out of sobbing before school, but couldn’t leave fear behind. From there, Emma emerged. She thrived in the space she forged between pathos and I, but couldn’t embrace sentimentality. When we fought for control, she drifted, and I drowned. I learned to live with this fragile discordance, and it took years for me to fully understand mental health as an issue larger than and existing outside of my own struggles. During my freshman year of high school, my community experienced a string of suicides, all young people. After the death of a high school senior, the halls fell silent; I didn’t hear one of almost 800 teenagers utter a word, and I’d never seen so many adults cry in such a short time. In our grief, anger, and guilt, I met with other students, some of whom I’d never spoken to before, to discuss mental health, and more importantly, how to prevent future tragedies. We formed a student group working with school administration to help improve mental health practices in the district. We brought in speakers and resources, raised awareness, and helped change the high school schedule to reduce stress and promote connection. Fueled by my passion, Emma threw us into mental health efforts, joining nonprofits, sitting on a school board committee, and participating in countless trainings. Standing proud as the youngest person in the room, she weaseled her way into these spaces to learn and advocate. She spoke from my heart, and people listened. Although we agree we need each other, sometimes, Emma consumes me without permission. One night, my little brother woke me at midnight because his friend was considering suicide, and he didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t there, but that was okay; he wanted Emma, the girl with so much training the right words came even to her sleep-fogged mind. As he read his friend's messages aloud, Emma armed him with knowledge from my experience talking people down from the edge. He transcribed her words, slowly guiding his friend into a calmer headspace. When we knew she was safe, Emma emailed the school, and the girl received professional help the next morning; she did her job well. Knowing where her responsibilities ended, though, she handed me the reins so I could embrace my brother. A smile appeared on my face— relief, fondness for my brother— and I’d say it was mine alone, but I know such deep-seated emotions bind us, seeping across already blurry lines.

As a child, my favorite phrase was "curiosity killed the cat," and I took it as a challenge, especially in high school. Although science classes were the highlight of my day, and I'd spend hours pouring over books, I didn't land on a specific area of study to focus my passion on until I fell in love with psychology and biology. When loss struck my hometown, my passion for learning and advocacy helped keep me afloat and support the community I love. One day, leaving my fifth-hour class, I catch a glimpse of my teacher teary-eyed-- she's an emotional woman, and I think nothing of it. In the sixth period, I hear whispers, and soon, hallways teeming with almost 800 teenagers somehow fall silent. Someone tells me that during lunch, a senior went home, found his father's hunting rifle, and posted an apology to his Snapchat story, telling his friends not to worry. His friends rushed to his house and found that he had committed suicide. News spread before the final bell, and I'd never seen so many adults cry at once. I listened to a boy, always joking a little too loudly, on the phone with his mother. "Mommy," he said, something he likely hadn't called her in years, "I just don't know what to do." That was the crux of it for us all, and it broke me. I threw myself into mental health advocacy. A friend and I formed a student group to advocate for better mental health practices in the school district, reduce the stigma around mental health, and work to bring mental health resources to the community. We brought in speakers to the school and community to discuss the realities of mental health, hosted suicide prevention training, and wrote relevant lesson plans for older students. I spent my evenings at local coalition or school board meetings and my nights on peer counseling websites trying to help other teens heal and feel heard. I believe that having experienced mental illness in my own life and the lives of those close to me, as well as tragedy's shattering impact upon a community, I'm well equipped to approach research and scientific progress on these issues from a perspective that respects their inherent humanity and emotionality. This perspective is vital in ensuring the scientific community asks questions in ways that benefit those impacted by what they're studying. Despite its importance, I know that sometimes humanity-focused approaches are often overlooked and undervalued in STEM. Some people see them as too "soft" to be valuable drivers of science, especially when such ideas are proposed by women, who are already underrepresented in STEM fields. I've seen this bias against the vulnerable in college when my peers gravitate instinctively toward fascinating ideas before looking to understand the needs of the communities they hope to serve. I see it often with issues disabled and neurodivergent people face. In research, treatment, and diagnostics, the most prominent goals sometimes focus on the comfort of non-disabled people by encouraging assimilation above comfort and quality of life. This puts the comfort of the majority over the well-being of the vulnerable and does nothing to improve lives or create more accessible environments. I want to advocate for approaches that listen to and benefit disabled, neurodivergent, and mentally ill people. I want to combine advocacy with work in the field with these populations, and this summer, I'm excited to work in a local counseling center with children who are mentally ill and cognitively disabled. I strive to learn from them as I teach them and always listen to their needs as best I can. As a woman motivated by the softer ideals of science, seeking to improve lives as much as to satisfy curiosity, I think my perspective helps me further my goal of using curiosity as a tool, alongside compassion, to bring about positive change.

Living with mental illness, the most vital aspect of a healthy lifestyle is routine, which holds me together during hard times. In high school, before developing healthy habits, the slightest stressors sent me spiraling. The week before AP exams, I'd hole myself in my room, studying for hours on end, drinking so much caffeine my hands shook constantly, and ignoring my friends. After taking the exams, I'd crash, sleeping for half the day and having little energy or motivation. Soon, I began repeating this cycle much more frequently, and I admitted to myself it wasn't sustainable. Eventually, I realized I had no healthy routines to interrupt or prevent this, and I set about creating some for myself. Some of the habits I built focused on physical health, like my goals to exercise and eat at least three meals a day. Slowly, I built these habits up: dinner always included vegetables and protein, I made fitness goals for myself, and I worked to spend time outside, often going on hikes with my friends. I joined the Western Riding Team and began working out twice a week with my teammates. While I always struggled with motivating myself to exercise and feel comfortable in a gym, I soon found it to be a great way to make friends and improve my self esteem. I quickly learned that because everyone's different and schedules get busy, traditional routines might not work for me, and I accepted that. One habit I had to adjust for myself was my goal of sleeping eight hours a night. While incredibly important, it felt infeasible as I approached finals week. Instead of giving it up, though, I looked for alternatives, and I implemented a biphasic sleep schedule for a few weeks, which worked much better with my schedule, left me less stressed, and still allowed me to get the proper amount of rest. Leaving behind the idea that the most popular path to success was the healthiest (or only) choice gave me room to implement beneficial routines without feeling overwhelmed. Having these routines to rely on helped me manage daily anxieties and kept me from sacrificing my wellbeing in more stressful times. Other habits I've implemented for myself are for my mental health. I do my best to get outside everyday, often on walks, which helps me ground myself in the beauty of nature and the serenity of a moment away from technology and schoolwork. My relationships with those I love are the most important part of my life, and I do my best to keep them strong. I set up a schedule with friends or family I can't see in person to call and catch up regularly, and even on busy days, I at least text my family to say hello. Additionally, I try to bring as much light to my life as possible. I keep a list of little things I love, such as stargazing, cotton candy, and showing kids around the equestrian center on campus. Whenever I'm feeling down, I look through it and remember how much joy I can find. Many items on the list are incredibly ordinary, and reading through them helps me find ways to cheer myself up. The list is over 200 items long and grows every time I stop to smile at something small. This habit is so engrained that my friends are well accustomed to me pausing during a hike or conversation to quickly tack something onto the list. Sometimes, they ask me to read from it, and the grins on their faces when I do make the list, too.

When I was 13, my family took in an anxious and semi-chronically lame horse named Sahara. She'd buck under saddle, bite, and run right through whoever tried leading her. At first, I was both terrified and in awe of her, seeing something I couldn't name and knowing how rewarding it could be to bond and learn with her. With work, her behavior morphed from erratic and dangerous to slightly obnoxious. Wild bucking became crow hops became the occasional tossed head. We worked hard on both our anxieties and both learned some dressage, but my favorite moments, and the majority of our time was spent simply enjoying each other. I'd lay on her bareback and study for my classes, hand graze her, hose her down for a bath, or teach her tricks. Ever a sassy mare, she tended to throw treats we offered, refused to let men catch her, and spooked at things she saw in the ring ever day. Still, she revealed kindness with her slow gait when my brother say atop her back, ignoring his too-loud voice and too-quick movements. Her gentleness appeared in the soft nuzzling and unfazed curiosity when I spent months hopping around her on crutches after breaking my leg. Her soft, sweet eyes never lied, and I found comfort in them. In high school, I began struggling with depression and burnout after trying too hard to juggle volunteering, activism, advanced classes, and my family life in the a series of young suicides in my community that shook us all. Every evening, I visited Sahara, and every day she brought me a bit of joy. On days I felt I could do nothing else, I just fed her her daily grain and medication, managing to smile a bit at her excited nicker. She meant the most on those hopeless-feeling days, reminding me both that something I did mattered, brought at least a little good into the world, and that I could still feel joy at all. Some days, it can be easy to forget, and she never let me do so for very long. On the best days, I could share our little bubble of happiness with others: bathing her with my sister, teaching my friends or younger siblings to ride, or showing off a new dressage move for my mom. I still ride and spend as much time as possible at the barn to remind myself of all this love. With Sahara, I learned to welcome as much light as possible into my life, and I let that knowledge seep into every aspect of my life, even now that I'm in college. I set aside time to sit in contentedness-- I hike with friends, take pictures of sunsets and flowers, pause to pet passing dogs, and celebrate test results with ice cream. I keep a list of little things I love: stargazing, cotton candy, and showing kids around the barn on campus. When I'm feeling down, I look through it and remember the joy that surrounds me. The list is over 200 items long and grows every time I stop to smile at something small, a habit so engrained that my friends have grown accustomed to me pausing randomly to quickly tack something onto the list. Sometimes, they ask me to read from it, and the grins on their faces when I do make the list, too. It always comes back to Sahara, somehow-- building trust, living in the moment, and seeing my own actions positively impact the world even a little are all lovely bits of life I learned to see with her.

The most clueless kitten I'd ever seen stumbled into my life on short, wobbly little legs in December of 2019. My dad practically swooned when the cat crawled into his hoodie pocket and fit perfectly. We fell a bit in love, adopted him, and almost immediately forgot our original plan to name him Prince-- he wasn't nearly clever or regal enough to suit that name. Instead, I called him Bean, and in the two years since that day, he hasn't gotten much smarter. It took several hilarious weeks for Bean to learn how to jump-- instead of leaping into the air, he'd launch himself up onto his hind legs before falling backwards, and he'd meow pitifully at the foot of my bed at night begging to come up or unable to get down. My dad and I, after several tries, built a ramp of pillows and blankets he could use to get on and off the bed, although it took more than twice as long to teach him how to use it. Now, he acts like a normal, but ridiculous, cat. He's still the smallest full-grown cat I know, and the only stride in intelligence he made after learning to jump was realizing that one of our older and most dog-like cats, Cloudy, was smart enough to guide him through his daily decisions. Cloudy taught Bean to wait by food bowls and doors, but answering to his name or playing fetch are beyond him, even with Cloudy's patient mentorship. Bean spends most of his day following around his adoptive brother, and they now both come when the elder is called. Cloudy exasperatedly watches as Bean enthusiastically flops onto his back for belly rubs, even when he does so on the stairs and tumbles down a few. As much as it has landed him in trouble, like the time he snuck out the doors in the middle of a frigid Wisconsin December, I've never seen Bean hesitate to trust, explore, or take joy in his surroundings. He runs headstrong and curious into walls, strangers, and new adventures on his stubby legs. Laughter follows him around our house and the happy little cat brings us all so much joy. My entire childhood, I tried so hard to be taken seriously-- I worked hard in academics and extracurriculars, did exactly as I was told, never complained, and rehearsed my words carefully to ensure they sounded intelligent. It kept me out of trouble and won me praise, but it didn't earn me any friends; it didn't make people like me. It didn't help me like myself, either. I threw myself into working wherever I felt I was needed: at church, volunteering as a tutor, working with school administration and local coalitions on mental health awareness and best practices. Even in my personal life with friends or family, I did my best to carry their burdens. I spent so much time trying to feel needed and important that I forgot to take time to exist as the version of myself that's easy and enjoyable to be. Bean waddled into my life at the perfect time to teach me, four months before we all went on lockdown due to Covid-19 halfway through my Junior year of high school. I didn't know it at the time, but after early March of 2020, I would never return to my high school. Living with my grandmother and disabled, high risk younger brother, my siblings and I didn't "return to normal" when our classmates did, and it was easy to become bitter and jaded. I did for a while, admittedly, but that was a difficult perspective to maintain with a little pile of fluff barreling at you or flopping down at your feet. Not only did he bring much-needed joy, he taught me to let go and enjoy myself. Before my freshman year of college, I met my best friend when she commented on my social media gushing over the adorable goofball. Taking a page out of his book, I entered college with the goal of reaching out to others, finding joy in small moments and new hobbies, and going about daily life with little regard for being taken seriously. I've learned to live as a version of myself that I can both be proud of and enjoy being.

As a kid, my favorite phrase was "curiosity killed the cat," and I took it as a challenge. I remember more instances than I can count where I'd pester the adults in my life with questions until they snapped or gave me the cold shoulder, and I never understood why-- all I wanted was to learn. Sometimes, their unwillingness to talk was harmless, albeit frustrating, but in some cases, their consistent silence was incredibly harmful. Growing up in the Evangelical church with parents who rarely spoke about the LGBTQ+ community, for example, lead me to believe something inside me was broken or sinful when I found myself liking girls. A refusal to discuss mental health also comes at the detriment of kids, and while I'm grateful my family has been fairly forthcoming about such things, I know the same isn't true for everyone. To me, children are refreshingly curious and open-minded, and I do my best to respect that about them my repaying them with honesty of my own. No matter how silly their questions seem, I foster their curiosity. When I can, I give them an answer, and when I don't know, we explore the question together. I try to give them the tools to learn on their own, and they teach me to keep wondering at the world we share. More importantly, around children, I'm openly, proudly queer, nerdy, and awkward. More than science or history, I want them to know there's nothing wrong with who they are and that, if nothing else, I'm a safe place for them to exist as they are. I'm honest (though age appropriate) about mental health and hope to instill in them the importance of community, caring for themselves, and feeling and sharing emotions without shame.

1. Make room for joy. When my friends or I have some negativity that sticks to the tips of our tongues and seems to constantly interrupt positive moments, we do our best to make room for it without wallowing in the misery. We find a comfortable spot, set a time (usually for three or four minutes), and give ourselves that time to rant about it and get it all out. Once the alarm sounds, we agree to let it go for the rest of the day or activity and enjoy the present moment and company. 2. Appreciate the people in your life. If I'm feeling upset or alone and don't know or can't address the root of the issue, it always helps me to take a moment and acknowledge the wonderful family and friends in my life. Telling them how much I love them and showing my gratitude for their love strengthens our relationship, brings a smile to their face, and makes me feel connected and grounded. As Jason Mraz says, "I go where I know the love is, and let it fill me up inside." 3. Avoid perfection. Usually, when I'm struggling with the motivation to work, study, or even participate in one of my hobbies, it's because I'm feeling pressured and inadequate. Letting go of the idea that something needs to be flawless to be worthwhile is difficult, but it's an impossible standard. I do my best to remind myself that I'm truly passionate about most of my endeavors, and if I somehow managed to reach perfection, I'd have no room left to grow. Some ways I practice imperfection are by writing funny but encouraging notes to myself in the margins of my schoolwork and finding reasons to be excited about improving (for example, when I struggled with statistics, I took note of what I needed help with and looked forward to asking my friend about those concepts). 4. Celebrate success. I try to celebrate both in ways that are productive and ways that help me relax. After calling my mom to let her enjoy the success with me, I reflect on what went well and how I can continue making progress. While this is less exciting than throwing a party or gushing to my mom, it feels just as celebratory. Once I've wrapped up the project with notes on how to continue to do well, I do my best to give myself time to relax and enjoy myself to avoid burnout. Usually, this means I go out with my friends for milkshakes and spend a few hours watching bad reality TV. This allows me to move forward and not allow work to constantly cloud my mind. 5. My favorite way to clear my mind is to get outside. I find the most peace when I'm alone with nature, and many of my fondest memories with my friends are memories of us hiking and exploring together. The exercise of going for a walk, hiking, or climbing trees helps me dispel anxiety or pent up emotions. Nature's beauty reminds me to stay in the moment, focus on what matters, and appreciate everything wonderful in my life.

One practical solution to help people who struggle with mental health is to start with youth by making schools accepting environments where mental health is taught about. Creating a school environment where children feel safe to openly exist as they are allows them to come forward and get help with issues at home or with their peers such as abusive families, poverty, or substance abuse issues. This, along with the presence of accepting adults in their lives, can help reduce trauma and rates of depression and suicide. Logistical steps to create such an environment include providing free therapy to students and making mental health and illness a part of health curriculums to destigmatize mental health and help kids learn coping mechanisms. Kids who grow up in unhealthy, abusive, or neglectful homes or suffer from mental illness at a young age often spend years unaware that their situation or mental state is unhealthy. Teaching them about healthy homes and minds, as well as what help is available to them, allows them to improve their mental health, recognize their self worth and autonomy, and give them the freedom to seek help. One in five teens experience mental illness every year and half of mental illnesses appear by the age of fourteen. Furthermore, just like everyone has physical health, even those not living with a mental illness have mental health and would benefit from education surrounding things like trauma, burnout, anxiety, and depression. Children learn about puberty and the ways their bodies may begin to change, so it only makes sense that they learn about how their minds begin to change as well.

As someone who has struggled with my mental health since early childhood, I've been incredibly lucky to have a family both able and willing to provide the support I needed. This is certainly not the case for everyone, an unfortunate reality I've witnessed too many times, and I quickly learnt the necessity of mental health support. I'm from a small town that experienced a series of young suicides during my four years in high school. The first was a seventeen year old boy who left school in the middle of the day and never came back. News spread quickly before the final bell, and never had I seen so many adults cry at once or heard the halls of a public school fall so silent. Students too affected, struck suddenly by grief or shock in the middle of class, visited the library. There, I heard a boy I knew, always loud and joking, on the phone with his mother. "Mommy," he said, something he likely hadn't called her in years, "I just don't know what to do." It broke me because that was the crux of it for us all. No one knew what to do, but we had to do something. A friend and I formed a student group to advocate for better mental health practices in the school district, reduce the stigma around mental health, and work to bring in mental health resources to the community. We brought in speakers to the school and community to discuss the realities of mental health, hosted suicide prevention trainings, and wrote up relevant lesson plans for older students. I threw myself into this kind of work. My evenings were spent at committee or school board meetings and my nights on peer counseling websites trying to help other teens heal and feel heard. Soon, I forgot how to have healthy teenage friendships; my overwhelming need to solve people's problems left them feeling stifled or treating me as a therapist. At sixteen years old, I began to burn myself out and feel the weight of each death as if I were personally at fault. I've only recently started to heal from this and learn to form meaningful, healthy relationships and sit with people in their discontent instead of always scrambling for solutions. I've learned to sit with joy and relaxation, too, something I'd like to help others with someday. More than that, I want to help create systems in schools and communities far beyond my own so that no parent, child, or teacher ever has to feel that weight. Discussing these topics is an integral part in taking steps to prevent these tragedies, so by continuing to talk about what happened in my hometown, we build the foundation for the positive impact myself and others will make through our work in this field. I plan to continue speaking out and learn from my experiences working with school administration and community leaders in order to continue advocating for change, especially having seen some of the ways it can happen. As an adult, I have the opportunity to open many more doors to contribute to the fight to end mental health stigma and support those with mental illnesses. My goal is to enter the mental health field as a therapist, so I can support people professionally. Mental health is something I'm incredibly passionate about, and I want to spend my life helping people, especially marginalized youth who feel unheard or unloved. Feeling seen is incredibly healing, and I want to provide that for others the way my family was able to for me. Studies have shown that children with an adult in their life who accepts them cope better in difficult circumstances and are much less likely to attempt suicide. I plan to promote better mental health practices in schools, including ensuring that teachers are trauma informed, free counseling is provided, and children feel safe in an inclusive environment. Hopefully, children and adults alike will one day be unafraid to exist as they are and openly discuss mental health.

It's after midnight in a college dorm room and I take in my friends' tense, tired faces. It's late, we're nearing finals week, and we've been sitting on these cold, gray tiles for hours discussing how we should approach our mutual friend who's struggling mentally. More importantly, we've gotten nowhere, talking in circles and stressing each other out until we reach a lull in the conversation. In the silence, one friend looks ready to fall asleep, another ready to burst into tears, another about to start ripping her hair out. Exhausted, I recognize we all need a bit of a reset to remind ourselves of something less bleak so we can hold onto optimism in each other's joy. I point to the girl next to me, look around with what's probably still a too-tight grin, and ask "did you know she doesn't know how to make a paper airplane? Come on, we're going to teach her." They laugh at the idea of making paper airplanes in the middle of planning an intervention, but the laughter is mirthful and real. It's ridiculous enough to break the tension, so my friends humor me and gather around as I rip pages out of my notebook. We each carefully fold and refold the sheets into little planes until they're ready to take off. The size of the room can't limit us more than our lack of skill with the planes, and soon we playfully turn on each other, unsuccessfully attacking each other until the laughter dies down. Soon, we sit back down on tiles that seem warmer and less gray, basking for a moment in each other's presence and joy, carrying that lightness with us as we work out how to help our friend. I now keep these feelings close, especially in difficult times.

After reading “Borges y Yo,” a short story in which the author describes himself in terms of two separate people, I found that metaphor helpful in understanding different facets of who I am: myself, curious and sensitive, and Emma, the achiever. Emma’s the one things happen to; she lives in moments I’m afraid to. I leave handling crises to her; she’s calm in a storm, strategic, and quick on her feet. I laugh and make awkward jokes in serious moments as she rolls her eyes, ready with the right words I rarely seem to say. She speaks to my school and community, involving herself in the search for solutions. Consequently, I stay awake at night, anxiously reliving conversations to pick everything apart for potentially-misconstrued points. Then, I think of all that should’ve been said, and she lets me, silently taking notes. As confident as she is, she needs me as much as I need her-- if I didn’t share my sentiments and experiences, she’d have nothing to fight for. For as long as I can remember, I’ve suffered from anxiety disorders. In kindergarten, I’d hyperventilate to the point of tears every day, terrified of interacting with my classmates. I grew out of sobbing before school, but couldn’t leave behind fear or the habit I made of distancing myself from strong emotions. From there, Emma emerged. She thrived in the space she forged between pathos and me, but couldn’t embrace sentimentality. As long as we fought for control, she drifted, and I drowned, and in middle and high school, I began to struggle with depression. I learned to live with the fragile discordance, and it took years for me to fully understand mental health as an issue larger than and existing outside of my own struggles. During my freshman year, my community experienced a string of suicides, all young people. After the death of a high school senior, the halls fell silent; I didn’t hear one of almost 800 teenagers utter a word, and I’d never seen so many adults cry in such a short time. In our grief, anger, and guilt, I met with other students, some of whom I’d never spoken to before, to discuss mental health, and more importantly, what we could do to prevent future tragedies. We formed a student group working with the school administration to help improve mental health practices in the district. We brought in speakers and resources, raised awareness, and helped change the high school schedule to reduce stress and promote connection. Fueled by my passion, Emma threw us into mental health efforts, joining nonprofits, sitting on a school board committee, and participating in countless trainings. Standing proudly as the youngest person in the room, she weaseled her way into these spaces to learn and advocate. She spoke from my heart, and people listened. I seek to continue this work for the rest of my life as I graduate college with a degree in psychology and go on to work in the mental health field, embodying every aspect of myself and my experiences to help others. Although we’re in agreement that we need each other, at times, Emma consumes me without permission. As strange as it feels, I don’t mind. One night, my little brother woke me at midnight because his friend was considering suicide, and he didn’t know what to say or do. I wasn’t there, but that was okay; he wanted Emma, the girl with so much training in this area that the right words came even to her sleep-fogged mind. As he read the messages from his friend aloud, Emma armed him with knowledge from my unfortunately extensive experience talking people down from the edge. He transcribed her words, slowly guiding his friend into a calmer headspace. When we knew she was safe, Emma sent an email to the school, and the girl received professional help the next morning; she did her job well. Knowing where her responsibilities ended, though, she handed me the reins so I could embrace my brother. A smile appeared on my face— relief, fondness for my brother— and I’d say it was mine alone, but I know such deep-seated emotions bind us, seeping across already blurry lines.