As an author an entrepreneur, I am inundated with messages about what it means to be "successful." Many of these definitions center around wealth, fame, or prestige. My life experience points to a different ideal. When I go into schools to talk to students about writing and mental health, I don't make much money. (Often, I don't get paid at all.) I don't get my picture on the cover of Forbes or gain 10,000 Instagram followers. Yet every one of those visits is a success, because I always have at least one student come up to me and share their story. Sometimes, their stories warm my heart: "I've been working on a book and you made me feel like I can do it." Other times, they break it: "I didn't know kids like us could grow up to do what you do." Often, much too often, their stories include grief and heartbreak, like the child who asked me, "How long does it take to feel better?" after losing both a biological parent and a close friend to suicide. Hearing these stories opened my eyes to the mental health crisis more effectively than any statistic could, although the statics are compelling as well. According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, suicide is the second leading cause of death among people aged 10 to 14. Among kids 6 through 17, more than 16% experience a mental health disorder as children. Adults fare even worse, with 22.8% experiencing mental illness. Why? It might have something to do with the fact that people are more isolated and more overwhelmed than researchers have ever seen before. Many are crushed by the impossible expectations set by social media. They're beaten down by the 24-hour news cycle and the constant connectivity of the internet. We're all aching for community and for ways to express ourselves authentically. When I learned all that, I could no longer measure success by the number of books sold or the size of my audience. Instead, I focused on the messages I get from those who say my words have changed them. I tried to content myself with knowing that by showing up as an author and by sharing my own experience as a survivor of suicide loss, I was helping to improve lives. It wasn't enough. I wanted a more effective way to help, so I set my sights on a counseling psychology program that included a focus on the creative arts. Earning this Master's degree will make me eligible to sit for the Licensed Professional Clinical Counselor exam. With that credential, I'll have the training I need to help people more directly. Someday soon, I will be an LCPC, and I will measure success not by the length of my client list or the size of my fees. No, I will measure success by how effectively I create space for each client to grow and become their healthiest, most authentic self. Emily Dickinson wrote, "If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain..." That is my measure of success: How much I help, heal, and comfort others.

I think my passion for mental health started in 2008 when my 17-year-old cousin died by suicide. I had always been curious about how the human mind works, but that family tragedy put me on a new path, one that made suicide awareness and mental health central parts of my life. Now I want to step up and do my part to make sure people in my state and my community get the mental health care they need. We are experiencing a crippling mental healthcare shortage across the country. More than one in five adults live with mental illness, according to the National Institutes of Health. That figure doesn’t include children and teens like my cousin, who are suffering at a level never seen before. Organizations like the American Academy of Pediatrics along with the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry have declared a national emergency in child and adolescent mental health. Meanwhile, adults and children alike are living with the collective trauma of a recent pandemic. Here, in my home state of Maine, people sit on waiting lists for six months or more just to speak to a mental health counselor. Six months is an eternity when you’re feeling overwhelmed, scared or hopeless. Imagine the difference we could make if we had enough people qualified to offer real, timely help. If we want to stop suicide — and I do — we can’t wait until people are in crisis. We can’t put them on six-month waiting lists and hope they can hang on until then. We need to give people support and care before it becomes an emergency. And, most importantly, we need to stop hiding behind phrases like “someone should” and “we need to” and start asking, “What can I do?” and “How can I help?” When I stopped looking for “someone” to make a difference and started looking for ways that I could help, the answer was obvious. I can become a Licensed Clinical Professional Counselor. One person alone won’t eliminate the waiting list. But maybe I can help one person, the way I wish someone had been able to help my cousin. To finally answer your question, I’m passionate about pursuing a career in therapy because it’s the best way I know to help — by pitching in during a crisis. It’s the best way I know to honor my cousin’s memory — by giving others a boost out of the depths of despair. It’s the best way I know to be the change I want to see in the world.

I struggled to walk up a full flight of stairs in my high school and had to rest on the landing. I was too tired to be upset about being late to class. At just 15 years old, I already felt like my body was failing me. A series of doctors had poked, prodded, and scanned me. They found nothing to diagnose, but something was clearly wrong. I couldn’t sleep, and when I did, I woke up still exhausted. I couldn’t focus and often spaced out in the middle of a conversation. Eventually, I ended up at Boston Children’s Hospital. There, I finally got the answer I was looking for—a diagnosis. That diagnosis changed the trajectory of my life. First, I got permission to graduate from high school a year early to escape the constant stimulation of crowded hallways and fluorescent lights. When I went to college to study journalism, I tried to stack my classes to avoid early wake up times and lived off-campus to protect my health. I fought my way through college and an internship. With my Bachelor’s degree in hand, it was time to figure out what to do with my career. That’s when my chronic illness changed my path again. With my unpredictable energy levels and intermittent illness, I knew getting up early every morning to commute to a newsroom and then work for eight hours straight was out of the question. If I was going to live with this thing, I needed to build work with my body, not against it. So I started my freelance business. Through trial and error, I learned to manage my energy and listen to my body. I freed myself from strict schedules so I could deliver quality work on deadline without making myself sick. The results were better than I could have imagined. I’ve been freelancing for 14 years and now have a thriving business with a roster of happy clients, most of whom have no idea about my chronic illness. Actually, some of them have probably figured it out by now because, in 2022, I published a novel based on my personal experience with chronic illness. I dedicated On the Bank of Oblivion to “all the kids who don’t yet have names for what's hurting them.” Writing and publishing the novel earned me guest spots on podcasts for people with autoimmune disorders and other illnesses. Inevitably, the hosts ask about how I balance my business and my health. I share everything I can, in hopes that my loved experience will help someone else avoid years of struggle. Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time and meet my tired and terrified 15-year-old self. I wish I could tell her where this struggle will lead us. Imagine if I could show her how that challenging staircase will lead to strength, resilience, and an entrepreneurial spirit. I think she’d be proud of how far we’ve come, and maybe a little surprised at how chronic illness helped make it possible.

My future self helps people who are grieving by offering them supporting them through the grieving process with research-backed strategies and compassionate care.

When my 17-year-old cousin died by suicide, I was devastated. That same year, I completed a planned move to Japan. There I was, on the other side of the planet, experiencing the most complex emotions I had ever felt, 6.5 thousand miles away from my grieving family. I have always been interested in how people think, but my explorations into the subject took on new urgency after my cousin’s death. I needed to understand what could drive a young man to such a desperate act. I needed to find ways to help. At the same time, I needed to unravel my reaction to what was happening. Was my grief normal? Were my feelings valid? Was I at risk too? At the time, suicide wasn't something people talked about. The word was whispered if it was spoken at all. People seemed to think suicide was like a mythical monster; say its name, and it might come for you next. I wasn't willing to stay silent. I'd seen where silence could take you. In the months and years that followed, I read everything I could about death and grief and loss. I learned about depression and anxiety. I read books on the history of suicide and on how to support mental health. All of this was valuable, even life-altering, and it drove my desire to share what I was learning so it could help others. As part of my grieving process, I wrote a novel about two teenagers who die in tragic circumstances and the families they leave behind. That book, and the three that came after, was healing for me. Getting it published was a challenging process. I had to welcome feedback and criticism so I could improve the work. The business of publishing is often difficult to navigate and involves a lot of rejection from agents, editors, and readers toward a piece of work that was deeply personal, but I persisted because I believed that the story I told needed to be shared. My books opened the way for me to enter schools to talk to students about the magic of writing. I tell them how it helped me find a way through the darkness of grief and how it continues to support my mental health. Invariably, a student comes up after my presentation and shares their own story of loss. They say, “I lost a sister, a parent, a friend.” They ask, “How do I cope?” and “When does it get better?” I want better answers for them. I want to do in a professional capacity what I have been attempting as a passionate amateur for the last five years: to better understand the human mind and help people work through their dark chapters with writing and creativity. Earning a Master’s in Counseling Psychology with a Creative Arts Focus from the University of Maine, Farmington would harmonize my personal and professional interests toward a single goal: becoming a certified grief counselor. This scholarship will help me do that. I hope I'm making my cousin proud.

When my 17-year-old cousin died by suicide, I was devastated. That same year, I completed a planned move to Japan. There I was, on the other side of the planet, experiencing the most complex emotions I had ever felt, 6.5 thousand miles away from my grieving family. I have always been interested in how people think, but my explorations into the subject took on new urgency after my cousin’s death. I needed to understand what could drive a young man to such a desperate act. I needed to find ways to help. At the same time, I needed to unravel my reaction to what was happening. Was my grief normal? Were my feelings valid? Was I at risk too? At the time, suicide wasn't something people talked about. The word was whispered if it was spoken at all. People seemed to think suicide was like a mythical monster; say its name, and it might come for you next. I wasn't willing to stay silent. I'd seen where silence could take you. In the months and years that followed, I read everything I could about death and grief and loss. I learned about depression and anxiety. I read books on the history of suicide and on how to support mental health. All of this was valuable, even life-altering, and it drove my desire to share what I was learning so it could help others. As part of my grieving process, I wrote a novel about two teenagers who die in tragic circumstances and the families they leave behind. That book, and the three that came after, was healing for me. Getting it published was a challenging process. I had to welcome feedback and criticism so I could improve the work. The business of publishing is often difficult to navigate and involves a lot of rejection from agents, editors, and readers toward a piece of work that was deeply personal, but I persisted because I believed that the story I told needed to be shared. My books opened the way for me to enter schools to talk to students about the magic of writing. I tell them how it helped me find a way through the darkness of grief and how it continues to support my mental health. Invariably, a student comes up after my presentation and shares their own story of loss. They say, “I lost a sister, a parent, a friend.” They ask, “How do I cope?” and “When does it get better?” I want better answers for them. I want to do in a professional capacity what I have been attempting as a passionate amateur for the last five years: to better understand the human mind and help people work through their dark chapters with writing and creativity. Earning a Master’s in Counseling Psychology with a Creative Arts Focus from the University of Maine, Farmington would harmonize my personal and professional interests toward a single goal: becoming a certified grief counselor. This scholarship will help me do that. I can't go back and give my cousin the support he needed, but I can help others find their way forward. I hope I'm making my cousin proud.

I struggled to walk up a full flight of stairs in my high school and had to rest on the landing. I was too tired to be upset about being late for class. At just 15 years old, I already felt like my body was failing me. A series of doctors had poked, prodded, and scanned me. They found nothing to diagnose, but something was clearly wrong. I couldn’t sleep, and when I did, I woke up still exhausted. I couldn’t focus and often spaced out in the middle of a conversation. Eventually, I ended up at Boston Children’s Hospital. There, I finally got the answer I was looking for—a diagnosis. After almost a year of eliminating every other possibility, the answer was chronic fatigue syndrome, now also known as myalgic encephalomyelitis. That diagnosis changed the trajectory of my life. First, I got permission to graduate from high school a year early to escape the constant stimulation of crowded hallways and fluorescent lights. When I went to college to study journalism, I tried to stack my classes to avoid early wake-up times and lived off-campus to protect my health. I fought my way through college and an internship. With my Bachelor’s degree in hand, it was time to figure out what to do with my career. That’s when my chronic illness changed my path again. With my unpredictable energy levels and intermittent illness, I knew getting up early every morning to commute to a newsroom and then work for eight hours straight was out of the question. If I was going to live with this thing, I needed to build work with my body, not against it. So I started my freelance business. Through trial and error, I learned to manage my energy and listen to my body. I freed myself from strict schedules so I could deliver quality work on deadline without making myself sick. The results were better than I could have imagined. I’ve been freelancing for 14 years and now have a thriving business with a roster of happy clients, most of whom have no idea about my chronic illness. Actually, some of them have probably figured it out by now because, in 2022, I published a novel based on my personal experience with chronic illness. I dedicated On the Bank of Oblivion to “all the kids who don’t yet have names for what's hurting them.” Writing and publishing the novel earned me guest spots on podcasts for people with autoimmune disorders and other illnesses. Inevitably, the hosts ask about how I balance my business and my health. When I started to think about that question, I realized I’d learned a lot about building and running a business. Soon after the book came out, I decided that it was time to start sharing my experience. I’m creating an online course to teach other freelancers how to build and scale successful businesses without working themselves to death. My hope is that it will help other people like me see that they can have successful careers, no matter what challenges they face. Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time and meet my tired and terrified 15-year-old self. I wish I could tell her where this struggle will lead us. Imagine if I could show her how that challenging staircase will lead to strength, resilience, and an entrepreneurial spirit. I think she’d be proud of how far we’ve come, and maybe a little surprised at how chronic illness helped make it possible.

They say "money can't buy happiness," but it can buy impact. When you manage your money well, you can go beyond simply paying your bills and be able to leverage that money to support the people and causes you care about. Money management is particularly important now that I'm a graduate student because I'll need to study for two years before my investment of time and energy will begin to pay off financially. In addition to balancing my accounts every month, I apply three core habits to manage my finances well. First, I limit credit card spending so I can pay off my credit cards every month. That means I never have to pay interest, which saves me thousands of dollars a year. I chose credit cards that would give me cash back points, which make my money go further. Second, I budget for known expenses. As a freelance business owner, I'm subject to self-employment taxes. Every month, I set aside 30% of my income to cover taxes and other business expenses. That means I never have a shortfall at the end of the year. This was a lesson I learned the hard way when I had to dip into my savings and retirement funds to pay taxes. I'll never let that happen again. Finally, I purposefully live below my means. I purchased a small, 750-square-foot home, and drive a used car that I carefully maintain. A smaller home means lower utility bills and less room for stuff to accumulate. I buy fewer things becuase I simply have less space to store them. By making careful spending choices, I'm able to avoid overextending my finances. These three habits help me to pay all my bills while maxing out my retirement and health savings accounts. The result is a high credit score and a growing nest egg for the future. The best part is that I have enough left over for the causes that I care about. I'm able to make monthly contributions to DonorsChoose, an organization that helps teachers get the supplies they need for their classrooms. I donate to the symphony and local arts organizations. I'm also able to meet emergencies without causing lasting financial hardship. When a family member needed help, I was able to loan them money without stretching my finances. The freedom to support the people and causes I love in this way motivates me to make smart financial choices every day.

When I went to journalism school, I thought I would become an intrepid girl reporter like Nellie Bly. Then, during my internship, I spent Christmas Eve waiting for rescue divers to pull a body out of the water. That's when I realized I didn't really want to be a journalist. I finished my degree and went looking for ways to use the skills I'd learned without having to report the news. Then, something happened that changed my life forever. my 17-year-old cousin died by suicide. I was devastated. That same year, I completed a planned move to Japan. There I was, on the other side of the planet, experiencing the most complex emotions I had ever felt, 6.5 thousand miles away from my grieving family. I have always been interested in how people think, but my explorations into the subject took on new urgency after my cousin’s death. I needed to understand what could drive a young man to such a desperate act. At the same time, I needed to unravel my reaction to what was happening. Was my grief normal? Were my feelings valid? Was I at risk too? In the months and years that followed, I read everything I could about death and grief and loss. I learned about depression and anxiety. I read books on the history of suicide and on how to support mental health. All of this was valuable, even life-altering, and it opened up a deep desire to share what I was learning in hopes of helping others. As part of my grieving process, I wrote a novel about two teenagers who die in tragic circumstances and the families they leave behind. That book, and the three that came after, were healing for me. Getting it published was a challenging process. I had to welcome feedback and criticism so I could improve the work. The business of publishing is often difficult to navigate and involves a lot of rejection from agents, editors, and readers toward a piece of work that was deeply personal, but I persisted because I believed that the story I told needed to be shared. My books opened the way for me to enter schools to talk to students about the magic of writing. I tell them how it helped me find a way through the darkness of grief and how it continues to support my mental health. Invariably, a student comes up after my presentation and shares their own story of loss. They say, “I lost a sister, a parent, a friend.” They ask, “How do I cope?” and “When does it get better?” I want better answers for them. I want to do in a professional capacity what I have been attempting as a passionate amateur for the last five years: to better understand the human mind and help people work through their dark chapters with writing. That's why I want to return to school 15 years after graduating with a Bachelor of Arts in Journalism. Earning a Master’s in Counseling Psychology with a Creative Arts Focus from the University of Maine, Farmington will help me prepare to get licensed as a Clinical Counselor. Then I can work toward becoming a certified grief counselor.

Picking just one book for the world to read is a massive responsibility. I'd like to choose a book people can enjoy while also learning from. One that's accessible but thought-provoking. That's why I'm not picking a classic novel or a piece of high-brow literature. If I could have everyone in the world read just one book, I'd pick Little Max the Cement Mixer by Renee Bartkowski. Little Max the Cement Mixer is a children's book with a vital message: Everyone has a role to play in this world. Anyone can make the world more beautiful, accessible, and comfortable. You just need to be yourself. Little Max is a cement mixer, the smallest mixer in the yard. The other mixers laugh at him because he's too small to do the big jobs. Then, one day, a man comes to the yard and hires Max to help him in the park. Max is just the right size to pour sidewalks and fountains. All the little jobs he does each day create a beautiful park for all to enjoy. I first read this story as a child, and it stuck with me. Maybe it's the reason that I believe everyone should have the confidence to be themselves. It might be part of why I grew up to write books and why I go into schools to talk to kids about the magic of writing. I like to believe that if everyone read this story, they'd see the value of their skills and experience. Maybe we'd all be a little kinder to each other. That might sound like a lot to ask of a children's book, but I believe that stories can build a better world.

When my 17-year-old cousin died by suicide, I was devastated. That same year, I completed a planned move to Japan. There I was, on the other side of the planet, experiencing the most complex emotions I had ever felt, 6.5 thousand miles away from my grieving family. I have always been interested in how people think, but my explorations into the subject took on new urgency after my cousin’s death. I needed to understand what could drive a young man to such a desperate act. I needed to find ways to help. In the months and years that followed, I read everything I could about death and grief and loss. I learned about depression and anxiety. I read books on the history of suicide and on how to support mental health. All of this was valuable, even life-altering, and it drove my desire to help others. As part of my grieving process, I wrote a novel about two teenagers who die in tragic circumstances and the families they leave behind. That book, and the three that came after, was healing for me. Getting it published was a challenging process. I had to welcome feedback and criticism so I could improve the work. The business of publishing is often difficult to navigate and involves a lot of rejection from agents, editors, and readers toward a piece of work that was deeply personal, but I persisted because I believed that the story I told needed to be shared. My books opened the way for me to enter schools to talk to students about the magic of writing. I tell them how it helped me find a way through the darkness of grief and how it continues to support my mental health. Invariably, a student comes up after my presentation and shares their own story of loss. They say, “I lost a sister, a parent, a friend.” They ask, “How do I cope?” and “When does it get better?” I want better answers for them. I want to do in a professional capacity what I have been attempting as a passionate amateur for the last five years: to better understand the human mind and help people work through their dark chapters with writing and creativity. Earning a Master’s in Counseling Psychology with a Creative Arts Focus from the University of Maine, Farmington would harmonize my personal and professional interests toward a single goal: becoming a certified grief counselor. I hope I'm making my cousin proud.