I want to make a change in my life because I want to turn my personal struggles into something meaningful that can help others. Throughout my life, I have faced challenges with anxiety, PTSD, depression, and an eating disorder. These experiences were often difficult and overwhelming, but they also gave me a deeper understanding of how important compassion and support are during times of hardship. Navigating the healthcare system during these moments showed me how much of a difference caring professionals can make in someone’s life. Because of this, I made the decision to pursue a career where I can help others feel supported, understood, and less alone during difficult times. I am currently working toward a career as a Child Life Specialist. This profession focuses on helping children and families cope with the emotional challenges that come with illness, hospitalization, and medical procedures. Hospitals can be confusing and frightening for children, especially when they do not fully understand what is happening. Child Life Specialists help children process their experiences through education, emotional support, and therapeutic play. I am passionate about this field because it allows me to advocate for children’s emotional well-being while helping them feel more comfortable and confident in a healthcare environment. So far, I have taken several steps to move closer to my goal. I am pursuing my education in a field related to health and human development so that I can gain the knowledge and skills necessary to work in healthcare settings. I have also sought opportunities to volunteer and become involved in organizations that support children and families connected to hospitals. These experiences have strengthened my commitment to working in child life and have helped me better understand the importance of emotional support in healthcare. Seeing the resilience of children facing medical challenges continues to inspire me and reminds me why this work matters. Receiving this scholarship would help relieve some of the financial pressure that comes with pursuing a career in healthcare. The cost of higher education can make it difficult for many students to continue their studies, and financial support would allow me to stay focused on my education and professional development. It would bring me one step closer to becoming a Child Life Specialist and achieving my goal of helping children and families navigate difficult medical experiences. If I am fortunate enough to receive this scholarship, I hope to pay it forward by using my career to support and advocate for others who are facing challenges. As a Child Life Specialist, I plan to create an environment where children feel safe, understood, and empowered during their healthcare experiences. I also hope to mentor and encourage other students who may have faced similar struggles, reminding them that their experiences can become a source of strength and purpose. My goal is to use what I have learned from my own journey to bring compassion, comfort, and understanding to others. By helping children and families during some of their most difficult moments, I hope to make a lasting difference in their lives and continue the cycle of support that once helped me.

Some of the most difficult moments in my life happened within the walls of hospitals and doctors’ offices. As someone who has struggled with anxiety, PTSD, depression, and an eating disorder, I have experienced firsthand how overwhelming and isolating the healthcare system can feel. While those experiences were incredibly challenging, they also introduced me to compassionate healthcare professionals who made difficult moments more manageable through empathy, patience, and understanding. Their impact on my life inspired me to pursue a career in healthcare so that I can provide that same sense of support to others. I am pursuing a career as a Child Life Specialist, a healthcare professional who focuses on the emotional and developmental well-being of children in medical settings. Hospitals can be confusing and frightening for children. They are often surrounded by unfamiliar people, procedures, and environments that they do not fully understand. Child Life Specialists help children navigate these experiences by explaining medical procedures in ways they can understand, using therapeutic play to help them express their emotions, and creating opportunities for comfort and normalcy during difficult times. I am passionate about this field because it recognizes that healing involves more than just treating physical illness—it also means supporting a child’s emotional well-being. My own journey through mental health challenges has given me a deep sense of empathy for individuals who feel vulnerable within healthcare environments. I understand how powerful it can be when someone truly listens and offers reassurance during difficult moments. Those experiences taught me that even small acts of kindness and compassion can make a meaningful difference in how someone experiences hardship. Because of this, I am committed to creating a supportive space where children and families feel heard, understood, and valued during their medical journeys. In addition to my personal experiences, I have sought opportunities to support children and families connected to healthcare. Through volunteer work and involvement in initiatives that raise awareness and resources for pediatric healthcare, I have seen how strong and resilient children can be even in the face of illness. These experiences have reinforced my desire to advocate for the emotional needs of pediatric patients and to ensure that children feel safe and supported during hospital stays and medical procedures. Through my future career, I hope to help children feel less afraid and more empowered during their healthcare experiences. By using play, education, and emotional support, I want to help children understand what they are going through and develop healthy coping strategies. I also hope to support families as they navigate these difficult situations, providing reassurance and guidance when they need it most. The path to a healthcare career requires dedication and years of education, which can present financial challenges for many students. However, my passion for helping others continues to motivate me to pursue this goal. My experiences have shaped my desire to advocate for children and families who may feel overwhelmed in medical environments. By becoming a Child Life Specialist, I hope to turn my own challenges into a source of empathy and strength. My goal is to make hospitals feel less intimidating for children and to remind them that even during difficult moments, they are not alone. Through compassion, understanding, and support, I hope to make a lasting difference in the lives of the children and families I serve.

I am pursuing a career in the child life field because of my personal experiences with mental health challenges and the healthcare system. Throughout my life, I have faced struggles with anxiety, PTSD, depression, and an eating disorder, which led to multiple interactions with hospitals and medical professionals. These experiences were often overwhelming and difficult, but they also showed me how powerful compassion and emotional support can be. They ultimately inspired me to pursue a career where I can help children feel less afraid and more supported during their own medical experiences. When a child enters a hospital, they are often stepping into an unfamiliar and intimidating environment. Medical procedures, separation from home, and uncertainty can cause fear and confusion. From my own experiences navigating the healthcare system, I understand how important it is to have someone who listens, explains things in a way that feels manageable, and offers reassurance during stressful moments. These experiences shaped my desire to become a Child Life Specialist, someone who can advocate for the emotional well-being of children and help them cope with the challenges of hospitalization. Child Life Specialists play a vital role in helping children understand and cope with medical experiences through emotional support, therapeutic play, and developmentally appropriate education. What draws me most to this field is the ability to help children process difficult situations while still allowing them to experience comfort, creativity, and moments of joy. I believe that play and connection can be incredibly powerful tools for helping children manage fear and build resilience. As a Child Life Specialist, I hope to create an environment where children feel safe, heard, and supported during some of the most challenging moments of their lives. My personal journey with mental health has also given me a deep sense of empathy and understanding for others who are struggling. I know how meaningful it can be when someone shows patience, compassion, and genuine care. Those moments of support can make a lasting difference in how a person experiences hardship. Rather than allowing my challenges to hold me back, I have chosen to use them as motivation to pursue a career focused on helping others navigate their own difficult experiences. In addition to my personal experiences, I have been involved in volunteer work that supports children and families connected to healthcare settings. These experiences have strengthened my passion for child life and reinforced my desire to advocate for children’s emotional needs within medical environments. Seeing the resilience and strength of children facing illness has been incredibly inspiring and has confirmed that this is the path I want to pursue. As a future Child Life Specialist, my goal is to help children and families feel supported, informed, and empowered during their medical journeys. I want to help reduce fear, encourage healthy coping strategies, and remind children that they are not alone during difficult moments. Every child deserves to feel comfort and understanding while receiving medical care. Pursuing a career in child life allows me to transform my own experiences into something meaningful. By combining my passion for helping others with my personal understanding of the challenges many patients face, I hope to make a lasting difference in the lives of children and families navigating the healthcare system.

Living with rare medical conditions means my life has never followed a predictable rhythm. Flare-ups, hospitalizations, procedures, and sudden changes in my health have forced me to constantly adjust, reassess, and rebuild. Alongside the physical challenges, I have also faced the emotional weight that comes with chronic illness—fear, frustration, grief over the life I imagined, and the mental exhaustion of feeling like my body is always two steps behind me. But in every season of adversity, I have taken deliberate steps to stay committed to my dream of becoming a Certified Child Life Specialist. My adversity has not pushed me away from this path—it has strengthened my purpose and sharpened the skills I will carry into my career. The first major step I have taken is learning how to adapt without giving up. When my health interrupted classes, I worked closely with professors, stayed ahead on assignments, and created detailed schedules to balance medical care with academic responsibilities. I learned to communicate honestly about my limitations, to ask for flexibility when needed, and to take ownership of my education rather than letting illness define its trajectory. These experiences taught me time management, self-advocacy, and discipline—skills that will make me a stronger healthcare professional. I also prioritized continuing hands-on experience, even when adversity made it difficult. Whether it meant shadowing Child Life Specialists after weeks of recovery, participating in UA Miracle events while managing symptoms, or completing observation hours on days when my body felt heavy, I showed up. These experiences reminded me why I chose this career and kept me connected to my purpose. They also helped me build resilience, empathy, and emotional stamina—the same qualities I will need when supporting children through their own medical challenges. Addressing my mental health has been another crucial step. Chronic illness does not exist in a vacuum; it affects every part of life, especially emotional well-being. I learned to recognize when I was overwhelmed and sought out therapy, grounding techniques, and healthy coping strategies. Instead of pushing myself to the point of burnout, I practiced sustainable productivity—working hard while honoring my limits. This balance allowed me to keep moving forward academically, emotionally, and professionally without sacrificing my health. In addition, I developed practical systems to navigate adversity more effectively. I created a medical binder to track symptoms, medications, and appointments; I organized my academic workload around times when I typically had more energy; and I built a routine that supported nutrition, hydration, and rest. These small, consistent steps helped me maintain stability and progress even when my body was unpredictable. Finally, I reframed my adversity as a source of strength rather than an obstacle. My lived experience with rare disease gives me insight into the emotional landscape of hospitalization—fear, loss of control, vulnerability, and the need for compassion. Instead of letting these challenges deter me, I use them as motivation to become the kind of specialist I once needed. Through every challenge—physical or mental—I have chosen perseverance, adaptability, and purpose. These steps have kept me moving toward my dream, and they will guide me as I work to support children and families facing their own medical adversity.

My journey toward a career in Child Life began long before I ever knew what a Child Life Specialist was. Living with rare medical conditions meant that hospitals became a familiar part of my life—sterile rooms, long procedures, constant uncertainty, and the quiet fear that comes from not knowing what your body will do next. But in those moments, buried between tests and treatments, I also found something unexpected: people who made the hospital feel a little less frightening. People who reminded me that I was not just a diagnosis, not just a chart, but a person. Those experiences became the foundation of my calling. What inspired me to pursue Child Life was not a single moment but a collection of them—small, powerful interactions that reshaped how I saw healthcare. It was the specialist who sat next to me before a painful procedure and explained everything in a way I could understand. It was the person who brought laughter into a room where I hadn’t felt joy in weeks. It was the advocate who made sure my voice mattered even when I felt too overwhelmed to speak. These individuals did more than ease my fear; they gave me dignity. They reminded me that healing is more than medicine—it is connection, trust, and emotional safety. Realizing that someone’s presence could transform the hardest day of a patient’s life inspired me to pursue this path with purpose. Now, as a Human Development and Family Studies major with a Child Life concentration, I am preparing to step into that same role for children and families. My personal experience allows me to approach healthcare with empathy that is lived, not learned. I understand what it means to be misunderstood because your condition is rare. I understand the exhaustion of appointments, the frustration of setbacks, and the emotional weight that families carry quietly. And because I have lived through these challenges, I carry a deep commitment to creating compassionate, child-centered care for medically complex children. I plan to make a difference by becoming the advocate I once needed. As a future Certified Child Life Specialist, I want every child I work with to feel seen, supported, and understood—regardless of how rare their condition is. I aim to help families navigate procedures, cope with fear, and build resilience through therapeutic play, education, and emotional support. I hope to be the person who notices the child who is too anxious to speak, who listens when the family feels unheard, and who ensures that every patient has access to psychosocial care, not just those with common diagnoses. Beyond direct patient care, I also hope to influence the broader culture of healthcare. Rare disease patients often face delayed diagnoses and dismissal. I plan to use my voice—both as a provider and as someone with lived experience—to promote awareness, educate medical teams about patient-centered communication, and advocate for more inclusive policies. By bridging understanding between medical staff and families, I hope to create a more empathetic, informed environment. Ultimately, what inspired me is what continues to drive me: the belief that one person’s compassion can change the trajectory of someone else’s story. My goal is to be that person.

Living with rare medical conditions has shaped every part of who I am—how I move through the world, how I understand pain, how I define resilience, and most importantly, how I show up for others. Growing up in and out of hospitals, undergoing procedures, navigating NJ-tubes, and learning to advocate for myself within a system not built for complex patients gave me an intimate understanding of what it means to live with chronic and invisible illness. It also taught me something else: healing does not only happen in the body. It happens in the mind, in moments of compassion, and in the small acts of care that make an overwhelming experience feel survivable. That realization is what inspired my future career in Child Life. As someone who has lived the uncertainty of rare disease and experienced the fear that comes with every new test, every surgery, and every night hooked up to machines, I know firsthand how isolating it can be. But I also know the incredible power of support. Child Life Specialists were the first people who made me feel seen in the hospital. They brought normalcy into a place defined by loss of control; they sat with me during my scariest procedures; they validated my emotions in ways that made me feel human again. Their presence taught me that empathy is not optional in healthcare—it is essential. Now, as a Human Development and Family Studies major with a Child Life concentration, I plan to bring that same presence to future patients and families navigating rare medical conditions and lung disease. My goal is to become a Certified Child Life Specialist who advocates fiercely for medically complex children and young adults—especially those whose diagnoses don’t fit neatly into a textbook. Patients with rare disorders often face delayed diagnoses, misunderstanding, and a lack of resources. My lived experience gives me the ability to meet them where they are, communicate with sensitivity, and anticipate their psychosocial needs before they even speak them aloud. I want to be the person who helps families interpret information, who supports children through treatment plans they’re too young to understand, and who ensures that no one feels alone in their fear. I also hope to use my background to strengthen awareness around chronic and rare illness within the healthcare system. Having navigated dysautonomia, GI complications, and respiratory challenges myself, I understand how crucial it is that providers listen deeply and approach rare disease with curiosity rather than skepticism. I plan to share that message in interdisciplinary teams, helping bridge the gap between medical care and emotional support. Through education, advocacy, and evidence-based psychosocial interventions, I want to contribute to a healthcare culture that empowers patients with rare and lung-related conditions rather than discourages them. Ultimately, my career in healthcare is grounded in the belief that support can change the trajectory of a patient’s experience. I have lived the fear, the uncertainty, and the exhaustion of chronic illness—and I have lived the hope that comes from compassionate care. Becoming a Child Life Specialist is not just a career path for me; it is a promise to use my story, my strength, and my voice to improve the lives of others who are walking the same path. My goal is to transform my experiences into healing for someone else.

Living with a chronic illness means constantly navigating a world that doesn’t pause for you. It means managing symptoms that can change by the hour, explaining an invisible condition to people who can’t see it, and grieving the version of yourself that once felt effortless. For a long time, I tried to push through the pain—physically and emotionally—until I could no longer pretend that everything was fine. What began as a medical diagnosis quickly became something deeper: depression rooted in loss, trauma born from medical experiences, and a constant fight to feel at home in my own body. Hospital rooms, feeding tubes, and endless tests became part of my story before I was ready to understand what that meant. I felt stripped of control. While doctors worked on treating my body, my mind carried the quiet aftermath—panic before appointments, flashbacks of procedures, and an overwhelming fear that I’d never feel “normal” again. Depression crept in not as sudden darkness, but as an absence—of energy, of joy, of belief that things could get better. For a while, I let that hopelessness define me. But healing began when I realized that I didn’t have to face this alone. Therapy became a safe place to untangle grief from guilt. I learned that trauma doesn’t have to dictate the rest of my story—it can become a bridge to understanding others. I began journaling about my experiences, connecting with others who shared similar diagnoses, and allowing myself to feel pride in surviving what once felt unbearable. Each small act of self-compassion became resistance against the voice that told me I was broken. Living with chronic illness has taught me radical empathy. I know what it’s like to feel unseen, to be reduced to a chart or symptom list instead of a person. That’s why, moving forward, I want to use my voice to bring awareness to the intersection of physical and mental health. Chronic illness isn’t just about the body—it reshapes your identity, your confidence, and your sense of safety. I want to create conversations that reflect that truth. Through my future work in child and family healthcare, I hope to advocate for patients who are still learning to find their strength amid hospital walls. I want to remind them that they are not defined by tubes, diagnoses, or scars, but by their courage to keep showing up. By sharing my own story openly, I can help others feel less alone in theirs. Overcoming depression and trauma hasn’t meant erasing what I’ve been through—it’s meant transforming it into purpose. My scars are reminders of survival, my story a promise to others that hope can exist even in uncertainty. I am still healing, but I’m no longer ashamed of the process. Instead, I’m using it to build a future rooted in empathy, awareness, and the belief that no one should have to suffer in silence.

My name is Grayce Houston, and I am a sophomore at the University of Alabama majoring in Human Development and Family Studies with a concentration in Child Life. From a young age, I have been drawn to understanding people, particularly children, and supporting them through difficult moments. Choosing this path was not simply an academic decision—it reflects the values I was raised with, the experiences that shaped me, and the vision I hold for my future career. My formative values were grounded in the idea that kindness and empathy are daily practices, not occasional gestures. Growing up, I saw firsthand the difference it made when someone took the time to truly listen and show care. Small acts of understanding—whether from family, teachers, or friends—often became turning points in my life and in the lives of those around me. These experiences instilled in me the belief that empathy has the power to transform how people experience challenges. It is this belief that continues to guide me in my studies and future goals. For me, empathy is more than a feeling; it is an active choice to see the world from another person’s perspective. It means pausing to ask, What is this person experiencing right now, and how can I support them? In my personal life, empathy has meant being a steady presence for friends going through hardships, even when I could not solve their problems directly. In my academic life, I have come to understand empathy as the foundation of the Child Life profession. It is what allows professionals to connect with children facing medical procedures, uncertainty, and fear—not just as patients, but as whole people with emotions, family systems, and unique needs. My decision to pursue Child Life is rooted in the desire to bring this human-centered perspective into healthcare. I want to be the person who helps children and families navigate overwhelming experiences with a sense of comfort and understanding. A hospital can be an intimidating and even frightening place for a child, but I believe empathy, creativity, and communication can soften that experience. Whether through play therapy, education about procedures, or simply offering a compassionate presence, Child Life specialists transform care by prioritizing emotional well-being alongside medical treatment. Looking ahead, I plan to approach my career through a human-centered lens by always keeping people’s voices and experiences at the forefront of my work. To me, this means going beyond asking, What treatment or procedure is required? and instead asking, How does this child feel right now, and how can I support them in this moment? It also means recognizing that families need just as much guidance and reassurance as the child does, and that empathy must extend to everyone involved. Ultimately, my career goal is to advocate for children and their families when they need it most. I want to ensure they feel heard, valued, and supported through their most vulnerable times. With the support of this scholarship, I will be able to continue pursuing my education and develop the skills necessary to fulfill this goal. My journey so far has been guided by empathy, compassion, and resilience, and I am committed to carrying those values into my professional life so I can make a meaningful difference for others.

Being part of the disabled community has transformed the way I view the world—and my place within it. Living with chronic illnesses like SMA syndrome, POTS, gastroparesis, and others has taught me that disability is not just a medical label—it’s a lived experience shaped by barriers, resilience, and a deep understanding of what it means to navigate a world that isn’t built for you. It’s made me more aware, more compassionate, and more committed to creating spaces where people are treated with dignity, not pity. Before my diagnoses, I saw the world through a much narrower lens. I believed that worth was tied to productivity, that strength meant pushing through pain without complaint, and that needing help was a weakness. Becoming disabled challenged all of that. Suddenly, things most people take for granted—standing for long periods, eating without getting sick, staying conscious in the heat—became unpredictable. I had to learn to listen to my body, to advocate for myself in medical settings, and to let go of shame around mobility aids, accommodations, and asking for help. This experience has made me deeply attuned to the struggles of others, especially those whose pain or limitations are invisible. I now understand how isolating it can be to live in a world that often doesn’t recognize or accommodate chronic illness or disability. But I’ve also witnessed the strength and solidarity of the disabled community—how we uplift one another, share resources, and fight for accessibility not just for ourselves, but for those who will come after us. Being disabled has not made me weaker; it’s made me more determined. It has reshaped my goals and clarified my purpose. I plan to pursue a career in the mental health and medical support fields, particularly working with children and adolescents navigating illness, trauma, and disability. My lived experience gives me a kind of insight and empathy that can’t be taught in a classroom. I know what it feels like to be dismissed by doctors, to feel broken in spaces that prioritize appearance over reality, and to question your worth because of what your body can or can’t do. I also know how healing it is to be seen, validated, and cared for with gentleness and respect. In my future work, I want to create spaces where disabled people—especially young people—feel empowered, not limited. I want to challenge ableist narratives that frame disability as something to “overcome” rather than a valid part of human diversity. Whether I’m working one-on-one with a child in a hospital or advocating for systemic change, I will bring my full self into the work—my scars, my story, and my belief that everyone deserves access to care, compassion, and community. Being part of the disabled community has made me a better listener, a more grounded person, and a fierce advocate. It has taught me that worth is not defined by ability—and I plan to carry that truth into every endeavor I pursue.

I was five years old when my dad was diagnosed with ALS—a terminal neurodegenerative disease that slowly stole his ability to move, speak, and breathe. He passed away just two years later, but those years shaped the entire trajectory of my life. At an age when most children are learning to ride bikes or tie their shoes, I was learning how to interpret slurred speech, how to help adjust my dad’s wheelchair, and how to be quiet when he was in too much pain to talk. Caring for him—even in the small ways I could as a child—forced me to grow up quickly, and left a lasting imprint on how I understand love, responsibility, and resilience. Watching my dad's body fail him while his mind remained sharp was both heartbreaking and confusing. I didn’t fully grasp what was happening at the time, but I understood enough to feel the weight of it. I saw the way my mom carried our family on her back, the way she never stopped showing up no matter how hard things got. And I tried to follow her lead, doing whatever I could to be helpful or, at the very least, not add to the burden. It was in that environment—surrounded by illness, loss, and the quiet strength of my family—that I first developed a deep sensitivity to the needs of others. Even after my dad passed away, the impact of caring for him never left me. It showed up in how I treated others—with a heightened awareness of invisible struggles, a strong sense of empathy, and an ability to hold space for grief and discomfort. It also shaped the way I viewed my future. I knew from a young age that I wanted to go into a helping profession. I wanted to be someone who could sit with pain and not flinch, someone who could bring comfort in the face of the unimaginable. As I got older, I began to understand my own emotional response to that period of my life. The grief, the trauma, and the pressure of trying to be “the strong one” caught up to me. I began struggling with anxiety, disordered eating, and depression—silent battles that I now recognize as connected to the early loss and emotional burden I carried. But those struggles, while painful, only deepened my empathy and strengthened my resolve to help others. Today, I’m pursuing a career in the mental health field, particularly with a focus on children navigating medical trauma, grief, and chronic illness. My experience as a young caregiver has given me a unique lens: I understand what it’s like to feel helpless and scared, to watch someone you love suffer, and to feel like you have to hold it all together. That understanding now fuels my desire to be a safe, supportive presence for others going through the same. My past shaped me—but it also gave me the purpose I carry into my future.

Mental health has shaped the course of my life in ways that are both visible and invisible. It’s been a constant presence—sometimes a quiet hum in the background, other times an overwhelming force that dictated everything I did. My experience hasn’t been limited to anxiety or disordered eating, though those have been part of my story. I’ve also battled with suicidal thoughts, and I’ve survived multiple suicide attempts. That reality is something I carry with me every day—not with shame, but with the understanding that my survival means something. That I’m still here, despite everything, gives my life a kind of purpose I didn’t always believe I deserved. My mental health struggles began early, rooted in grief and loss after my father died when I was just six years old. I didn’t know how to make sense of that pain, and for years, I didn’t talk about it. As I got older, I internalized the message that being okay meant being perfect—so I chased impossible standards and buried anything that didn’t fit that image. My eating disorder became a way to feel in control when everything else felt like too much. But what looked like control on the outside was actually deep pain and isolation on the inside. The weight of it all eventually became unbearable. I reached a point where I couldn’t imagine things ever getting better. I didn’t want to die, exactly—I just didn’t want to keep living in the way I was. My suicide attempts weren’t cries for attention; they were desperate efforts to escape a life that felt too heavy to carry. At the time, I truly believed the world would be better without me in it. But I survived. And slowly, I started to find meaning in that survival. I began reaching out for help, even when it felt terrifying. I found people—therapists, friends, mentors—who didn’t try to fix me, but who sat with me in the dark and helped me begin to imagine light. Recovery has not been linear. There are still hard days. But the difference is, I don’t face them alone anymore. Living through these experiences has changed everything for me. It’s changed how I see people and how I want to show up in the world. My goals are now rooted in helping others feel less alone in their own pain. I want to pursue a career in the mental health field, especially supporting youth and children who are navigating grief, trauma, and suicidal thoughts. I want to be the kind of person I needed during my hardest moments—someone who sees beyond the surface and reminds others that they are not broken, just human. Surviving suicide has given me a deep appreciation for life—not in a romanticized way, but in a real, gritty, honest way. I know what it’s like to want to give up, and I know what it’s like to keep going anyway. That’s the perspective I bring into everything I do—and it’s why I’ll never stop fighting for a world where more people get the chance to feel seen, supported, and safe.

My experience with mental health has shaped nearly every aspect of my life—my goals, my relationships, and my understanding of the world. It’s not just something I’ve struggled with; it’s something that has transformed the way I see people, the way I connect, and the kind of life I want to lead. What started as a private, isolating battle slowly turned into the foundation of my purpose and compassion. Living through mental health challenges has been painful, yes—but it’s also been clarifying. It showed me what truly matters, and it gave me a reason to fight for more than just survival. It gave me the desire to help others feel seen. My goals have changed drastically because of my mental health journey. For a long time, my only goal was to feel okay. I wasn’t dreaming about careers or futures—I was trying to make it through the day. Dealing with anorexia, depression, and the deep grief of losing my dad at a young age, I felt like I was on the outside of life looking in. I didn’t see people who looked like me or talked about the things I was going through. But over time, as I entered recovery and began to process these experiences more openly, I realized how many others were silently fighting similar battles. That changed everything. I no longer wanted to just survive—I wanted to help create a world where young people didn’t have to suffer in silence. That realization is what led me to pursue a career in the mental health field, specifically in child life or youth advocacy. I want to be the kind of person I needed: someone who listens without judgment, who offers comfort in chaos, and who teaches that healing doesn’t mean perfection. My own experience taught me that early intervention and emotional support can change the entire trajectory of a person’s life. My goal now is to offer that support, to advocate for systems that see people as whole humans—not just as diagnoses or behaviors—and to bring mental health care into more conversations and communities. My relationships have also been deeply impacted by my mental health journey. When I was at my lowest, I often pushed people away. I didn’t want to be a burden, and I didn’t know how to ask for help. But the people who stayed—the ones who sat with me, listened without needing to fix me, and reminded me I was worthy of love even when I felt broken—taught me how to build real, meaningful connections. I learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness; it’s the foundation of trust. That has changed how I show up for others. I listen more deeply, love more patiently, and hold space for people in a way I never used to understand. Struggling with my own mental health has made me a more empathetic friend, daughter, and human being. Most of all, my understanding of the world has shifted. I used to see it in black and white—success or failure, strong or weak, sick or well. But now, I live in the gray. I understand that most people are carrying pain you can’t see, that healing is not linear, and that being “okay” looks different for everyone. I’ve learned to question systems that benefit from our silence and shame, and to imagine what it would look like if we built structures that prioritized emotional well-being just as much as physical health or academic achievement. I’ve come to believe that kindness is not a soft skill—it’s a revolutionary act in a world that often tells us to toughen up and stay quiet. Mental health has shaped me in ways that are invisible on the outside, but undeniable within. It has made me more resilient, more open, and more passionate about creating change. It gave me a lens through which I see others with softness instead of judgment, and it taught me that every person deserves the dignity of being heard, believed, and supported. My experience hasn’t made me perfect, but it has made me deeply human—and that humanity is what I now bring into everything I do. From my goals to my relationships to the way I move through the world, mental health is not just part of my story—it’s the reason I’ve chosen to write a better one.

A local and global issue that matters deeply to me is mental health—especially access to compassionate, trauma-informed care for young people. Mental health is often overlooked, stigmatized, or only addressed in crisis, and too many individuals suffer silently as a result. This is not just an abstract issue to me—it’s personal. I have lived through the pain of feeling misunderstood, invalidated, and unseen while struggling with my own mental health. My experiences with grief, disordered eating, and chronic illness have deeply shaped both my identity and my purpose. They’ve taught me how vital emotional support is, and how life-changing it can be to simply feel heard. Even without formal credentials yet, I’ve already taken steps to create change in my community. On social media, I speak honestly about recovery, grief, and resilience, using my platform to reduce shame and increase connection. I’ve had people message me to say that my words gave them the courage to reach out for help, to feel less alone, or even just to keep going. These moments remind me that change doesn’t always come from grand gestures—it often starts in the quiet moments of honesty and connection. I’ve also supported classmates and peers who were struggling, offering to sit with them during hard times, helping them talk to teachers or counselors, or just being present when they felt isolated. In my future, I plan to continue this work by pursuing a career as a child life specialist—a role that blends psychological insight with hands-on emotional support for children and families navigating medical trauma, grief, and chronic illness. My education will equip me with the tools to help children understand what’s happening to them in language they can process, to provide comfort in moments of fear, and to advocate for their emotional well-being when systems overlook it. I’m drawn to this field because it allows me to turn my pain into purpose—to be the kind of support I once needed. Beyond clinical work, I want to continue speaking, writing, and educating around mental health. I want to push back on the idea that healing must be linear or perfect. I want to help schools and hospitals create environments that actually *see* people, not just their symptoms. My ultimate goal is to make mental health support more accessible, more compassionate, and more human—whether that’s through one-on-one care or broader community advocacy. I know I can’t fix everything. But I also know that I’ve already made an impact—and that with the right training, guidance, and opportunity, I can do even more. Mental health matters. And I am committed to being a part of the movement that ensures no one feels like they have to face it alone.

Mental health is deeply important to me as a student because it influences every part of how I function—academically, socially, and personally. It’s not just a background issue; it shapes how I wake up, how I engage in class, how I process information, and how I relate to others. As someone who has lived with multiple chronic illnesses and mental health conditions—including anxiety, depression, disordered eating, and trauma—I’ve come to understand that my mind and body are connected. I can’t perform well in school if I’m emotionally depleted, physically exhausted, or mentally overwhelmed. There was a time when I tried to push through everything in silence, believing that rest or vulnerability was weakness. But that only made things worse. Over time, I’ve learned that tending to my mental health isn’t selfish—it’s essential. I’ve had to unlearn the idea that I had to "earn" rest or help. Now, I take mental health seriously because I’ve seen what happens when we don’t—and I want to help others see that it’s okay to slow down and care for themselves too. As a student, I advocate for mental health in both quiet and direct ways. In my school community, I speak openly about my own experiences when it feels safe to do so. I’ve found that vulnerability creates space for others to share, and it breaks the illusion that we’re alone in our struggles. When peers are overwhelmed, I listen without judgment, validate their feelings, and offer support—whether that means helping them talk to a teacher, guiding them toward school counseling, or just sitting with them when they’re spiraling. I’ve walked friends to therapy appointments, stayed on the phone during panic attacks, and reminded people that needing help is never a burden. At home and online, I use my voice to de-stigmatize mental health. I’ve shared parts of my story publicly to help others see that struggling doesn’t mean failing, and healing doesn’t mean being “fixed.” I advocate for checking in with the people we love, for asking better questions than just “How are you?”, and for building a culture where emotional honesty is welcomed, not punished. Mental health advocacy is also the foundation of my future. I’m studying to become a child life specialist, a role that centers emotional support for children and families in medical settings. I want to help kids navigate fear, grief, trauma, and pain in ways that are developmentally appropriate and emotionally safe. I want to normalize therapy, play-based coping, and emotional expression in spaces where clinical outcomes often take priority. My hope is to bring the empathy I’ve learned through my own experiences into hospital rooms, waiting areas, and bedside conversations—places where emotional support can make all the difference. I advocate for mental health because I know what it’s like to suffer in silence, to feel invisible, and to believe you have to be “okay” to be worthy of care. I want to live and work in a world where we challenge those beliefs—and I’m doing my part to help create that world, one honest conversation at a time.

Helping others with their mental health has always felt like a natural extension of my own healing journey. As someone who has lived through chronic illness, grief, anxiety, depression, and an eating disorder, I’ve developed a deep understanding of what it means to feel misunderstood, overwhelmed, or emotionally isolated. That awareness has made me someone friends, peers, and even strangers often turn to when they need support—because I listen without judgment, validate their feelings, and never try to minimize what they’re going through. Whether it’s texting someone through a panic attack, helping a friend talk to a therapist for the first time, or simply holding space for someone who feels like they’re falling apart, I’ve learned that presence and empathy matter more than perfect solutions. I try to meet people where they are, using what I’ve learned from therapy, personal experience, and trauma-informed care to offer support that feels safe and authentic. Now, I’m taking that passion further by studying to become a child life specialist—a role that allows me to blend emotional support with healthcare advocacy. I plan to work in pediatric hospitals, helping children and families navigate the mental and emotional challenges that come with illness, hospitalization, and trauma. I want to be the person who helps a child understand their diagnosis through play, helps a grieving sibling feel seen, or teaches a parent how to comfort their child during scary procedures. My goal is to bring more emotional literacy into medical spaces. I want to normalize talking about mental health, validate emotional pain just as much as physical pain, and equip families with tools to care for each other beyond the hospital room. I believe that mental health support isn’t a luxury—it’s a necessity, especially for those experiencing fear, loss, or uncertainty. Through my studies, I’m gaining the clinical and psychological knowledge I need to complement the empathy I already carry. But most importantly, I’m learning how to turn my personal pain into meaningful care for others. I don’t want to just be a helper—I want to help others feel strong, safe, and understood in moments when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

I’m pursuing a degree in the mental health field because I know what it’s like to feel alone in pain that no one can see. Growing up, I navigated the silent weight of chronic illness, the complexity of grief after losing my dad at a young age, and the internal battles of anxiety, depression, and an eating disorder that followed. These experiences shaped not only how I see the world, but also how I want to exist in it: as someone who makes space for others to be fully human, even in their most vulnerable moments. When I was in the hospital as a child, I remember how isolating it felt to be scared and not know how to say it. I didn’t have the words to describe what was happening in my body or my mind, and the adults around me often didn’t know how to ask. That silence stuck with me. It made me realize how often children are expected to be resilient without being given the tools or support to actually process what they’re going through. That’s why I’m becoming a child life specialist. I want to bring mental health awareness into pediatric settings, where emotional needs are often overlooked in the face of physical illness. I want to meet kids where they are—using language they understand, validating their fears, and helping them build coping tools that will serve them far beyond the hospital walls. Whether it’s through play, art, or honest conversation, I want to show children that their feelings are real and worth paying attention to. Mental health work is not just about treating illness—it’s about preventing pain from becoming silence. It’s about empowering people, especially the youngest and most vulnerable, to understand themselves, advocate for their needs, and heal in ways that feel authentic to them. I hope to be a calm and steady presence for children and families navigating the chaos of illness, grief, or trauma. My goal is to normalize emotional responses in clinical environments and give families the language and tools to support their children with compassion, not pressure. My own healing journey taught me how transformative it can be to feel seen—and I want to offer that same experience to others. I’m pursuing this career not just because of what I’ve been through, but because of what I believe: that everyone, no matter their age or background, deserves to be met with gentleness, dignity, and care. Mental health is a vital part of every person’s well-being, and I want to be part of building a future where that truth is not only accepted—but actively protected.

Early childhood trauma can change everything—how a child feels about the world, their sense of safety, and their belief in their own worth. Trauma doesn’t need to look dramatic to leave a lasting mark. Sometimes it’s the quiet, unspoken fear that settles into the body. Sometimes it’s the feeling of being out of control, misunderstood, or alone during something you can’t fully explain. I know this not because I read it in a textbook, but because I lived it. My dad passed away when I was six. I was too young to fully understand what death meant, but old enough to feel the silence it left behind. I remember watching the adults around me cry, whisper, and keep going, while I stayed stuck in confusion and grief. No one really knew how to talk to me about it, so I stopped asking questions. That silence taught me to internalize pain. It taught me to become “the strong one”—quiet, helpful, and never too emotional. On top of that grief, I later faced ongoing medical issues that kept me in and out of hospitals. It felt like the world kept throwing things at my body, and I just had to keep surviving. I didn’t have the language to explain what I was going through, and it felt like no one could meet me where I was. Even when people meant well, they often overlooked the emotional reality of what it’s like to be a child navigating illness and loss at the same time. That pattern—of holding everything in, of trying to be fine when I wasn’t—followed me into adolescence and affected my mental health. It took years for me to understand that what I experienced was trauma. It wasn’t just grief or illness—it was the loneliness of going through it without the tools or space to process it. That’s why I’m becoming a child life specialist. My goal isn’t just to help children cope—it’s to help them feel seen, heard, and understood. I want to bring trauma-informed care into clinical spaces that too often overlook a child’s emotional world. I want to give children a voice in environments where they usually have none. I want to help grieving kids like I was—who lost a parent too young, or who feel like they have to grow up too fast—to know that their feelings matter. I’ve seen how early loss and untreated trauma can manifest in anxiety, depression, and disconnection. I’ve lived it. But I’ve also learned that healing doesn’t come from pretending you’re okay—it comes from being given the safety to not be okay. This work is deeply personal to me. It’s a way of honoring the child I used to be, and offering the kind of support I wish I had. I want to show children that they’re not alone in their pain—and that even in the hardest moments, they are still worthy of care, understanding, and hope.

Billie Eilish has an uncanny ability to translate deeply personal, often unspoken emotions into music that feels universally relatable. Three of her songs—“Skinny,” “The 30th,” and “TV”—resonate with me profoundly, each capturing a different dimension of pain, reflection, and the quiet confusion of growing up. 1. “Skinny” In “Skinny,” Billie writes, “People say I look happy / Just because I got skinny / But the old me is still me and maybe the real me / And I think she's pretty.” This lyric is more than a commentary on appearance—it speaks to the ways mental health and self-worth are misread and oversimplified by the outside world. I’ve lived in a body that others judged as “healthier” simply because it was thinner, while internally I was fighting battles no one could see. This song captures the dissonance between how we’re perceived and how we feel, and the slow, uncertain process of reclaiming our own narrative. “Skinny” resonates because it doesn’t just expose the pain—it gently holds it. 2. “The 30th” This song devastates me in its simplicity. Billie’s recollection of a near-death experience—of something random and horrifying changing everything in an instant—mirrors my own experience with chronic illness and sudden medical trauma. The lyric “You were scared / And so was I” is soft, but it carries immense weight. I’ve been the one in the hospital bed, and I’ve also been the one sitting beside it. “The 30th” speaks to the fragility of life, the surreal nature of grief, and the guilt of being a survivor. It reminds me that not everything has a neat explanation, and that sometimes, all we can do is sit in the shock and honor the impact of what happened. 3. “TV” “TV” feels like the quiet thoughts that come at night when the world has stopped moving. Billie sings, “I don't get along with anyone / Maybe I'm the problem”—a line I’ve replayed in my own head more times than I can count. It captures the self-blame and isolation that often accompany depression and anxiety. The juxtaposition of emotional numbness with the noise of the outside world—the breaking news, the political chaos—makes this song feel both deeply internal and universally relevant. “TV” gave language to that dissociation I often felt during my lowest points: present in the world, but unable to feel part of it. Each of these songs has been a companion through moments when I felt disconnected—from myself, from others, from my body. Billie Eilish doesn’t offer polished solutions in these tracks. Instead, she offers honesty—and in doing so, creates space for people like me to feel seen without having to explain ourselves. Her music reminds me that even in the silence, even in the sadness, I’m not alone. These songs don’t just resonate with me—they reflect me, in ways I didn’t know I needed.

There was a time in my life when I believed that strength meant pushing through everything—every symptom, every emotion, every signal my body or mind was sending me—just to keep up. I thought rest was weakness, and that asking for help meant I had failed. That mindset worked, until it didn’t. Eventually, my physical and mental health reached a breaking point, and I was forced to make a choice: continue sacrificing myself for the sake of appearances, or choose to prioritize my well-being—even if it meant slowing down, stepping back, and confronting the fear that I wasn’t doing “enough.” I chose myself. During a particularly intense semester of college, my chronic illness flared to the point where basic daily tasks became overwhelming. At the same time, I was dealing with worsening anxiety and depression, all while trying to maintain my grades and commitments. For a while, I tried to keep pushing forward, hoping it would pass. But it didn’t. One night, after an episode of physical pain and emotional exhaustion that left me unable to function, I realized I couldn’t do it alone anymore. I reached out to my professors and disability services. I asked for accommodations, something I had avoided out of fear of being seen as incapable. I met with a therapist and began regular sessions. I gave myself permission to rest, to say no, and to accept that healing was not linear—and that it required just as much courage as continuing. That choice—to prioritize my mental, emotional, and physical health—was transformative. It didn’t make everything easier right away. But it taught me that boundaries are not limitations—they are tools for survival and success. I learned that asking for help is not a sign of failure, but a sign of strength and self-awareness. Most importantly, I learned that I am not less deserving of education, opportunity, or growth simply because my path looks different from others’. This experience reshaped the way I prepare for the future. As a student, I now build my schedule with balance in mind. I communicate early with instructors and advocate for my needs without shame. As I work toward becoming a child life specialist, I carry this lesson with me: I cannot offer meaningful support to others unless I am also supporting myself. I’ve learned how to recognize early signs of burnout, how to regulate emotionally in high-stress situations, and how to show up in my work with compassion rooted in experience—not just theory. Prioritizing my health wasn’t a detour—it was a redirection toward a more sustainable, honest version of success. It’s a lesson I will carry with me throughout school, into the healthcare field, and through the rest of my life. Because the truth is, caring for others starts with learning how to care for yourself.

Lyric: “I know my age and I act like it / Got what you can't resist, I'm a perfect all-American girl.” — “all-american bitch,” Olivia Rodrigo This lyric resonates deeply with my teenage experience because it captures the exhausting performance that often comes with growing up—especially as a girl. Olivia Rodrigo’s words reflect the pressure to appear effortless, composed, likable, and “put together,” even when you're internally falling apart. I know what it’s like to smile through pain, to nod along when you're misunderstood, to say “I’m fine” when you’re anything but. These lines from “all-american bitch” hold a mirror to that experience: being expected to act your age, be mature, be desirable, be impressive—but never too emotional, too loud, too much. During my adolescence, I struggled with chronic illness and mental health challenges that were largely invisible. From the outside, I looked like the “perfect” student—kind, high-achieving, and obedient. But inside, I was drowning. I felt like I had to earn my place in every room I entered by being easy to handle, agreeable, and grateful. There was little space to express anger or sadness without being seen as dramatic or unstable. I learned to swallow my feelings and put on a good face because that was what was rewarded. That’s exactly what this lyric speaks to: the performative pressure of being “good” at being a girl, at being a teen, at being human. Adolescence is often portrayed as a time of freedom and self-discovery, but it can also be a time of deep confusion, isolation, and pressure to fit into roles we didn’t choose. Rodrigo’s lyric reminds me of the way we’re told to act our age when we're still figuring out who we are. The irony is that even when I “acted my age,” I was still told to grow up. There’s no winning in those expectations—and that dissonance is part of what makes the teenage years so uniquely challenging. What I appreciate about this lyric, and GUTS as a whole, is how it gives voice to the contradictions of girlhood and adolescence. It recognizes the quiet rage, the desperate need to be seen, the fear of being too much and the pain of not being enough. For me, those lines validated emotions I spent years trying to suppress. They reminded me that I wasn’t alone in feeling like I had to be perfect just to be accepted. In the end, this lyric captures the emotional complexity of adolescence—the way we feel trapped between what we’re expected to be and who we really are. It’s messy, it’s raw, and it’s honest. And for so many of us, that’s exactly what growing up felt like.

My journey into healthcare wasn’t built from textbooks or career day presentations. It was built in waiting rooms, hospital beds, and quiet moments where I felt like the world had forgotten me. I didn’t just learn about illness—I lived it. As a child and adolescent facing a chronic medical condition, I learned early on how fragile and complex life can be. I experienced firsthand what it feels like to lose control of your body, to have your pain questioned or misunderstood, and to navigate a world that wasn’t designed for someone who wakes up each day in survival mode. But what shaped me most was the way just one person—a child life specialist named Kristen—changed everything. Kristen met me at a time when I felt invisible. She didn’t try to “fix” me. Instead, she saw me. She explained scary procedures in ways I could understand. She let me express my fear without judgment. She reminded me that I was still a child, still worthy of play and comfort and agency. That experience stayed with me long after I left the hospital. It’s what led me to pursue a career as a child life specialist myself—a healthcare professional who supports the emotional and developmental needs of children in medical settings. But the road hasn’t been easy. Chronic illness doesn’t pause for school. It doesn’t care about deadlines or perfect attendance. Balancing my health with my education has meant pushing through brain fog, fatigue, and hospitalizations while trying to show up fully as a student. It has meant learning how to advocate for myself, ask for accommodations, and accept that resilience doesn’t always look like perfection. Mental health has also been part of the picture—anxiety and depression often go hand-in-hand with chronic physical conditions. I’ve had to learn, sometimes the hard way, how to prioritize my wellness without letting it define my worth. Still, I believe the challenges I’ve faced have become my greatest teachers. They’ve taught me empathy that can’t be taught in a classroom. They’ve given me insight into what patients need beyond treatment plans—validation, communication, and dignity. I’ve learned how to sit with discomfort, how to meet people in their pain, and how to bring light into even the most sterile environments. Through my future career in healthcare, I want to be a steady presence for a child facing medical trauma. I want to give them the tools to cope, the space to feel, and the language to understand what’s happening to their bodies. I want families to feel supported, not dismissed. And I want healthcare settings to feel a little less cold, a little more human, because of the care I offer. My journey hasn’t been typical—but I believe that’s exactly what makes me ready to make an impact. I know what it’s like to be the patient. And because of that, I know how to be the kind of healthcare provider who doesn’t just treat, but truly sees.

Every experience leaves an imprint—some loud, some quiet—but all of them shape the direction of our lives. For me, a childhood marked by chronic illness and emotional upheaval didn’t just disrupt my sense of normal—it defined the very reason I chose to pursue a career in medicine. I may not be working toward becoming a doctor or nurse, but my path in healthcare is just as personal, just as purposeful. I am studying to become a child life specialist—a role rooted in emotional care, communication, and support—because I know firsthand what it means to be a child in crisis, and I know how deeply it matters to feel understood. From a young age, hospitals became familiar. Chronic illness was not a chapter in my story—it was the setting. I spent much of my childhood in and out of medical appointments, diagnostic tests, and treatment plans that were often confusing, invasive, and frightening. But the part that shaped me most wasn’t just the illness itself—it was how I was treated during it. There was one person, Kristen, a child life specialist, who changed the way I experienced healthcare. She didn’t cure me or fix my symptoms, but she made me feel safe, human, and empowered in an environment that often left me feeling voiceless. Her presence was gentle but profound. She helped me understand what was happening to me, advocated for my emotional needs, and offered consistency in a space that often felt chaotic. That experience taught me that healthcare isn’t only about tests, procedures, and diagnoses—it’s about people. It’s about dignity. It’s about creating moments of control in a world where patients often have none. My personal challenges have given me an unmatched level of empathy, emotional intelligence, and insight into the pediatric patient experience. I don’t see children as fragile or broken. I see them as whole, even in their most vulnerable moments. I see their fear, their courage, their exhaustion—and I know how to hold space for all of it, because I’ve lived it. My experiences will help me make a unique and lasting impact in healthcare by bridging the emotional gaps that so often go unacknowledged. I want to walk into hospital rooms with compassion that comes not from training alone, but from lived understanding. I want to empower children by helping them feel seen and heard, to reduce their fear by giving them choices, language, and moments of joy, even in pain. I believe my presence can be a calming force for families navigating what may be the hardest days of their lives. The RELEVANCE Scholarship resonates deeply with me because it honors the truth I live by: that even our hardest moments can become a source of healing—for ourselves and for others. My story didn’t begin with strength or certainty—but it’s led me to a future where I can offer both to the next child who finds themselves where I once was.

Mental health is not a side issue in my life—it shapes everything. As a college student living with both chronic illness and mental health challenges, my experience in school often feels like walking a tightrope. Balancing deadlines, classes, and social expectations while managing anxiety, depression, and the lingering impact of trauma is a daily act of resilience. Mental health isn’t just about having “bad days”—it’s about navigating moments where my brain tells me I’m not enough while still showing up to class, turning in assignments, and trying to maintain relationships. Academically, mental health struggles can feel like invisible weights. There are days when my mind is fogged with intrusive thoughts, panic, or emotional exhaustion, and simply concentrating on a textbook feels impossible. I’ve faced moments where I’ve doubted my intelligence not because I didn’t understand the material, but because I didn’t have the mental clarity to engage with it. Deadlines can feel overwhelming, not because of poor time management, but because my brain is at war with itself. It can be incredibly disheartening to want to succeed but feel mentally stuck. At times, depression has made me question whether finishing school was even worth it. In my personal life, the impact is just as real. Friendships become harder to maintain when my social battery is drained from masking how I feel. I sometimes isolate myself not out of disinterest, but because I feel like a burden. Anxiety can convince me that every small mistake will unravel my future. And in moments of emotional burnout, even basic self-care like cooking or showering can feel insurmountable. These are things many people don’t see, but they are the backdrop of what it means to be a student with mental health challenges. Despite these obstacles, I’ve learned to prioritize my mental health in ways that are practical and sustainable. I work closely with my school’s disability support services to ensure I have accommodations when needed—whether that’s extended time on tests or flexibility with deadlines. I’ve also built a care team that includes a therapist and medical professionals who understand the intersection of mental and physical health. Regular therapy sessions are a non-negotiable part of my routine. More importantly, I’ve shifted my mindset. I’ve stopped glorifying burnout and started celebrating boundaries. I take breaks without guilt. I give myself permission to rest. I engage in mindfulness practices like journaling and grounding exercises to check in with myself emotionally. I communicate openly with professors and advisors when I’m struggling, instead of suffering in silence. I’m not perfect at managing my mental health, but I’ve learned that it’s not something to be fixed—it’s something to be supported. My experiences have given me a deep sense of empathy and have shaped my commitment to becoming a child life specialist. If I can use what I’ve lived through to help others feel less alone in their own struggles, then everything I’ve endured will have meaning.

Some of the most powerful people in our lives aren’t the ones we expect—they’re the ones who show up quietly, consistently, and with unwavering compassion. For me, that person was Kristen, a child life specialist who walked beside me during some of the hardest chapters of my chronic illness. I don’t remember every medical term, every hospital room, or every procedure—but I remember Kristen. I remember the way she explained things in a way that made the unknown less terrifying. I remember her sitting with me when I was too exhausted to speak. I remember the feeling of being seen—not as a diagnosis, not as a problem to be fixed, but as a whole person. Living with a chronic illness has impacted every corner of my life. From school to friendships to daily tasks, nothing has remained untouched. There were days I felt like my world had shrunk to nothing but pain and appointments. But even then, Kristen’s presence reminded me that there was still light, still care, still humanity in a space that often felt sterile and cold. She didn’t erase the pain—but she made it bearable. Her presence grounded me. Her empathy inspired me. What pushes me to excel, even when my body tries to slow me down, is the memory of what it felt like to be that scared, confused child—and the knowledge that I can now become the very person who once helped me survive. I’m currently studying to become a child life specialist, because I want to give back what Kristen gave me: comfort in the face of fear, clarity in chaos, and hope when everything feels out of control. Chronic illness has taught me how to hold complexity: how to sit with grief, with limitation, with uncertainty—and still move forward. I’ve learned that strength doesn’t always look loud; sometimes it looks like getting out of bed when every bone aches, or smiling through brain fog, or holding a child's hand through their own fear. These are the tools I carry with me into my future: the quiet, persistent skills that don’t show up on transcripts but define who I am becoming. Kristen didn’t just help me survive—she helped me imagine a future I couldn’t see for myself at the time. Now, I want to be that person for others. I want to enter hospital rooms and offer not just toys or explanations, but trust. I want to remind children that they are not alone, not broken, and not defined by their diagnosis. My illness may have taken a lot from me—but it also gave me direction, purpose, and the opportunity to turn pain into impact. I didn’t choose this path—but I’ve chosen what to do with it. Because of Kristen, I know how powerful one person can be. And now, I want to be that person for someone else.

My family has several veterans. The one who I will be talking about though is my hero, my dad. My dad was in the Army branch before being discharged. He started experiencing extreme joint and muscle pain and weakness. When he came home to be seen, they found he had ALS, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, which is a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord. The motor neurons slowly die and the ability of the brain to initiate and control muscle movement is lost. He was our main financial supporter so when he died, it was just my mom. With 3 kids, it was hard to work so she did what she could but the only income we got was from the VA as child support. Having twins means double the college expenses and soon will be 3 kids in college once my brother graduates. I am a current sophomore at The University of Alabama. I am on the path to a bachelor in science for human development and family sciences with a concentration in child life and a minor in psychology and nutrition. With this degree, I am wanting to become a child life specialist. They are healthcare professionals who help kids cope in any stressful healthcare setting. Whether that is outpatient in a dentist or clinic, or inpatient at a children's hospital. I am wanting to work inpatient, specifically in a general or special care unit. I have a list of hospitals I would love to intern and eventually work at. These range from multiple states on the East Coast. I want to get on this track due to personal experiences. I first met the child life specialist in my local children's hospital during an admission for my eating disorder. I talked to her about the job and school before deciding this was what I wanted to do. While I was talking to her, she told me she also did grief work on the adult floors for children of parents who died or are on extensive life care. I was only 6 when my dad died. I would have loved to have someone to explain what happened because all my mom told me was he went to heaven. I never got to say goodbye. I never got an explanation till I found out what really happened 10 years later. I would do anything to get to be there and have the chance to say goodbye to him.

Since 2020, I have dealt with a long list of mental health problems which feels like it just keeps growing every day. My junior and senior year of high school was extremely tough with having hospital admissions for my mental health issues. School for anyone can be difficult and bring a lot of stress but dealing with a long list of psychiatric disorders makes it ten times harder. I have anorexia nervosa, depression, borderline personality disorder (BPD), anxiety, post-traumatic syndrome disorder (PTSD), obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), and ADHD. With ADHD being so common, it is one of the "easier" conditions to have with school because it is seen and treated as a disability. Unlike depression, BPD, OCD, and PTSD, these are seen as just weaknesses to school systems. Although I have disability accommodations, it is extremely difficult to get those accommodations set in the classroom. They don't realize how debilitating it can be to live with constant thoughts in your head yelling at you for anything and everything. My anxiety makes it difficult to attend class because I am required to sit still but I also feel like something bad will happen and I am stuck in a room with nowhere to go. I get depressed episodes frequently that leave me in what feels like paralysis. I can't get out of bed, bring myself to do daily activities, or even stay awake. I am not motivated to get anything done. My work piles up from the lack of attention and procrastination which eventually leaves me into a full-blown anxiety attack from the amount of work that needs to get done. When I am in a good state and can take proper care of myself without feeling the weight of the world, I try my best to reset my mind completely and space around me. This begins with cleaning up everything easy enough and won't burn me out from the start of the day. I try to set breaks frequently throughout the day but not so long that I won't return to continue my day. Tasks I do to get everything reset are things like laundry, dishes, vacuuming, making my bed, showering, and going grocery shopping. As easy as those tasks sound and should be, it feels like the hardest task to ever exist while in a bad mental state. I also will get support from people like my therapist, doctor, dietician, and close friends. Without these support systems in place, I would not be able to continue out school.

August 4th, 2010. That was the day my whole life turned around. My dad, my biggest supporter, my hero, lost his battle with ALS. Never in my life would I have thought to be saying that, especially so young. At 6 years old, I didn’t understand what had happened. How are you supposed to tell your 3 kids under 6 that? All I understood was I would never see him again and even that seemed confusing. It was my first heartbreak and loss. We were never really told what was wrong with my dad besides he wasn’t feeling good and his body was hurting. 7 Years later, I found out what he died from in full. It broke me more than ever that they knew this was coming but couldn’t tell their kids without us being confused. The hardest part and where I learned the most was I never got to say goodbye. A week before, my mom and dad dropped us off with our grandparents in Michigan. They went home to South Carolina for the week and as they were driving back up to spend the week with us, my mom wasn’t able to wake him up to ask if they should stop. This was what we did every year until it wasn't. I never got a last hug, a last goodbye, a last anything before. It happened so fast and so far away. He never got to go to a daddy-daughter dance, watch us grow up, play sports and cheer us on from the bleachers. He never watched us graduate high school and will never get to walk us down the aisle or across the stage at college graduation. I learned the biggest lesson to never not say goodbye and I love you because you never know when it will be the last one. No matter how mad you are or the fight you got into. I to this day never end a phone call or leave without saying I love you. I cherish hugs more than ever. Every time I see a new drug or breakthrough for ALS, my heart shatters because what if they found that 13 years ago? What if. What if. What if. That is what your life becomes after you lose someone you love. What if this or that happened? This scholarship will help me go through college without thousands of dollars in debt. My mom has to help both me and my sister pay for college right now and our only income is from the VA.

Suicide. Depression. Anxiety. Anorexia. OCD. Everything that people deem as bad and scary. It is bad and scary except when you are in it. When you are fighting your own brain on whether you deserve to live. Whether you deserve to eat. Whether the 5 or 0 can just be a 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, or 9. Since August 2020, I have suffered from major depressive disorder, PTSD, atypical anorexia nervosa, and anxiety. I have had 6 suicide attempts between October 2020 to March 2021. I was admitted into the psych ward 2 times during this time. In February 2021, my therapist brought concerns about disordered eating to my doctor. I got called into the office to be evaluated for an eating disorder. I played it off to seem it wasn't so bad but in mid-March, I was medically unstable and had to be admitted into a children's hospital. I spent over 2 weeks sitting in bed being watched every second of every day. I had to spend my 17th birthday there and the day after, I had to have an NJ tube placed for stable nutrition. I was discharged with it and spent 2 weeks at home before I was readmitted until I had a bet open at a residential facility. After 10 weeks of being stuck in a hospital room, I was discharged and sent to the opposite side of the country. I spent 2 months there before discharging to outpatient. I kept declining but made it seem like I was doing everything I needed to. After my senior year homecoming, I got so sick from how worn down my immune system was that I had to be hospitalized until I was stable. Tests after tests, they couldn't find anything wrong but could tell I wasn't okay. I was discharged for a few weeks before my psychiatrist sent me back due to my weight decline and was unstable in vitals. I was tubed again and sent home. 2 weeks later I was back in the hospital for 7 weeks. I spent Christmas and New Year there. January 4th, 2022, I was discharged for the last time ever. I told my doctor I wanted to try to get better. He gave me one final chance and I proved everyone wrong about not being able to stay outpatient. I worked with 2 dieticians, 2 therapists, a doctor, and a psychiatrist. 1 year later, I can say I have been 1 year out of the hospital. While I was in the hospital, there were child life specialists who talked me through procedures and sat and talked to me since I spent so long in the hospital and couldn't have any visitors but my mom. Eventually, I asked what they did in full and told them I was interested in being a CCLS. The main child life specialists told me to look at a website that explains the schooling to become certified and her experience throughout her career. There was where I decided to go into child life and plan to continue on that path.

August 4th, 2010. That was the day my whole life turned around. My dad, my biggest supporter, my hero, lost his battle to ALS. Never in my life would I have thought to be saying that. At 6 years old, I didn’t understand what had happened. It was my first heartbreak and loss. We were never really told what was wrong with my dad besides he wasn’t feeling good and his body was hurting. 7 Years later, I found out what he died from in full. It broke me more than ever that they knew this was coming but couldn’t tell their kids without us confused. The hardest part and where I learned the most was I never got to say goodbye. A week before, my mom and dad dropped us off with our grandparents in Michigan. They went home to South Carolina for the week and as they were driving back up to spend the week with us, my mom wasn’t able to wake him up to ask if they should stop. I never got a last hug, a last goodbye, a last anything before. It happened so fast and so far away. I learned the biggest lesson to never not say goodbye and I love you because you never know when it will be the last one. No matter how mad you are or the fight you got into. I to this day never end a phone call or leave without saying I love you. I cherish hugs more than ever. Every time I see a new drug or breakthrough for ALS, my heart shatters because what if they found that 13 years ago. Since 2020, I have had multiple suicide attempts and hospitalizations for my eating disorder. I remember most that my dad would’ve wanted me to survive. He would’ve wanted me to walk across the stage at graduation and down the aisle at my wedding. He would want me to follow my passions. That is exactly what i’m doing. I'm fighting to achieve what he would’ve wanted. Despite the hard days and burnout from the work, I am still pushing and fighting to be a child life specialist because hopefully one day, I can tell my story and help a kid who is going through the same pain.

Since August 2020, I have suffered from major depressive disorder, PTSD, atypical anorexia nervosa, and anxiety. I have had 6 suicide attempts between October 2020 to March 2021. I was admitted into the psych ward 2 times during this time. In February 2021, my therapist brought concerns about disordered eating to my doctor. I got called into the office to be evaluated for an eating disorder. I played it off to seem it wasn't so bad but in mid-March, I was medically unstable and had to be admitted into a children's hospital. I spent over 2 weeks sitting in bed being watched every second of every day. I had to spend my 17th birthday there and the day after, I had to have an NJ tube placed for stable nutrition. I was discharged with it and spent 2 weeks at home before I was readmitted until I had a bet open at a residential facility. After 10 weeks of being stuck in a hospital room, I was discharged and sent to the opposite side of the country. I spent 2 months there before discharging to outpatient. I kept declining but made it seem like I was doing everything I needed to. After my senior year homecoming, I got so sick from how worn down my immune system was that I had to be hospitalized until I was stable. Tests after tests, they couldn't find anything wrong but could tell I wasn't okay. I was discharged for a few weeks before my psychiatrist sent me back due to my weight decline and was unstable in vitals. I was tubed again and sent home. 2 weeks later I was back in the hospital for 7 weeks. I spent Christmas and New Year there. January 4th, 2022, I was discharged for the last time ever. I told my doctor I wanted to try to get better. He gave me one final chance and I proved everyone wrong about not being able to stay outpatient. I worked with 2 dieticians, 2 therapists, a doctor, and a psychiatrist. 1 year later, I can say I have been 1 year out of the hospital. While I was in the hospital, there were child life specialists who talked me through procedures and sat and talked to me since I spent so long in the hospital and couldn't have any visitors but my mom. Eventually, I asked what they did in full and told them I was interested in being a CCLS. The main child life specialists told me to look at a website that explains the schooling to become certified and her experience throughout her career. There was where I decided to go into child life and plan to continue on that path.

For the past 2 years, I have struggled with depression, anxiety, PTSD, and atypical anorexia nervosa. I was admitted into a psychiatric hospital twice within 3 months apart for suicide attempts, the hospital for a total of 145 days in 10 months, and 58 days in Eating Recovery Center. Even though that 2021 was a rough year for my mental health, there was a silver lining. I found what I wanted to do with my life and future career. I am attending University of Missouri to become a child life specialist. While I was in the hospital, the child life specialist always came to check on me daily. She was there through every NG tube and made sure I was comfortable. She helped me through the hardest months of my life. Knowing how hard it was for me to be there and know my diagnosis, I couldn't imagine how younger kids felt that don't understand why they are there or what they are diagnosed with. She talked me through what she does in depth and told me I would be amazing at that job because I have my experiences. I want to give those kids the same support I had through those times so I changed my major to pursue child life. My mental health struggles also showed me who my true friends are. Yes, I did lose some friends through it but there was one that suck by my side through all of it. It made me realize the importance of saying "I love you" and hugging your loved ones and friends as much as you can because you never know what someone is going through. My friends had no idea about any of my mental health problems until I told them. I always made sure I was all bubbly and happy around them so they didn't have to worry about me. I didn't want to put my problems on them so I bottled them all up. I now can proudly say I have stayed hospital free for 7 months now and have the opportunity to serve on the virtual committee for the NEDA Walk in Kansas City, MO and volunteer for the Out of The Darkness Walk in Columbia, MO.

For the past 2 years, I have struggled with depression, anxiety, PTSD, and atypical anorexia nervosa. I was admitted into a psychiatric hospital twice within 3 months apart for suicide attempts, the hospital for a total of 145 days in 10 months, and 58 days in Eating Recovery Center. Even after residential treatment, I relapsed and ended back into the hospital 3 more times. In January 2022, I decided I didn't want to live my life stuck in a hospital and decided to give recovery a try. I didn't know what to expect. I didn't want to lose the control I had. It was and still is hard and scary but since then, I have enjoyed my 18th birthday with my friends, went to prom, graduated, and traveled. All things I never would've been able to do if I didn't make that choice to recover. Even though that 2021 was a rough year for my mental health, there was a silver lining. I found what I wanted to do with my life and future career. I am attending University of Missouri to become a child life specialist. While I was in the hospital, the child life specialist always came to check on me daily. She was there through every NG tube and made sure I was comfortable. She helped me through the hardest months of my life. Knowing how hard it was for me to be there and know my diagnosis, I couldn't imagine how younger kids felt that don't understand why they are there or what they are diagnosed with. She talked me through what she does in depth and told me I would be amazing at that job because I have my experiences. I wanted to give those kids the same support I had through those times so I changed my major to pursue child life. My mental health struggles also showed me who my true friends are. Yes, I did lose some friends through it but there was one that suck by my side through all of it. It made me realize the importance of saying "I love you" and hugging your loved ones and friends as much as you can because you never know what someone is going through. My friends had no idea about any of my mental health problems until I told them. I always made sure I was all bubbly and happy around them so they didn't have to worry. I now can proudly say I have stayed hospital free for 7 months now and have the opportunity to serve on the virtual committee for NEDA Walk in Kansas City, MO and volunteer for the Out of The Darkness Walk in Columbia, MO.

For the past 2 years, I have struggled with depression, anxiety, PTSD, and atypical anorexia nervosa. I was admitted into a psychiatric hospital twice within 3 months apart for suicide attempts, the hospital for a total of 145 days in 10 months, and 58 days in Eating Recovery Center. Even though that 2021 was a rough year for my mental health, there was a silver lining. I found what I wanted to do with my life and future career. I am attending University of Missouri to become a child life specialist. While I was in the hospital, the child life specialist always came to check on me daily. She was there through every NG tube and made sure I was comfortable. She helped me through the hardest months of my life. Knowing how hard it was for me to be there and know my diagnosis, I couldn't imagine how younger kids felt that don't understand why they are there or what they are diagnosed with. She talked me through what she does in depth and told me I would be amazing at that job because I have my experiences. I wanted to give those kids the same support I had through those times so I changed my major to pursue child life. My mental health struggles also showed me who my true friends are. Yes, I did lose some friends through it but there was one that suck by my side through all of it. It made me realize the importance of saying "I love you" and hugging your loved ones and friends as much as you can because you never know what someone is going through. My friends had no idea about any of my mental health problems until I told them. I always made sure I was all bubbly and happy around them so they didn't have to worry. I now can proudly say I have stayed hospital free for 7 months now and have the opportunity to serve on the virtual committee for NEDA Walk in Kansas City, MO and volunteer for the Out of The Darkness Walk in Columbia, MO.