My parents did everything they could to provide for me and my sister growing up. While I’m the youngest, my older sister couldn’t complete college due to mental health challenges. I feel as though I have to be the one to exceed expectations. I’ve always been the kid who gets good grades, has aspirations, and makes an effort to succeed. Making my parents proud is my driving force in everything I do. Knowing that I have the opportunity to do something that they didn’t, pushes me farther. This situation left me feeling a strong need to step up and exceed expectations. I strive to achieve success in everything I do. Because of their lack of a degree, simple tasks relating to university became difficult. Simple steps like applying for school or filling out the FAFSA felt overwhelming for them. I often felt alone during this process. They did not have the knowledge or experience to guide me, which made everything more difficult. I don’t blame them for my struggles, but those who are academic legacies will never understand how this felt. They didn’t know how to do it. I want my future children to feel supported in such a scary process. I want to provide the framework my parents were unable to offer. This commitment to support my family will guide me as I move forward. I am a junior at the University of Illinois at Urbana Champaign. I am forever proud of my status at such a prestigious school. Not only did I get accepted to one of the best public schools in the nation, I am graduating a year earlier than normal. My degree in social work is something that I’ve been dreaming of since my sophomore year of high school. I feel an immense passion for helping people who are in underprivileged communities. My long-term goal is to obtain my Master’s in Social Work through the University of Illinois at Urbana Champaign. Afterward, I plan to be involved in the criminal justice system, specifically juvenile justice social work. This would allow me to support children who the prison system has impacted. I aim to provide encouragement and guidance to these young people as they navigate their situations. By promoting their strengths and supporting their efforts, I hope to help them realize their potential. They need to understand that they can achieve their goals, regardless of their backgrounds or circumstances. My commitment is to advocate for these children and empower them to strive for a better future.

The symptoms arrived on a crisp fall day. At the time, I was big into photography. I dragged my younger sister to the local park so I could take her picture. On our way home, I noticed the lack of color on my fingers. They were cold and numb. A quick run under warm water relieved me. As the weeks went on, the same manifestation continued to grow up my limb. Every morning, I’d wake up with no feeling in my arm. More evidence showed up in the middle of November. PE was (and still is) a dreadful class. That day, we went to our football field to run the track. The coach had a rule that we must run there from the gym. I was no marathon runner, but it never gave me too much of an issue. However, that day my lungs began to tighten after 100 feet. I had to pretend to tie my shoes to catch my breath. Throughout the period, I struggled. Eventually, I told the coach that I couldn’t breathe. Instead of sending me to the nurse, she preferred to have me walk. Everyone I discussed my concerns with, including my mother, brushed it off as allergies. However, I knew better. I’ve had allergies my whole life; it never had that effect. At the same time, my fingers developed these ‘infections.’ Dark scabs covered each of my fingers. The pain was like nothing I’d experienced. I blamed it on the lack of sanitation at the local nail salon, but something much more sinister was brewing. It took two months for my mom (an EMT) to recognize that I wasn’t being dramatic. She tells me that she had a patient in the ambulance that had Raynauds phenomenon. It’s so familiar, yet not. She slightly changed her view after this instance. I kept hearing the word auto-immune exit her mouth, yet no definition came to mind. The worst disturbance I’d endured up to that point was strep throat in 7th grade. There I was, 15, and getting my blood drawn for the first time. My mom – who claimed she knew everything – didn’t know. I am not a patient person. The three days it took to get the results seemed like an eternity. When I got home from school that day, my mom told me my bloodwork was worrying. My ANA levels were 1:2500. Immediately, they referred me to the Saint Louis Children's Hospital. When they took me back to the primary-colored exam room, the nurse took my height and weight. Typically, that wouldn’t be much of a concern, except that I’d lost ten more pounds since my last appointment. I was down 20 pounds in a month and a half. That first appointment was the longest. They asked questions I did not have answers to. Finally, the answer to my pain came at the beginning of February. “You have scleroderma.” The diagnosis was foreign. Of course, my immediate reaction is to look it up. I tried so hard to be constructive about the situation. I was losing myself with every call of bad news. Mentally, I crumbled. Specks of artisticness, intelligence, or minute hygiene clutter the metaphorical floor. After suffering for months, life slowly filtered out death. Life and death are two wholly distinct concepts. They’re both invaluable experiences. You can’t have one without the other. No lesson plan or worksheet holds the correct answer to life and death. It’s up to the owner to interpret them. Now, today, as I’m writing this, I’m living.

Unlike Mr. Rogers and his fantasyland, I grew up in a small town less than 5 miles east of East St.Louis. My neighborhood used to be the place to be; times often change. Now, it is known for its crime, gangs, and poverty. Being so close, I attended school with many children affected by generational gaps. The five years I spent there formed me into who I am today. When I turned six, my mom and stepdad moved 20 minutes south. The difference such distance would make is unbelievable. My new school’s racial diversity percentage was nearly 1:30. I experienced virtual culture shock. Seeing how middle-class children came to be treated compared to children of color put my privilege into perspective. Within my last year of high school, I realized I wanted to help troubled youth transition into adulthood. In first grade, we learned about many basic concepts such as addition, subtraction, grammar, and for some reason, penguins. Plenty of content given in first grade is essential to a growing young mind. A student – let’s call her Asia – showed up on the first day with a pencil and a notebook. She walked silently from the front of the classroom and wandered from desk to desk. From a previous encounter with her, I knew her name. While everyone settled into their chairs, she stood alone. I approached her, “Do you need help finding your seat? Your desk has your name on it.” She nodded. When I took her to her desk, I discovered a missing component in her education: she couldn’t read. To give some background, growing up with Asia, I knew she hardly showed up. As a 5-year-old, I thought she became ill often. Later, I learned that her health did not correlate with her absence. In reality, her family situation prevented her from attending school. Research shows children of color –specifically black Americans– have a significantly greater chance of developing generational trauma. While this affected me little, as an empathetic student, I felt for her and many other children who suffered from poverty. More signs came after I sat down to watch a documentary with my mother. The documentary highlighted the story of Cyntoia Brown. While viewing the television, anger bubbled deep from within. Her awful childhood only spurred on her dreadful future. When I saw the social worker she spoke with, I felt empowered. The way Cyntoia opened up and trusted her made me want to provide that for somebody else. My eyes glued themselves to the screen with adoration of everything Cyntoia endured. Soon after I put a name to my passion: juvenile justice social worker. I felt unsure of how I could assist plagued children from communities like mine. Social work came to me at an inopportune time of my life. As soon as I implemented my research, I knew this would be my passion. I was telling everyone I could about it. For most, I received an underwhelming response. They often revealed perplexity and told me ‘you have the heart for it’. Over and over, I was told that it was a dangerous field or that I would get hurt. Someone even said, “You’ll have to taze them if they attack you.” Yes, someone thought that was a great word of encouragement. So, to answer a question many ask me, I say yes. Yes, I love my neighborhood; it is the reason I concluded that helping disadvantaged youth is my calling. Today is a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

The first time I began dying was in October of 2019. The symptoms arrived on a crisp fall day. At the time, I was big into photography. I dragged my younger sister to the local park so I could take her picture. On our way home, I noticed the lack of color on my fingers. They were cold and numb. A quick run under warm water relieved me. As the weeks went on, the same manifestation continued to grow up my limb. Every morning, I’d wake up with no feeling in my arm. More evidence showed up in the middle of November. PE was (and still is) a dreadful class. That day, we went to our football field to run the track. The coach had a rule that we must run there from the gym. I was no marathon runner, but it never gave me too much of an issue. Throughout the period, I struggled. Eventually, I told the coach that I couldn’t breathe. Instead of sending me to the nurse, she preferred to have me walk. At the same time, my fingers developed these ‘infections.’ Dark scabs covered each of my fingers. The pain was like nothing I’d experienced. I blamed it on the lack of sanitation at the local nail salon, but something much more sinister was brewing. It took two months for my mom (an EMT) to recognize that I wasn’t being dramatic. Belatedly, she made an appointment at my PCP’s office. There I was, 15, and getting my blood drawn for the first time. The nurse and phlebotomist had to escort me to a private room. They thought I was going to lose consciousness. My mom – who claimed she knew everything – didn’t know. She had guesses, yes, though none of them were clear-cut. We wouldn’t know until the bloodwork came back. I am not a patient person. The three days it took to get the results seemed like an eternity. When I got home from school that day, my mom told me my bloodwork was worrying. Immediately, they referred me to the Saint Louis Childrens Hospital Immunology and Rheumatology center. If you know anything about this hospital, it is world-renowned. My name must’ve obtained priority because, within 30 days, I had an appointment. My heart beat out of my chest when we pulled into the colossal parking garage attached to a clinical institution. I’d never been to a place so full of sick children. Now, I was one of them. A tall, bubbling fish tank kept the waiting room peaceful. Blue, yellow, and even purple fish swam in circles. Children were the target audience, yet 15-year-old me envied these carefree aquatic creatures. For a spare moment, I wished I was in that tank, hiding in the driftwood placed delicately in the corner. I could almost imagine the salty water stinging my skin. That pain was mild compared to my achy bones and fiery hands. I simply wanted less. I wanted it to be gone. At that moment, I died a little more. When they took me back to the primary-colored exam room, the nurse took my height and weight. Typically, that wouldn’t be much of a concern, except that I’d lost ten more pounds since my last appointment. I was down 20 pounds in a month and a half. That first appointment was the longest. Finally, they prescribed some medication. Before, I took four ibuprofen at a time and Valium to sleep. Thankfully I was still on Christmas break and had time to adjust before being thrown back into school. Finally, the answer to my pain came at the beginning of February. My mom and I were at a clothing store. As we were checking out, she got a call. When she saw the caller ID, she handed me her card and walked away. I met her in the car and she stood out the door, smoking a cigarette. She took the stick away from her lips and spoke the dreaded words, “You have scleroderma.” The diagnosis was foreign. Of course, my immediate reaction is to look it up. I tried so hard to be constructive about the situation. Holding in my tears and dissembling my true feelings, I spoke untruly. I’m glad we know what’s going on seems better than my life is over. In this case, both rang true. Though we had a name to my madness, that was about it. Another piece of me died. I was losing myself with every call of bad news. Mentally, I crumbled. Specks of artisticness, intelligence, or minute hygiene clutter the metaphorical floor. Forever, I changed. Walking through school, my peers probably thought I was too lazy to care for myself. My hair being unbrushed and clothes-too-big made my appearance decline. My mother had to change her work schedule to help me get ready in the morning. Tasks such as brushing my hair were undoable without help. This rotten disease sucked every bit of personality I had left. I had everyone worried. My family even claimed my dog became more protective. Day after day, my mom came home from work to me on the couch, sobbing in pain. Each time, I died again. Much like death, Scleroderma is nothing I’ve ever taken lightly. I lost so much of myself, but I also made room to bring new in. After we got my condition and diagnosis under control, I blossomed. The summer after my sophomore year was great. Every morning I woke up early and walked my dog almost two miles. The clothes I wore morphed from sweats to patterns. My confidence shot upward. Life and death are two wholly distinct concepts. They’re both invaluable experiences. You can’t have one without the other. They’re fraternal twins who, despite their hatred, lift each other. I’ve learned more from them than I have from any teacher. Now, today, as I’m writing this, I’m living.

The bathroom tile felt like ice compared to my hot, shaking body. Whether it be sweat or tears, my face mimicked dampness. The nape of my neck contained baby hairs glued to my skin. I rested my head against the toilet bowl and let out the nastiest sob. Where did I go wrong? Why did I feel this way? It took me years to convince my mother the previous behavior was abnormal. Panic attacks occurred all too frequently for me. Usually, they arose due to authority figures yelling. I tend to connect this to my early childhood. My dad joined the Air Force when he turned eighteen. I lacked his company since he left for Iraq when I was three. All of the blank communication put a dent in my parent’s marriage. Constant and traumatic fighting ensued in the household. Day after day, my sister and I walked into school late with no good excuse. I knew they never held anger towards me, but the anxiety induced by the arguing created an automatic response. Whenever I hear yelling, a sickening feeling rushes. Nothing good had ever come from such loud noises. An unexpected chronic diagnosis became the breaking point for my mom. In February 2020, after months of pain and testing, Limited Systemic Sclerosis was diagnosed. My body was attacking itself, and my physical health fell to the lowest. A direct correlation aligns itself between physical and mental health. Pain from my body flowed straight to my mind and created terrifying thoughts. Frustration and anger appeared to be only masks for the sadness I endured. The relationships I held with people crumbled beneath me. No one wanted to be friends with any bitter, sick girl. I couldn’t blame them. A trip to the ER and a plethora of questions later, my new medication turned out to be therapy. Going to a counselor and taking medication became the best decision I could have ever made. Darci, my therapist, made me realize my beliefs were wrong. I could get better. One critical ingredient for recovery included determination. To repair myself, I must hold a desire for the outcome. Trust me, I did. The healing journey differs for everyone; you simply have to try. What worked for me may not work for you. I didn’t benefit from mindfulness and meditation; however, I know countless people who have. It’s not a distinct process. Learning from my adventure with mental health acts as one lesson I wouldn’t trade for the world. In the future, I plan to use my knowledge to assist others. A helpful asset to me was having someone to relate to. Knowing I could change a child’s point of view makes the trip worth it. I may not understand all of my client’s circumstances, but I assure you I will do my best to make them feel heard. I plan to use my schooling to expand my knowledge of mental health. Bringing my passion for helping others to another level, attending college will last the principal four years of my life.

Unlike Mr. Rogers and his fantasyland, I grew up in a small town less than 5 miles east of East St.Louis. My neighborhood used to be the place to be; times often change. Now, it is known for its crime, gangs, and poverty. Being so close, I attended school with many children affected by generational gaps. The five years I spent there formed me into who I am today. When I turned six, my mom and stepdad moved 20 minutes south. The difference such distance would make is unbelievable. My new school’s racial diversity percentage was nearly 1:30. I experienced virtual culture shock. Seeing how white-middle class children came to be treated compared to children of color put my privilege into perspective. Within the last year, I came to a realization I wanted to help troubled youth in their transition into adulthood. In first grade, we learned about many basic concepts such as addition, subtraction, grammar, and for some reason, penguins. Plenty of content given in first grade is essential to a growing young mind. A student – let’s call her Asia – showed up on the first day with a pencil and a notebook. She walked silently from the front of the classroom and wandered from desk to desk. From a previous encounter with her, I knew her name. While everyone settled into their chairs, she stood alone. I approached her, “Do you need help finding your seat? Your desk has your name on it.” She nodded. When I took her to her desk, I discovered a missing component in her education: she couldn’t read. To give some background, growing up with Asia, I knew she hardly showed up. As a 5-year-old, I simply thought she became ill often. Later, I learned that her health did not correlate with her absence. In reality, her family situation prevented her from attending school. Research shows children of color –specifically black Americans– have a significantly greater chance of developing generational trauma. While this affected me little, as an empathetic student, I felt for her and many other children who suffered from poverty. More signs came after I sat down to watch a documentary with my mother. The documentary highlighted the story of Cyntoia Brown. While viewing the television, anger bubbled deep from within. Her awful childhood only spurred on her dreadful future. When I saw the social worker she spoke with, I felt empowered. The way Cyntoia opened up and trusted her made me want to provide that for somebody else. My eyes glued themselves to the screen with adoration of everything Cyntoia endured. Soon after I put a name to my passion: juvenile justice social worker. I felt unsure of how I could assist plagued children from communities like mine. Social work came to me at an inopportune time of my life. As soon as I implemented my research, I knew this would be my passion. I was telling everyone I could about it. For most, I received an underwhelming response. They often revealed perplexity and told me ‘you have the heart for it’. Over and over, I was told that it was a dangerous field or that I would get hurt. Someone even said, “You’ll have to taze them if they attack you.” Yes, someone thought that was a great word of encouragement. So, to answer a question many ask me, I say yes. Yes, I love my neighborhood; it is the reason I concluded that helping disadvantaged youth is my calling. Today is a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

Unlike Mr. Rogers and his fantasyland, I grew up in a small town less than 5 miles east of East St.Louis. My neighborhood used to be the place to be; times often change. Now, it is known for its crime, gangs, and poverty. Being so close, I attended school with many children affected by generational gaps. The five years I spent there formed me into who I am today. When I turned six, my mom and stepdad moved 20 minutes south. The difference such distance would make is unbelievable. My new school’s racial diversity percentage was nearly 1:30. I experienced virtual culture shock. Seeing how white-middle class children came to be treated compared to children of color put my privilege into perspective. Within the last year, I came to a realization I wanted to help troubled youth in their transition into adulthood. In first grade, we learned about many basic concepts such as addition, subtraction, grammar, and for some reason, penguins. Plenty of content given in first grade is essential to a growing young mind. A student – let’s call her Asia – showed up on the first day with a pencil and a notebook. She walked silently from the front of the classroom and wandered from desk to desk. From a previous encounter with her, I knew her name. While everyone settled into their chairs, she stood alone. I approached her, “Do you need help finding your seat? Your desk has your name on it.” She nodded. When I took her to her desk, I discovered a missing component in her education: she couldn’t read. To give some background, growing up with Asia, I knew she hardly showed up. I simply thought she became ill often. Later, I learned that her health did not correlate with her absence. In reality, her family situation prevented her from attending school. Research shows that children of color –specifically black Americans– have a significantly greater chance of developing generational trauma. While this affected me little, as an empathetic student, I felt for her and many other children who suffered from poverty. I felt unsure of how I could assist plagued children from communities like mine. As soon as I implemented my research, I knew Social Work would be my passion. More signs came after I watched a documentary with my mother. The documentary highlighted the story of Cyntoia Brown. While viewing, anger bubbled deep from within. Her awful childhood caused her a dreadful future. The way Cyntoia opened up and trusted her social worker made me want to provide that for somebody else. My eyes glued themselves to the screen with adoration of everything Cyntoia endured. Soon after I put a name to my passion: juvenile justice social worker. For most, I received an underwhelming response. They often revealed perplexity and told me ‘you have the heart for it’. Over and over, I was told that it was a dangerous field or that I would get hurt. Someone even said, “You’ll have to taze them if they attack you.” Yes, someone thought that was a great word of encouragement. I’m determined to change the life of those who never had the chance. Those who shared the street with me and who I learned about penguins with. I will never give up on them. I can guarantee that. So, to answer a question many ask me, I say yes. Yes, I love my neighborhood; it is the reason I concluded that helping disadvantaged youth is my calling. Today is a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

Death. That is how Scleroderma changed my life. I am not dead. There is not one end all-be all definition of the dreaded word. It took two months for my mom (an EMT) to recognize that I wasn’t being dramatic. Belatedly, she made an appointment at my PCP’s office. The night before, she tells me that she had a patient in the ambulance that had Raynauds Phenomenon. I kept hearing the word auto-immune exit her mouth, yet no definition came to mind. I am not a patient person. The three days it took to get the results seemed like an eternity. My ANA (antinuclear antibodies) levels were 1:2500. Immediately, they referred me to the Saint Louis Childrens Hospital. If you know anything about this hospital, it is world-renowned. It takes months to get an appointment. My name must’ve obtained priority because, within 30 days, I had an appointment. The days leading up to it progressed quickly and suddenly, there we were. My heart beat out of my chest when we pulled into the colossal parking garage. I’d never been to a place so full of sick children. Now, I was one of them. A tall, bubbling fish tank kept the waiting room peaceful. Blue, yellow, and even purple fish swam in circles. Children were the target audience, yet 15-year-old me envied these carefree aquatic creatures. For a spare moment, I wished I was in that tank, hiding in the driftwood placed delicately in the corner. I could almost imagine the salty water stinging my skin. That pain was mild compared to my achy bones and fiery hands. I simply wanted less. I wanted it to be gone. At that moment, I died a little more. That first appointment was the longest. They asked questions I did not have answers to. Finally, they prescribed some medication. Before, I took four ibuprofen at a time and Valium to sleep. The acclimation period dragged on. Finally, the answer to my pain came at the beginning of February. My mom and I were at a clothing store. As we were checking out, she got a call. When she saw the caller ID, she handed me her card and walked away. She spoke the dreaded words, “You have scleroderma.” The diagnosis was foreign. I’m glad we know what’s going on sounds better than my life is over. Though we had a name to my madness, that was about it. What were my treatment options? How long will I suffer? Another piece of me died. I was losing myself with every call of bad news. Mentally, I crumbled. Specks of artisticness, intelligence, or minute hygiene clutter the metaphorical floor. Forever, I changed. Walking through school, my peers probably thought I was too lazy to care for myself. My hair being unbrushed and clothes-too-big made my appearance decline. My mother had to change her work schedule to help me get ready in the morning. This rotten disease sucked every bit of personality I had left. I had everyone worried. Even now, I feel guilty for what I put my family through. Day after day, my mom came home from work to me on the couch, sobbing in pain. Each time, I died again. Life and death are two wholly distinct concepts. They’re both invaluable experiences. You can’t have one without the other. They’re fraternal twins who, despite their hatred, lift each other. I’ve learned more from them than I have from any teacher. No lesson plan or worksheet holds the correct answer to life and death. Now, today, as I’m writing this, I’m living.

Death. That is how Scleroderma changed my life. I am not dead. Physically, that is. Death is a spectrum. There is not one end all-be all definition of the dreaded word. The first time I began dying was in October of 2019. The symptoms arrived on a crisp fall day. At the time, I was big into photography. I dragged my younger sister to the local park so I could take her picture. On our way home, I noticed the lack of color on my fingers. They were cold and numb. As the weeks went on, the same manifestation continued to grow up my limb. Every morning, I’d wake up with no feeling in my arm. More evidence showed up in the middle of November. PE was (and still is) a dreadful class. That day, we went to our football field to run the track. The coach had a rule that we must run there from the gym. I was no marathon runner, but it never gave me too much of an issue. However, that day my lungs began to tighten after 100 feet. I had to pretend to tie my shoe to catch my breath. Throughout the period, I struggled. Eventually, I told the coach that I couldn’t breathe. Instead of sending me to the nurse, she preferred to have me walk. Everyone I discussed my concerns with, including my mother, brushed it off as allergies. However, I knew better. I’ve had allergies my whole life; it never had that effect. At the same time, my fingers developed these ‘infections.’ Dark scabs covered each of my fingers. The pain was like nothing I’d experienced. I blamed it on the lack of sanitation at the local nail salon, but something much more sinister was brewing. It took two months for my mom (an EMT) to recognize that I wasn’t being dramatic. Belatedly, she made an appointment at my PCP’s office. The night before, she tells me that she had a patient in the ambulance that had Raynauds Phenomenon. I kept hearing the word auto-immune exit her mouth, yet no definition came to mind. I am not a patient person. The three days it took to get the results seemed like an eternity. My ANA (antinuclear antibodies) levels were 1:2500. Immediately, they referred me to the Saint Louis Childrens Hospital. If you know anything about this hospital, it is world-renowned. It takes months to get an appointment. My name must’ve obtained priority because, within 30 days, I had an appointment. The days leading up to it progressed quickly and suddenly, there we were. My heart beat out of my chest when we pulled into the colossal parking garage. I’d never been to a place so full of sick children. Now, I was one of them. A tall, bubbling fish tank kept the waiting room peaceful. Blue, yellow, and even purple fish swam in circles. Children were the target audience, yet 15-year-old me envied these carefree aquatic creatures. For a spare moment, I wished I was in that tank, hiding in the driftwood placed delicately in the corner. I could almost imagine the salty water stinging my skin. That pain was mild compared to my achy bones and fiery hands. I simply wanted less. I wanted it to be gone. At that moment, I died a little more. That first appointment was the longest. They asked questions I did not have answers to. Finally, they prescribed some medication. Before, I took four ibuprofen at a time and Valium to sleep. Thankfully I was still on Christmas break and had time to adjust before being thrown back into school. Still, the acclimation period dragged on. Being a part of the Art Club, we had a field trip to a small art institution. My mom was worried about going with it being so soon after starting my medication. I assured her that I’d be fine and I was in good hands. While the instructor was talking, I began to feel dizzy and my hearing was going. Then, my vision was foggy. I whispered to my best friend, Nat, “I think I’m going to pass out.” She quickly sat me down; nearly everyone was staring at me. My medication had caused an episode in front of everyone. Embarrassment overcame any pain I was having. I died again. Finally, the answer to my pain came at the beginning of February. My mom and I were at a clothing store. As we were checking out, she got a call. When she saw the caller ID, she handed me her card and walked away. She spoke the dreaded words, “You have scleroderma.” The diagnosis was foreign. I’m glad we know what’s going on sounds better than my life is over. Though we had a name to my madness, that was about it. What were my treatment options? How long will I suffer? Another piece of me died. I was losing myself with every call of bad news. Mentally, I crumbled. Specks of artisticness, intelligence, or minute hygiene clutter the metaphorical floor. Forever, I changed. Walking through school, my peers probably thought I was too lazy to care for myself. My hair being unbrushed and clothes-too-big made my appearance decline. My mother had to change her work schedule to help me get ready in the morning. This rotten disease sucked every bit of personality I had left. I had everyone worried. Even now, I feel guilty for what I put my family through. Day after day, my mom came home from work to me on the couch, sobbing in pain. Each time, I died again. Life and death are two wholly distinct concepts. They’re both invaluable experiences. You can’t have one without the other. They’re fraternal twins who, despite their hatred, lift each other. I’ve learned more from them than I have from any teacher. No lesson plan or worksheet holds the correct answer to life and death. Now, today, as I’m writing this, I’m living.

Unlike Mr. Rogers and his fantasyland, I grew up in a small town less than 5 miles east of East St.Louis. My neighborhood used to be the place to be; times often change. Now, it is known for its crime, gangs, and poverty. Being so close, I attended school with many children affected by generational gaps. The five years I spent there formed me into who I am today. When I turned six, my mom and stepdad moved 20 minutes south. The difference such distance would make is unbelievable. My new school’s racial diversity percentage was nearly 1:30. I experienced virtual culture shock. Seeing how white-middle class children came to be treated compared to children of color put my privilege into perspective. Within the last year, I came to a realization I wanted to help troubled youth in their transition into adulthood. In first grade, we learned about many basic concepts such as addition, subtraction, grammar, and for some reason, penguins. Plenty of content given in first grade is essential to a growing young mind. A student – let’s call her Asia – showed up on the first day with a pencil and a notebook. She walked silently from the front of the classroom and wandered from desk to desk. From a previous encounter with her, I knew her name. While everyone settled into their chairs, she stood alone. I approached her, “Do you need help finding your seat? Your desk has your name on it.” She nodded. When I took her to her desk, I discovered a missing component in her education: she couldn’t read. To give some background, growing up with Asia, I knew she hardly showed up. I simply thought she became ill often. Later, I learned that her health did not correlate with her absence. In reality, her family situation prevented her from attending school. Research shows that children of color –specifically black Americans– have a significantly greater chance of developing generational trauma. While this affected me little, as an empathetic student, I felt for her and many other children who suffered from poverty. I felt unsure of how I could assist plagued children from communities like mine. As soon as I implemented my research, I knew Social Work would be my passion. More signs came after I watched a documentary with my mother. The documentary highlighted the story of Cyntoia Brown. While viewing, anger bubbled deep from within. Her awful childhood caused her a dreadful future. The way Cyntoia opened up and trusted her social worker made me want to provide that for somebody else. My eyes glued themselves to the screen with adoration of everything Cyntoia endured. Soon after I put a name to my passion: juvenile justice social worker. For most, I received an underwhelming response. They often revealed perplexity and told me ‘you have the heart for it’. Over and over, I was told that it was a dangerous field or that I would get hurt. Someone even said, “You’ll have to taze them if they attack you.” Yes, someone thought that was a great word of encouragement. I’m determined to change the life of those who never had the chance. Those who shared the street with me and who I learned about penguins with. I will never give up on them. I can guarantee that. So, to answer a question many ask me, I say yes. Yes, I love my neighborhood; it is the reason I concluded that helping disadvantaged youth is my calling. Today is a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

Unlike Mr. Rogers and his fantasyland, I grew up in a small town less than 5 miles east of East St.Louis. My neighborhood used to be the place to be; times often change. Now, it is known for its crime, gangs, and poverty. Being so close, I attended school with many children affected by generational gaps. The five years I spent there formed me into who I am today. When I turned six, my mom and stepdad moved 20 minutes south. The difference such distance would make is unbelievable. My new school’s racial diversity percentage was nearly 1:30. I experienced virtual culture shock. Seeing how white-middle class children came to be treated compared to children of color put my privilege into perspective. Within the last year, I came to a realization I wanted to help troubled youth in their transition into adulthood. In first grade, we learned about many basic concepts such as addition, subtraction, grammar, and for some reason, penguins. Plenty of content given in first grade is essential to a growing young mind. A student – let’s call her Asia – showed up on the first day with a pencil and a notebook. She walked silently from the front of the classroom and wandered from desk to desk. From a previous encounter with her, I knew her name. While everyone settled into their chairs, she stood alone. I approached her, “Do you need help finding your seat? Your desk has your name on it.” She nodded. When I took her to her desk, I discovered a missing component in her education: she couldn’t read. To give some background, growing up with Asia, I knew she hardly showed up. I simply thought she became ill often. Later, I learned that her health did not correlate with her absence. In reality, her family situation prevented her from attending school. Research shows that children of color –specifically black Americans– have a significantly greater chance of developing generational trauma. While this affected me little, as an empathetic student, I felt for her and many other children who suffered from poverty. I felt unsure of how I could assist plagued children from communities like mine. As soon as I implemented my research, I knew Social Work would be my passion. More signs came after I watched a documentary with my mother. The documentary highlighted the story of Cyntoia Brown. While viewing, anger bubbled deep from within. Her awful childhood caused her a dreadful future. The way Cyntoia opened up and trusted her social worker made me want to provide that for somebody else. My eyes glued themselves to the screen with adoration of everything Cyntoia endured. Soon after I put a name to my passion: juvenile justice social worker. For most, I received an underwhelming response. They often revealed perplexity and told me ‘you have the heart for it’. Over and over, I was told that it was a dangerous field or that I would get hurt. Someone even said, “You’ll have to taze them if they attack you.” Yes, someone thought that was a great word of encouragement. I’m determined to change the life of those who never had the chance. Those who shared the street with me and who I learned about penguins with. I will never give up on them. I can guarantee that. So, to answer a question many ask me, I say yes. Yes, I love my neighborhood; it is the reason I concluded that helping disadvantaged youth is my calling. Today is a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

Unlike Mr. Rogers and his fantasyland, I grew up in a small town less than 5 miles east of East St.Louis. My neighborhood used to be the place to be; times often change. Now, it is known for its crime, gangs, and poverty. Being so close, I attended school with many children affected by generational gaps. The five years I spent there formed me into who I am today. When I turned six, my mom and stepdad moved 20 minutes south. The difference such distance would make is unbelievable. My new school’s racial diversity percentage was nearly 1:30. I experienced virtual culture shock. Seeing how white-middle class children came to be treated compared to children of color put my privilege into perspective. Within the last year, I came to a realization I wanted to help troubled youth in their transition into adulthood. In first grade, we learned about many basic concepts such as addition, subtraction, grammar, and for some reason, penguins. Plenty of content given in first grade is essential to a growing young mind. A student – let’s call her Asia – showed up on the first day with a pencil and a notebook. She walked silently from the front of the classroom and wandered from desk to desk. From a previous encounter with her, I knew her name. While everyone settled into their chairs, she stood alone. I approached her, “Do you need help finding your seat? Your desk has your name on it.” She nodded. When I took her to her desk, I discovered a missing component in her education: she couldn’t read. To give some background, growing up with Asia, I knew she hardly showed up. I simply thought she became ill often. Later, I learned that her health did not correlate with her absence. In reality, her family situation prevented her from attending school. Research shows that children of color –specifically black Americans– have a significantly greater chance of developing generational trauma. While this affected me little, as an empathetic student, I felt for her and many other children who suffered from poverty. I felt unsure of how I could assist plagued children from communities like mine. As soon as I implemented my research, I knew Social Work would be my passion. More signs came after I watched a documentary with my mother. The documentary highlighted the story of Cyntoia Brown. While viewing, anger bubbled deep from within. Her awful childhood caused her a dreadful future. The way Cyntoia opened up and trusted her social worker made me want to provide that for somebody else. My eyes glued themselves to the screen with adoration of everything Cyntoia endured. Soon after I put a name to my passion: juvenile justice social worker. For most, I received an underwhelming response. They often revealed perplexity and told me ‘you have the heart for it’. Over and over, I was told that it was a dangerous field or that I would get hurt. Someone even said, “You’ll have to taze them if they attack you.” Yes, someone thought that was a great word of encouragement. I’m determined to change the life of those who never had the chance. Those who shared the street with me and who I learned about penguins with. I will never give up on them. I can guarantee that. So, to answer a question many ask me, I say yes. Yes, I love my neighborhood; it is the reason I concluded that helping disadvantaged youth is my calling. Today is a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

Unlike Mr. Rogers and his fantasyland, I grew up in a small town less than 5 miles east of East St.Louis. My neighborhood used to be the place to be; times often change. Now, it is known for its crime, gangs, and poverty. Being so close, I attended school with many children affected by generational gaps. The five years I spent there formed me into who I am today. When I turned six, my mom and stepdad moved 20 minutes south. The difference such distance would make is unbelievable. My new school’s racial diversity percentage was nearly 1:30. I experienced virtual culture shock. Seeing how white-middle class children came to be treated compared to children of color put my privilege into perspective. Within the last year, I came to a realization I wanted to help troubled youth in their transition into adulthood. In first grade, we learned about many basic concepts such as addition, subtraction, grammar, and for some reason, penguins. Plenty of content given in first grade is essential to a growing young mind. A student – let’s call her Asia – showed up on the first day with a pencil and a notebook. She walked silently from the front of the classroom and wandered from desk to desk. From a previous encounter with her, I knew her name. While everyone settled into their chairs, she stood alone. I approached her, “Do you need help finding your seat? Your desk has your name on it.” She nodded. When I took her to her desk, I discovered a missing component in her education: she couldn’t read. To give some background, growing up with Asia, I knew she hardly showed up. I simply thought she became ill often. Later, I learned that her health did not correlate with her absence. In reality, her family situation prevented her from attending school. Research shows that children of color –specifically black Americans– have a significantly greater chance of developing generational trauma. While this affected me little, as an empathetic student, I felt for her and many other children who suffered from poverty. I felt unsure of how I could assist plagued children from communities like mine. As soon as I implemented my research, I knew Social Work would be my passion. More signs came after I watched a documentary with my mother. The documentary highlighted the story of Cyntoia Brown. While viewing, anger bubbled deep from within. Her awful childhood caused her a dreadful future. The way Cyntoia opened up and trusted her social worker made me want to provide that for somebody else. My eyes glued themselves to the screen with adoration of everything Cyntoia endured. Soon after I put a name to my passion: juvenile justice social worker. For most, I received an underwhelming response. They often revealed perplexity and told me ‘you have the heart for it’. Over and over, I was told that it was a dangerous field or that I would get hurt. Someone even said, “You’ll have to taze them if they attack you.” Yes, someone thought that was a great word of encouragement. I’m determined to change the life of those who never had the chance. Those who shared the street with me and who I learned about penguins with. I will never give up on them. I can guarantee that. So, to answer a question many ask me, I say yes. Yes, I love my neighborhood; it is the reason I concluded that helping disadvantaged youth is my calling. Today is a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

The first time I began dying was in October of 2019. The symptoms arrived on a crisp fall day. At the time, I was big into photography. I dragged my younger sister to the local park so I could take her picture. On our way home, I noticed the lack of color on my fingers. They were cold and numb. A quick run under warm water relieved me. It took two months for my mom (an EMT) to recognize that I wasn’t being dramatic. To give some background, I played violin for 12 years. Both the use of my wrist and the family history of the carpal tunnel gave a reasonable answer. Physical therapy had treated the rest of my household, we merely needed a referral. Belatedly, she made an appointment at my PCP’s office expecting the same answer. My heart beat out of my chest when we pulled into the colossal parking garage attached to a clinical institution. I’d never been to a place so full of sick children. Now, I was one of them. A tall, bubbling fish tank kept the waiting room peaceful. Blue, yellow, and even purple fish swam in circles. Children were the target audience, yet 15-year-old me envied these carefree aquatic creatures. For a spare moment, I wished I was in that tank, hiding in the driftwood placed delicately in the corner. I could almost imagine the salty water stinging my skin. That pain was mild compared to my achy bones and fiery hands. At that moment, I died a little more. Being a part of the Art Club, we had a field trip to a small art institution. My mom was worried about going with it being so soon after starting my medication. My cogent skills were put to work when convincing my mother. The only teacher who really understood was my art teacher. Luckily, I had my best friend with me, too. While the instructor was talking, I began to feel dizzy and my hearing was going. Then, my vision was foggy. I whispered to my best friend, Nat, “I think I’m going to pass out.” She quickly sat me down; nearly everyone was staring at me. Embarrassment overcame any pain I was having. I died again. Finally, the answer to my pain came at the beginning of February. My mom and I were at a clothing store. As we were checking out, she got a call. When she saw the caller ID, she handed me her card and walked away. I met her in the car and she stood out the door, smoking a cigarette. She took the stick away from her lips and spoke the dreaded words, “You have scleroderma.” Of course, my immediate reaction is to look it up. I tried so hard to be constructive about the situation. Holding in my tears and dissembling my true feelings, I spoke untruly. I’m glad we know what’s going on seems better than my life is over. In this case, both rang true. Though we had a name to my madness, that was about it. Another piece of me died. I was losing myself with every call of bad news. Mentally, I crumbled. Specks of artisticness, intelligence, or minute hygiene clutter the metaphorical floor. Walking through school, my peers probably thought I was too lazy to care for myself. My mother had to change her work schedule to help me get ready in the morning. My diet became more high-calorie. Tasks such as brushing my hair were undoable without help. This rotten disease sucked every bit of personality I had left.

Evolution can be defined as growing or changing over time. Darwin’s world-renowned concept has been debated by many and disproven by few. Every second of every day counts on change. Within the past year, I’ve evolved and am continuing to do so. There’s hardly a point in life that stands still. This year specifically, I took the advice of my then-16-year-old sister. This came about after a mishap with honey mustard. I had accidentally spilled some on her pants and to get back, she poured some on me. I took the cup from her and dumped it on my older sister. She proceeded to storm out of the restaurant cursing me on her way. My younger sister and I were sitting in the bathroom wiping our clothing off and giggling. This is what she said to me, “I don´t know why people take everything so seriously.” Then it hit me. She’s so totally right. We get so worked up about the little things like spilled mustard. At that point, I made it my goal to live by that motto. Getting upset over a rude comment takes away my time and energy. I would much rather be spending that on something that's worthwhile to me. Not caring about the little things has made my life twice as easy. Instead of a rocky current, I float down the lazy river. As humans, feelings are natural. It’s not easy to ignore them. When I began to shift my point of view, feelings were the hardest thing to negotiate. I would have to step back and look at the bigger picture. Is the smell of mustard really going to dictate the rest of my day? A simple 30-minute wash cycle will fix the issue right away. Instead, I could laugh at the clump of yellow sauce melting into my jeans. Jokes could be made and positivity could be spread. I truly had to redirect my feelings. Savoring the silly moment reminds me of everything I strive to be. I was wound-tight about every little incident. Now, it’s almost as if there’s a button in my head with my sister's voice, “Don’t take everything so seriously.” It works. Who knew that a simple sentence from someone born in 2006 could change my perspective? So if I had to finish this essay with some advice it would be as follows: Life is only as serious as you make it. Lay your priorities down and think about where your effort should be placed. Don’t waste your time on insignificant issues. Definitely, wash your mustard-stained jeans on cold and coat them with borax.

My freshman year of high school started like no other. My alternative, the ‘nobody understands me’ phase showed prevalence. Honestly, I was okay with floating around with no real issues. I started to notice the change in November. Numbness took over my limbs when I woke up in the morning and decreased to just my fingers by the end of the day. I could feel nothing. At first, my mom (an EMT) thought it was Carpal Tunnel that could be caused by my 12-year violin career. It took weeks to convince my mom to make an appointment with my Primary Care Provider. Roughly two days before the appointment, I noticed an alien-like attribute. My fingertips had turned blue! Then white! I genuinely thought that E.T. was channeling me and I needed to ‘phone home’. In all seriousness, I called my mom. She was stumped and told me to call her back after her shift in the ambulance. When I got home from school, I received a text with a link. The article gave the basic rundown on a common condition called Raynaud's Phenomenon in which the blood vessels to my extremities would contract and limit blood flow. She had a call that day with someone that had the same condition and correlated the symptoms. It doesn’t stop there. My appointment finally came; the doctor confirmed our suspicions. He ordered blood work because of concerns that there was something more sinister affecting my 15-year-old body. I developed ‘infections’ on my fingers. Thick black scabs adorned each digit with pain. I tried everything. Finally, my symptoms came together after the blood work came back positive for an elevated amount of ANAs (antinuclear antibodies). My story was unfolding piece by piece. Autoimmune was revealed to be a new word added to my vocabulary. Immediately, my doctor referred me to St.Louis Children’s Hospital. It took a month to get me in. I’d lost two grandparents, and my condition worsened. January was filled with doctor’s appointments. I was at a loss. Finally, at the beginning of February, we got the call. I was helping my mom look for clothes when she told me to stay while she took a call. She comes back and takes me to the car. She told me, “That was the hospital. You have limited systemic sclerosis. You need to get in as soon as possible to start treatment.” I didn’t know how to react. Relief and shock coincided. The next few months flew by. I spent 8 hours in the infusion lab for two weeks to receive the proper medication. I’d lost 50 pounds and was starting to lose hair. Everything was falling apart in addition to the new global pandemic. My immune system was nonexistent. A highly contagious disease took the world by storm. Besides doctor's appointments, my mom kept me on lockdown. Leaving the house was not an option. This experience taught me compassion. If I hadn’t been so hardly affected by my illness, I couldn’t comprehend others' pain. I’m able to relate to an entirely new community of warriors. The chronically ill community is the only reason I continued to fight as hard as I did. They showed me that it’s worth living. I do my best to put my hand out there for new warriors to grab. Feeling understood is all we ask for and I believe that I have given that to many. As rocky of a journey as my diagnosis was, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I’m thankful for the relationships I’ve made along the way.

Evolution can be defined as growing or changing over time. Darwin’s world-renowned concept has been debated by many and disproven by a few. Every second of every day counts on change. Within the past year, I’ve evolved and am continuing to do so. There’s hardly a point in life that stands still. This year specifically, I took the advice of my then-16-year-old sister. This came about after a mishap with honey mustard. I had accidentally spilled some on her pants and to get back, she poured some on me. I took the cup from her and dumped it on my older sister. She proceeded to storm out of the restaurant cursing me on her way. My younger sister and I were sitting in the bathroom wiping our clothing off and giggling. This is what she said to me, “I don´t know why people take everything so seriously.” Then it hit me. She’s so totally right. We get so worked up about the little things like spilled mustard. At that point, I made it my goal to live by that motto. Getting upset over a rude comment takes away my time and energy. I would much rather be spending that on something that's worthwhile to me. Not caring about the little things has made my life twice as easy. Instead of a rocky current, I float down the lazy river. As humans, feelings are natural. It’s not easy to ignore them. When I began to shift my point of view, feelings were the hardest thing to negotiate. I would have to step back and look at the bigger picture. Is the smell of mustard really going to dictate the rest of my day? A simple 30-minute wash cycle will fix the issue right away. Instead, I could laugh at the clump of yellow sauce melting into my jeans. Jokes could be made and positivity could be spread. I truly had to redirect my feelings. Savoring the silly moment reminds me of everything I strive to be. I was wound-tight about every little incident. Now, it’s almost as if there’s a button in my head with my sister's voice, “Don’t take everything so seriously.” It works. Who knew that a simple sentence from someone born in 2006 could change my perspective? So if I had to finish this essay with some advice it would be as follows: Life is only as serious as you make it. Lay your priorities down and think about where your effort should be placed. Don’t waste your time on insignificant issues. Definitely, wash your mustard-stained jeans on cold and coat them with borax.

A strong orchestral piece leads into a simple message, "We'll be alright.” Hearing that, you wouldn't think that the king of modern music would compose such a piece; he does. Harry Styles holds the hearts of millions around the world. His advocation and talent are appealing to many. In December 2019, he released his second solo studio album, Fine Line. Fans were over the moon after waiting two years since his self-titled album. Fine Line won many awards such as a Grammy, a Brit award, and an American Music Award. Harry's success boomed during the release. Each song on the album spoke to his fans yet remained personal to himself. When the album was released, I was going through an unexpected medical diagnosis in addition to losing two grandparents. My hope plummeted; I thought I'd be stuck at the end of the trench forever. I'd been a fan of Harry since his One Direction days, so the new album struck a deeper chord. Starting with the pop melody of Golden and moving through the emotions, the album closes in the best way possible: Fine Line. Named after the album, Fine Line mirrors a poem more than a song. With lyrics such as, "You sunshine, you temptress, my hands at risk I fold," Harry pulls from his aching heart. The song builds with trumpets into a pleading, "We'll be a fine line. We'll be alright!". Those last three words instilled some sort of hope in me. Going through such a difficult patch of life, I needed someone to tell me that everything would be okay. Harry was the perfect person to do so. Anyone, from any walk of life, can relate to this song. We all feel hopeless from time to time. Just remember- We'll be alright.

The bathroom tile felt like ice compared to my hot, shaking body. Whether it be sweat or tears, my face mimicked dampness. The nape of my neck contained baby hairs glued to my skin. I rested my head against the toilet bowl and let out the nastiest sob. Where did I go wrong? Why did I feel this way? It took me years to convince my mother the previous behavior was abnormal. Panic attacks occurred all too frequently for me. Usually, they arose due to authority figures yelling. I tend to connect this to my early childhood. My dad joined the air force when he turned eighteen. I lacked his company since he left for Iraq when I was three. All of the blank communication put a dent in my parent’s marriage. Constant and traumatic fighting ensued in the household. Day after day, my sister and I walked into school late with no good excuse. I knew they never held anger towards me, but the anxiety induced by the arguing created an automatic response. Whenever I hear yelling, a sickening feeling rushes. Nothing good had ever come from such loud noises. An unexpected chronic diagnosis became the breaking point for my mom. In February 2020 –after having months of pain and testing– the diagnosis of Limited Systemic Sclerosis arose. My body was attacking itself, and my physical health fell to the lowest. A direct correlation aligns itself between physical and mental health. Pain from my body flowed straight to my mind and created terrifying thoughts. Frustration and anger appeared to be only masks for the sadness I endured. The relationships I held with people crumbled beneath me. No one wanted to be friends with any bitter, sick girl. I couldn’t blame them. A trip to the ER and a plethora of questions later, my new medication turned out to be therapy. Going to a counselor and taking medication became the best decision I could have ever made. Darci, my therapist, made me realize my beliefs were wrong. I could get better. One critical ingredient for recovery included determination. To repair myself, I must hold a desire for the outcome. Trust me, I did. The healing journey differs for everyone; you simply have to try. What worked for me may not work for you. I didn’t benefit from mindfulness and meditation; however, I know countless people who have. It’s not a distinct process. Learning from my adventure with mental health acts as one lesson I wouldn’t trade for the world. In the future, I plan to use my knowledge to assist others. A helpful asset to me was having someone to relate to. Knowing I could change a child’s point of view makes the trip worth it. I may not understand the circumstances of all of my clients, but I can assure you I will do my best to make them feel heard. I plan to use my schooling to expand my knowledge of mental health. Bringing my passion for helping others to another level, attending college will consist of the principal four years of my life.

The bathroom tile felt like ice compared to my hot, shaking body. Whether it be sweat or tears, my face mimicked dampness. The nape of my neck contained baby hairs glued to my skin. I rested my head against the toilet bowl and let out the nastiest sob. Where did I go wrong? Why did I feel this way? It took me years to convince my mother the previous behavior was abnormal. Panic attacks occurred all too frequently for me. Usually, they arose due to authority figures yelling. I tend to connect this to my early childhood. My dad joined the air force when he turned eighteen. I lacked his company since he left for Iraq when I was three. All of the blank communication put a dent in my parent’s marriage. Constant and traumatic fighting ensued in the household. Day after day, my sister and I walked into school late with no good excuse. I knew they never held anger towards me, but the anxiety induced by the arguing created an automatic response. Whenever I hear yelling, a sickening feeling rushes. Nothing good had ever come from such loud noises. An unexpected chronic diagnosis became the breaking point for my mom. In February 2020 –after having months of pain and testing– the diagnosis of Limited Systemic Sclerosis arose. My body was attacking itself, and my physical health fell to the lowest. A direct correlation aligns itself between physical and mental health. Pain from my body flowed straight to my mind and created terrifying thoughts. Frustration and anger appeared to be only masks for the sadness I endured. The relationships I held with people crumbled beneath me. No one wanted to be friends with any bitter, sick girl. I couldn’t blame them. A trip to the ER and a plethora of questions later, my new medication turned out to be therapy. Going to a counselor and taking medication became the best decision I could have ever made. Darci, my therapist, made me realize my beliefs were wrong. I could get better. One critical ingredient for recovery included determination. To repair myself, I must hold a desire for the outcome. Trust me, I did. The healing journey differs for everyone; you simply have to try. What worked for me may not work for you. I didn’t benefit from mindfulness and meditation; however, I know countless people who have. It’s not a distinct process. Learning from my adventure with mental health acts as one lesson I wouldn’t trade for the world. In the future, I plan to use my knowledge to assist others. A helpful asset to me was having someone to relate to. Knowing I could change a child’s point of view makes the trip worth it. I may not understand the circumstances of all of my clients, but I can assure you I will do my best to make them feel heard. I plan to use my schooling to expand my knowledge of mental health. Bringing my passion for helping others to another level, attending college will consist of the principal four years of my life.

“Diversity is the mix. Inclusion is making the mix work.” (Andres Tapia). Diversity is something that surrounds us even in exceedingly closed-minded areas. Having contrasting shirt colors is a simple enough example. With additional complexity, comes additional prejudice. As a woman in a rural community, I have faced my fair share of sexism. Kitchen comments and sexual jokes were everywhere. For the longest time, I speculated that they were natural. They weren’t. Excuses upon excuses were thrown when I questioned such behavior. It was not fair that I attended to my downfall. Training us to allow the manifesto of a random man was not the way to succeed. Sure, men received bullying too, but not to the extent women did; not for the same reasons. In fifth grade, my attention was on how I –an eleven-year-old girl– could change the narrative. Now that I’m 17, I possess the ability to share my philosophy. So I will. At the time, innovation seemed easily achievable. Firstly, I would be the ‘big strong boy’ that carried lunch tubs. Still, I remained the target. My next plan consisted of speaking up. Instead, the boys pushed further. What else could I do? No one took me seriously. I was always too young or naive. Justifying their behavior with gender-based statistics weakened their statement. My trust was broken. I became frustrated. On the brink of giving up, my brain began to turn. It’s not only what we accomplish, but when we accomplish it. Having children exposed to such topics at a younger age would allow them to form their own opinions, educated opinions. We cannot continue to accept this behavior from our children. They will grow up and learn the harsh reality; it will hurt both ways. In short, there is nothing they are explicitly causing. It winds up being the parents’ fault. If they are not willing to change from what they were taught, their child will be the one suffering. Each neighborhood has its scale of diversity. In turn, this causes varying difficulty. There is no universal way to create a supportive community. One community may suffer from racism and the other homophobia. That’s what equity is, though. It is providing those specific needs to establish equality among minorities. Generally speaking, the first step is acknowledging the problem. Once that is done, collecting the data and putting it into a comprehensible format comes next. Forcing schools to teach about this concept is inefficient. We could, however, have district seminars that educate and encourage the schools to add to the curriculum. We must start teaching our children young. They are our future leaders. In terms of generations, we may have failed; they will win. With all of the injustices brought to light recently, sooner action is required. We cannot repair the past, but the future is in dire need of mending. Now is the time.

Growing up in a small, conservative town can be quite a challenge. From a young age, I found myself possessing zero-tolerance qualities. Within this, I tend to be outspoken about injustices inside my community. The instances in which I’ve had to apply these qualities come to mind as I begin my journey into social work. The diversity percentage in my high school is little to none. One specific incident is when I experienced highly transphobic comments about a student who recently came out as a transgender man. My geometry classmates refused to correct his name and pronouns simply because it wasn’t aligning with their beliefs. Instantly, I was outraged. I have many friends and family that are a part of the LGBT community. My brain can hardly comprehend that something as simple as correcting gender could be so hard. I think of what could result from comments such as ‘you are just confused’ or sending someone threats because of who they are. It’s truly mind-boggling. Immediately I knew that I had to speak up. I would feel guilty if I didn’t. So, I had a quick discussion with my- very luckily- open-minded teacher. With her help, I spoke out about the suicide rate of transgender people that skyrocketed due to consistent bullying. I couldn’t stand by and let this go on. Did I get ridiculed? Yes, of course. In the end, the few minds I did change made everything worth it. My goal in the future is to go into youth social work—specifically, juvenile justice. The road from mistreatment to acting out is clear to me. My accepting personality will help and encourage those I work with to become more comfortable with themselves. The kids need somebody to speak out for and advocate for them. In turn, I believe it will lead them to a less troublesome lifestyle. While loving quality about yourself so much can come out as conceited, I think you must do so. My self-love journey began with acceptance. Knowing that I can make a difference for many minorities allows me to appreciate myself. Eventually, a chain reaction led to my helping others obtain the same quality. I strive to educate the ignorant and work with the like-minded. From small villages to cities, stepping up is what we need. With such value, there’s no room for mistakes. Apologies do not do the trick anymore; you have got to change. We have to change. The time is now.

When I entered high school, I expected it to be like the movies: parties, trying new things, and simply enjoying yourself. Three months into my first year, I realized that my experience wouldn’t be like the others. Running had never been my forte; I was not an athletic kid. One chilly morning in P.E., we went outside to run the track. I ran no more than one hundred feet before I felt my chest constrict. As much as I hated exercise, I never had a problem breathing. That turned into my hands and feet getting cold and going numb. The tips of my fingers developed ‘infections’. I was growing more tired and weak by the day. My weight plummeted 30 pounds within a month and a half. Finally, by December, I convinced my mother to make an appointment with my primary care provider. There, he diagnosed me with the Raynauds phenomenon with gangrene. They did bloodwork and referred me to St.Louis Children's hospital where I was later diagnosed with Limited Scleroderma, interstitial lung disease, and other overlapping syndromes. We immediately got me on medication and even went through two intense infusions of Rituximab. A few days after my last infusion, the world went into lockdown. My immune system was nonexistent and now there was a highly infectious disease causing a worldwide pandemic. To say I was scared is an understatement. I was confined to the remains of my home and only interacted with my friends through text messages. I felt as if I couldn’t do anything anymore. I was 15 and losing my hair. No other person I knew, could even remotely relate to what I was going through. I quit many of my hobbies, some temporarily and others permanent. Physically, I couldn’t make breakfast, brush my hair, or carry my laundry basket. Before, I did everything around my house. My parents worked often and I was the only one left to take care of my family. Now that I couldn’t do those things, I endured a painful amount of uselessness. Slowly, I started to get better. My medications were hard at work and so was I. Determination is truly what got me where I am today. That being said, I still suffer from symptoms, but they aren’t nearly as severe as they were 2 years ago. From here, I strive to better myself and others. My future goal is to become a social worker and assure that the next generations have love and support. They deserve to be treated with equity. The whole pandemic was hard on everyone, especially our youth. We must bring them up so that they can mend our world. Being a sick kid has taught me more than I could ever hope for. Now more than ever, empathy should be of utmost importance because you never know what demons someone may be battling.