The impact of mental health was deep-seated in my life before I could conceptualize what the definition of “mental health” was. My mother was institutionalized for the first time when I was eight years old. At the time, she was undiagnosed with an undetermined illness that sent silencing reverberations throughout our household. No one knew what to call it, but everyone who knew us knew something “just wasn’t quite right.” Our house felt filled with pincushions and eggshells. Our house was shrouded in darkness, with shades drawn shut and muffled conversations. My mother’s first admittance to a psychiatric ward was only the beginning of a long and painstaking journey to reclaiming her life– and writing this fills me with memories of unanswered questions, fear, and significant empathy. As a child, I felt I was at the cusp of discovering an uncomfortable and isolating truth. As time passed and my prefrontal cortex developed, I gained a deeper understanding of my mother’s lived experience. She suffered from what was later diagnosed as Bipolar II and worked tirelessly to confront what many of our family members had fought against and failed. By the time I was fifteen years old, my mother had rooted her commitment to wellness while three of our family members had successfully committed suicide. By the time I was nineteen years old, I had lived through an attempted suicide of my own and several substance abuse treatment facilities. The anger and confusion I once felt about my mother’s experience was now what I experienced when I looked in a mirror. My journey with mental health was winding, tumultuous, and unrelenting. On October 11th of 2017– when I was twenty-two years old– I entered my final mental health and substance abuse facility. I had lived through homelessness, violence, and a slew of secrets I have rarely uttered to another living person. I have been sober ever since. I dedicated my early twenties to helping other women stand up to what they thought was too shameful to share out loud. In 2018, I began working for a women’s home designed to reintegrate women who had suffered with a variety of mental health diagnoses and substance abuse issues back into what I call “the life of the living.” I worked closely with women who were diagnosed with Schizophrenia, Borderline Personality Disorder, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and drug addiction. The work was, and still is, more rewarding than I could ever articulate. My experience with mental health has molded my perception of the world and relationships in irrecovable ways. The resilience of the human spirit, and the stunning capacity of love, platonic or otherwise, to me is so significant that I am unable to articulate what it means. Instilled with a belief there is still more to see around the corner - despite adversity - I am rarely afraid of where my next steps may fall. With that said, I feel a stark awareness that all that I love is temporary. I possess the ability to cherish and nurture that love, or conversely, neglect it. Grief, for me, has been a palpable, tense propeller propelling me forward in my life. For those I have lost to mental health challenges and addiction, I've promised to remain tenacious in my passions and presence of mind. What I have now, the present, is a gift. For that thought, I am eternally grateful. I never thought graduate school – let alone college– would be an option for me. No one in my family has obtained an education past an associate’s degree. I’m now pursuing a master’s degree in Public Administration. I chose Public Administration after working with vulnerable communities and becoming increasingly aware of the barriers to resources for individuals who need help. Much of our healthcare system is often inaccessible to those who need it most. My clients were consistently running into “private pay only” and “sliding scale” rates of upwards of $150 per week, as well as myriad other mobility issues in rural Tennessee. I now work for a local probation department as a Case Manager, working toward reducing recidivism for those impacted by opiate or stimulant addiction. Almost every single client I meet with identifies depression as a driving factor in their use. I plan to use my educational experience to work towards promoting policy and management that are more cohesive to support our neighbors who may be struggling behind closed doors, and dismantling the shame and stigma around mental illness in rural Appalachia.

The impact of mental health was deep-seated in my life before I could conceptualize what the definition of “mental health” was. My mother was institutionalized for the first time when I was eight years old. At the time, she was undiagnosed with an undetermined illness that sent silencing reverberations throughout our household. No one knew what to call it, but everyone who knew us knew something “just wasn’t quite right.” Our house felt filled with pincushions and eggshells. Our house was shrouded in darkness, with shades drawn shut and muffled conversations. My mother’s first admittance to a psychiatric ward was only the beginning of a long and painstaking journey to reclaiming her life– and writing this fills me with memories of unanswered questions, fear, and significant empathy. As a child, I felt I was at the cusp of discovering an uncomfortable and isolating truth. As time passed and my prefrontal cortex developed, I gained a deeper understanding of my mother’s lived experience. She suffered from what was later diagnosed as Bipolar II and worked tirelessly to confront what many of our family members had fought against and failed. By the time I was fifteen years old, my mother had rooted her commitment to wellness while three of our family members had successfully committed suicide. By the time I was nineteen years old, I had lived through an attempted suicide of my own and several substance abuse treatment facilities. The anger and confusion I once felt about my mother’s experience was now what I experienced when I looked in a mirror. My journey with mental health was winding, tumultuous, and unrelenting. On October 11th of 2017– when I was twenty-two years old– I entered my final mental health and substance abuse facility. I had lived through homelessness, violence, and a slew of secrets I have rarely uttered to another living person. I have been sober ever since. I dedicated my early twenties to helping other women stand against the things they thought were too shameful to share out loud. In 2018, I began working for a women’s home designed to reintegrate women who had suffered with a variety of mental health diagnoses and substance abuse issues back into what I call “the life of the living.” I worked closely with women who were diagnosed with Schizophrenia, Borderline Personality Disorder, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and drug addiction. The work was, and still is, more rewarding than I could ever articulate. I never thought graduate school – let alone college– would be an option for me. No one in my family has obtained an education past an associate’s degree. In June, I obtained my bachelor’s degree in Public Health. I’m now pursuing a master’s degree in Public Administration. I chose Public Administration after working with vulnerable communities and becoming increasingly aware of the barriers to resources for individuals who need help. Much of our healthcare system is often inaccessible to those who need it most. My clients were consistently running into “private pay only,” “sliding scale” rates at upwards of $150 per week, and a myriad of other mobility issues in rural Tennessee. As I furthered my education, I only became more motivated to garner further understanding into the way our communities– and country– work. I plan to use my educational experience to work towards promoting policy and management that are more cohesive to support our neighbors who may be struggling behind closed doors, and dismantling the shame and stigma around mental illness in rural Appalachia.

When I stop to think about what recovery means to me, I often feel at a loss for words—because, in truth, there is no simple answer. In the beginning, recovery drew a very deep line in the sand. It meant life or death. I was 22 years old and had been homeless for most of my teenage and young adult years. In and out of countless institutions, I had effectively poured gasoline on every bridge I had ever built. I remember sitting on the sidewalk, watching families walk by, and wondering why I felt so fundamentally different from them. Even with the very best of intentions, I could never show up for what mattered most. Eventually, what once mattered faded away entirely. Recovery meant I might have a shot at rediscovering who I was—and maybe, just maybe, sleeping in a warm bed again. On October 11th, 2026, I’ll celebrate nine years sober. Looking back, I severely underestimated myself. Recovery means freedom of choice. While “choosing recovery” has been anything but linear—messy, complicated, and difficult to describe—making that choice has opened every other door I once thought was closed. My bucket list grows smaller each day, and I’ve been given the privilege of using my experience to help others. I am an active member of a community I love and cherish. I feel deeply purposeful and carry the belief that as long as I’m sober, everything is workable. It may sound simple, but the truth is: recovery means everything to me.

The impact of mental health was deep-seated in my life before I could conceptualize what the definition of “mental health” was. My mother was institutionalized for the first time when I was eight years old. She was undiagnosed with an undetermined illness that sent silencing reverberations throughout our household. No one knew what to call it, but everyone who knew us knew something “just wasn’t quite right.” Our house felt filled with pincushions and eggshells. Our house was shrouded in darkness, with shades drawn shut and muffled conversations. My mother’s first admittance to a psychiatric ward was only the beginning of a long and painstaking journey to reclaiming her life– and writing this fills me with memories of unanswered questions, fear, and significant empathy. As a child, I felt I was at the cusp of discovering an uncomfortable and isolating truth. As time passed, I gained a deeper understanding of my mother’s lived experience. She suffered from what was later diagnosed as Bipolar II and worked tirelessly to confront what many of our family members had fought against and failed. By the time I was fifteen years old, my mother had rooted her commitment to wellness while four of our family members had successfully committed suicide. By the time I was nineteen years old, I had lived through an attempted suicide of my own and several substance abuse treatment facilities. The anger and confusion I once felt about my mother’s experience was now what I experienced when I looked in a mirror. My journey with mental health was winding, tumultuous, and unrelenting. On October 11th of 2017– when I was twenty-two years old– I entered my final treatment facility. I had lived through homelessness, violence, and a slew of secrets I have rarely uttered to another living person. I have been sober ever since. I dedicated my early twenties to helping other women stand up to what they thought was too shameful to share out loud. In 2018, I began working for a women’s home designed to reintegrate women who had suffered with a variety of mental health diagnoses and substance abuse issues back into what I call “the life of the living.” I worked closely with women who were diagnosed with Schizophrenia, Borderline Personality Disorder, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and drug addiction. The work was, and still is, more rewarding than I could ever articulate. I never thought graduate school – let alone college– would be an option for me. No one in my family has obtained an education past an associate’s degree. In June, I obtained my bachelor’s degree in Public Health. I’m now pursuing a master’s degree in Public Administration. I chose Public Administration after working with vulnerable communities and becoming increasingly aware of the barriers to resources for individuals who need help. Much of our healthcare system is often inaccessible to those who need it most. My clients were consistently running into “private pay only,” or “sliding scale” rates of upwards of $150 per week, along with a myriad of other mobility issues in rural Tennessee. As I furthered my education, I only became more motivated to garner further understanding into the way our communities work. I work for a grant-funded program in a local probation department. There, I am a Case Manager aiming to connect my clients to mental health resources and recidivism reduction. I plan to use my educational experience to work towards promoting policy and management that are more cohesive to support our neighbors who may be struggling behind closed doors, and dismantling the shame and stigma around mental illness in rural Appalachia.

The impact of mental health was deep-seated in my life before I could conceptualize what the definition of “mental health” was. My mother was institutionalized for the first time when I was eight years old. She was undiagnosed with an undetermined illness that sent silencing reverberations throughout our household. No one knew what to call it, but everyone who knew us knew something “just wasn’t quite right.” Our house felt filled with pincushions and eggshells. Our house was shrouded in darkness, with shades drawn shut and muffled conversations. My mother’s first admittance to a psychiatric ward was only the beginning of a long and painstaking journey to reclaiming her life– and writing this fills me with memories of unanswered questions, fear, and significant empathy. As a child, I felt I was at the cusp of discovering an uncomfortable and isolating truth. As time passed, I gained a deeper understanding of my mother’s lived experience. She suffered from what was later diagnosed as Bipolar II and worked tirelessly to confront what many of our family members had fought against and failed. By the time I was fifteen years old, my mother had rooted her commitment to wellness while four of our family members had successfully committed suicide. By the time I was nineteen years old, I had lived through an attempted suicide of my own and several substance abuse treatment facilities. The anger and confusion I once felt about my mother’s experience was now what I experienced when I looked in a mirror. My journey with mental health was winding, tumultuous, and unrelenting. On October 11th of 2017– when I was twenty-two years old– I entered my final treatment facility. I had lived through homelessness, violence, and a slew of secrets I have rarely uttered to another living person. I have been sober ever since. I dedicated my early twenties to helping other women stand up to what they thought was too shameful to share out loud. In 2018, I began working for a women’s home designed to reintegrate women who had suffered with a variety of mental health diagnoses and substance abuse issues back into what I call “the life of the living.” I worked closely with women who were diagnosed with Schizophrenia, Borderline Personality Disorder, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and drug addiction. The work was, and still is, more rewarding than I could ever articulate. I never thought graduate school – let alone college– would be an option for me. No one in my family has obtained an education past an associate’s degree. In June, I obtained my bachelor’s degree in Public Health. I’m now pursuing a master’s degree in Public Administration. I chose Public Administration after working with vulnerable communities and becoming increasingly aware of the barriers to resources for individuals who need help. Much of our healthcare system is often inaccessible to those who need it most. My clients were consistently running into “private pay only,” or “sliding scale” rates of upwards of $150 per week, along with a myriad of other mobility issues in rural Tennessee. As I continued my education, I became increasingly motivated to deepen my understanding of how our communities work. I work for a grant-funded program in a local probation department. There, I am a Case Manager aiming to connect my clients to mental health and SUD resources and to reduce recidivism. I plan to use my educational experience to work towards promoting policy and management that are more cohesive to support our neighbors who may be struggling behind closed doors, and dismantling the shame and stigma around mental illness in Appalachia.

The impact of mental health was deep-seated in my life before I could conceptualize what the definition of “mental health” was. My mother was institutionalized for the first time when I was eight years old. She was undiagnosed with an undetermined illness that sent silencing reverberations throughout our household. No one knew what to call it, but everyone who knew us knew something “just wasn’t quite right.” Our house felt filled with pincushions and eggshells. Our house was shrouded in darkness, with shades drawn shut and muffled conversations. My mother’s first admittance to a psychiatric ward was only the beginning of a long and painstaking journey to reclaiming her life– and writing this fills me with memories of unanswered questions, fear, and significant empathy. As a child, I felt I was at the cusp of discovering an uncomfortable and isolating truth. As time passed, I gained a deeper understanding of my mother’s lived experience. She suffered from what was later diagnosed as Bipolar II and worked tirelessly to confront what many of our family members had fought against and failed. By the time I was fifteen years old, my mother had rooted her commitment to wellness while four of our family members had successfully committed suicide. By the time I was nineteen years old, I had lived through an attempted suicide of my own and several substance abuse treatment facilities. The anger and confusion I once felt about my mother’s experience was now what I experienced when I looked in a mirror. My journey with mental health was winding, tumultuous, and unrelenting. On October 11th of 2017– when I was twenty-two years old– I entered my final treatment facility. I had lived through homelessness, violence, and a slew of secrets I have rarely uttered to another living person. I have been sober ever since. I dedicated my early twenties to helping other women stand up to what they thought was too shameful to share out loud. In 2018, I began working for a women’s home designed to reintegrate women who had suffered with a variety of mental health diagnoses and substance abuse issues back into what I call “the life of the living.” I worked closely with women who were diagnosed with Schizophrenia, Borderline Personality Disorder, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and drug addiction. The work was, and still is, more rewarding than I could ever articulate. I never thought graduate school – let alone college– would be an option for me. No one in my family has obtained an education past an associate’s degree. In June, I obtained my bachelor’s degree in Public Health. I’m now pursuing a master’s degree in Public Administration. I chose Public Administration after working with vulnerable communities and becoming increasingly aware of the barriers to resources for individuals who need help. Much of our healthcare system is often inaccessible to those who need it most. My clients were consistently running into “private pay only,” or “sliding scale” rates of upwards of $150 per week, along with a myriad of other mobility issues in rural Tennessee. As I furthered my education, I only became more motivated to garner further understanding into the way our communities work. I work for a grant-funded program in a local probation department. There, I am a Case Manager aiming to connect my clients to mental health resources and recidivism reduction. I plan to use my educational experience to work towards promoting policy and management that are more cohesive to support our neighbors who may be struggling behind closed doors, and dismantling the shame and stigma around mental illness in rural Appalachia.

I am a product of effective social services and compassionate public servants. My decision to pursue a graduate degree in Public Administration is rooted in a deep commitment to improving outcomes for vulnerable populations in tenuous circumstances, as well as the groups that serve them. Over the last eight years, I have worked professionally in the substance abuse and mental health fields in client-facing roles, where I have become increasingly aware of how public services impact the well-being of communities at both the macro and micro levels. The interplay between public health and public administration is complex, and meaningful collaboration between the two is essential. I have worked with individuals from a wide range of socioeconomic classes, ethnic backgrounds, and orientations, and every single one needs access to resources, safety, and policies enacted with them in mind. These observations have fostered a strong curiosity about how systemic changes can shift outcomes for justice-involved groups. My experience has recently overlapped with the realities of re-entry work and the persistent challenge of recidivism, and has been further informed by my time working within the court system as a probation case manager. In my role, I work closely with individuals navigating supervision requirements alongside recovery and mental health concerns, gaining direct insight into how judicial processes, compliance expectations, and limited access to resources can shape lives. Individuals I work with are facing barriers associated with reintegrating into society after incarceration. Unstable housing, employment opportunities, and access to behavioral health services are critical to successful re-entry, yet they are often inconsistent or inaccessible. Many of my clients lack adequate resources to successfully complete supervision in the court system without a liaison. Where does an individual without documentation start when seeking new identification? How does an individual with no access to a phone or internet begin to enter the workforce? These are all questions I work to answer for my clients on a daily basis – so that both the client and their community can become healthier versions of themselves. I have witnessed how gaps in policy and program coordination contribute to cycles of instability that increase the likelihood of reoffending, even among individuals motivated to rebuild their lives. These experiences have deepened my understanding of how public services shape systems that either support or hinder long-term success. Addressing pro-criminal thought patterns, introducing protective factors, and addressing tangible needs are all imperative to the demographic I serve. Without proper planning and advocacy, these barriers can dismantle years of progress. I have seen firsthand how a lack of coordinated response efforts can deepen trauma, destabilize achieved wellness, and negatively impact communities that would have been better served in a more prepared environment. Gaps in substantiated re-entry programs have widened disparities in access to services. I have witnessed individuals deteriorate in avoidable circumstances, and hope to mitigate them in the future. Re-entry is my absolute passion. A graduate degree in Public Administration will equip me to develop and manage resilient, inclusive, and proactive programs. After nearly a decade of working at the individual level, I am motivated to address health concerns from a broader perspective. Without policy-level intervention, much of this work becomes a cycle of addressing consequences rather than preventing them. Throughout my life, I have often been described as optimistic. If there is one thing I remain optimistic about, it is that individuals can make a meaningful difference within the systems they operate. I believe I have begun to do so, and I hope to continue developing that capacity through further education.

The impact of mental health was deep-seated in my life before I could conceptualize what the definition of “mental health” was. My mother was institutionalized for the first time when I was eight years old. At the time, she was undiagnosed with an undetermined illness that sent silencing reverberations throughout our household. No one knew what to call it, but everyone who knew us knew something “just wasn’t quite right.” Our house felt filled with pincushions and eggshells. Our house was shrouded in darkness, with shades drawn shut and muffled conversations. My mother’s first admittance to a psychiatric ward was only the beginning of a long and painstaking journey to reclaiming her life– and writing this fills me with memories of unanswered questions, fear, and significant empathy. As a child, I felt I was at the cusp of discovering an uncomfortable and isolating truth. I did not know until much later that my mother concurrently struggled with substance abuse. As time passed and my prefrontal cortex developed, I gained a deeper understanding of my mother’s lived experience. She suffered from what was later diagnosed as Bipolar II and worked tirelessly to confront what many of our family members had fought against and failed. By the time I was fifteen years old, my mother had rooted her commitment to wellness while three of our family members had successfully committed suicide. By the time I was nineteen years old, I had lived through an attempted suicide of my own and several substance abuse treatment facilities. The anger and confusion I once felt about my mother’s experience was now what I experienced when I looked in a mirror. My journey with mental health was winding, tumultuous, and unrelenting. On October 11th of 2017– when I was twenty-two years old– I entered my final mental health and substance abuse facility. I had lived through homelessness, violence, and a slew of secrets I have rarely uttered to another living person. I have been sober ever since. I dedicated my early twenties to helping other women stand against the things they thought were too shameful to share out loud. In 2018, I began working for a women’s home designed to reintegrate women who had suffered with a variety of mental health diagnoses and substance abuse issues back into what I call “the life of the living.” I worked closely with women who were diagnosed with Schizophrenia, Borderline Personality Disorder, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and drug addiction. The work was, and still is, more rewarding than I could ever articulate. I never thought graduate school – let alone college– would be an option for me. No one in my family has obtained an education past an associate’s degree. In June, I obtained my bachelor’s degree in Public Health. I’m now pursuing a master’s degree in Public Administration. I chose Public Administration after working with vulnerable communities and becoming increasingly aware of the barriers to resources for individuals who need help. Much of our healthcare system is often inaccessible to those who need it most. My clients were consistently running into “private pay only,” “sliding scale” rates at upwards of $150 per week, and a myriad of other mobility issues. As I furthered my education, I only became more motivated to garner further understanding into the way our communities– and country– work. I plan to use my educational experience to work towards promoting policy and management that are more cohesive to support our neighbors who may be struggling behind closed doors, and dismantling the shame and stigma around substance abuse.