In the worst time of my life, writing saved me. I’ve always loved reading any book I could get my hands on. I still remember the first time my teacher gave me a book to read when I was in kindergarten. I was an advanced student and I was bored. Her answer to that problem became my very best childhood memory: The Magic Tree House series. It was hard to read at first but I wouldn’t quit. It was really a matter of pride at first, but it quickly became so much more. Nothing good lasts forever. Elementary school turned into middle school and expectations came into play. When I was rejected by a healthcare program that I had spent my school life trying to get into, I was devastated. Not even a few weeks later, a writing competition I forgot I had entered sent me a letter, an award letter. Coming from a small town middle of nowhere part of Kentucky, writing and reading were my way of exploring the world I might never get to see. The problem is that no one really understood my needs. I didn't just need pencils and papers or writing books, I needed someone who knew how to break into the writing world. Something I still haven't found but that's okay. My stubborn determination is hard to get rid of at this point. I've wrote novels, that's the hard part, right? After that, I started thinking: what if I could do something that I love to do and make a career out of it. That’s when I decided to go into writing. I want to do something where I can share people’s stories. So I got lost in my research. My small town didn’t have much information to offer about writing careers or opportunities. I went exploring, found the Hindman Settlement School, got a mentor at our school, started two writing clubs, and fully fell into my obsession with pure happiness. I wanted to figure out so badly how I could become a writer or a journalist, or just someone who could tell stories because stories deserve to be told. I am already known as that girl who finds lost stories in our little county and shares them on Wolfe County’s Homegrown Facebook page. Watching people’s eyes light up as they tell you silly tales or about important moments in their lives is like a magic that I can’t get enough of. Even if I am just making up a story to tell someone else, like one of my novels, seeing the way that their eyes gloss over as they envision everything that I have created within a world of black and white is pure bliss. That is what I want to offer to the world. The same safety, honesty, and enjoyment that writing has always given me even when I was that devastated little girl. Whether it be writing for my agriculture class, writing in one of my many books, helping my teacher with the webpage, or just chasing a new story; I’m going to have a pencil in my hand until the day I can’t write anymore. Maybe I can be that moment of joy for another little girl in the future. I could be the reason why her eyes light up for the first time as she holds a beautiful new book in her hands for the first time. That would be my dream come true.

I’d always been an anxious kid, but I was good at hiding it. I felt like it was my job to be the least of my parents' problems. The problem was, my freshman year was a nightmare. We had so many fights in my school and unfortunately, one of them my friends and I got caught in. I had a panic attack that day. One I couldn’t hide. I don’t remember a lot of what happened that day. We went on lockdown but it was a blur. I just sat there, shaking violently, while promising my teacher I was fine. I couldn’t hide my panic attacks anymore. They came more often and lasted longer. My friends noticed, my family noticed. I would just stop. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think, and the only thing I could manage to say was sorry. I just wanted to be okay but I couldn't. Even when I was sleeping the nightmares reminded me. I had always had night terrors but these were different. It wasn’t my normal monster, those weren’t real, I woke up and they were gone. These were real. Real people that I went to school with my whole life. They weren’t even the ones I was scared of, instead I was seeing people I knew would never hurt me. Every loud noise brought me back to that moment until I swear I could see it in the corner of my eye. There was a moment in the lunchroom where I nearly screamed because I saw IT happen again. I swore I did but it was just a flashback. Something only I could see. I felt so lost. I wouldn’t tell a single soul. When it all became too much for my health, my doctor recommended therapy. I ended up going just to make my mom happy. My first day, I answered what I thought they wanted to hear, but as the questions got more detailed, I found it harder and harder to lie. Until, eventually they figured me out and I told them the truth. I was diagnosed with PTSD (because of all the fights and the other incidents at school), social anxiety, depression, and anxiety that same year. It made so much sense to me, but I was so scared. I was the good kid. So what if I forgot to eat or sleep? So what if I didn’t do simple things because people watched me do them? I was doing well in school. I had friends. I was close to happy. BUT this wasn’t healthy. It’s been a long time, or it has felt like it, since I was diagnosed. I’ve come a long way. My depression is nearly gone thanks to my therapy sessions but I still live with anxiety everyday. I’m not ashamed anymore. I would rather help people like me and I do. One thing I try to do is push the idea of mental health information in my school. I’m learning but at least now, I feel like I am living. Not everyday is an easy one. The thing that has changed is the fact that I had my friends to help me. People who decided on their own to look up ways to help someone in a panic attack and keep instructions in their bags now. I have a family who is trying to understand what I am going through, though they aren’t always the best at it. That scared girl became a healing woman who tries her best and might trip and fall but it doesn’t matter. She keeps going.

In the worst time of my life, writing saved me. I’ve always loved reading any book I could get my hands on. I still remember the first time my teacher gave me a book to read when I was in kindergarten. I was an advanced student and I was bored. Her answer to that problem became my very best childhood memory: The Magic Tree House series. It was hard to read at first but I wouldn’t quit. It was really a matter of pride at first, but it quickly became so much more. Nothing good lasts forever. The elementary school turned into middle school and expectations came into play. When I was rejected by a healthcare program that I had spent my school life trying to get into, I was devastated. Not even a few weeks later, a writing competition I forgot I had entered sent me a letter, an award letter. After that, I started thinking: what if I could do something that I love to do and make a career out of it? That’s when I decided to go into writing. I want to do something where I can share people’s stories. So I got lost in my research. My small town didn’t have much information to offer about writing careers or opportunities. I went exploring, found the Hindman Settlement School, got a mentor at our school, started two writing clubs, and fully fell into my obsession with pure happiness. I wanted to figure out so badly how I could become a writer or a journalist, or just someone who could tell stories because stories deserve to be told. I am already known as that girl who finds lost stories in our little county and shares them on Wolfe County’s Homegrown Facebook page. Watching people’s eyes light up as they tell you silly tales or about important moments in their lives is like magic that I can’t get enough of. Even if I am just making up a story to tell someone else, like one of my novels, seeing the way that their eyes gloss over as they envision everything that I have created within a world of black and white is pure bliss. That is what I want to offer to the world. The same safety, honesty, and enjoyment that writing has always given me even when I was that devastated little girl. Whether it be writing for my agriculture class, writing in one of my many books, helping my teacher with the webpage, or just chasing a new story; I’m going to have a pencil in my hand until the day I can’t write anymore. Maybe I can be that moment of joy for another little girl in the future. I could be the reason why her eyes light up for the first time as she holds a beautiful new book in her hands for the first time. That would be my dream come true.

So there’s this little girl, she has always loved school. She loved her grades. She would argue with doctors to go to school and fake well just to go. She got older and that love never left, until all of a sudden- she stopped. She would beg her parents not to go, begging until she cried. She would come home red-faced and broken. It got to the point where her precious grades were the last thing on her mind. She just wanted to get through the day and collapse on her bed. She would hold her breath and jump at small sounds. It kept getting worse and worse. Until she broke and finally told someone what was going through her head. I started high school already in a panic. I’d always been an anxious kid, but I was good at hiding it. I felt like it was my job to be the least of my parents' problems. The problem was, my freshman year was a nightmare. We had so many fights in my school and unfortunately, one of them my friends and I got caught in. We were just eating breakfast when it broke out. My friend almost got hit, the guy fell on our table. I had a panic attack that day. One I couldn’t hide. I don’t remember a lot of what happened that day. We went on lockdown but it was a blur. I just sat there, shaking violently, while promising my teacher I was fine through blurring tears. I couldn’t hide my panic attacks anymore. They came more often and lasted longer. My friends noticed, and my family noticed. I would just stop. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think, and the only thing I could manage to say was sorry. I just wanted to be okay but I couldn't. Even when I was sleeping the nightmares reminded me. I had always had night terrors but these were different. It wasn’t my normal monster, those weren’t real, I woke up and they were gone. These were real. Real people that I went to school with my whole life. They weren’t even the ones I was scared of, instead, I was seeing people I knew would never hurt me. Every loud noise brought me back to that moment until I swear I could see it in the corner of my eye. There was a moment in the lunchroom where I nearly screamed because I Saw It Happen Again. I swore I did but it was just a flashback. Something only I could see. I felt so lost. I wouldn’t tell a single soul. When it all became too much for my health, my doctor recommended therapy. I ended up going just to make my mom happy. On my first day, I answered what I thought they wanted to hear, but as the questions got more detailed, I found it harder and harder to lie. Eventually, they figured me out and I told them the truth. I was diagnosed with PTSD (because of all the fights and the other incidents at school), social anxiety (the reason why I find it so difficult to throw a piece of paper away in the middle of class), depression (that blah feeling I couldn’t explain), and anxiety (my wonderful best friend forever) that same year. It made so much sense to me, but I was so scared. I didn’t want my friends to hate me or my parents to be disappointed. I was a good kid. So what if I forgot to eat or sleep? So what if I didn’t do simple things because people watched me do them? I was doing well in school. I had friends. I was close to happy. BUT this wasn’t healthy. It’s been a long time, or it has felt like it since I was diagnosed. I’ve come a long way. My depression is nearly gone thanks to my therapy sessions but I still live with anxiety every day. I’m not ashamed anymore. I would rather help people like me and I do. One thing I try to do is push the idea of mental health information in my school. I help keep a bulletin board full of helpful tips. I help younger kids so they don’t end up the same as me through a buddy system I got my school to institute. I’m learning but at least now, I feel like I am living. Not every day is an easy one. Just the other day, I had a panic attack that almost put me in the hospital. The thing that has changed is the fact that I had my friends to help me. People who decided on their own to look up ways to help someone in a panic attack and keep instructions in their bags now. I have a family who is trying to understand what I am going through, though they aren’t always the best at it. I’m not pushing myself so hard. I’m pushing myself just enough. So that little girl who loves school became the girl who hated it, who was scared of it, who begged to not go to this. That scared girl became a healing woman who tries her best and might trip and fall but it doesn’t matter. She keeps going.