During my sophomore year, my life changed, and I had to prioritize my physical and mental health. I never met my biological father, but I grew up with a stepfather I considered my Dad. He married my mother when I was eight. I admired and loved him, but his PTSD from the military began taking a toll on my family, revealing itself in violence and aggression. Police removed him from my house. My mother had never graduated high school and spoke limited English, and years out of the workforce made finding a job even harder. Without a diploma or recent references, employers overlooked her. Transportation and childcare made scheduling nearly impossible. It felt unfair, but I kept going. The burden to support myself fell on me and I began working full time. I was only 15 years old and watched as my father disappeared from life and my home fell apart. Most afternoons I clocked in at 4 p.m., so I built my day around that shift. I trained around 2 p.m., showered, and went straight to work. During the summer I got off around midnight, then headed to the gym again. It was when I could see friends, focus beyond home and work, and get better. Under the bar, I could breathe, count the next set, and move forward. It was the part I could control, and it taught me the discipline and consistency I carried into everything else. Once I realized the same dedication and consistency translated to other aspects of my life, I began to excel. I took dual enrollment for a more flexible schedule. I broke assignments into sets, stuck to my schedule, and let consistency do the work. My ACT jumped 10 points, I earned perfect scores on all but two AP exams, and I graduated valedictorian. I earned a spot at Yale. The results weren’t luck; they were the same habits I practiced in the gym, applied everywhere. After a long silence, my stepfather reached out again: calling to check in, showing up when my car broke down, even starting a small company to help veterans living with PTSD. He came to my graduation and tried to be present, and I began to truly believe we could rebuild. Then, earlier this year, he went to visit a friend with cancer; an argument there escalated, and he was shot and killed. I was the one who told my little brothers, four and nine at the time. Grief was messy: love, anger, and confusion at once. I carried that weight with me to college, and I leaned even harder on my routine. At Yale, I joined the powerlifting team. As a freshman I set the school record for the bench press at my weight class. I bench pressed 315 lbs at 159 lb bodyweight, competition standard. I schedule training like a class, plan meals and sleep, and guard the quiet hour that lets me reset so I can think clearly. The lessons are simple and they guide everything I do now: control what I can, be consistent, recover so I can show up tomorrow, and keep moving when it is hard. I study Ethics, Politics, and Economics on the prelaw track with the same steady routine, and I am preparing for a future in family law where people need calm, disciplined advocacy. Lifting gave me peace when life was loud, and it taught me how to carry heavy things with patience. That is how I will show up in the classroom, at work, and for the families I plan to protect and fight for.