To most a giggle is a sound, but to me it was a mask. What began as genuine giggles, sparked by the messages of my first love, soon curled into annoyance for my friends who were tired of hearing about him. Slowly, I became someone unrecognizable, even to myself. This girl was no longer Jaelah, but “Giggle box.” This kept up until the photo evidence blurred my world. The stain on my glasses became impossible to ignore, a smudge I often read past. When anyone brought up the evidence, I tilted my head and forced out a giggle, soon becoming a reflex to fight the sinking feeling. Eventually, I stopped asking anyone to consider my feelings and instead started documenting how I felt through my notes, notes that would soon be a wipe for the smudge. Yet the “Giggle box” nickname remained, a name given to a silent voice. By the end of freshman year, I was no longer “giggle box” but instead Jaelah. Unlike the watery mask I was wearing, my focus was on my work and my notes, allowing me to earn the top spot in my freshman class. However, I could only feel as if it was the eye of the storm and when I mentioned switching schools my mom said, “But you’re doing so well.” This was the first time I prioritized myself. I knew I needed a fresh start even if she didn’t. By sophomore year, I let go. I stopped asking and instead opened up to my best friend, who listened to me reading my notes for hours and helped me realize the problem was never the smudge, it was the glasses entirely. By Junior year, the storm was finally below me. I was determined to see things differently, fueled by my new lenses. It started during a debate on free speech, where I argued that even harmful speech shouldn’t be censored. Shortly after, I took my first criminal justice class. It was there I studied the case of Cameron Willingham, a man wrongfully executed. The legal system failed Willingham and silenced him in the process. Cases such as his showed me that corruption and systemic failure often start at the top. This pushed me to pursue my interest in White Collar, because behind every systemic failure is someone who knew and I intend on finding them. Junior year refined “Giggles” for me. It wasn’t a mask but my genuine self. I transformed from the girl who didn’t have an opinion to one who led debates on justice as Vice President of FCCLA, ensuring everyone had a voice in addressing community issues. After coordinating the completion of 150 Halloween goodie bags, I went to drop them off and noticed a family checking out. Their daughter, who has Sickle Cell, asked if she could celebrate Halloween this year. Her parents hesitated. Between medical bills and her condition, they didn’t think it was possible. Before they left, I gave them one of our bags filled with candy, a Barbie doll, kinetic sand, and other warm items along with my contact information if they needed anything else. On Halloween night, they sent me a photo. The girl was dressed as Elsa, holding our bag and smiling, despite the at-home IV running in the background. Now as I'm writing this, the laughter is still here, but it comes from a place of strength, not silence, a voice ready to advocate for those like Cameron Willingham and the little girl that the system failed to protect.

To most a giggle is a sound, but to me it was a mask. What began as genuine giggles, sparked by the messages of my first love, soon curled into annoyance for my friends who were tired of hearing about him. Slowly, I became someone unrecognizable, even to myself. This girl was no longer Jaelah, but “Giggle box.” This kept up until the photo evidence blurred my world. The stain on my glasses became impossible to ignore, a smudge I often read past. When anyone brought up the evidence, I tilted my head and forced out a giggle, soon becoming a reflex to fight the sinking feeling. Eventually, I stopped asking anyone to consider my feelings and instead started documenting how I felt through my notes, notes that would soon be a wipe for the smudge. Yet the “Giggle box” nickname remained, a name given to a silent voice. By the end of freshman year, I was no longer “giggle box” but instead Jaelah. Unlike the watery mask I was wearing, my focus was on my work and my notes, allowing me to earn the top spot in my freshman class. However, I could only feel as if it was the eye of the storm and when I mentioned switching schools my mom said, “But you’re doing so well.” This was the first time I prioritized myself by knowing no one saw the smudge but me. I knew I needed a fresh start even if she didn’t. By sophomore year, I let go. I stopped asking questions and instead opened up to my best friend, who simply listened to me reading my notes for hours and helped me realize the problem was never the smudge, it was the glasses entirely. By Junior year, the storm was finally below me. I was determined to see things differently, fueled by my new lenses. It started during a debate on free speech, where I argued that even harmful speech shouldn’t be censored. Shortly after, I took my first criminal justice class. It was there I studied the case of Cameron Willingham, a man wrongfully executed. The legal system failed Willingham and silenced him in the process. Cases such as his showed me that corruption and systemic failure often start at the top. This pushed me to pursue my interest in White Collar, because behind every systemic failure is someone who knew and I intend on finding them. Junior year refined “Giggles” for me. It wasn’t a mask but my genuine self. I transformed from the girl who didn’t have an opinion to one who led debates on justice as Vice President of FCCLA, ensuring everyone had a voice in addressing community issues. After coordinating the completion of 150 Halloween goodie bags, I went to drop them off and noticed a family checking out. Their daughter, who has Sickle Cell, asked if they could celebrate Halloween this year. Her parents hesitated. Between medical bills and her condition, they didn’t think it was possible. Before they left, I gave them one of our bags filled with candy, a Barbie doll, kinetic sand, and other warm items along with my contact information if they needed anything else. On Halloween night, they sent me a photo. The girl was dressed as Elsa, holding our bag and smiling, despite the at-home IV running in the background. Now as I'm writing this, the laughter is still here, but it comes from a place of strength, not silence, a voice ready to advocate for those like Cameron Willingham and the little girl that the system failed to protect.