I have lived with debilitating mental illness for over 10 years, ever since I was twelve years old. What began as persistent sadness and anxiety slowly evolved into something I couldn’t navigate alone. Over time, the weight of my mental health struggles became heavier—resulting in three suicide attempts and two psychiatric hospitalizations over the past two years. That hospitalization, though necessary, led to a misdiagnosis and over a year of treatment that worsened my symptoms. It was only after months of advocating for myself, of knowing deep down that something still wasn’t right, and moving to a new state for school, that I finally switched providers and was properly diagnosed with bipolar disorder. This diagnosis didn’t magically fix everything, but it gave me clarity and direction. I finally had a name for what I was feeling—and most importantly, a path forward. Mental health has touched nearly every area of my life: my education, my family, my relationships, my dreams. The financial strain of treatment—hospital bills, medication, therapy—has been a burden for me and my family. The emotional weight has strained even the closest of my relationships, and I’ve experienced deep isolation at times. Mental illness doesn’t only affect the person who lives with it, but it affects everyone around them. That has been one of the most painful and humbling lessons I’ve learned througout the past several years. Yet, through it all, writing has become my safe space. Whether I was scribbling poems during a rare moment of clarity or pouring everything into a journal during a depressive episode, writing has helped me process what I was going through. It's grounded me when I felt untethered, and given me purpose when I couldn’t find any. I came to see storytelling not just as something I loved, but as something that saved me. Now, I’m pursuing an MA in English with a concentration in Creative Writing. I am working on a creative thesis that tracks my healing journey from a young age to now. I want to help bring powerful, honest stories into the world—especially those that speak to mental health, healing, and identity. My long-term dream is to publish my own work and eventually teach English at the collegiate level, creating classrooms where vulnerability and truth are welcomed, not silenced. Living with mental illness has shaped who I am. It has taught me to be resilient, empathetic, and fiercely committed to creating spaces—on the page and in the world—where people feel seen. I now believe that openness is a form of strength, and that sharing our stories can quite literally save lives. I know that it's saved mine.

I was raised in the quiet company of words. They were my first friends, my earliest refuge, and the place I returned to when the world pressed too heavily upon me. In poems scribbled into notebooks and in stories whispered to myself at night, I discovered a language for both my questions and my hope. Over time, writing became less of a hiding place and more of a bridge—a way to reach outward, to connect, and to serve. Service has never been about grandeur for me. It has always lived in the quiet acts: in creating space for someone to be heard, in showing up with consistency when it matters, in lending strength when another cannot find their own. At Sam Houston State University, I encountered a phrase that's reshaped my understanding of this calling: “The measure of a Life is its Service.” Those words have echoed through my head during my college years, not as an obligation but as a promise. They remind me that even in seasons of struggle, even in times when my own path feels uncertain, my life can carry meaning by serving others through showing up, being compassionate, and using my words. My own story has not been without difficulty. Walking through challenges with mental health and abuse, I came to see resilience not as an abstract virtue but as a daily practice. I learned that vulnerability can be its own kind of strength, that asking for help is sometimes the bravest act of service, and that faith, when tested, deepens into something steadier and more enduring. These lessons have not come easily, but they have shaped the way I move through the world—with empathy for others’ unseen battles and with hope that my own story might offer light and hope to those in need. My passions gather in places that might seem unexpected together: in poems and publishing, in faith and philosophy, in stories and even in the simple instructions of a recipe. I am fascinated by how words—whether in a prayer, a poem, a cookbook, or anything else—carry memory, culture, and love. Language, to me, is sustenance. It nourishes us, connects us, and preserves what might otherwise be lost. This fascination is why I long to keep studying, researching, and writing. I want not only to create, but also to help others find their voices and share them with the world. Looking ahead, I hope to build a life at the intersection of writing, teaching, and publishing. I see myself in higher education classrooms, encouraging students to trust their own voices. I see myself in publishing, shaping the words that will go on to inspire others. And I see myself continuing to write—poems, essays, stories that carry both beauty and truth. More than a career, I see this as a vocation, a purpose: to serve through language, to give back what words first gave to me. My story has been shaped by resilience, faith, the quiet strength of others who believed in me, and the steady reminder that beauty often begins in brokenness. I write not only to understand who I am, but also to help others see a glimpse of who they might become. And in that work—in those words—I measure a life of service.

Writing and storytelling has always been my way of bridging gaps between people–between what’s seen and what’s felt, what’s experienced and what’s often left unspoken. Stories hold the power to challenge assumptions, expand empathy, and create a space for healing. As a Christian writer, I believe this is one of the most powerful tools we have to reflect God’s love and truth. Stories shape how people see themselves and the world around them—they can bring comfort, conviction, and clarity. My writing is rooted in the belief that hope is a calling. My writing illuminates voices that are often overlooked—especially those navigating mental health or faith crises. Whether I’m writing poetry, creative nonfiction, or anything in between, I desire for my work to be a vessel of grace–honest about pain, but unwavering in its belief in redemption. I feel called to write stories that remind readers of their value and purpose–especially those who feel unseen. I can reach those struggling with mental health, loss, or doubt because I’ve lived through those stories myself. My writing exists to show that even in brokenness, there is beauty. Even in the darkest storm, God is the light. I write to make people feel less alone. If one person reads something I’ve written and feels comforted, I have already made a difference. This scholarship will allow me to continue using my voice to explore hard questions and create space for hope. I want to write books that are not only beautifully written, but remind people of their dignity, resilience, and pure sacredness of their stories. Because I believe stories don’t just reflect the world—they can reshape it. I don’t just want to write stories—I want to write stories that change hearts, awaken purpose, and reflect the light of Christ in a dark world.

I am who I am today because of my mother’s unwavering resilience, compassion, and faith. She is the kind of woman who has faced unimaginable hardship and still gets up each morning to serve the people she loves with a fierce tenderness. Growing up, I didn’t always understand the quiet strength she carried, but as I’ve grown older—and especially as I’ve faced my own battles with mental illness—I’ve come to see just how much of her courage lives inside me. There was never a time when things were easy for us. My mother worked long hours and sacrificed her own comfort to make sure I had what I needed. Even when we were struggling, she somehow made room for laughter, for Sunday dinners, for spontaneous car rides with the windows down. She taught me how to hold joy and pain in the same hand, and how to keep going even when life feels impossible. When I was hospitalized last year for mental health reasons, it was my mother who called me up single day, talking to me and reminding me that my story wasn’t over yet. Her presence was a steady anchor in a season when everything else felt like it was falling apart. Because of her, I’m now the first in my family to go to college. I’m currently pursuing a degree in English with a minor in Creative Writing, and I plan to attend graduate school and build a career in book publishing—specifically in publicity. My long-term dream is to publish my own work and eventually teach at the collegiate level. I want to tell stories that matter and amplify the voices of others who feel unseen or unheard. If awarded this scholarship, I would use the funds to ease the financial strain of tuition, textbooks, and therapy costs—allowing me to continue my education with greater stability. As I finish my undergraduate degree in December 2025, I will be preparing to continue my education in another state, which comes with more costs including plane tickets, professional clothing, and application fees for graduate programs. These expenses can quickly add up, and receiving this scholarship would help alleviate some of that financial burden. It would allow me to focus more fully on my academic and career goals without placing additional strain on my family. My mother has already given me the greatest gift she could: her strength and belief in me. Now I want to turn that gift into something lasting—a life that reflects the same compassion, determination, and faith she has modeled for me. This scholarship would help me build that future not just for myself, but for my family, and for others who need to be reminded that healing, hope, and purpose are always possible.

Being the first in my family to obtain a college degree means everything to me. It’s not just a personal accomplishment—it’s a symbol of hope, healing, and new beginnings for my entire family. I chose to go to college not just for myself, but for my mom, who has endured more than her share of pain and still continues to love and give selflessly. I wanted her to see that anything is possible, even after you've gone through hell. I wanted to be a living reminder to her that her sacrifices were not in vain. Growing up, I watched my mom work tirelessly and sacrifice so much just to make ends meet. For the past eight years, she has been a single mother with two children. She always encouraged me to dream bigger than my circumstances, even though she never had the chance to pursue those dreams herself. Going to college has been my way of honoring her sacrifices and showing my younger brother that his future can be full of opportunity. Now, he’s starting college in the fall, and seeing him take that step fills me with a kind of pride and purpose I can’t put into words. To me, being a first-generation college student means breaking generational cycles, reclaiming our narrative, and rewriting what is possible. I’m currently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English with a minor in Creative Writing. I’ve always believed in the power of words to heal, connect, and inspire. Writing has been a crucial part of my own journey—especially as someone who has lived with mental illness since I was twelve. In the most difficult seasons of my life, writing became my lifeline. It helped me process grief, manage anxiety, and find my voice when everything else felt out of control. That deep personal connection to storytelling is what led me to pursue English and Creative Writing as my field of study. Long term, I hope to earn a graduate degree in Creative Writing and work in the book publishing industry—specifically in publicity, where I can champion powerful, underrepresented voices and help authors share their stories with the world. I also hope to one day publish my own work—poetry, essays, and maybe even a memoir—and eventually teach at the collegiate level and get my PhD. Yet, more than anything, I want to use my voice and experiences to create spaces of empathy, healing, and honesty for others. Whether I’m writing, editing, or teaching, my mission is to reflect truth and compassion in everything I do. To be the first in my family to go to college is a huge responsibility—but it’s also a deep privilege. I carry the hopes of my family with me in every class I take, and I’m committed to turning those hopes into something lasting: a life of purpose, service, and storytelling that uplifts others.

I am a proud first generation college student, meaning that no one in my immediate family has walked this path before. In fact, I couldn’t tell you one person in my close extended family that has graduated college. This fact has brought both challenges and deep motivation. I chose to go to college not only for myself, but for my family. I wanted to break generational cycles of shame, silence, and struggle that often went unnamed. I believe that education is one of the most powerful ways to rewrite the narrative—for my family, for future generations, and for the young people who look like me and wonder if they’re allowed to dream bigger. I want to be proof that they are. I also wanted to remind my mom that anything is possible–even after you’ve gone through hell. She’s walked through so much pain with such strength, and I wanted to show her that her sacrifices weren’t in vain. I want to be a living reminder that healing and growth are possible. I also wanted to be a role model for my younger brother, to show him that he could believe in himself and build something meaningful with his life. Now, he’s starting college in the fall—and watching him take that step makes me feel like the legacy I’m working toward is already beginning. For as long as I can remember, education has meant more to me than just earning a degree—it’s been a lifeline, a form of healing, and a key to becoming the person I was created to be. As someone who has lived with mental illness since I was twelve, school has at times felt like both a sanctuary and a battlefield. There were seasons when anxiety, depression, and the long road to my bipolar diagnosis made it difficult to simply get out of bed, let alone show up in a classroom. But every time I returned to the page—whether it was in a classroom essay, a poem, or a piece of creative nonfiction—I was reminded why I keep going: because education gives me the tools to tell my story, and through that, to help others tell theirs too. I’m currently pursuing a BA in English with a minor in Creative Writing, and I plan to earn a graduate degree in the same field. My dream is to work in book publishing, amplify diverse and underrepresented voices, and eventually become a professor who empowers students to speak their truth with courage and clarity. I want my legacy to be rooted not in titles or accolades, but in the way I made people feel—seen, valued, and capable of healing. One of the most transformative lessons I’ve learned is that service isn’t always about grand gestures—it’s about showing up when it matters. During one of the darkest seasons of my life, a friend sat beside me when I felt like giving up. Her presence didn’t fix everything, but it reminded me I wasn’t alone. That moment defined what leadership means to me: empathy, presence, and compassion in action. I want my life and education to reflect those values—a legacy of hope, service, and quiet strength.

For as long as I can remember, words have been my refuge. When I couldn’t find a way to express out loud what I was feeling, I wrote it down. When the world felt too loud or overwhelming, my stories gave me a place to breathe. Now, as a writer, student, and mental health advocate, I’ve come to see that storytelling isn’t just about expression—it’s one of the most powerful tools we have for creating empathy and connection across all communities and cultures. I’ve been living with mental illness since I was twelve years old, which has shaped both my personal journey and my desire to build a more understanding world. I’ve struggled with anxiety, depression, PTSD, and more recently, was diagnosed with bipolar disorder after a long and painful process of misdiagnosis. These experiences have not only taught me resilience, but they’ve shown me how vital it is to listen deeply, love patiently, and advocate boldly for those who feel they are unseen. There were seasons in my life when I felt invisible and misunderstood, but the people who stood beside me, those who saw me and didn’t walk away, helped change the trajectory of my life. And I’ve decided that I want to be that for others. Through my writing, I aim to create spaces where people feel less alone. Whether I’m journaling through personal pain or crafting poems that speak to larger issues like mental health, identity, or faith, my work is rooted in a desire to reflect truth, beauty, and healing. I believe the more we tell the truth about what it means to be human, we also create more room for empathy in a world that so desperately needs it. Beyond writing, I also hope to work in book publishing, specifically in publicity, because I want to amplify diverse voices and stories that deserve to be heard. Eventually, I plan to pursue graduate school and teach creative writing or English literature courses at the collegiate level, where I hope to mentor young writers and encourage them to use their own voices with courage and honesty. My Christian faith is another guiding force. I believe every person carries inherent worth, and I’m passionate about building a community where that worth is recognized and nurtured. Faith, for me, is not about judgment. It’s about compassion. It’s about showing up for people the same way that Christ does: with kindness, consistency, and humility. That belief inspires the way I serve, write, and live. We live in a world where division is often louder than unity. But I believe that through intentional storytelling, meaningful conversations, and consistent acts of service, we can change that. I want to be part of a generation that chooses to listen more than we speak, to extend grace even when it’s hard, and to advocate for change that begins with empathy. By combining my passion for writing, my personal experience with mental illness, and my heart for faith-driven service, I hope to help cultivate a global community that values compassion over comparison. Connection over isolation. It’s not always about doing something grand; it’s about showing up, telling the truth, and using what you’ve been given to love people well. That’s the legacy I hope to build.

Books have been more than stories to me—they’ve been companions, teachers, and lifelines. Growing up, reading was the one place I could escape to when my mind felt heavy. As I began to navigate mental illness in my early teens, I found myself drawn to books that offered distractions and escape. When I continued into college, and I felt my life slipping out of my grasp, I was drawn to books about hope, truth, and authenticity. These stories and authors that didn’t shy away from pain, but met it with faith and compassion, helped me feel less alone. Authors like C.S. Lewis profoundly shaped my understanding of suffering, grace, and the human condition. His writing reminded me that faith and doubt can coexist, and that even in the darkest seasons, there is always a deeper story being written. His works challenged me to see my pain not as something to be ashamed of, but as something that could be redeemed. Contemporary Christian authors like Lysa TerKeurst and Jennie Allen have also impacted me deeply. Their vulnerability in writing about heartbreak, anxiety, healing, and spiritual growth helped me feel seen in ways I hadn’t before. Through their words, I learned how powerful it is to tell the truth about what you’ve been through—and to invite others into that truth. They’ve shown me how storytelling, when rooted in faith and honesty, can change lives. Reading has not only shaped my goals, but also transformed my inner world. Books helped me find peace in moments of chaos and reminded me that I wasn’t alone in my questions or struggles. They gave me the courage to dream again—about healing, purpose, and using my experiences to serve others. As I continue to heal and grow, I’m reminded that stories are one of the most powerful tools we have to connect with others and reflect the goodness of God, even in brokenness. These books haven't just helped me begin healing—they've given me purpose. I realized I wanted to be part of this world, not just as a reader, but as someone helping bring transformative stories into the world too. That’s why I’m studying English with a minor in Creative Writing. I hope to pursue a graduate degree in creative writing and work in book publishing, specifically in publicity, so I can help amplify meaningful, faith-filled voices. One day, I hope to publish my own memoir and teach at the collegiate level, mentoring others in telling their own stories. Books taught me that words can save lives. They saved mine. And now, I want to dedicate my life to creating and sharing stories that reflect hope, honesty, and the beauty of redemption—stories that make people feel seen, known, and never alone.

“Anyone who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eyes are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind’s eye, quite as much as of the bodily eye; and he who remembers this when he sees anyone whose vision is perplexed and weak will not be too ready to laugh; he will first ask whether that soul of man has come out of the brighter life, and is unable to see because unaccustomed to the dark, or having turned from darkness to the day is dazzled by excess of light.” (Plato, The Republic, Book VII, “Allegory of the Cave”) In this passage from Book VII of The Republic, Plato (through Socrates) offers a profound insight into the nature of intellectual awakening: growth of the mind is disorienting, and we must respond to such disorientation with compassion, not ridicule. This claim is that both ignorance and enlightenment can confuse, but the moral obligation is to respond with patience towards the struggle of understanding. The direction the soul is facing–whether toward the light of truth or back into the shadows of ignorance–is irrelevant to the importance of empathy. Plato’s point here in this passage is not merely epistemological, concerning knowledge and how we come to know, but deeply ethical. How we treat others in their moments of confusion reveals the character of our own soul. The metaphor of the eye is of utmost importance for this idea. Just as physical sight takes time to adjust when moving between darkness and light, so does the “mind’s eye” when it moves between ignorance and knowledge. Plato’s comparison of intellectual and physical vision helps the reader understand that understanding is not immediate–it must be cultivated, and it often involves discomfort. It’s not that Plato is romanticising enlightenment to be a sudden, blissful epiphany. Rather, he emphasizes how both transitions–whether into or out of truth–require a major and sometimes painful adjustment. The soul moving from ignorance into understanding is, in his words, “dazzled by excess of light,” while the one descending from the world of Forms into ordinary life struggles to see clearly through the shadows. In both cases, the person is bewildered. Confusion, then, is not a sign of failure, but an unexpected and even necessary part of intellectual transformation. The moral implication follows naturally. When we encounter confusion in others–when someone seems slow to understand, resistant to new ideas, or even arrogant in their ignorance–our first instinct may be to mock or dismiss them. However, Plato urges a different response. Those who have witnessed the “perplexed and weak” vision of another should “not be too ready to laugh.” Instead, the truly wise person shall ask: “Where is this person coming from? What has their mind experienced?” In other words, we should seek to understand before we judge. This is not merely a lesson in intellectual humility, but in human decency. Plato is not only explaining the stages of learning–he is cultivating a mindset of humility in those who have already experienced that process. It’s easy to mock those who are dazed or skeptical–it feels superior, even clever. But that response is shallow and unjust. It is harder, but morally right, to respond with gentleness, discernment, and empathy. Plato’s words also implicitly acknowledge the cost of wisdom. If both journey into truth and the return to ignorance are disorienting, then the philosopher is someone who repeatedly chooses discomfort. THe philosopher does not remain in the light for their own peace, but returns to the cave–the world of illusion and incomplete understanding–out of a duty to help the others. This is a deeply selfless act, and Plato shows that it deserves not ridicule, but reverence. Likewise, those who are still fumbling toward truth are not to be scorned, but respected for the difficulty of what they are enduring. This passage, then, serves as a call to intellectual empathy. Plato reminds us that the journey toward truth is not a single ascent, but a cycle of turning, blinking, stumbling, and becoming. To be educated is not just to see the world around you clearly, but to remember the pain of seeing for the first time–and to walk patiently with those who are still adjusting their eyes. True wisdom is not found in intellectual superiority, but in moral clarity: in the decision to meet others with compassion on the long road of understanding.

I used to think service meant showing up to soup kitchens or building houses—something visible, measurable. But over the past few years, as I’ve walked through the deep waters of my own mental health struggles, I’ve come to understand service differently. Sometimes, the most meaningful impact comes not from what you do with your hands, but what you offer with your heart: your story, your presence, your empathy. After being hospitalized last year and later diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I began speaking more openly about my experiences with mental illness. At first, it was terrifying—what if I was judged? What if no one understood? But something surprised me: people started reaching out. Classmates, friends, even strangers online began to say things like, “Thank you for saying this. I’ve felt the same way but didn’t know how to talk about it.” That’s when I realized that sharing my story wasn’t just personal healing—it was an act of service. I began using my voice intentionally, both in person and through writing, to advocate for mental health awareness and to create spaces where people feel safe being vulnerable. I helped organize conversations around mental health stigma in classrooms and my church small groups, often drawing from my faith to express the hope I’ve found even in suffering. One of the most meaningful moments came when someone told me, “Because of you, I got help. I didn’t think I could, but you gave me courage. You helped me feel less alone.” But this kind of service isn’t easy. It requires emotional strength, discernment, and deep faith. I’ve faced misunderstanding, silence, and internal doubts—moments where I wondered if my pain had any real purpose, or if it was painful enough to matter. Still, I kept going. Not because I had all the answers, but because I knew what it felt like to be in the dark, and I wanted to be a small light for someone else. This journey has reshaped how I understand leadership. It’s not always loud or visible—it’s often quiet, rooted in compassion and consistency. And it’s taught me that service isn’t about fixing people; it’s about walking with them, pointing toward hope when they can’t see it for themselves. My faith has deepened through all of this. I’ve come to believe that God often works through our brokenness to bring healing to others. If I can use my experiences to remind even one person that they are not alone, that they are deeply loved, then every scar becomes part of something redemptive. Service, for me, is about showing up. It’s about choosing love over comfort, vulnerability over silence, and faith over fear. And I plan to keep showing up—through my writing, my advocacy, and my everyday life—for as long as I’m able.

I have lived with mental illness since I was twelve years old. What began as persistent sadness and anxiety slowly evolved into something I couldn’t navigate alone. Over time, the weight of my mental health struggles became heavier—culminating in two suicide attempts and a psychiatric hospitalization in the summer of last year. That hospitalization, though necessary, led to a misdiagnosis and months of treatment that worsened my symptoms. It was only after eight months of advocating for myself, of knowing deep down that something still wasn’t right, that I finally switched providers and was properly diagnosed with bipolar disorder. That diagnosis didn’t magically fix everything, but it gave me clarity and direction. I finally had a name for what I was feeling—and most importantly, a path forward. Mental health has touched nearly every area of my life: my education, my family, my relationships, my dreams. The financial strain of treatment—hospital bills, medication, therapy—has been a burden for my family. The emotional weight has strained even the closest of relationships, and I’ve experienced deep isolation. Mental illness doesn’t only affect the person who lives with it—it affects everyone around them. That has been one of the most painful and humbling lessons I’ve learned. But through it all, writing became my safe space. Whether I was scribbling poems during a rare moment of clarity or pouring everything into a journal during a depressive episode, writing helped me process what I was going through. It grounded me when I felt untethered, and it gave me purpose when I couldn’t find any. I came to see storytelling not just as something I loved, but as something that saved me. Now, I’m pursuing a BA in English with a minor in Creative Writing. I plan to earn a graduate degree in Creative Writing and pursue a career in book publishing, particularly in publicity. I want to help bring powerful, honest stories into the world—especially those that speak to mental health, healing, and identity. My long-term dream is to publish my own work and eventually teach writing at the collegiate level, creating classrooms where vulnerability and truth are welcomed, not silenced. Living with mental illness has shaped who I am. It has taught me to be resilient, empathetic, and fiercely committed to creating spaces—on the page and in the world—where people feel seen. I now believe that openness is a form of strength, and that sharing our stories can quite literally save lives. Mine already has.

I’ve been living with mental illness since I was twelve years old. What began as persistent sadness and anxiety gradually grew into something I couldn’t manage on my own. Over the years, my mental health struggles intensified, leading to two suicide attempts and, most recently, a psychiatric hospitalization in the summer of last year. That hospitalization resulted in a misdiagnosis, which only worsened my condition. After eight difficult months of advocating for myself—knowing the treatment I was receiving wasn’t helping—I made the decision to switch providers. I was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and for the first time, I had a name for what I was feeling—and a path forward. This journey has profoundly shaped my beliefs. I used to believe that struggling meant weakness. It mean that I had to hide my pain to protect the people I loved. Now, I believe the opposite: that vulnerability is one of the bravest things a person can offer. I’ve learned to see strength not as the absence of suffering but as the decision to keep going anyway. Living with bipolar disorder has deepened my compassion for others, especially those whose stories are overlooked or misunderstood. It’s made me believe in the power of telling the truth about our experiences—and in the importance of listening with grace when others do the same. My experience with mental illness has also affected my relationships, sometimes in painful ways. The weight of my illness has placed strain on my family, my friendships, and my ability to stay connected during the hardest seasons. The financial burden of hospital bills, therapy, medication, and care has added stress to those closest to me. There were times when I felt completely alone. But I’ve also seen how relationships can heal—how love can remain steady, even in the uncertainty that life is. My illness has taught me the value of patience, the necessity of honest communication, and the importance of surrounding myself with people who don’t try to fix me, but simply choose to stay regardless of what I struggle with. Most importantly, my mental health journey has shaped my career aspirations. Writing has always been my anchor—whether through journaling in the middle of a depressive episode or crafting poetry during moments of clarity, it became the one place I could turn to when nothing else made sense. I’m currently studying English with a minor in Creative Writing, and I plan to pursue a graduate degree in the same field. My dream is to work in book publishing, specifically in publicity, and to one day publish my own writing and become a professor at the collegiate level. I want to help elevate voices that often go unheard and create spaces—on the page and in the classroom—where people feel safe, seen, and valued. Despite everything, I am still here. Still dreaming. Still fighting for a future where mental illness is met with compassion, not shame. If my story can help even one person feel less alone, I will consider that a success—and a life worth writing.

I’ve been living with mental illness since I was twelve years old. What began as persistent sadness and anxiety eventually grew into something I couldn’t manage on my own. Over the years, my mental health struggles became more severe, leading to two suicide attempts and, most recently, a psychiatric hospitalization in the summer of last year, which resulted in a misdiagnosis. While incredibly difficult, that experience became a turning point. After eight months of advocating for myself—knowing the treatment I was receiving wasn’t helping and was in fact making things worse—I made the decision to switch providers. I was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and for the first time, I had a name for what I was feeling—and a path forward. Mental illness has affected nearly every part of my life: my education, my relationships, and my family. The financial strain of hospital bills, medication, therapy, and other treatment has placed an added burden on my family, who have done their best to support me through the chaos and uncertainty of my diagnosis. At times, the weight of my illness has created tension and distance between loved ones, which has been one of the hardest parts of this journey—feeling completely alone. Mental illness doesn’t just affect the person who has it—it affects everyone around them. And yet, I’ve learned that healing is possible, not just for me, but for my relationships too. Through all of this, writing has remained my anchor. Whether it was journaling in the middle of a depressive episode or crafting poems during moments of clarity, writing became my outlet of processing pain and making sense of what I was going through. It saved me in many ways and has continued to guide my goals. I’m currently studying English with a minor in Creative Writing, and I plan to pursue a graduate degree in English and Creative Writing. My dream is to work in book publishing—specifically in publicity—and one day publish my own work and teach at the collegiate level. My experience with mental illness has given me a deep sense of empathy, especially toward others who feel unseen or misunderstood. It’s made me passionate about creating spaces, both in writing and in the world, where people feel safe, valued, and heard. I’ve come to believe that vulnerability is not a weakness, but a strength—and I hope to use my voice to reflect that truth in everything I do. Despite everything, I am still here, still dreaming, and still fighting for a future where mental health is met with compassion, not shame. if my story can save even one life, I will consider my own a success.

I have been struggling with my mental health since I was 12 years old. As a victim of ongoing sexual abuse by my step-dad, I was struggling with anxiety and depressive episodes continuously. It wasn't until my junior year of college that I realized just how bad it had gotten. I have attempted suicide twice in my life because I could not fathom continuing to live in this world. In the Summer of 2024, I was admitted to my first psychiatric facility for just over a week. During that stay, I was given the chance to finally focus on me, but I also got to hear the stories of the other patients there, which gave me hope. I was recently diagnosed with Bipolar 1 Disorder, which gave me a lot of answers, but it also caused me to open my eyes to the variety of struggles that other people go through. These experiences with mental health have given me a deep sense of empathy and awareness, both of myself and of others. It's shaped the way I approach relationships—with more grace, patience, and understanding—and it’s influenced my goals as a writer and future educator. I believe storytelling is one of the most powerful ways to bring light to difficult topics, and I hope to use my voice to create work that reflects the complexity of mental health with honesty and care. I want to give hope to other people who are going through mental health crises. Whether through writing, teaching, or publishing, I want to be part of building a world that prioritizes compassion, vulnerability, and healing. If my story can save even one life, I will consider myself to be a success.