For as long as I could remember, beginning in kindergarten, I had been mute. Whether by selective mutism or choice, I felt somewhat voided by the absence of my voice. I had only ever communicated by hums, awkward hand gestures, or drawings and words. It also did not help that English was not my first language. My school later placed me in a special education classroom, where I learned English alongside communication, but I only accomplished the former. Perhaps because of that, I had to repeat kindergarten, and I remembered the devastation of my parents who gazed at my name on the kindergarten banner for the next year. In a sense, I understood the shame that they and I probably felt. Thus, in first grade, I tried making friends with a few of the kids in my class. While I did well with my assignments and learning, I generally still struggled with communication. However, I felt that things were smooth sailing since our class played together every day on the playground. But one day, while I was busy drawing a butterfly in a shadowed corner of the classroom, my friend sat next to me and simply said that I was boring and that we weren’t friends anymore before leaving. In a way, it fundamentally changed how I thought about myself and how I formed connections with others. I did not necessarily feel hurt, rather hopelessness at what I thought to be an unchanging part of myself. In second grade, nothing happened much either, but third grade became the moment where my life changed forever. On the first day of school, while walking into class, out on the door was a sign with “Mrs. Romanger’s All-Stars.” Though I did not expect much out of myself or my class. For the first few weeks, I retreated into my own shell and never really interacted with anyone, and my teacher, Mrs. Romanger, took notice. It first began with small conversations, which did not get through to me, and when I thought she would just gradually come to ignore me, she dropped a book on my desk one day and left. Out of boredom and a curiosity for a book thicker than a simple children’s book, I read the title “Geronimo Stilton: Lost Treasure of the Emerald Eye.” I flipped the pages, flipping, and flipping. It captivated me. What was once a void in my head had experienced a cosmological explosion of colors and imagination with each word that bounced off the page. I finished the book during class, and I shyly yet eagerly returned the book to her, hoping to read more. Perhaps with that anticipation scribbled over my face, she did read me like a book and pointed to a cozy corner of her bookshelf. For the rest of the month, I kept reading from that bookshelf. By a miracle perhaps, I began opening up to her and my class, like I felt a contagious joy ignited within me. Of course, I had a shy propensity, but I learned a lot more of my classmate’s passions, likes and dislikes, and their personalities, which I had never experienced before. Rather than my weird drawings or gestures, I began talking and sharing my drawings, inspired by books I read, with them. When I ran out of books to read, I learned about the public library from Mrs. Romanger, which happened to be where I began my passion for environmental and marine science. Part of it came from Mrs. Romanger’s devotion to bringing out the greatest in all of us. She never gave up on us, and especially me, who taught me patience and kindness as great virtues. From that moment, it felt like we were the stars of the world. In the following months, we didn’t just learn math or English, but also how to challenge ourselves, to be a good and moral individual. Most of the time, that happens through stories. Though, we also had a fair share of fun, everyday ones. I remember sitting in the group circle, where I got out of my shell. I chatted and laughed until my sides hurt, and we would miss lunch by almost an hour every day, where the lunch ladies gave us an earful–it was the most genuine human connection I had ever formed with others.

After stalling the long-needed laundry of my clothes, I finally sit here at 4:00 a.m., with the whirl of the washing machine in the background, after a self-induced decision to not sleep the night before. I’m typing and reminiscing about the times I missed chances to secure opportunities and perform better in my studies. The silent grip mental health had on me turned into a larger nightmare when I entered college. In high school, I managed my ADHD and OCPD while also living with an anxiety disorder. After successfully navigating college applications and academics, I was overjoyed when I got accepted into one of my dream schools. However, I felt frustrated with myself for having an unexplainable fear of engaging in conversations with peers, which prevented me from opening up and forming meaningful friendships. As I stepped onto campus, I felt anxiety wrap its vines around me, tightening its grip on my throat. I struggled to communicate with my roommates and find friends to study with. I began collapsing under the pressure of schoolwork in my first quarter. I failed a class. I had never failed before. That blot of a non-satisfactory grade would stay engraved on my transcript until graduation. While I performed well in my other classes, I couldn’t see past my shock and disappointment. In some ways, it felt expected. For every assignment and exam, I would color-code and highlight each line in my agenda. But as more assignments piled up, I began juggling priorities, struggling to decide what to focus on. It became a multi-tasking effort, but with an unfinished, infinite checklist. At the same time, I mentally struggled with my urge to clean and organize the space around me before I could begin working. I had to clean the desk. I had to organize my pens again. It felt like teetering between productivity and counterproductivity. Eventually, the agenda began to look colorless and empty. I stopped highlighting assignments I didn’t finish. I stopped writing future due dates. My “perfect” world began to collapse. From that point, I blamed myself for being such a perfectionist and for not communicating with my professors. I feared going to study centers and talking with peers or tutors. The one time I did, I felt the thorns of anxiety holding me back. I pushed through it and learned, but I regret never going back. Maybe anxiety had won that time. But that doesn’t mean I will continue to accept struggling. I saw a counselor who offered support and optimism. I discovered a campus service for students with disabilities, which provided quiet testing spaces and extended deadlines. Next, I focused on my physical health. I cut sugary snacks and turned to fruits and vegetables. Recently, I even scheduled a long-overdue checkup with a primary care physician to explore both mental and physical health services. As an Environmental Science major, I reconnected with others through nature. I made friends on hikes and gardening events. I began opening up more and forming new friendships. Beyond human connection, I realized that while nature may look messy—plants sprouting from random patches of soil—it’s still naturally perfect. It doesn’t have to be controlled to be beautiful. Sometimes, we don’t need to push ourselves to be perfect. I strive to carry that ideal with me. While I still struggle, like with insomnia, I’ve seen constant improvement in both my productivity and my mindset. So, while my brain might be a jungle of chaos and order, the world will always be my oyster.