My freshman-year English teacher once asked my class to write about our greatest tragedy. The boy on my right had grown up in foster care and was in his 14th home at the age of 15. The girl on my left had lost her mother and two sisters to a car crash the year before. I sat there and thought about what I could write about as I felt as if I had no event in my life monumental enough to write a depressing story on. I had never lost a family member. I had never gotten cut from a volleyball team. I had never experienced oppression. I had grown up in a home with a mother who had graduated college with a masters and a father who had his own HVAC company. I continued to compare myself to every kid in my class, identifying their heartaches and trying to figure out how to enhance mine. It finally dawned on me that it is impossible to compare my misfortune with someone else’s. I ended up writing about the time I fell on my scooter as a kid and scraped my knee. That small, overlooked moment in my life shaped me to be a more cautious and responsible person. I made an A on the paper by being myself. Ever since this assignment, I have found writing to be an outlet for me. It is a place where I can be myself, and I can choose who sees it. I am the second-born child out of five. The house I have grown up in is chaotic, loud, and lacks personal time and space. When I get moments to myself, I write as an escape from reality. I have written short stories that act as anecdotes for monumental events in my life. I have written poems to help me let out my emotions and healthily manage my depression. I have written letters to my future self that I open when hardships and turmoil come. I have done extensive research just to be able to write essays in my free time about a multitude of topics that I am deeply interested in such as the Pyramids of Giza, Borderline Personality Disorder, and more. I go back and read these works whenever I want to see how far I've come since I first started writing; it gives me an insight into my own head. It helps me whenever I am assigned a paper in school and I encounter trouble with it. Writing has let me completely express myself and who I am in a way I am forever grateful for. I'm works are some of the only things I can call mine.

I sat in my cool car on a hot day in June of 2021. It was around 2:00 pm in Trussville, Alabama. I had just gotten home from lunch with a few friends when I pulled into my neighborhood and saw my house was surrounded by first responders. I remember counting four police cars, one ambulance, and one fire truck. "I hope everyone is okay," I thought until I saw my stepsister. She was being walked to a police car in handcuffs. Her knuckles were covered in blood. I listened as she was screaming vulgar things until her voice was cut off by the door of the cop car shutting. When I walked inside, I couldn't tell if my cheeks were wet from sweat due to the heat or if the tears had escaped my eyes. I found my stepfather sitting at the bar in the kitchen speaking with an officer while getting assessed by a paramedic. He had cuts on the right side of his face and scratches all down his arms. I found my mother standing in the dining room, shaking while talking to another officer. My ten-year-old brother was curled up in a ball on his bedroom floor, rocking back and forth while humming a song my mother used to sing to us. My other stepsisters had locked themselves in their rooms to escape the madness. My mother told me what had happened almost a week later. My stepsister suffers from Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). Although the cause of this disorder is not well understood, my stepfather believes it is due to her premature birth. In simplest terms, my stepsister can only see the world as black and white. There is no grey area when it comes to her moods, her behavior, and her relationships with others. This day, in particular, she attacked my stepfather. My stepsister, stepfather, mother, and brother were all in the living room when my stepsister grabbed the glass bowl from the side table and hit my stepfather over the head with it. While he was on the ground, she got on top of him and began hitting, clawing, and yelling at him. My stepfather was able to restrain her and tell my mother to call 911. My mother also told me this was not the first time my stepsister had harmed someone. In 2018 and 2019, she attempted suicide and had to spend a few months in a mental hospital. She had attacked my stepfather twice before and attacked her mother once. At the time, I didn't understand why she couldn't just be normal. Why did she have to be so dramatic? Why did she feel so worthless? Why did she act so impulsively? I began doing a lot of research on mental health issues and disorders. I wanted to keep learning because there was something in every story I read - be it personal or medical - that I was curious about, yet there were no definite answers. I decided then and there that I wanted to help in some way. I decided to start by fixing my relationship with my stepsister and go from there. Helping others helped me and my mental health. Eventually, I want to change the world and help everyone I can. No matter what disability someone has, they should never feel as alone as my stepsister did the day she decided it was her last.

My freshman-year English teacher once asked my class to write about our greatest tragedy. The boy on my right had grown up in foster care and was in his 14th home at the age of 15. The girl on my left had lost her mother and two sisters to a car crash the year before. I sat there and thought about what I could write about as I felt as if I had no event in my life monumental enough to write a depressing story on. I had never lost a family member. I had never gotten cut from a volleyball team. I had never experienced oppression. I had two very successful parents and a healthy family. I continued to compare myself to every kid in my class, identifying their heartaches and trying to figure out how to enhance mine. It finally dawned on me that it is impossible to compare my misfortune with someone else’s. I ended up writing about the time I fell on my scooter as a kid and scraped my knee. That small, overlooked moment in my life shaped me to be a more cautious and responsible person. I made an A on the paper by being myself. After living for so many years without turmoil and disruption in my life, I moved schools at the beginning of my junior year. I was an hour away from everyone and everything I had ever known, having to experience a dramatic change not many people had experienced before. I could have tried to abide by the social norms of this new environment to fit in quicker, the same way I’d tried in 9th grade to write a faux depressing essay, but I knew that I could not keep up an act for the rest of my high school career. I stayed true to myself and let my personality blossom like a red rose in a bundle full of white. By staying rooted in what I believed in, I was able to become friends with the right group of people. These are the people who value all my traits, including my obnoxious support, vibrant humor, and affectionate personality. I am no longer yearning to be a part of a crowd that is pretty on the outside but secretly revolves around backhanded compliments and snarky judgment toward everyone. I have been able to play volleyball and compete at the national level. I did not let my teammates, who were all committed to division 1 schools, sway me to play timidly. Instead, I continued to exaggerate the positive aspects to lift up my teammates and help me earn my spot on the court. I have had what most John Hughes movies would label as a true high school experience while also keeping my grades up and staying at the top of my class. And, nonetheless, I have been myself every part of the way and have had no regrets. I have gained the trust and support of my peers by being myself. I hope that people can learn from my story and strive the be their authentic selves, too. By encouraging my friends to be themselves, they have accomplished more than they imagined. My cousin with Asperger's is now on the Mississippi State scholars bowl team. My best friend, Brady, is blind in one eye yet shoots, edits, and produces highlight reels and hype videos for our high school's sports. I will continue to support and encourage others as that is the best way to help better society as a whole

I sat in my cool car on a hot day in June of 2021. It was around 2:00 pm in Trussville, Alabama. I had just gotten home from lunch with a few friends when I pulled into my neighborhood and saw my house was surrounded by first responders. I remember counting four police cars, one ambulance, and one fire truck. "I hope everyone is okay," I thought until I saw my stepsister. She was being walked to a police car in handcuffs. Her knuckles were covered in blood. I listened as she was screaming vulgar things until her voice was cut off by the door of the cop car shutting. When I walked inside, I couldn't tell if my cheeks were wet from sweat due to the heat or if the tears had escaped my eyes. I found my stepfather sitting at the bar in the kitchen speaking with an officer while getting assessed by a paramedic. He had cuts on the right side of his face and scratches all down his arms. I found my mother standing in the dining room, shaking while talking to another officer. My ten-year-old brother was curled up in a ball on his bedroom floor, rocking back and forth while humming a song my mother used to sing to us. My other stepsisters had locked themselves in their rooms to escape the madness. My mother told me what had happened almost a week later. My stepsister suffers from Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). Although the cause of this disorder is not well understood, my stepfather believes it is due to her premature birth. In simplest terms, my stepsister can only see the world as black and white. There is no grey area when it comes to her moods, her behavior, and her relationships with others. This day, in particular, she attacked my stepfather. My stepsister, stepfather, mother, and brother were all in the living room when my stepsister grabbed the glass bowl from the side table and hit my stepfather over the head with it. While he was on the ground, she got on top of him and began hitting, clawing, and yelling at him. My stepfather was able to restrain her and tell my mother to call 911. My mother also told me this was not the first time my stepsister had harmed someone. In 2018 and 2019, she attempted suicide and had to spend a few months in a mental hospital. She had attacked my stepfather twice before and attacked her mother once. At the time, I didn't understand why she couldn't just be normal. Why did she have to be so dramatic? Why did she feel so worthless? Why did she act so impulsively? It wasn't until school started that year that I learned the full truth behind her disability. In my AP Psychology class, we learned about many mental disorders including BPD. I began doing a lot of research on mental health issues and disorders. I wanted to keep learning because there was something in every story I read - be it personal or medical - that I was curious about, yet there were no definite answers. I decided then and there that I wanted to help in some way. I decided to start by fixing my relationship with my stepsister and go from there. Eventually, I want to change the world and help everyone I can. No matter what disability someone has, they should never feel as alone as my stepsister did the day she decided it was her last.

My freshman-year English teacher once asked my class to write about our greatest tragedy. The boy on my right had grown up in foster care and was in his 14th home at the age of 15. The girl on my left had lost her mother and two sisters to a car crash the year before. I sat there and thought about what I could write about as I felt as if I had no event in my life monumental enough to write a depressing story on. I had never lost a family member. I had never gotten cut from a volleyball team. I had never experienced oppression. I had grown up in a home with a mother who had graduated college with a masters and a father who had his own HVAC company. I continued to compare myself to every kid in my class, identifying their heartaches and trying to figure out how to enhance mine. It finally dawned on me that it is impossible to compare my misfortune with someone else’s. I ended up writing about the time I fell on my scooter as a kid and scraped my knee. That small, overlooked moment in my life shaped me to be a more cautious and responsible person. I made an A on the paper by being myself. After living for so many years without turmoil and disruption in my life, I moved schools at the beginning of my junior year. I was an hour away from everyone and everything I had ever known, having to experience a dramatic change not many people had experienced before. I could have tried to abide by the social norms of this new environment to fit in quicker, the same way I’d tried in 9th grade to write a faux depressing essay, but I knew that I could not keep up an act for the rest of my high school career. I stayed true to myself and let my personality blossom. By staying rooted in what I believed in, I was able to become friends with the right group of people. These are the people who value all my traits, including my obnoxious support, vibrant humor, and affectionate personality. I am no longer yearning to be a part of a crowd that is pretty on the outside but secretly revolves around backhanded compliments and snarky judgment toward everyone. I have been able to play volleyball and compete at the national level. I did not let my teammates, who were all committed to division 1 schools, sway me to play timidly. Instead, I continued to exaggerate the positive aspects to lift up my teammates and help me earn my spot on the court. I have had what most John Hughes movies would label as a true high school experience while also keeping my grades up and staying at the top of my class. And, nonetheless, I have been myself every part of the way and have had no regrets. Through being 100% authentic, I have gained the trust and support of my peers. I have encouraged them to stay true to themselves to make a positive impact in our community. For example, a boy I met last year got into an accident and was left blind in one eye. After talking with him and encouraging him over the summer, he decided to pursue sports editing and production for our school, something he never thought he could do after the accident. He is now able to do his passion confidently and efficiently. I hope everyone can learn from my story and be themselves and stay passionate.