As I delete my fourth attempt to start this, I wonder, why is it so difficult to write about my love of writing and how it's helped me? To me, writing has always been an escape. A way I could express myself better than vocally, my voice. I struggled with presentations, ordering at restaurants, and speaking up, yet I felt like I had always been able to express myself with pen and paper. Journaling when I had things on my mind, writing letters when I could not express myself, writing poetry when I did not know how I felt, even writing stories when I had dreams I wanted immortalized. I have always been secure with my identity, or so I thought. Telling myself that I did not need to tell people my sexual orientation, as it should not matter, nor did it define who I was. I never felt the need to explain myself. When I got to middle school, it became a hot topic. The realization set in that I may have some shame, not necessarily in myself, but because people are judgmental. I may never have felt the need to explain myself for protection, so I would not have to tell anyone. I was scared. In the summer of 2020, as COVID restrictions were easing and we could fly to France to see my family, I went to brunch with both my immediate and very extended family. I felt as though I was meeting a lot of them for the first time. I have always felt like an outsider with this particular side of the family. I never knew whether it was because I very rarely saw them or because I was different in many ways, but as my siblings and I took our seats, I felt a shift in the air. They started talking about the LGBTQ+ community as a family friend's child had recently come out. This intrigued me as it was never a topic discussed in our household for some reason. It had not occurred to me until then that I might not be welcome in this circle of people. Although I did not know all these people very well, I felt the need to be accepted by them. That night, I sat in my room and took out a notebook and wrote a couple letters, one to my parents, one to the people who had said all those things that day, as well as some of my friends. Some of them in French, some in English, but all had a common line: "I should not be ashamed for who I decide to love in the future, but you should be for thinking you have the right to dictate that." None of those letters were sent that night, but I carried the one I wrote to my parents with me through the years. Eventually, I gave it to my mother. Her reaction was comforting and accepting, which I was not really surprised by. I had assumed the people around me might not take it well, so I avoided telling anyone. In high school, I was introduced to journalism. I joined my school's paper as a multimedia editor. Over the years, we wrote about everything we deemed worthy. In that room, my love for journalism bloomed. I was finally using my love of writing to help. In furthering my studies, I want to give people a voice, as writing has given me. Using that voice to help people and hopefully showing at least one person that their identity is something to wear with PRIDE.

The opportunity to apply for the Jim Maxwell Memorial Scholarship is incredibly meaningful to me, as I have recently finally stabilized my faith. Although I do not hide my faith, it is not something that is normalised in scholarship applications. This opportunity allows me to open up about something I feel so deeply about. Not only would it alleviate my financial burden, but it would also be done through love. I have always felt strongly about my faith, though it wasn't until recently that I became this confident in it. Over the last couple of years, I lived an internal battle with my mental health that prevented me from giving all of my devotion to God. Although I trusted his plan, I had doubts not about him but about myself. My confidence and love for anything had been stripped away. I spent days gathering the strength to get out of bed and distanced myself from anyone who cared. In my journey of overcoming depression, I felt indignant, wondering why someone I had such trust in would make me go through such a thing. I lost my faith for a while, never fully, but just enough that I questioned everything I had stood for my entire life. Who I devoted everything to, it felt like such a waste. Although the part I held on to felt guilty about questioning something I had always felt so strongly about. It felt like I was letting him down. Throughout my recovery, I made it my mission to restore my faith and try to grow closer to God in a different way. I had always looked at it in a protective sense, believing I was safe rather than as a partnership. I realised that it was unrealistic to think that way. I wasn't owed anything for being on this earth; I had to work for the things I earned. God wasn't preventing challenges from coming my way; that is life. He was going to help me through them, and as long as I had faith, I could look for the light at the end of the tunnel. My newfound relationship allowed me to see the world and the obstacles that came my way differently, no longer as punishment but as a lesson, a learning opportunity. Built on trust. It's called faith for a reason. It has been a hand to hold onto during the darkest moments and has always shone a light on the good. Not knowing if I would make it to 16, to finally crossing the stage at graduation, knowing I had more life to live and love to give. Furthering my studies at Emerson College and pursuing Journalism and Pre-Law, I hope to make a difference in people's lives, with God by my side. My faith will always be a guiding force, allowing me to achieve greater things, because even when I feel as though I am alone, I will never lose faith again. I am endlessly grateful for this opportunity and that it was put in my path.

As I searched up mental health on my school-issued device for the health presentation that was tasked, it defined it as "a person's condition with regard to their psychological well-being". Reading it for what felt like the twentieth time, I did not find it that simple, nor did it feel that way. The first time I had heard of mental health, I was about ten, sitting in a room with bright white lights and little colour, as a woman asked questions to understand how I felt. She asked if I had ever heard of or was familiar with mental health. To my understanding, at the time, it had to do with feelings. She explained that, although it involved feelings, it was more complex. "Some people feel certain ways sometimes, where they may no longer feel like themselves, and it is completely out of their control," was the way she defined it. "It's like a disease that affects your mind; you might not even feel anything physically." A couple of years later, I was sitting in a room with white lights that no longer felt bright but dull. Fidgeting with my thumbs, wondering how much longer I had to sit there. Although the silence was pleasant, I was uncomfortable and had not felt comfortable in a while. I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression. Those words may mean little to many people, yet for the first time in years, I felt seen in ways only certain people understand. I was no longer just sad or stressed out; I had a reason to struggle. I felt as though I was no longer making excuses for myself. Most people are not relieved to be diagnosed with an illness, yet I was, as there was a genuine reason for how I felt. I had spent the last couple of years in my own thoughts, finding little to live for. Waking up every morning doing the same things, like an endless suffocation loop. I was drowning. Day by day, I was losing my urge to fight the water as it slowly took me down with the current. Little did I know the disease was just picking me apart. Trying to remember the things that made me feel, yet those were dissolving too. Happy memories, wanting to see my friends, sports... The water then proceeded to dissolve my needs: my hunger, thirst, need to get out of bed, and the need to see the sun. After feeling so little for so long, I was introduced to substances. Although they did not cure me, I began to feel again. Not emotionally, yet it felt like it, or at least something close to it. Dabbling with things here and there, not seeing the harm, and doing more when it started to not feel like enough. Eventually, it stopped feeling like a solution; I no longer felt as I had at the beginning; it was just a routine. The disease was no longer the only thing drowning me; substances added weights, causing it to happen quicker. Nevertheless, the weights were quickly snatched from me after a near-death experience that had nothing to do with substances, which opened my eyes to a lot of things. My reasons for doing them and the lack of feeling I was getting from them. I was no longer doing them for the same reason I started. As scared as I was in that moment, I am eternally grateful I got clarity, as it was slowly taking me from my family, even more than the rift I had already created. Yet the other reason the substances were cut out was, as with any one of my other "needs" at the time, they no longer felt special, dissolved by the water. Taken by the current. Sitting in that room, with the lights no longer bright and the minimal color I no longer acknowledged, I was offered solutions. Solutions to pull me out of this water, solutions to ease the fight-or-flight my body was constantly in. That diagnosis was a breath of fresh air, but there was still work to be done. I got clean and started weekly therapy sessions, and although I am not cured, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I can get up and find joy in the little things. So as I sat with my school-issued device, doing research on mental health, I defined it as, "a person's condition with regard to their psychological well-being that not necessarily affects the physical body, associated with helping mental illness." As I further my studies and pursue a career in law, I hope to one day defend people who need it. Including people who go through the internal battles I once did.