I fought a quiet war no one else could see for most of my life. Obsessive-compulsive disorder and anxiety were not words I could use to describe what I was experiencing when I was a kid, those were things that haunted me, rituals I performed to keep the fear away, thoughts that whirled round and round in my brain like a scratched CD. I didn't have words for my suffering, and when I tried to speak, I was shut down or worse- dismissed. My Mexican mother, like many in our culture, perceived mental illness not as illness but as weakness, disrespect, or even drama. "No estás loca," she'd say, waving off my panic attacks. "Échale ganas." Try harder. Pray more. Clean your room. Stop crying. But mental illness doesn't disappear when you act like it isn't there. It gets quieter, more subtle. My OCD masqueraded in perfectionism and high grades. My anxiety wrapped itself in busyness, not being able to sit still, fear of messing up, of being messed up. I learned that if I just worked harder, I could find peace. What I didn't realize was that the peace that I was seeking would not arrive through working harder; it would arrive through healing. Therapy was my wake-up call. To sit across from someone who listened without judgment and who named what I had carried for so long called everything into question. I wasn't broken, I was hurting. And there was a way out. I learned that my brain, though wired differently, wasn't the enemy. I learned that my rituals weren't weird; they were coping mechanisms. And most importantly, I learned that my pain could be turned into purpose. I studied psychology not because it was the popular or easy choice to make, but because I needed to understand myself, and eventually, to help others like me understand themselves, too. When I told it to my family, they frowned. "¿Psicología? Eso no da de comer." But I did not take this path for convenience. I understand what it's like to fear your mind. I've felt what it's like to long to be safe in your own body. I want to be the kind of therapist who can offer that safety, especially to someone who has never known it. There's a deep isolation that comes with misunderstanding, especially where mental illness will be seen as a weakness or something to pray away. I want to be a bridge between science and culture, between pain and healing. I want to validate the inner lives of those who are made invisible. My Mexican heritage is not a weakness; it's part of my resilience. It enables me to understand the nuances of cultural stigma, the weight of silence passed from generations, and the power of resilience. I wish to construct places where folks feel safe enough to unravel. I wish to battle early intervention in Latino youth, open up bilingual access to mental health, and deconstruct the expectation that suffering has to be hidden. I wish to educate individuals, especially young people, that what they're feeling is real, that their fights are valid, and that recovery is possible. Mental illness is not a moral deficiency. It is not shameful. It is something to be understood, treated, and cared for with compassion. What I have learned along the way is that the mind can be both a battlefield and a sanctuary, and I am committed to helping others build sanctuaries of their own.

"You talk too much," I remember my mom repeatedly telling me growing up. "Please- I need a few moments of silence," she would say, and every time without fail, it would make me feel so bad about myself. I didn't mean to be annoying, I remember thinking to myself- I was just excited and hoped that I could share those feelings with someone I truly loved. Eventually, though, I learned to tone myself down. I became quieter in the hope that I wouldn't annoy my mom anymore. However, she eventually started complaining that I was so quiet and never talked anymore, only keeping to myself. I felt like I couldn't win. If I showed her the truest most authentic version of myself, I was too much for her, giving her headaches. If I conformed to her expectations, I was antisocial and moody. It was exhausting balancing such a fine line between the two, making sure that I didn't annoy her when I was bubbling with so much excitement and all I wanted to do was talk, but also not be too silent to where she would get annoyed and make me feel bad about that as well. It wasn't until I heard of Chappell Roan that I began to feel as if I should unapologetically be myself. So brazen and wild, standing firm on her political stances, standing up for herself in such a cutthroat industry that doesn't prioritize the wellbeing of its artists, and wearing such beautiful and elaborate outfits that some may deem to be extra, she has truly inspired me. Hearing her song Pink Pony Club, where she sings about needing to do her and live her life the way she feels drawn to do so, really spoke to me in ways that I cannot describe. The fact that she stands so firm in who she is and doesn't let anyone diminish her craft, is something truly amazing. It has helped me realize that not everyone is going to like me, and I will be 'too much' for some and 'too little' for others, and that's okay! As long as I am happy with who I am and the energy that I am putting out into this world, then that's all that matters. I cannot keep living a life where I am suppressing the most important parts of myself, hiding them from people who I love. Despite not appealing to everyone, I will always support her career. She has done so much for so many different communities and truly just embraces her individuality in a society where some do not want her to do that. Even though she receives quite a bit of hate online, she stays true to herself, and if anything, doubles down. Such a strong artist who is willing to stand on her beliefs is exactly what is needed in today's world, as that's how important change begins to take form. In a world that is becoming scarier to live in day by day, we need trail-blazing and bold artists such as Chappell to stand on important beliefs, doubling down on what is important for the betterment of society.