When I reflect on my relationship with mental health, I am greeted with a bittersweet paradox. While I have personally struggled with mental health, I've felt lucky that I have not fallen victim to the deepest depths that mental illness encompasses. Conversely, I come from a family that is deeply troubled with chronic mental illness, substance abuse, and physical illness. My family is incredible, and when I think about them, my heart is filled with warmth; but this feeling is quickly overtaken by a feeling that I can only describe as my heart being consumed by a void. I have dealt with death since I was young, losing my grandmother when I was nine. Her passing was very troubling for me, but I was a child and I focused on what I could see. My family took my grandma's passing very hard, particularly plaguing my grandpa, mom, and older brother with deep sorrow. The only way I knew to handle this situation was to listen and not contribute to their sadness. While depression, bipolar depression, and anxiety were already present in my aforementioned family members, their symptoms only progressed after my grandmother. I watched as my family was consumed with substance abuse issues. My brother's substance abuse quickly became our focus at this time, as he was self-medicating with a dangerous mixture of pills and liquor to numb his pain each night. I cannot forget the night that his friends brought him to our house at 2 in the morning and dumped him in our driveway because the deadweight of his body was too much to carry. He had severe alcohol poisoning that nearly took his life at 16. I remember riding with my mom as we followed his ambulance, peering in through the back window to see his seemingly lifeless face. My brother has been clean for over 5 years now and his intelligence and work ethic continue to inspire me. However, with his determination to stay off of all substances, he has no barriers to protect him from his looming suicidal ideation. While my brother was dealing with his struggles, my mom was struggling with her health. I watched her struggle to find a doctor that could tell her why she was sickly. After seeking dozens of doctors, she was finally diagnosed with an immune deficiency. She was forced to medically retire from her dream job as a firefighter because her body couldn't keep up. She was no longer able to go to public events, forcing her to miss her kids' sporting events, performances, and graduations. Her good days consisted of having enough energy to sit down while she talked with us, always trying to hide her pain behind her loving smile. I often found myself waking up sobbing after night terrors, deading the thought that she would not last forever. She passed suddenly two years ago at 47. I remember calling my older brother's girlfriend in the middle of the night so that she could be there when I told him, as I knew this news could risk him taking his own life. Words cannot describe how much we miss her, and what we would give to have one more memory. I am now the matriarch of my family, and I try to live up to my mom's memory in every way I can. Her compassion and care have motivated me to go into nursing so that I can share her warmth with physically and mentally unwell patients. I will hold their hands, just as I held my mom's, as they face their darkest days.