I have walked through the world carrying invisible things. For a long time, I didn’t have the words for them—only absence, the buzzing of anxiety, the way food became both enemy and comfort. The shadow of depression that made brushing my teeth feel like swimming through molasses. And then this year, I lost my dog—my soul companion, my reason to get out of bed—after a traumatic and preventable experience at a veterinary hospital. That loss opened a floodgate of unprocessed grief and trauma from decades of living in a body and a brain that have never felt entirely safe. But even as I have struggled, I have learned how to survive through storytelling. I am a children’s librarian, a PhD student, a researcher, and an writer. I’ve begun to stitch together the pain I’ve endured into stories that speak to others. Through research on how fairy tales can both harm and heal, through public lectures and professional trainings, and through sharing my own story, I am working to build a world where vulnerability is not weakness, where mental illness is not stigmatized or shameful. My experience with mental health has fundamentally reshaped my understanding of ambition. For years, I thought success was about achievements—degrees, promotions, publications. Now, I understand that the real work is inner. Success, to me, means showing up with compassion—for myself and others. It means honoring the grief I carry. It means rejecting a culture that demands we smile through pain, diet our bodies into nothingness, or fix our brokenness before we speak. Instead, I speak from the brokenness. I speak through Through loss, I’ve found a sense of calling: I want to create spaces—physical, academic, artistic, and emotional—where others feel seen. Where children can learn early that feelings are not flaws. Where adults can stop apologizing for being “too much.” Where trauma is met not with silence but with care. The death of my dog may seem like a strange catalyst for this kind of transformation. But Opal was my everything. I got her when I was in treatment for an eating disorder. Her hunger, her joy, her wildness taught me how to live. And when she died under conditions I couldn’t control, I broke open. I am rebuilding. I have panic attacks. I grieve so hard some days I can’t sleep. But I keep going—not in spite of that pain, but because of it. Because I know I’m not the only one. And because I believe that my survival can be a lifeline to someone else. My relationships are now grounded in depth and honesty. I have less tolerance for surface conversations or pretending everything is fine. I talk with my students, colleagues, and friends about anxiety, about loss, about the ways our bodies remember what our minds want to forget. And I listen when they open up in return. I no longer think of mental health as something we each manage privately. It is a shared story. It is community. It is a collective act of remembering we are not alone. I aspire to build a foundation in memory of Opal that supports grief storytelling, mental health education, and the connection between animal companionship and healing. I envision picture books that gently tell the truth about loss. I envision workshops where people write their way through their grief. I envision public libraries and schools becoming sanctuaries for the emotionally overwhelmed. And I believe I can help make that happen. I do not write this essay as someone who has “overcome” her mental health struggles. I write this as someone still deep in it, but who is learning how to live alongside the grief and illness, not in denial of them. I believe that is how we destigmatize mental health—not by pretending it’s over, but by showing what it looks like to live through it, every day. If I am awarded this scholarship, it won’t just help me financially. It will affirm that stories like mine—messy, painful, unfinished—are worth telling. It will help me continue to write, teach, and advocate for a world where healing is not a secret. Thank you for creating this scholarship in honor of a woman who, like so many, did not get the support she needed in time. Her story fuels my own.

Living Big: My Story with Kidney Disease In my early twenties, my body gave out without warning. One minute, I was standing in my kitchen. The next, I was on the floor, frightened, half-conscious, and then rushed to the hospital. What followed were three long weeks of tests and uncertainty, until the doctors finally found the answer: IgA nephropathy, a chronic, autoimmune kidney disease where an IgA protein meant to protect instead attacks the kidneys, letting blood and protein leak into my sustem. At first, it was overwhelming.The disease brought pain—especially the deep, aching back pain of Loin Pain Hematuria Syndrome. It also brought a profound kind of exhaustion, fueled by anemia and low blood pressure. Ordinary sicknesses became bigger threats. Even something like the flu could land me in the hospital if I wasn't careful. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, my doctor warned me to take strict precautions. I spent almost two years completely out of public spaces—no grocery stores, no restaurants, no gatherings—until I had received multiple vaccinations. It was a lonely and challenging time. But it also taught me resilience I didn’t know I had. Living with IgA nephropathy means living with uncertainty. My disease could stay stable, or it could progress. I don’t have control over everything. But what I do have control over is how I choose to live. And I have chosen to live big. I fill my life with connections to friends, family, and spirituality. Yoga and mindful movement have become lifelines, keeping my body alive and my spirit grounded. I work with kids every day as a children's librarian, storytelling and building their early literacy skills. I have learned to listen to my body without letting it silence my dreams of researching and storytelling. I've found strength in connecting with others who face similar invisible battles. Each conversation reminds me: we are never as alone as we sometimes feel. Most of all, this journey has clarified my purpose. I know now, without question, that I want to be part of building a better world—especially for the next generation of girls. There are so many challenges waiting for them: physical illnesses, mental health struggles, grief, trauma, loneliness. I want them to know that none of these hardships erase their worth. I want them to know their voices matter, even when—especially when—life feels hard. I want to help them tell their stories, to celebrate both what makes them unique and what binds us all together in shared humanity. Kidney disease has shaped my path, but it has not dimmed it. It has taught me that strength is not the absence of pain, but the willingness to keep loving, moving, and dreaming even in the face of it. It has taught me that resilience is a quiet, daily choice. It has shown me how deeply we need each other—to listen, to lift each other up, to remind one another of the beauty and power we carry inside us. I believe the best way to honor the life I have is to live it fully—and to help others, especially young girls, believe in their own strength too. Because when we choose courage over fear, connection over isolation, and compassion over judgment, we don’t just heal ourselves—we give hope for the future.