The first time I truly felt seen wasn’t when someone tried to rescue me from my pain- It was when they asked me a question that no one had ever asked before: “Who are you?” For most of my life, I didn’t know how to answer. I had lived through things most children shouldn’t have to, things that still live in me, in ways I can’t quite put into words. There were scars– some visible, some buried and a constant, empty space where my identity should have been. People often looked at my skin and guessed I was “mixed,” and I’d just nod, even though I didn’t really know. I didn’t even know what my ethnicity was until recently. My skin carried a story I couldn’t fully understand of pain, of lost roots, of unanswered questions. And when I was adopted at the age of seven, into a family that finally gave me love and stability, that question who am I? stopped being something I could ignore. If I didn't know where I came from… and if my own body was a map of trauma….then where did I belong? The first time CPS came, I was only a year old. My skull was cracked, my leg was broken. I had been pushed down the stairs, not by accident, but by someone who was supposed to love me. My mother said I had “just fallen.” The system believed her. The bruises faded. But I didn’t. At that moment, though I couldn’t speak yet,something in me: that I wasn’t safe, even in my own home. That love could hurt, and that silence could be deadly. Williams 2 A year later, they came again. I was two. This time, someone poured boiling water on me. Second - and third-degree burns covered my body. I still can’t quite process that level of cruelty. The physical pain was unbearable, but the betrayal yet somehow cut deeper. How do you make sense, at two years old, of the fact that the people who are meant to protect you are the ones who can hurt you the most? I still carry the scars. They’re part of me. They remind me of what I’ve lived through, yes, but also of what I’ve lived past. I spent years learning to trust again, to believe that love could be safe, that I was allowed to belong somewhere. I used to think my story was only made of pain. But now I see something else: Resilience. I didn’t just survive- I kept my heart open. And when someone finally asked me, “Who are you?” I began to answer, not with the scars on my skin, but with the strength I found beneath them. I know what it feels like to be unseen, unheard, and broken in ways that aren’t always visible. But I also know the power of being truly listened to, and having someone care enough to ask, “Who are you?” My past has given me a kind of empathy that can’t be taught in a textbook. I can connect with others, not just because I understand pain, but because I’ve found a way through it. That’s why I want to be a Clinical Psychologist. College, to me, is not just a step toward a career-it’s a space where I can continue healing, growing, and preparing to help others do the same. I carry my scars not as shame, but as proof of who I am today: I’ve survived, I’ve transformed, and I'm ready to make something meaningful out of everything I’ve lived throug