4x4 Word Grid TRIGGER | TONE | CHIP | GUN STOIC | HOOK | BLUE | SPIRAL WILD | PLOT | DRY | STEP CARD | LINE | CONFLICT | BITTER Category Names and Explanations: 1. Addiction and Recovery (Words: Step, Trigger, Dry, Chip) These words reflect common language in recovery: “steps” represent forward motion, “triggers” signal risk, “dry” means sober, and “chips” are those small but mighty milestones. I chose this group because these aren’t just terms I’ve heard—they’re pieces of my past. Recovery taught me that the simplest words often carry the heaviest weight. And yes, I’ve held the chip. 2. Things You Can Draw (Words: Line, Spiral, Card, Gun) These are all things you can draw—on paper, from a deck, or in a moment of suspense. This category plays with language in the way I love most: one word, multiple meanings. “Spiral” might look like a doodle, or it might describe your day. “Card” could be part of a game—or part of your identity. I’ve always been drawn to flexible words. Pun intended. 3. Literary Elements (Words: Plot, Hook, Tone, Conflict) Plot gives a story shape, tone sets the mood, conflict drives the action, and hook keeps us reading. These are the pillars of storytelling—and they’ve been a huge part of my life. I’ve used them as a teacher, a writer, and a person trying to make sense of the messy narrative that is life. Whether crafting a short story or surviving a plot twist of my own, these elements help me stay on the page. 4. Feelings and Emotions (Words: Stoic, Blue, Wild, Bitter) These aren’t your standard mood ring emotions. They’re layered, often unspoken, and easy to misread—just like people. I picked this group because I’ve lived all four. I’ve been stoic when I needed to survive, felt blue more times than I can count, gone wild with hurt or joy, and yes—carried bitterness until I learned how to let it go. Naming emotions like these isn’t easy. But I’ve learned how to try. This puzzle is more than wordplay—it’s a reflection of how I think, how I heal, and how I create. I chose categories that challenge assumptions, just like real life does. Recovery, emotional nuance, storytelling, and strategic thinking are all parts of who I am. I love puzzles that make you pause, reconsider what you think you know, and find the deeper connection beneath the obvious. That’s how I approach life—and that’s the kind of clarity and complexity I aim to bring to everything I do.

“Recover out loud so others don’t die in silence.” That line isn’t just a mantra. It’s a memory—of the nights I curled into myself, too numb to cry. Of the mornings I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the girl staring back. Of the desperate prayers for God to either take me or save me. Addiction taught me how to disappear. Recovery helped me find my voice. It started as a whisper, heavy with shame. But that whisper became a voice—audible, steady, unafraid. A voice I now use—boldly, intentionally, and without apology. Because silence nearly killed me. And if I can spare someone else that fate, then I’ll keep speaking up—again and again—until silence no longer wins. Substance abuse was never part of my plan. I was the “smart one,” the girl with potential. I had just earned my teaching degree—everything was falling into place on paper. But addiction doesn’t ask for credentials—and it sure doesn’t discriminate. It snuck in quietly, disguised as relief. I functioned in active addiction for nearly a decade—many of those years spent as a licensed and highly respected teacher. From the outside, I appeared accomplished. Inside, I was unraveling. I didn’t just wake up one day and choose to destroy myself. I woke up one day and realized I already had. Recovery wasn’t a straight path—it never is. Every stumble, every detox, every raw conversation in rehab and sober living carved the woman I am now. And I don’t resent those years anymore. I honor them. Because they gave me the eyes to see people in pain—not as weak, but as warriors. It taught me that empathy isn’t optional when you’ve held on at rock bottom. I know what it’s like to lose everything—your sense of self, your family’s trust, your own identity. And when you know that kind of loss, you feel others’ pain at your core. That’s why I’m pursuing a Master’s in Clinical Mental Health Counseling—to help others navigate the same storm I barely survived. I want to sit with people in their darkest hours and say, “You’re not broken. You’re becoming.” I want to turn the lessons I bled for into a lantern I can hold for someone else. Healing is contagious when shared in love and truth. When I read Deanna Ellis’s story, I saw myself. Our stories may differ, but our hearts beat alike. In her memorial bio, it says: “Deanna was a wonderfully kind person who dealt with many struggles in life. Regardless of what she was going through, she would always give to others.” That sentence brought tears to my eyes. Because that’s what addicts do. Even when stripped of dignity, we offer our last cigarette, our last dollar, our last ounce of energy to someone who needs it more. We are relentless givers—sometimes to a fault. But it’s that same instinct that, in recovery, becomes our greatest strength. In the recovery community, we don’t say “I.” We say “we.” Because no one heals alone. Deanna’s legacy lives on in each of us who fights to reclaim our lives and lift others in the process. This scholarship is more than financial help—it’s an act of love. A ripple of healing. A chance for Deanna to keep giving, even now. I’m not ashamed of my past. I carry it like a torch. I recover out loud—not for applause, but for the girl I used to be. For the next addict who thinks they’re too far gone. And for Deanna—whose giving spirit reminds us that even in our lowest moments, we can still choose to be a light.

I didn’t slip through the cracks—I plummeted through a chasm so wide, it's a miracle no one saw me fall. I was thirteen when my mom was arrested for drug possession and I went to live with my dad in Illinois. For a moment, I felt safe. But just over a year later, Mom regained custody—methodically, surreptitiously—and brought my sister and me back to Texas before my dad could stop it. I thought he didn’t fight for me. Now I know he wasn’t given the chance. She was newly clean, fresh out of drug court, but in no shape to parent. The system never questioned it. A few months before I finally asked for help, my mom, sister, and I were in a car wreck. Mom was under the influence and fell asleep behind the wheel, slamming into a telephone pole. Paramedics rushed us to the ER, and I remember blatantly telling a nurse my mom had fallen asleep while driving. No one separated us for questioning. No toxicology report was conducted. No CPS report filed. We were sent home, and my sister and I went to school the next day, like nothing had ever happened. The day I finally broke—the day I told the truth—was met with the same silence. It was early 2005, and we were late for a doctor’s appointment that morning. Mom was combative and violent, locking herself in the bathroom for too long before we left. I knew what she was doing. I had learned to tell by the sounds, the silences, the subtle shift in her mood. She dropped me off at the clinic on base but refused to go in with me. I was told by the provider that I couldn’t be seen without a parent present. I cried and tried to explain, but she made me go and get my mom. When my mom came in, she laid into the doctor, calling me dramatic and saying I didn’t need to be there. No one pulled me aside. No one asked why I was so upset. No one categorized my mother's behaviors as abusive or neglectful. When we left the clinic, I was berated the entire way to school. At a stoplight, I made eye contact with a police officer across the intersection. My eyes pleaded. And, somehow, he pulled us over. He leaned in, looked directly at me, and asked, “Are you okay?” I froze. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I knew if I did, there would be consequences. My mom answered for me, insisting I was just "being a brat." He bought it and let us go. Had he investigated further, he would have found the drugs and paraphernalia in her purse. Instead of taking me to school, she insisted on going home so she could shower. I sat in my room, numb, while she screamed words too hurtful to repeat. With trembling hands, I called my dad in tears and whispered one single word: EAGLE. His response was immediate, "The eagle is flying." He contacted an attorney and boarded a plane the following day. Unlike the countless systems, officers, and institutions that failed me—he did not. He acted more efficiently and more compassionately than anyone else ever had. I didn’t realize it then, but that was my first lesson in what real intervention looks like. Years later, I would experience addiction firsthand. And in that darkness, I finally understood what my mother had been up against. She wasn’t a monster. She was sick, broken, and trapped in a system that never offered meaningful care. She got clean. She relapsed. She survived a stroke. She relapsed again. She got clean again—and stayed that way. She loved my sister and me the best way she could. But I will never forget the way we were failed. No doctor reported what they saw. No teacher asked if I was okay. No police officer looked a little closer. I didn’t fall through the cracks—I was abandoned to them. And I had learned, through the patterns, that no one truly cared. It wasn’t until adulthood that I received my diagnoses: Borderline Personality Disorder, ADHD, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Double Depression. I finally had names for the pain. But before I could learn to manage it, I had to survive it. My breaking point came in 2023, when I spiraled into a violent, self-destructive pattern that ended with a suicide attempt and two psychiatric hospitalizations. I was trying to hold together a toxic relationship, battle addiction, and suppress a lifetime of unresolved trauma. Eventually, I couldn’t fake being okay anymore. I voluntarily entered rehab at Journey Recovery Center in March 2024. And though I relapsed and lost my place in sober living, I never went back to my abusive ex or substances again. That was the last time I let pain dictate my path. Since then, I’ve rebuilt myself from the inside out. I have become an advocate for mental health and addiction recovery. I’m pursuing a graduate degree in counseling with the goal of working with children who, like me, are being overlooked by a system designed to protect them. These kids don’t need to be fixed. They need to be seen. My experiences have taught me what to look for—in a glance, in silence, in signals most people miss. I want to be the person who catches what others disregard. I want to be the one who shows up and keeps showing up. Because when the system fails, someone still has to answer the call. And I will—every time. I’ll be the quiet knock, the open seat, the steady gaze that says, “I see you. You matter. You’re not alone.” I’ll be the one who believes, even when no one else has. Because healing isn’t just about recovery—it’s about reclamation. It’s about choosing, again and again, to reach into the dark and pull someone else toward the light. That’s the work I was made for. And I will never stop answering that call.

It didn’t happen all at once—the unraveling. It was slow, stealthy, and quiet enough that even I didn’t see how broken I’d become. My journey with mental health has been anything but linear. Diagnosed in adulthood with Borderline Personality Disorder, ADHD, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Double Depression—a clinical term for the co-occurrence of Major and Persistent Depressive Disorder, I had spent years suffering in silence. I wasn’t just misunderstood—I was disbelieved, dismissed, and often labeled "too sensitive" or "too much." As a child and teenager, I internalized that silence as shame. But deep down, I always knew my mind wasn’t wired like everyone else’s. I just didn’t know how to ask for help—or if real help was even out there for someone like me. Substance use became a seductive escape—a way to mute the intensity of my emotions and the trauma I endured from an abusive relationship that left me emotionally hollow and dangerously isolated. In October 2023, after a violent argument with my then-boyfriend—who took off in my car and refused to answer my calls—I spiraled. Drunk, high, and completely unanchored, I fell into my all-too-common pattern of self-harm—my body becoming the battleground for pain I didn’t know how else to express. My phone rang. I answered, expecting my boyfriend, desperate for some sign he still cared. But it was a FaceTime call from one of his friends. It was impossible to hide the blood on my arms. We hung up, and I grabbed the closest pill bottle within reach—dumped handfuls of pills into my mouth and washed them down with a burning cascade of vodka. I crafted an apology and goodbye letter then waited. But someone knocked. When I opened the door to flashing emergency lights and saw the mental health officers and paramedics, I panicked. I remember clutching my dog Hattie and sobbing on the ground, begging them not to take me away from her. I tried to lie, told them it was just Ibuprofen—but when I started throwing up in the officer’s backseat, a paramedic ran over and confirmed it was a Tylenol overdose. The words “this could be fatal” still echo in my mind. I was hospitalized for three days, then transferred to a mental health facility for another three. I wish I could say that was the turning point, but pain doesn’t vanish overnight. My ex picked me up from the hospital—and I found out he’d been cheating on me the entire time I was trying to stay alive. We broke up, but I took him back--starved for love and desperate to feel whole. In November, I was admitted to another mental health facility after fresh self-inflicted wounds and another emotional collapse. I was angry at the world, but mostly at myself. I wanted to be okay, but I didn’t yet believe I deserved it. What finally forced change wasn’t a single epiphany—it was a breaking point. When my ex was arrested—again, and I discovered yet another betrayal, something in me snapped—not in destruction this time, but in clarity. I ended the relationship for good after a final assault I didn't bother to number. I entered rehab in March 2024 and, despite a relapse that cost me my spot in sober living, I never returned to him or drugs again. That was the last time I let pain dictate my path. This time, I fought to stay—and to heal. Through that journey, I gained more than sobriety. I developed a deep understanding of how trauma rewires the brain, how attachment wounds play out in adult relationships, and how often we confuse chaos for love because it's all we've ever known. I now view mental health not through the lens of weakness, but of complexity and courage. I no longer see myself as broken—but as rebuilding. Because of my lived experience, I now see mental health as intimately human—demanding compassion, patience, and an unrelenting commitment to dismantle stigma. I want to be the person I needed when I was young: a steady, empathetic adult who speaks the language of emotional chaos and teaches children to translate their pain through play, art, and expression. That’s why I am pursuing my graduate degree in Professional Counseling, with a focus on play and art therapy. My profound ambition is to work with children who are navigating grief, trauma, neurodivergence, and/or addiction in their homes. These kids do not need to be “fixed”—they need to be heard, honored, and helped to heal. Having a more informed understanding of mental health has significantly shaped and impacted my relationships. I’ve learned that boundaries are acts of love, that trust is earned carefully, and that vulnerability is not weakness but holy ground. My experiences have sharpened my ability to sit with others in their sorrow, to recognize pain behind performance, and to respond to breakdowns with grace instead of judgment. My perception of the world is now rooted in the belief that healing is possible—even for the most wounded parts of us. And not only is it possible, it’s contagious. The more we normalize honest and authentic conversations about mental health, the more space we create for others to step into their own recovery story. My future legacy won’t be measured in titles or income—it will be measured in the children who feel safe in my office, who pick up a paintbrush and finally find the words they didn’t know they were allowed to express. That kind of healing doesn’t happen instantly. It comes in layers, in loss, in hard goodbyes, in late-night prayers, and the quiet courage of showing up just one more day. Never underestimate the power of a cycle breaker. Not only did I endure years of trauma, addiction, and self-doubt—I stood in the face of it all and said, “This ends with me.” That’s not just brave. That’s legacy. I am not broken. I'm breaking cycles. And that—more than any degree or diagnosis—is the most sacred work I could ever do.