Living with ADHD, anxiety, and depression while pursuing my education has been both a challenge and a transformative journey. These experiences don’t just influence my academic performance, they shape how I move through the world, how I connect with others, and how I care for myself. Managing my mental health while attending school requires intention, structure, and a lot of grace. ADHD means my brain is constantly juggling thoughts, ideas, and distractions. I often describe it as having a thousand tabs open at once, with music playing on several of them. Tasks that seem simple to others, initiating assignments, organizing materials, prioritizing deadlines, can feel paralyzing. I’ve spent too many nights frozen by overwhelm, frustrated by the gap between my potential and my ability to execute. Anxiety compounds this experience: when I fall behind or feel disorganized, my brain floods with self-doubt and worry, sometimes pushing me into a spiral of perfectionism or avoidance. Depression, on the other hand, shows up as heaviness. On those days, it’s not about disinterest or laziness, it is about fighting through fog just to get out of bed and show up. Academically, these internal battles aren’t always visible, but they’re constant. I often work twice as hard behind the scenes just to meet the same expectations. But these challenges have also made me more creative, more empathetic, and more resilient. They’ve forced me to learn how I function best, and to build strategies that support, not suppress, how my brain works. In my personal life, these mental health challenges affect how I manage routines, relationships, and responsibilities. I’ve had to be honest with myself and others about my limits, especially when it comes to energy. Social plans, parenting, and even joyful activities can feel draining when I’m masking symptoms or trying to push through without support. But I’ve also learned that vulnerability builds connection. Being open about my mental health has brought the right people closer, people who see me fully and offer understanding, not judgment. To prioritize my mental health, I’ve created systems that help me stay grounded and focused. I rely on tools like visual schedules, digital reminders, and structured routines to manage my ADHD. I break big tasks into smaller steps, and I reward progress, not just completion. I’ve also committed to therapy, where I work on cognitive strategies for managing anxiety and coping tools for when depression hits. Movement, mindfulness, and medication have each played a role in keeping me balanced. Equally important, I’ve learned to shift my self-talk. Instead of criticizing myself for what I struggle with, I try to approach those moments with compassion. I remind myself that asking for help, taking a break, or needing extra time doesn’t mean I’m failing, it means I’m taking care of myself in a way that allows me to succeed long-term. I’ve stopped chasing the idea of perfection and started focusing on sustainability. As a board certified behavior analyst and doctoral student, my experiences with ADHD, anxiety, and depression aren’t just personal, they inform my professional values. I work with neurodiverse students every day, and I see how misunderstood mental health can be, especially in school settings. My journey has deepened my empathy and strengthened my advocacy. I want to be the kind of professional who not only understands the science behind behavior, but also honors the humanity behind each student’s experience. Prioritizing my mental health allows me to model that balance for the kids and families I serve, and that’s a responsibility I take to heart.

As an autistic, queer woman, wife, mother, and graduate student, my mental and physical health is not just important, it’s essential to my survival, my success, and my impact. I live in the tension between joy and exhaustion daily. I am raising two autistic daughters in an LGBTQ+ blended family. I work full-time as a Board Certified Behavior Analyst supporting neurodiverse students in public schools, while also pursuing my doctorate in special education. And I am doing it all while navigating systems not built for people like us. For those of us in the LGBTQ+ community, especially those who are neurodivergent and parenting while pursuing higher education, wellness is often framed as a luxury. But for me, wellness is the foundation that keeps everything from falling apart. It’s what allows me to show up for my children as a gentle, regulated parent. It’s what allows me to advocate fiercely for inclusion, equity, and representation in education. And it’s what allows me to persevere in academic spaces where I don’t often see people who look or live like me. Mental health is especially important to me because I’ve experienced what happens when it’s ignored or unsupported. Coming out cost me relationships with my biological family. I’ve felt the weight of rejection and shame. I’ve battled anxiety and executive functioning challenges that made even the smallest tasks feel insurmountable. Yet, I’ve learned to lean into authenticity rather than hide from it. Through therapy, medication, community, and an ongoing commitment to self-compassion, I’ve begun rewriting the narrative. One of the biggest challenges I face is the pressure to be everything to everyone—partner, parent, professional, and student, all while masking my own needs. I am constantly managing the invisible labor of care: therapy appointments, school meetings, insurance battles, sensory supports, and self-regulation for my kids and for myself. There’s often no roadmap, and little rest. And still, I show up, because I know what’s at stake. Prioritizing my wellness is an act of resistance and of self-love. I engage in reflexive journaling, take sensory breaks, lean on a community of LGBTQ+ friends and neurodivergent peers, and remind myself that burnout is not a badge of honor. I advocate for inclusive healthcare, for trauma-informed care in schools, and for LGBTQ+ visibility in systems where we are often erased. I’m not just maintaining my health for me, I’m modeling what sustainable, authentic leadership looks like for others in my community. I want to create a future where queer, neurodivergent students don’t have to fight so hard just to feel seen. I want my daughters to grow up knowing that their worth is never tied to how well they mask, how quiet they stay, or how "normal" they seem. I want to finish my doctorate so I can use my voice to challenge inequities in education and help create more affirming, accessible spaces for all students. This scholarship wouldn’t just support my education, it would affirm that my story, my struggles, and my care matter. And in a world that often asks us to shrink, that kind of affirmation is powerful.

If I could design a class that every K-12 student in the country would be required to take, it would be a course on Neurodiversity, Identity & Empathy. This class would center on understanding the full spectrum of human brains and experiences, embracing differences, and fostering inclusive communities rooted in compassion and curiosity rather than compliance and conformity. As an autistic adult, LGBTQ+ individual, and mother to two autistic daughters, I’ve witnessed how early misunderstandings about behavior, communication, and identity can lead to exclusion, bullying, and trauma, especially for neurodivergent kids and those who live outside the “norm.” In my work as a Board Certified Behavior Analyst, I’ve seen the deep impact that a lack of awareness and empathy can have in classrooms, where students are often misunderstood, mislabeled, or left without the tools they need to connect with others, or even understand themselves. This class would begin in the early grades with accessible, engaging lessons that normalize neurological and sensory differences, why some students use headphones, flaps their hands when excited, or need movement breaks. As students progress, the class would incorporate age-appropriate learning on mental health, identity development (including LGBTQ+ experiences), intersectionality, and trauma-informed perspectives. Students would learn about real-world accommodations, communication styles, and self-advocacy. Importantly, the curriculum would be co-designed with neurodivergent and LGBTQ+ voices, ensuring authenticity and lived-experience leadership. The class would not only educate, it would transform school culture. Students would grow up with the language and skills to understand themselves and others with greater depth. They’d be less likely to fear difference, more likely to intervene in injustice, and better prepared to lead with empathy in a complex world. I believe it would decrease bullying, increase classroom belonging, and foster emotionally intelligent communities where all students feel seen, heard, and safe being themselves. Far too often, we wait until young people are in crisis to teach these lessons. But what if we began early, before the stigma, shame, and systemic gaps took root? What if all students were taught that difference is not something to fix or fear, but something to understand and celebrate? I believe this class could be a powerful step toward not only inclusion, but liberation, for students like mine, and for students like yours. Ultimately, my hope is that by equipping students with empathy and awareness early on, we can build schools, and a world, that embraces every learner, every identity, and every beautiful variation of what it means to be human.