For nine years, she was my knight in shining armor. This December, I will mark ten years of having a guardian angel. My aunt, Caryn Hyatt-Suthoff, was always my hero. Out of six children, she was the only one to pursue a higher education, just like I wanted to do. I was eager to follow in her footsteps. I would be educated, kind, beautiful inside and out. I eventually did become those things, I like to think, but I had to do it without her here. When she was twenty-four, newly wed and starting her career as an elementary teacher, she went to the doctor for unusual pains. These visits yielded no results until September. Then, on Labor Day, the news was broken that Caryn had been diagnosed with cancer. Because it went untreated for so long, it spread to the point of being unidentifiable. However, the assumption was made that it was stomach cancer. It's an aggressive sickness with no real cause and very few treatments options past the early stages. After months of fighting, Caryn finally got her rest. She passed late in the evening, three weeks before Christmas and a month before her twenty-fifth birthday. I was in the third grade at the time and utterly unable to cope with this jarring loss. At the funeral, I didn't cry. I had to take care of my cousins, I had to watch over my grandmother, I had to be angry at my parents for not bringing my baby brother. I had to do anything but acknowledge that the aunt that had always lived just five minutes down the road was never coming back. That was around the time that I began to write. I created short stories about teenage ghosts and tragic deaths and all the things that little girls probably shouldn't be writing about. I saw the concern in my mom's face, but she still let me use her computer to write. Through those dark, sad stories, there was hope. I gave all of my characters the chance to say goodbye. I gave each of them peace. I'm in my freshman year at Auburn University, studying pre-Journalism and English. This is no surprise to anyone that knows me. In this line of work, I will be able to bring some peace to my family. One day, I will be able to tell mine and Caryn's stories to the world. I will advocate for women's health in my writings. I may not be able to bring my aunt back, but I can help all the other women who have been ignored and dismissed in healthcare. Most of all, though, I will give us a happy ending. I will tell my guardian angel that she doesn't have to worry about me anymore. Until then, though, I'm happy to have her looking over my shoulder, watching me write.

In the picture frame on my dresser, my mom stands tall in a white dress, one hand clutching her new degree, the other hand in mine. She's beaming at the camera, shining pride in her eyes. I'm gazing up at her in awe. She has just graduated nursing school at twenty-seven, pregnant with her second child, and working tirelessly the entire way there. This moment, eleven years ago, captures the instance I learned what kind of life a higher education could give me. Higher education is not a priority in my small, low-income community. Blue-collar labor is the standard, and attempting to pursue anything above that is seen as a risky waste of time and money. Why make that gamble when, as a woman, you have two options: go into a trade, or marry a man who can make you a stay-at-home mom? Neither are bad choices, but I have always craved something more. A life in which I supported myself. A life in which I wasn't restrained by the ropes of poverty. A life in which I could become the first of my seventeen cousins to attend college. A life I know I can only achieve by pursuing a higher education. My mom's higher education has provided her with endless career opportunities and the ability to work a job she truly enjoys. I will follow in her footsteps, but I hope to be able to provide an even better life for my family. Over a decade later, my mom is still paying off her student loans, even though she worked throughout her entire schooling. With the ever-increasing price of college, I worry about falling into this cycle of debt. Going into journalism, I want to use my degree to make a difference in rural communities, much like the one I have spent my entire life in. With this scholarship, I would be able to pursue a career in journalism and join Rural News Network, an organization dedicated to providing rural citizens with fast, reliable news, to which they might otherwise not have access. The girls in low-income Alabama towns deserve to know that there are more career options out there than what they see around them. My mom taught me that a better life is available--with this scholarship, I will be able to teach the young girls of today that we can build a better future than the women of our past ever dreamed of.

'Clean', the thirteenth track off of Taylor Swift's '1989' album, reminds me of the hardest period of my life and my journey to overcome it. There are many ways to interpret its melancholic, bittersweet lyrics. Though Ms. Swift likely wrote the song about moving on from a toxic relationship, I relate it to my own experience with anorexia. When I was fourteen, plagued with severe anxiety and depression, I developed restrictive anorexia nervosa. For months, my days were nothing more than counting calories and trying to survive. On my fifteenth birthday, I cried in a restaurant bathroom because I couldn't handle the idea of eating an entire plate of food. I began my recovery journey in November 2020. It was a tumultuous journey, filled with relapses and heartache for both myself and my loved ones. The lyrics to 'Clean' symbolize it best. "It was months and months of back and forth," The last time I counted and recorded my calorie intake was December 16th, 2020. Counting was addictive. It soothed the ache in my mind that felt so out of control. However, deep down, I knew I wasn't really in control. The calories were controlling me, not the other way around. "The water filled my lungs, I screamed so loud/But no one heard a sound," Eating disorders can turn even the most pleasant, easy-going people into irritable aggressors. Though I would like to be able to say I was above those mood swings, I was certainly no exception. In those early months of recovery, I was furious at the world. I couldn't understand why I needed to get better. I couldn't understand why no one had helped me earlier. I couldn't understand why this had happened to me. "10 months sober, I must admit/Just because you're clean don't mean you don't miss it," Some months were easier than others. On the sixteenth of every month, I congratulated myself on my progress, even if I absolutely hated it. There were times I cried and pleaded to just count calories for one more day, just one more time. Despite the overwhelming temptation, I never gave in. Though there were times I relapsed, I never gave back into that specific addiction. That is what I am most proud of. "Now that I'm clean, I'm never gonna risk it," Slowly, that rage faded. Through many therapy sessions and lots of self-examination, I began to understand. My eating disorder wasn't anyone's fault, including my own. I had avoided help for so long out of fear, but that didn't mean I was undeserving of support and love. "Gone was any trace of you, I think I am finally clean," December 16th, 2023 will mark three years clean of counting calories. On occasion, I still struggle to remain clean. During stressful times, I itch for a calculator and nutrition label. Still, I resist. I worked so hard for my recovery, I refuse to throw it away for a brief moment of pseudo-control that I know I will regret. ‘Clean’ has guided me through relapses and crises in my recovery. I will forever be grateful for this song and the profound impact it had on my journey. Taylor explained it better than I will ever be able to. "I am finally clean."

The dream version of my future self is a confident, courageous woman who has never stopped fighting for the life, career, and pathway she knows she deserves.

She went from being my knight in shining armor to my guardian angel. My aunt, Caryn Hyatt, was my hero for as long as I can remember. I was eager to please her. She was everything I wanted to be in life. College-educated, kind, beautiful inside and out. I worshipped the ground she walked on, and even now, I find myself still trying to make her proud. Caryn was the only one of six children to attend college. She graduated with an elementary teaching degree, and everyone agreed that it suited her. She had a kind, gentle soul. Everyone was her friend. At our usual Sunday lunch, I proudly announced that I was going to be successful. I was incredibly young, likely no older than seven, but I was determined. Caryn smiled, shook her head, and agreed that our family needed some success. Every day, I remind myself of that brief conversation and try to live up to it. Whether it means giving my best effort at school or setting a good example for my three younger siblings, I try to do as Caryn would have. She was twenty-four when she was diagnosed. Though she had been going to various doctors for months, desperately trying to find the root of her strange stomach problems and fatigue, no one took her seriously until it was too late. By the time they found the cancer, it was untreatable. There was no way to even tell where it had originated. Now, I live in fear that doctors won't take me seriously. Every odd ache and pain feels like a death sentence. However, I am trying to put that anxiety to good use. I am currently researching the history of women's medical needs being ignored and how this is still prevalent today. My goal is to write an essay about this issue and publish it. These problems range from female hysteria to ovarian cancer being mistaken for period pains. No one deserves to have their suffering dismissed. I am determined to see a change. To bring some justice and closure to my family would be the ultimate success. This will mark our ninth year without her. The older I get, the more frustration I feel towards her death. Caryn had a bright future. Even if the cancer had still eventually taken her, I would rest easier at night knowing that those doctors did all they could. But I can't. I lie awake, wondering what her children would have looked like. I wonder if she would still live in the house she bought with her husband, the one he eventually had to sell because it just wasn't the same without her. Most of all, I wonder if she would be proud of me. I wonder if she was smile at me and agree, I have become successful. This is only the beginning of my story. I am determined to make it the best one possible, dedicated to her.