University tuition exponentially continues to increase in the United States. Federal and State grants and scholarships routinely evaporate, causing a nationwide funding drought. Yet, government and private financial sectors push “college” loans on parents and students like crack. Thus, creating mountains, not just mounds, of debt for the young seeking to begin their careers and for the older adults looking to reinvent themselves. I propose one idea to stop the hemorrhage of America’s middle and low-income university students: revise how interest is applied to student loans. Above all, if American policymakers ended higher education student loan interest, students and parents could save tens of thousands of dollars. Doing this would mean the difference in having to pay back $50,000 to $80,000 (for four years or two years of graduate school) rather than $70,000 to over $100,000! For instance, I currently owe roughly $30,000 for two semesters of graduate school. Because my loans have been spared from accruing interest immediately, I simply owe on the principal. However, as soon as interest is reinstated and the COVID policy expires, my loans will begin to accumulate interest of around 3% to 5%. Without doing the math, it is plain to see how quickly the balance will grow. Further, I need to complete three more semesters to obtain my master’s degree. This means that I might need to borrow at least $45,000. So, paying for my advanced degree, which will take at least five semesters, could set me back $75,000—before any interest. Additionally, because I currently struggle with mental health issues (PTSD, depression, anxiety, ADHD), I cannot work. Moreover, I am over 50, single, and have no family members to lean on financially. This degree is my pathway to achieving any kind of financial independence. Sadly, it may be the reason I never reach it. I’m not proposing wiping out my debt. Although, based on merit, my 4.0 GPA, and my standing as an adult learner with a gap of over 30 years since my undergraduate studies, I would welcome that miracle. To conclude, I believe permanently getting rid of interest on student loans would have the farthest and most wide-reaching impact on future generations. Doing that one thing could be the difference between a five or six-figure debt. I wish America’s policymakers thought pursuing an advanced degree for all Americans was in our country’s interest. Thus far, investing in students of all ages and backgrounds is left on the shoulders of those who dare to dream.

I’m Lori—a recovering perfectionist. And as an older student pursuing my graduate degree, wrestling with perfection, balancing daily activities, and worrying about meeting basic human needs is a constant. Like Shawn, I practice various “mental health routines” to maintain my emotional stability. Further, I share what has worked for me with anyone interested in listening. My favorites from Shawn’s list are affirmations, mindfulness, journaling, and implementing a positive growth mindset. It’s true that even in 2022, mental health issues are so stigmatized that people who should be seeking help do not. Moreover, individuals, especially those attending college, face complex circumstances when trying to obtain mental health services, such as inaccessibility (e.g., living location, transportation) or affordability (e.g., high insurance costs, copays). Also, research documented in peer-reviewed journals has established that individuals refrain from sharing their mental health struggles for fear of ridicule or lack of empathy. I know; I used to be one of them. When I was a teenager, people referred to me negatively rather than offering a constructive activity to calm me. “She always seems to be on pins and needles.” “She sure rambles.” “Does she ever sit still?” Nevertheless, I found solace in writing—my lifeline to my confusing emotions. Thus, my number one solution for those of us struggling with depression and anxiety is creative writing, specifically poetry, which studies support as an effective, practical, and low-cost self-help tool. In fact, researcher Jack J. Leedy founded poetry therapy as a discipline and practice in 1969 when he published its success in the peer-reviewed journal Poetry Therapy: The Use of Poetry in the Treatment of Emotional Disorders. From experience, I know journaling and writing poetry provides a safe place to vent, reflect, and cope with painful or stressful situations, like academic perfection and generalized anxiety over finances while pursuing a degree. Additionally, journaling or trying any form of creative writing supports processing traumatic events while increasing emotional stability and self-awareness, which lead to empathy and empowerment. Recently, I published a book (The Emotional Abyss) of written (i.e., journaled) material, demonstrating the usefulness of poetry and writing as a form of self-therapy. Frankly, writing and journaling saved me. As a result, along with music and drawing, I believe that writing should be included in “The Art Therapies” to offset America’s increasing mental health predicament. It’s something you can do just about anywhere, anytime, and with very little resources. So, why not give it a try?

Until 2015 I didn’t really understand what it meant to be depressed rather than just sad. Ironically, I’d experienced depression more than a hundred times over by then. Yet, I didn’t know any better. I’d masked the symptoms with massive amounts of caffeine with a side of positive thinking. I’d consumed all of the self-help bestsellers, trying to figure out what was wrong with me. Asking myself over, and over, and over, “Why can’t I follow through and execute my plans?” I was stuffed and still suffering. Then my dad (the only person I’ve ever been able to count on) died, on my birthday, with me by his side. What followed years later could only be described as a “snowball effect.” When you end up in the hospital (for the first time ever) with a mysterious eye infection, threatening your life and eyesight, and you feel scared but realize, “It’s just nice to rest.” Yet, I didn’t know any better. But a wake-up call was brewing. I could get out of bed and sometimes change out of my sleeping clothes, although I wasn’t able to do much else. I gave it a few days, a couple weeks, then realized this IS depression. Soon after, I was forced to deal with childhood traumas and seek professional help, which I needed and should have had when my mother died three weeks after my fourth birthday. I have actually struggled with depression, anxiety, PTSD, and ADHD most of my life. But those around me called it “other things.” Nerves. Jitters. Fidgety. Hyper. High-strung. Insecure. Asthmatic. Yep, you read that last one correct, asthmatic. The first time I recall not being able to catch my breath, I was in 7th grade. Startled from a deep sleep, I jolted up in bed and took a deep breath. But I couldn’t get in any air in my lungs. My chest burned; it hurt badly. I continued to gasp, thinking I was about to die. Nothing made sense. I’m not even a teenager yet, and I’m about to die! Decades later and numerous inhalers later, it dawned on me, while in a therapy session, I had had a panic attack—not an asthma attack. I was never asthmatic—it was always anxiety! To put it differently, I was misdiagnosed, given medicine that I didn’t need, and not given medication that could have helped me, nor was I provided any type of therapy or holistic coping mechanisms. Now in my fifties, it is impossible to know how my life might have played out if only I had been appropriately diagnosed and treated way back then in middle school. Granted, it would not have been trembling with fear, low self-esteem, and grabbing for an inhaler whenever I began gasping for air. Likewise, the “proficient” student would have been the “exemplary” student I am today. Because I’m an older graduate student, my younger days are far behind me. Growing up my mental health was overlooked, brushed aside, and judged. Consequently, I remained baffled why I procrastinated doing things I honestly wanted to do, why I couldn’t focus on one topic for more than moments at a time, why I was scared to speak up in class and give voice to my true self, or why I often felt tired and wanted to be left alone. Everything makes sense now. So, where am I now? I hurt daily. I struggle. I hide. I push. I cry. I’m paralyzed, unmotivated, helpless. I’m determined, inspired, hopeful. Have you ever ridden a rollercoaster? Then, you know. Mental health issues like mine are still stigmatized—the invisible wounds fester, not quite healed. Others judge and offer platitudes. “Stay positive!” they say. As if! After all, I’m here and participating in this thing called life, in the only way I know how. Day by day. For sure, this path is not a fast track to reaching goals. On the other hand, who knows? I’m still standing. And on occasion, happiness abounds.

Life Lessons The lyrics, “I get knocked down, but I get up again.,” depict a theme in my life. Therefore, I could fill several episodic TV seasons with hard-learned life lessons. Likewise, detailing just one life lesson is a challenge as an older, mature candidate because I’ve had educational, entrepreneurial, and firsthand experiences encompassing vast events. Nevertheless, one that began a few years back and spans over time stands out from the rest. In 2014, I left my adult home in CA to care for my dad. A year later, he died. Generally speaking, misfortunes have always allowed me to plant seeds for a new chapter. But after my dad’s death and being estranged from callous siblings, I had to face the fact, for the first time in my life, that as a single 48-year-old female, I was alone and had only myself to rely on (i.e., lesson one). Devastated and needing a fresh start, I moved to NC for no particular rational reason. There, I dealt with grief, depression, hurricanes, and then an unexpected health emergency, which bequeathed me the inability to work for 18 months. (As if I didn’t have enough catastrophes to deal with!) Although being sick for that long afforded me plenty of time for self-reflection, it also ushered me into poverty. Cultivating humility, I realized, that I, at least, had had a father whom I could always count on in times of need, and not everyone has been that fortunate (i.e., lesson two). So, I asked myself, “Now that you are broke and on your own, Lori, what will you do? How will you pull yourself up and out of this?” The answer came to me at once, but I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to do it. But I knew that I would have to return to teaching full-time and put self-employment on hold. Despite my resistance, I began teaching again in order to take care of myself and rebuild my life. Moving Forward Unfortunately, I found myself in toxic classroom environments for the next few years. Then came COVID. Rather than dwelling on the atmosphere, I redirected my focus, which prompted me to apply for graduate school at the University of Florida. Even though I knew that soon after acceptance, I would accumulate the most significant debt of my life, I felt earning my masters would move me forward positively. Moreover, excitement grew in me as I imagined how upon graduation, I’d be better equipped to start my dream nonprofit—a creative writing center where imaginative females come together in a safe place to hone their writing, share it with confidence, and do what they love for a living. With success in mind and hope on my shoulders, I set out on the journey as a full-time graduate student. Stronger In closing, I’d like to share a three-sentence poem that I wrote describing what I’ve learned over the last eight years (i.e., life lesson accumulation). It goes like this: “Doors wide open—slam shut; life is unfair, and it feels like the universe is out to get me. Nevertheless, in a world of endless possibilities, existing presents bountiful blessings, which lead me on unknown, unplanned journeys, always allowing me to move forward with confidence and optimism. So, I peer into my future and ask for help—trusting purposeful choices create anew.”

In my experience, people generally fall into two categories: (1) givers and (2) takers. The givers are the generous, humane, and charitable folks among us. Or are they? The takers are the lazy, stingy, and cruel ones. But are they? More than once, I’ve been treated to movies, dinner, and drinks with strings attached, which weren’t told to me upfront. And during times of hardship, I’ve been given money unconditionally to help me pay for my obligations—from someone who appeared nonempathic. With this in mind, my perspective of those with a generous heart evolves every year I live on Earth. Taking everything into account, true and pure generosity occurs when there are no expectations of receiving anything in turn. Meaning, the motive for giving, whether it be time, money, or goods, is exchanged without considering the universal motivator, “What’s in it for me?” Further, the good deed needs no sharing on social media or in circles of friends. The giver remains steadfast and relentless in keeping their gift secret. They rarely think about the transaction. They remember that their gift may be a tax deduction as they scan their brain for anything they may have forgotten to include on their tax return. In sum, generosity is best served on a platter filled with compassion and a side of selflessness.

Even in 2022, some feel mental health issues are stigmatized, so they refrain from sharing their mental health struggles for fear of ridicule or lack of empathy. Also, many who know they need help do not seek it for complex reasons, and if they do, services are not always accessible (e.g., living location) or affordable (e.g., high insurance costs, copays). Thus, my practical solution for those of us struggling with depression and anxiety is creative writing, specifically poetry, which research supports as an effective, practical, and low-cost self-help tool. Indeed, researcher Jack J. Leedy founded poetry therapy as a discipline and practice in 1969 when he published its success in the peer-reviewed journal Poetry Therapy: The Use of Poetry in the Treatment of Emotional Disorders. From my personal experience, I know that writing poetry provides a safe place to vent, reflect, and cope with painful or stressful situations, like heartbreak and loneliness. Additionally, writing supports processing traumatic events while increasing emotional stability and self-awareness, which lead to empathy and empowerment. I even wrote a book, published in 2021, demonstrating the usefulness of poetry and writing as a type of therapy. My book, a creative non-fiction mix of personal stories told in the form of poetry, lyrics, and journal entries, is called The Emotional Abyss: overcoming the traumatic teen years with poetry. I wrote all the material between the ages of 11 and 18 during some of my most confusing and troubling periods. It was the Eighties—when no one dared to speak out loud about mental health issues. Frankly, writing saved me. As a result, along with music and drawing, I believe creative writing should be included in “The Art Therapies” to offset America’s increasing mental health crisis.

Until 2015 I didn’t really understand what it meant to be depressed rather than just sad. Ironically, I’d experienced depression more than a hundred times over by then. Yet, I didn’t know any better. I’d masked the symptoms with massive amounts of caffeine with a side of positive thinking. I’d consumed all of the self-help bestsellers, trying to figure out what was wrong with me. Asking myself over, and over, and over, “Why can’t I follow through and execute my plans?” I was stuffed and still suffering. Then my dad (the only person I’ve ever been able to count on) died, on my birthday, with me by his side. What followed years later could only be described as a “snowball effect.” When you end up in the hospital (for the first time ever) with a mysterious eye infection, threatening your life and eyesight, and you feel scared but realize, “It’s just nice to rest.” Yet, I didn’t know any better. But a wake-up call was brewing. I could get out of bed and sometimes change out of my sleeping clothes, although I wasn’t able to do much else. I gave it a few days, a couple weeks, then realized this IS depression. Soon after, I was forced to deal with childhood traumas and seek professional help, which I needed and should have had when my mother died three weeks after my fourth birthday. I have actually struggled with depression, anxiety, PTSD, and ADHD most of my life. But those around me called it “other things.” Nerves. Jitters. Fidgety. Hyper. High-strung. Insecure. Asthmatic. Yep, you read that last one correct, asthmatic. The first time I recall not being able to catch my breath, I was in 7th grade. Startled from a deep sleep, I jolted up in bed and took a deep breath. But I couldn’t get in any air in my lungs. My chest burned; it hurt badly. I continued to gasp, thinking I was about to die. Nothing made sense. I’m not even a teenager yet, and I’m about to die! Decades later and numerous inhalers later, it dawned on me, while in a therapy session, I had had a panic attack—not an asthma attack. I was never asthmatic—it was always anxiety! To put it differently, I was misdiagnosed, given medicine that I didn’t need, and not given medication that could have helped me, nor was I provided any type of therapy or holistic coping mechanisms. Now in my fifties, it is impossible to know how my life might have played out if only I had been appropriately diagnosed and treated way back then in middle school. Granted, it would not have been trembling with fear, low self-esteem, and grabbing for an inhaler whenever I began gasping for air. Likewise, the “proficient” student would have been the “exemplary” student I am today. Because I’m an older graduate student, my younger days are far behind me. Growing up my mental health was overlooked, brushed aside, and judged. Consequently, I remained baffled why I procrastinated doing things I honestly wanted to do, why I couldn’t focus on one topic for more than moments at a time, why I was scared to speak up in class and give voice to my true self, or why I often felt tired and wanted to be left alone. Everything makes sense now. So, where am I now? I hurt daily. I struggle. I hide. I push. I cry. I’m paralyzed, unmotivated, helpless. I’m determined, inspired, hopeful. Have you ever ridden a rollercoaster? Then, you know. Mental health issues like mine are still stigmatized—the invisible wounds fester, not quite healed. Others judge and offer platitudes. “Stay positive!” they say. As if! After all, I’m here and participating in this thing called life, in the only way I know how. Day by day. For sure, this path is not a fast track to reaching goals. On the other hand, who knows? I’m still standing. And on occasion, happiness abounds.

Until 2015 I didn’t really understand what it meant to be depressed rather than just sad. I had struggled with anxiety and ADHD most of my life. But those around me called it “other things.” Nerves. Jitters. Fidgety. Hyper. High-strung. Insecure. Asthmatic. Yep, you read that last one correct, asthmatic. The first time I recall not being able to catch my breath, I was in 7th grade. Startled from a deep sleep, I jolted up in bed and took a deep breath. But I couldn’t get in any air in my lungs. My chest burned; it hurt badly. I continued to gasp, thinking I was about to die. Nothing made sense. I’m not even a teenager yet, and I’m about to die! Decades later and numerous inhalers later, it dawned on me, while in a therapy session, I had had a panic attack—not an asthma attack. I was never asthmatic—it was always anxiety! To put it differently, I was misdiagnosed, given medicine that I didn’t need, and not given medication that could have helped me, nor was I provided any type of therapy or holistic coping mechanisms. Now in my fifties, it is impossible to know how my life might have played out if only I had been appropriately diagnosed and treated way back then in middle school. Granted, it would not have been trembling with fear, low self-esteem, and grabbing for an inhaler whenever I began gasping for air. Likewise, the “proficient” student would have been the “exemplary” student I am today. Because I’m an older graduate student, my younger days are far behind me. Growing up my mental health was overlooked, brushed aside, and judged. Consequently, I remained baffled why I procrastinated doing things I honestly wanted to do, why I couldn’t focus on one topic for more than moments at a time, why I was scared to speak up in class and give voice to my true self, or why I often felt tired and wanted to be left alone. Everything makes sense now. So, where am I now? I hurt daily. I struggle. I hide. I push. I cry. I’m paralyzed, unmotivated, helpless. I’m determined, inspired, hopeful. Have you ever ridden a rollercoaster? Then, you know. Mental health issues like mine are still stigmatized—the invisible wounds fester, not quite healed. Others judge and offer platitudes. “Stay positive!” they say. If only it were that simple. After all, I’m here and participating in this thing called life, in the only way I know how. Day by day. For sure, this path is not a fast track to reaching goals. On the other hand, who knows? I’m still standing. And on occasion, happiness abounds.