For most of my life, people called me the quiet one. They meant it nicely, I think. Shy. Polite. “Reserved.” It sounded like a compliment when teachers said it in front of the class. But it never felt like one. There were days I went the whole school day without speaking. Not because I didn’t have anything to say--I usually did, so much so that keeping it all in would hurt, I’d rehearse answers in my head until I had the phrasing just right. But when the moment came, nothing came out. My heart would start racing, my throat would close up, and the sentence I’d practiced over and over would vanish, like it had never even existed. That fear wasn’t loud. That was the hard part. If it had been, someone might’ve noticed my struggle. But it was the kind of suffering that hums beneath everything. Always there. Always waiting. Maliciously silent. I was diagnosed with social anxiety and selective mutism in middle school. It didn’t come as a surprise to me. I already knew something was different--I just didn’t know what to call it. Giving it a name didn’t magically make it easier to explain, though. I still had teachers who thought I was being rude. Peers who thought I didn’t care. Adults who told me to “just speak up” like it hadn’t already taken everything in me just to sit in that room. Class discussions. Group projects. Presentations. The usual stuff. Except for me, it felt like trying to breathe underwater. I found my own ways to survive--writing more than I spoke, overpreparing everything, fading into the background whenever I could. It worked. Sort of. I got by. But I also learned how to stay small. How to stop taking up space before anyone asked me to. I still catch myself doing that sometimes. Overthinking basic conversations. Apologizing for things I haven’t even done. Playing out every possible outcome of a sentence before I say it, just in case. But I’ve learned that progress doesn’t always feel like confidence. Sometimes it just looks like staying in the room. Even when it’s uncomfortable. College scares me a little, but I want to be there anyway. Not because I’ve conquered anything, but because I’ve learned how to keep going even when it’s hard. For me, higher education isn’t about being fearless--it’s about building a life that isn’t shaped around fear. I’m planning to study pharmaceutical engineering. There’s something quietly powerful about designing systems that help people feel better without demanding attention. Systems that are dependable. Precise. Safe. I like the idea of working on things that make someone’s life easier, even if they never know who made it that way. There’s something deeply human about that. There are people who go unheard. People who can’t always speak up, or who stop trying because no one ever listened. I’ve been one of them. I want to help build something that works better for people like that--not someday, but now. And if the person I used to be could see where I’m standing now-still anxious, still figuring it out, but showing up anyway--I think they’d be proud. And I’m proud too.