Jalal ad-Din Muhammad ar-Rumi, a 13-century Persian scholar, wrote: “I said: what about my heart? God said: Tell me what you hold inside it? I said: pain and sorrow? He said: Stay with it. The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” Within the past year, my mental state deteriorated. I became acquainted with a kind of despair I never knew to be possible. Through therapy, medication, and the support of a psychiatric care facility, I have begun the process of healing. Along the way, I gathered small bits of understanding that now shape view of the world. My suffering forced me to question the purpose of pain. I now believe that humanity is bound together by the aching of our souls. To be alive is to feel pain, and to feel pain is to be human. Pain is not simply an unfortunate consequence of living; it challenges us to grow and change. We hear stories of people surviving tragic events or enduring unimaginable hardship. Accounts of war and suffering are memorialized, and as a society, we are conditioned to admire resilience. Yet there is no nobility in suffering itself. Grief cannot be measured or compared. There is no clear line where discomfort becomes pain, pain becomes suffering, and suffering becomes agony. For a long time, I searched for the milestone that would make my pain feel significant. As my grief became increasingly unbearable, I wanted to take pride in my endurance. However, I never reached a point where my suffering felt measurable or worthy of recognition. I was trying to assign value to something that could not be quantified. The truth is that my pain always mattered. Not because I was extraordinarily brave, but because it connected me to everyone else in the world. My suffering did not separate me from humanity; it drew me deeper into it. Before being hospitalized, I believed that mental illness diminished one’s humanity. I believed that about myself as well. On my first day in Unit 4, however, I realized the opposi. Each patient there was united by an acknowledged need for help. People from entirely different backgrounds came together because they suffered and needed support, just like every human being does at some point. The barriers separating people dissolved quickly. I formed friendships with a homeless man, a young Guatemalan woman, an old woman in a wheeled chair, and many others. For the first time in a while, I felt connected to what it means to be human. More importantly, I discovered my purpose: to help others. I translated the lessons for my Guatemalan friend so she could understand and participate. I pushed an elderly woman to meals and helped her read when she struggled to do so. I introduced myself to new patients and tried to make them feel less alone in an unfamiliar and frightening environment. I even gave away some of my clothes to people who were cold. I did not do these things to appear noble or selfless. I did them because I love people. Caring for others brings me joy and gives meaning to my own suffering. Through my experiences, I learned that pain does not strip our humanity; it reveals it. Suffering taught me empathy, connection, and compassion in ways that comfort never could. While I would never romanticize my mental illness or wish my struggles upon anyone else, I can acknowledge the understanding that they gave me. The wound became the place where the light entered. Not because suffering is beautiful but because it taught me how deeply humans need one another. I carry my new perspective like a torch that lights path ahead of me of me. As a Biology major, I hope to continue my education to eventually become and psychiatrist. My experiences have shown me the importance of quality mental health care, and I hope to be a source of compassion, support, and care.

Mental health is important to me because I have experienced how it can force people to become a shadow of who they could be. As I began my freshman year at Clemson University, my mental health crumbled before my eyes. In December of 2025, I voluntarily admitted myself into the Carolina Center for Behavioral Health. My experiences there gave me wisdom that now pours into my interactions with people as a student and as a part of my community. Mental struggles are accompanied by a common lie: you are alone in your suffering. As humans, we convince ourselves that no one could understand the way that we feel and self-isolate as a product of this mindset. As a result of this, depression is commonly accompanied by isolation and withdrawal. However, suffering, grief, and pain are uniquely human experiences. They do not separate us from one another; they connect us. Walking down the bare hallways of the Carolina Center, I had never felt more alone. The walls were blank, the rooms were cold, and the faces around me were unfamiliar. But as the days passed, I practiced observing the people around me rather than wallowing in my own emotions. I stopped seeing differences in age, gender, or economic status and saw them as sons, daughters, mothers, and fathers. I realized that, like me, everyone there felt scared and alone. But as I got to know each individual person, their kindness fed my soul. I began to make a point to be kind as well. I realized that when I stepped back and noticed others, they no longer felt so different. In a classroom, students can be separated by invisible yet powerful barriers. These barriers foster isolation and have a negative impact on mental well-being. As I have returned to my school, community, and workplace, I have made an effort to tear down those barriers. Depression looks different for everyone, but my healing began when I leaned into my community and support systems. I advocate for mental health by creating spaces where people feel seen, valued, and heard. I do so for my friends and classmates by listening attentively, being generous with my time and energy. I am open about my story and encourage others to seek help. I have recommended therapists to those in need of help and educated others on the benefits of being medicated. My goal is to create an understanding that needing help does not indicate weakness. I intend to continue spreading light in the community by breaking down the isolation that surrounds mental health and replacing it with connection, understanding, and kindness.

I come from a large family with seven younger brothers. As a young teen, I felt like there was not enough room for me; each of my mom’s pregnancies was met with anxiety about what the new child would add to our family dynamic. However, as I’ve grown older, my brothers have been one of the biggest blessings I have had. Their distinctive personalities are beautiful to watch grow. I love pouring into them and molding them into respectful, kind young men. My mom announced her pregnancy in October 2024, and for the first time, I felt pure excitement. I rearranged my days to maximize my helpfulness. I went to school, then work, and would clean the kitchen before I went to sleep. No matter what my schedule was, I wanted to make sure my family was well taken care of. He was a boy, and only I knew the gender. I was planning a gender reveal party where I would surprise our family and friends. However, three days before the party, my mom had an appointment. I was in school and not on my phone until I read the text. The news wasn't good. No heartbeat. No growth. A week later what once was the growing child was surgically removed. I went straight home to help in any way I could. I watched my mom pick herself up while she mourned the loss of this little child. I stretched myself as thin as I could go, trying to wipe away some of the pain we felt as a family. Later that night I listened to her explain what happened to my little siblings and they sat and listened attentively. Too young to understand the weight of her grief, they each asked questions innocently about where the baby would go and why her stomach still had a bump. The strength she exhibited in those next weeks still inspires me. She remained kind and gentle, working hard to make sure each of her children were emotionally provided for. Her faith in God’s providence was evident as she found peace trusting in him. Our loss as a family made us collectively cling to the cross as we acknowledged our weaknesses. I have never felt closer to God than in those days of sorrow. Motivated by a love for my God and my family, I learned many things: a kind of hard work that keeps giving even when there is little left, patience for other people and patience in waiting to find joy, gentle and genuine kindness, and the privilege it is to experience life. My parents named him Nathan. I can confidently say that I am grateful for Nathan's presence in our family. While we never had the opportunity to see him face to face, his life was valuable from conception. Not only that, God used his life to pull me closer to him. While pain can seem inexplicably futile, suffering is a means for growth. This experience made me prioritize what matters to me. The Giles family motto resonates with me as it emphasizes the importance of kindness and hard work; values I hold very dear to me.