I’ve never been too great with expressing affection verbally. I always get choked up or forget what I want to say or wimp out and choose not to say anything at all. While words sometimes fail me, baking never does. So, whenever I’m feeling especially grateful for somebody’s existence, I head to the kitchen and whip up a batch of their favorite dessert, package it in a little tin, and bring it to them the next day. Passing around a box of cookies to my close friends at lunch is my way of saying, “thank you for making me laugh so hard I dropped my salad on the ground.” Giving my brother a plate of brownies is a translation for, “I had a lot of fun playing Monopoly with you yesterday.” Bringing a cupcake to school for the friend who peer-edited an essay of mine is another form of, “I really appreciate the time you took to help me out.” Baking is a sweet and warm--literally--way to express gratitude, love, and loyalty, a way to tell others that I was thinking of them and that I value them being in my life. In addition to a tasty treat, they also receive a tangible reminder that they are loved that hopefully stays with them long after the taste of frosting is gone.

My simple pleasures are best described as sweet, warm, and cozy; literally. Whenever life gets too hectic, I pull out a cookbook, ask my brother to flip to a random page in the dessert section, and make whatever he flips to. Something about the soothing rhythm of a whisk working away and the oven slowly preheating makes me slow down a little bit, take a deep breath in, and slowly let it out. Of course, such baking is best done when listening to Taylor Swift at a volume just loud enough to disguise how off-tune my voice is. If we're running low on ingredients or I simply don't want to deal with cleaning the dishes afterwards, I'll exchange baking for bringing a book, blanket, and coffee-scented candle to a couch and allowing myself 30 minutes of serene reading. Sometimes (okay, most of the time), I wake up two hours later, but forgiving myself for taking an impromptu nap is a kindness and a simple pleasure I cherish on the days where I feel like I just might burst. Fall is my favorite season, and my simple pleasures always bring me back to what I imagine non-SoCal autumn must feel like--crisp air, warm hugs, and the knowledge that everything will be alright, eventually.

I wrote my first poem, a haiku about my pet fish, in the second grade. In the near decade since that poorly crafted poem saw the light of day, my tendency to write has developed from an occasional practice into an urgent love and need to create; a need to stay afloat, using an empty Google Doc as a lifesaver. To me, being an artist is turning your pain into something that tells others they are not alone. This is why I truly did not consider myself an artist until three or so years ago when writing became more than an enjoyable hobby; it became a method of healing, of moving on, and of recovering. I write about things I struggle with: disordered eating, obsessive thoughts, and tumultuous parent-child relationships, in the hopes that other youth who read my work will know that they are not facing these Mt.Everests of life alone. Though it is hard, prompts ugly tears, and often forces me to confront memories I try to otherwise avoid, I continually come back to writing because it shows me how beautiful and worth it recovering--whether it be eating disorder recovery or working to restore relationships--is. By challenging narratives my mind feeds me and removing myself from situations I have undergone, I gain a bird's eye view of my life splayed on the paper beneath me. I am able to see the anguish I once felt and observe how as I have fought against suppressants, I have grown stronger and more alive. I see where I went wrong in conflicts, and gain a better insight into what I need to do to make progress. In this way, my writing and recovery process are vital to one another: my recovery drives me to write, and my writing pushes me to continue recovering. As mentioned prior, the majority of my writing is devoted to the discussion of one of the most taboo topics in the 21st century: mental health. Be it an addiction, anxiety, or anorexia, I write stories and poems about factors of myself and my loved ones that I never had the chance to read about as widely as I yearned to. I hope that by writing about such topics that we are told to be ashamed of and never admit to suffering with, I will reach the young people who most need to hear that there is the possibility of better days ahead, and that whatever they are dealing with, there is a support network to talk it through with. In this way, my work serves as continual force against the subjects that have been interdicted for centuries. Writing has gifted me with something that I wish all young people had: a healthy outlet. By providing a holistic way to heal from past traumas, writing has saved me numerous times, and for that, it will always be an art that I both fiercely protect and devout myself to.

I first had Ms. Knopfler as my seventh-grade English teacher. Between essays and powerpoints, she would check in on every single student in the class, ask about their day, their workload, and if there was anything at all she could do to help them. She welcomed vulnerability and confidence alike and offered office hours every morning. She pushed me to grow as a writer, reader, and thinker, yet never made me feel inadequate when I couldn’t rise to the high expectations she set for me. She also pushed me in my self-love journey: she left a comment on an essay I turned in about my queer identity, writing “I’m so proud of you and so glad you were able to share this part of you with me--always here to talk if you need.” Months after that essay, she would provide a room for me to sit in during lunch when I felt as if sitting with friends would be too dangerous for my eating disorder recovery. Truly, Ms. Knopfler helped keep me afloat during the monsoon that was seventh grade. The following year, I took her Slam Poetry elective class. We spent ¾ of the year writing and performing poetry before “Slam Season,” when our class’ attention shifted towards preparing a team for a nationwide poetry competition. For weeks, I toyed with the idea of trying out for the team but eventually decided not to. When Ms. Knopfler asked if she should sign me up for an audition slot, I broke the news to her. She immediately pulled up a chair to my table and spent the following minutes reassuring me that my poetry was good enough; that my voice was strong enough; that my story was worthy of being shared. For the weeks leading up to my audition, she offered suggestions and critiques when I requested them, and did something foreign to me: she made me hold my head high when I took a risk. I made the team that year, and in ninth grade once again auditioned and got onto the competing team. For the months leading up to the competition both years, I felt nothing but support from her. Though I no longer had her for a strictly academic class, she still poured time into our team and our poetry, constantly sent us reassuring emails, and always checked in to make sure we were mentally, emotionally, and physically well. Ms. Knopfler instilled a sense of confidence in myself--first in my writing, then my identity--that for years I’d struggled to find. In this way, she has made the most significant impact on my pursuit of further education, as she has made me believe that I can get through the long nights and early mornings, the tears and anguish, the finals, and annotated bibliographies. Whereas prior to her teachings, I felt as if attending university was an unattainable goal that I would never be mentally stable enough to take on, I now have more control over myself and am sure that my tireless work will pay off. By helping me understand that mental wellbeing, confidence, and success can coexist peacefully, Ms. Knopfler has helped me see how many doors for further education I can, and will, walk through. For this, I am eternally grateful.

Lesbian, gay, and bisexual youth are nearly five times as likely to attempt suicide than heterosexual youth, the Trevor Project reported in 2016. The same study found that 40% of transgender adults had attempted suicide, 92% of whom attempted such before turning 25. The first time I heard these statistics was at a rally for LGBTQ+ inclusive sex and mental health education in downtown Los Angeles. Now, I repeat such statistics hundreds of times a week to voters and volunteers across my city in an effort to mobilize pan-generational allies to elect politicians who support LGBTQ+ youth. Back to that first rally: it was May of 2017, and I was newly “out” to a small group of friends and my older brother. One of my friends was going to the rally and invited me, an invitation which I readily accepted. At the rally, sporting a poster with a timidly written “My mental health matters,” I felt truly seen. Yet, I also felt the enormous weight come crashing down on my shoulders of the thousands of LGBTQ+ youth who would never feel the same visibility. By the time I retell this story to my grandchildren, I desperately hope this will no longer be the case. LGBTQ+ youth everywhere must be supported, sacred, and saved. In a world where queer identity is seen as reason enough to be killed, advocacy for LGBTQ+ legal rights and protections are dire necessities. Since that rally four years ago, I have done everything I know how to do to push for such advancements in my own Los Angeles community which is ravaged by high youth homelessness and mental health issue rates. On the most local level, I champion LGBTQ+ rights at my small public high school. Since seventh grade, I have served as an officer and founding figure of my school’s Gender and Sexualities Alliance, which serves as a safe and educational haven for queen students and allies. With the help of the other officers, we have brought in numerous sexual education and mental health workshops, including a Wall Las Memorias lecture series and the Safe Space program series. Additionally, I have worked with my school’s administration to decriminalize student and teacher participation in the Day of Silence and the authorization of a Pride Month celebration. These two days serve as pinnacle reminders of queer existence and resilience. The funds raised from both days are used to buy binders, discreet pride flags, and pronoun bracelets for club members who cannot purchase such affirming items themselves. Expanding the reach of my advocacy to a city level, I have volunteered with the Los Angeles LGBT Center for the past year now. Since its foundation in 1969, the Center has provided shelter, food, and other vital resources as well as mental health training and STD screening for LGBTQ+ youth. As a volunteer, I help fundraise for the supplies, text and phone bank on behalf of the center to mobilize voters to vote for pro-LGBTQ+ policies and politicians, and put together the newsletter and social media campaigns advertising the Center’s free services so that as many LGBTQ+ youth as possible see that there are numerous sources of help available to them if they need it. I also help assemble “vital bags,” which we fill with hygiene products and food and have ready to pass out for free should anybody need one. Additionally, as a New Media Council Fellow, I write articles for the GSA Network of California about the power of LGBTQ+ youth and the steps that allies (especially educators and parents/guardians of queer youth) can take to ensure the safety of the community they’re supporting. I’ve planned and co-led numerous celebrations and meetings for state-wide queer youth, emphasizing mental health training and check-ups. I know that no matter how many meal kits I assemble, articles I write, or presentations on queer identity I give, homophobia will rage rampant and our community will suffer the consequences from it. I also know, however, that this world can not afford to lose another generation of LGBTQ+ people: today, we grow up with slim LGBTQ+ elderly due to the government’s homophobia and delayed response to the AIDS epidemic. Tomorrow, unless we do everything we can to change the statistics, we may raise grandchildren with slim LGBTQ+ elderly as a consequence of suicide and mental health issues gone untreated and unrecognized. The work I put in daily for LGBTQ+ youth is to combat that future. Through my work and the similar work of hundreds of thousands of other activists across the city, country, and world, I hope to leave behind a community that destigmatizes being queer and has ample resources for LGBTQ+ youth. I wish to see a world that loves beyond labels and a world where support transcends prejudice. Most vitally, I desire a future in which queer and trans youth can love freely and live long lives, unafraid of others or themselves.

Two years ago, in the back corner of my eighth grade English class, I stumbled upon a scholarly article Laurel Thatcher Ulrich had published four decades prior in the American Quarterly. Though much of the sophisticated jargon Ulrich threw around with ease flew over my head, one line stuck out to me: “Well behaved women seldom make history.” In the years since I first traced Ulrich’s words with my finger, I have come to not only adorn my walls with the quote but also live by it as well. As a young, queer woman coming of age in a world that seems to only treasure young, queer women when we try to erase our femininity or lack thereof, Ulrich’s assertiveness was what I needed to validate the strength of my voice. Her words continually remind me that when I raise my hand in class, I am not being too loud; when I insert my opinion into a lively debate about politics at Thanksgiving dinner, I am not overstepping any boundaries; when I demand that the allegations made by myself and millions of other women are respected, believed, and investigated, I am not a man-hater, I am a woman believer. Since Ulrich first published her iconic saying in 1976, the women’s rights movement has made significant strides forward: the Pregnancy Discrimination Act was passed, banning career discrimination based on pregnancy status. Sandra Day O’Connor became the first female justice to ever sit on the Supreme Court. A record number of women, 125, concurrently held seats in Congress. Still, the voices of women are repressed, strangled with legislation and distrust. Still, women are trapped in kitchens and under men, suffocated with bedsheets and “lack of evidence.” Still, the centuries-old narrative that like children, women are to be seen and not heard is forcefully shoved down womens’ throats and spoon-fed to young girls. Still, we need activists to lobby for the passing of the Equal Rights Amendment and feminists in the White House. We need women who fearlessly stand up for themselves and who raise the standard for men’s conduct. As someone who looks to major in political science and hopes to one day work as a journalist covering the campaigns of women who have an eye on Capitol Hill, I know that I too must be outspoken. As it is for many women, it’s scary to think about: speaking out publicly against the patriarchy that has been rigid since BCE times. But like so many other women, I am encouraged by Ulrich, for though the work I wish to do and the goals I hope to meet are daunting, it is up to us to be defiantly loud and make a change. Ulrich’s words never fail to remind me that it is up to us to teach the world the power of a (not well behaved) woman. I will eternally thank her for that Herculean reminder.

From age eleven to thirteen, I struggled with severe anorexia. Nearly two years since I last restricted, my recovery is still not complete. I first refused a meal for the “betterment” of my physique the night I turned eleven. My friends, who all were thinner than me, and I were going to the beach to celebrate my rotation around the Sun the next day. I knew a photo of me in my two-piece swimsuit would end up online somewhere, be it a friend’s Snapchat streak, an Instagram post, or a FaceBook photo sent around by the parents. Despite never being someone who had cared much about others opinions on my body, in the moments before a pastel ice cream cake with little flowers iced on was placed in front of me, that confidence I had always felt so secure in faltered. That little chip was enough to push the lie of a stomach ache out of my mouth, a thank you for the wonderful day, and a promise I would never keep about eating two slices of cake the following day to make up for my early departure from the dinner table. I went to the beach the next day on an empty stomach. At noon, I still hadn’t bloated. In the photos posted to Instagram, my friends and I had more similar waistlines than we ever had; they were bloated after large lunches and sported grins while my stomach rattled with hunger and a faulty smile graced my face. Perhaps those three friends were the first I would come to distance myself from, for I would soon measure my success in starving myself against their small wrists and hip dips. Inadvertently, I had turned my closest friends into my unknowing competition, and for the next two years, would look at them as only that. The thing about eating disorders is that I didn’t know what one was until I was passed out on my back in P.E. a lap into running a mile. The thing about eating disorders is that when the school nurse explained the treatment options she suggested my family and I look into, the only option I saw was insane asylums featured in horror movies. The thing about eating disorders is that they forcefully replace every coping strategy with one answer: denial. The funny thing about denial is that it wrecks you more than dealing with the consequences of acceptance ever could. To make a long, tedious, heart breaking two years short, I eventually admitted to my family I needed help with living in my body. I learned to eat again; learned to see a full plate of fragrant food as a meal, not as a taunting bully. I tore down the mirrors in my room, then grew to a place where I could safely put them up again. Through it all, my family and my friends held my hand, caressed my shoulder, and supplied hugs when I needed them most. But I know that none of us have truly recovered in full. I know my parents will always blame themselves for not pushing for an answer other than “I ate a big breakfast” when they asked why my lunchbox came home full nearly everyday. I know my friends shame themselves, too, for all the compliments on my figure they dolled out in the gym locker room or in the comment section of Instagram posts. Some small part of me still resents the actions of both my parents of friends, for I wonder if recovery would have come sooner without their remarks or lack thereof Still, I don’t blame them. I know that eating disorders pit your brain against your body, and leave everyone else in a tug-of-war between prying into your life and trying to respect your wishes to be left alone. I know nobody is at fault. Still, there is a level of trust that I will never win back nor give to those who stood besides me as I both struggled with and fought anorexia. My friends now insist on seeing my lunch everyday and offer to eat with me every meal because I am not trusted to not relapse on my own. I do the same for them, because seeing my own deterioration has given me an overly-intense eye for spotting inconsistencies in eating patterns of those I love. Battling anorexia filled some of the most formative years of my life with ugly cries, doctor notes, and other hospital-food-flavored means of strife. If my struggles gave me anything positive, though, it was a new understanding of being easy on myself. Though I still have a tendency to work myself to the bone, I have learned how to walk away from things. I have begun to respect the silent boundaries my body has formed. If I am asked to participate in an extra tennis set and I haven’t brought a snack and my body is begging for food, I’ll ask to reschedule for another day. If it’s one a.m. and my eyes can’t stay focused on my AP Biology textbook for more than thirty seconds before drifting elsewhere, I bookmark the page and turn the lights out. My self care still has miles to go, but my understanding that my body is not invincible has strengthened, and that is something I can confidently say I’m proud of. Writing this today with a shamelessly large bowl of fruit next to me, I know my younger self two years ago would be aghast to see the words ‘anorexia’ and ‘I’ in such close proximity. Such acknowledgement was unfathomable then. I am proud I use such words in the past tense. And I hope in two years I can reread this essay and be proud of the new heights my relationships and mental health have reached since then, and just as importantly, since now.