“You need to let me tell your parents that you have depression and it is really serious” I pleaded with my friend, “Would they take you to the Emergency Room if they found out you had broken your femur and it might be at a life-threatening point?” He continued to stare blankly ahead and murmured, “yeah … But they won’t understand. I have been worse than this before and they did not notice.” My brain processed his statement and I realized that it was fortunate that he was still alive. I was so grateful that he was able, to be honest with me, but I asked myself why wasn’t he sharing this information with his parents or his primary care doctor? I found out the answer to my question later that night. When I shared my concern about Lucas and his depression which had been crushing him for over two years, Lucas spoke to his mother: “do you remember last summer when I checked off on the questionnaire that I was having suicidal thoughts and the doctor read this off? What happened after that? Nothing.” This doctor's appointment was over a year ago. His hope for feeling better sunk lower and lower as the adults who knew this did not make sure that this soft-spoken, kind 17-year-old boy with suicidal thoughts got connected to the mental health care he needed. I thought I had failed him that night; in telling his parents against his wishes, and witnessing his parents try to reassure me that he was just feeling stressed and he would feel better in the morning. Two weeks later, he thanked me for “helping me in a way that no one else did my entire life.” I will never forget the nights in August, worrying if Lucas would make it to the morning alive. I also felt so angry; I knew that Lucas's parents made sure he had high-quality physical therapy for his back muscle pain from swimming, but over a whole year, they did not seem to even try to get him high-quality mental health therapy, even after he checked off the box that he had suicidal thoughts. This was my first witness to the lack of mental health care parity. I am committed to pursuing a career focused on advocating for the safety of others starting with mental health parity in health care. I strive to learn more preventative strategies towards human neglect and suffering through studying psychology and sociology.

“You need to let me tell your parents that you have depression and it is really serious” I pleaded with my friend, “Would they take you to the Emergency Room if they found out you had broken your femur and it might be at a life-threatening point?” He continued to stare blankly ahead and murmured, “yeah… But they won’t understand. I have been worse than this before and they did not notice.” My brain processed his statement and I realized that it was fortunate that he was still alive. I was so grateful that he was able, to be honest with me, but I asked myself why wasn’t sharing this information with his parents or his primary care doctor. I found out the answer to my question later that night. When I shared my concern about Lucas and his depression which had been crushing him for over two years, Lucas spoke to his mother: “do you remember last summer when I checked off on the questionnaire that I was having suicidal thoughts and the doctor read this off? What happened after that? Nothing.” This doctor's appointment was over a year ago. His hope for feeling better sunk lower and lower as the adults who knew this did not make sure that this soft-spoken, kind 17-year-old boy with suicidal thoughts got connected to the mental health care he needed. I thought I had failed him that night; in telling his parents against his wishes, and witnessing his parents try to reassure me that he was just feeling stressed and he would feel better in the morning. Two weeks later, he thanked me for “helping me in a way that no one else did my entire life.” I will never forget the nights in August, worrying if Lucas would make it to the morning alive. I also felt so angry; I knew that Lucas's parents made sure he had high-quality physical therapy for his back muscle pain from swimming, but over a whole year, they did not seem to even try to get him high-quality mental health therapy, even after he checked off the box that he had suicidal thoughts. This was my first witness to the lack of mental health care parity. I am committed to pursuing a career focused on advocating for the safety of others starting with mental health parity in health care. I strive to learn more preventative strategies towards human neglect and suffering through studying Social Studies, Sociology and English.

He spoke slowly, “Every day looks gray. I don't feel anything anymore.” I held back tears, listening to my best friend. We were parked in front of his house when he confided in me that in the past few months he noticed his depression was getting worse. His body was shaking. His eyes were closed and tears streamed down his face. “I only have enough energy to get through each day. I’m so tired. I just want to rest.” I rubbed his back and repeated to him, “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” But nothing I said made any difference against the depressive thoughts that consumed him. I asked, “Are you going to be able to keep yourself safe tonight?” His eyes stared blankly ahead. He responded, “I don’t know.” He told me that he could no longer decipher reality from his depression. He explained how sometimes when he is driving, he thinks about driving off the road. I begged him to tell his parents or his doctor, but he refused. After I dropped him off, I immediately called his mom, but it went straight to voicemail. I pulled over on the side of the road, took a deep breath, and let myself process what he had just told me. I recognized that he needed help urgently and that I had to break his trust in order to keep him safe. When I arrived home, my voice broke as I told my mom, “I think he might kill himself tonight. I have to go over and tell his parents.” She responded with reluctance, “His parents might not understand how critical his depression is, because he has denied it for so long.” She said she could come with me, but could not speak for me. She told me that I was the only one who could explain the severity of his condition because I was the only person he confided in. I asked myself if I could live with even a small possibility of him taking his life that night. I could not. His mother opened the door and his father told us we could discuss whatever it was in the morning. After I begged them to hear me out, they allowed my mom and me into the living room and agreed to a brief discussion. The next hour consisted of me explaining what he had told me for the past few nights while he sat silently looking down. His parents repeatedly dismissed my concerns. They felt he was simply “overwhelmed and needed some sleep." The only reason I was able to leave that night was his promise to call me if he felt unsafe. Eight days later, he told his parents that what I had said that night was true. He told them that his intrusive thoughts might take control of his actions. Following the safety plan I made with him, he asked his parents to take him to the Emergency Room to get help. Luckily, they did. He was accepted into a partial hospital program and now works with a psychiatrist and therapist. His parents have not spoken to me since. I accept this consequence. Weeks later, he thanked me for saving his life. However, I did not knock on their door at 11 pm that night to be a hero. I did it because I knew that his depression might cause him to take his own life. I wanted him to live to see the world in color again.

He spoke slowly, “Every day looks gray. I don't feel anything anymore.” I held back tears, listening to my best friend. We were parked in front of his house when he confided in me that in the past few months he noticed his depression was getting worse. His body was shaking. His eyes were closed and tears streamed down his face. “I only have enough energy to get through each day. I’m so tired. I just want to rest.” I rubbed his back and repeated to him, “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” But nothing I said made any difference against the depressive thoughts that consumed him. I asked, “Are you going to be able to keep yourself safe tonight?” His eyes stared blankly ahead. He responded, “I don’t know.” He told me that he could no longer decipher reality from his depression. He explained how sometimes when he is driving, he thinks about driving off the road. I begged him to tell his parents or his doctor, but he refused. After I dropped him off, I immediately called his mom, but it went straight to voicemail. I pulled over on the side of the road, took a deep breath, and let myself process what he had just told me. I recognized that he needed help urgently and that I had to break his trust in order to keep him safe. When I arrived home, my voice broke as I told my mom, “I think he might kill himself tonight. I have to go over and tell his parents.” She responded with reluctance, “His parents might not understand how critical his depression is, because he has denied it for so long.” She said she could come with me, but could not speak for me. She told me that I was the only one who could explain the severity of his condition because I was the only person he confided in. I asked myself if I could live with even a small possibility of him taking his life that night. I could not. His mother opened the door and his father told us we could discuss whatever it was in the morning. After I begged them to hear me out, they allowed my mom and me into the living room and agreed to a brief discussion. The next hour consisted of me explaining what he had told me for the past few nights while he sat silently looking down. His parents repeatedly dismissed my concerns. They felt he was simply “overwhelmed and needed some sleep." The only reason I was able to leave that night was his promise to call me if he felt unsafe. Eight days later, he told his parents that what I had said that night was true. He told them that his intrusive thoughts might take control of his actions. Following the safety plan I made with him, he asked his parents to take him to the Emergency Room to get help. Luckily, they did. He was accepted into a partial hospital program and now works with a psychiatrist and therapist. His parents have not spoken to me since. I accept this consequence. Weeks later, he thanked me for saving his life. However, I did not knock on their door at 11 pm that night to be a hero. I did it because I knew that his depression might cause him to take his own life. I wanted him to live to see the world in color again.

He spoke slowly, “Every day looks gray. I don't feel anything anymore.” I held back tears, listening to my best friend. We were parked in front of his house when he confided in me that in the past few months he noticed his depression was getting worse. His body was shaking. His eyes were closed and tears streamed down his face. “I only have enough energy to get through each day. I’m so tired. I just want to rest.” I rubbed his back and repeated to him, “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” But nothing I said made any difference against the depressive thoughts that consumed him. I asked, “Are you going to be able to keep yourself safe tonight?” His eyes stared blankly ahead. He responded, “I don’t know.” He told me that he could no longer decipher reality from his depression. He explained how sometimes when he is driving, he thinks about driving off the road. I begged him to tell his parents or his doctor, but he refused. After I dropped him off, I immediately called his mom, but it went straight to voicemail. I pulled over on the side of the road, took a deep breath, and let myself process what he had just told me. I recognized that he needed help urgently and that I had to break his trust in order to keep him safe. When I arrived home, my voice broke as I told my mom, “I think he might kill himself tonight. I have to go over and tell his parents.” She responded with reluctance, “His parents might not understand how critical his depression is, because he has denied it for so long.” She said she could come with me, but could not speak for me. She told me that I was the only one who could explain the severity of his condition because I was the only person he confided in. I asked myself if I could live with even a small possibility of him taking his life that night. I could not. His mother opened the door and his father told us we could discuss whatever it was in the morning. After I begged them to hear me out, they allowed my mom and me into the living room and agreed to a brief discussion. The next hour consisted of me explaining what he had told me for the past few nights while he sat silently looking down. His parents repeatedly dismissed my concerns. They felt he was simply “overwhelmed and needed some sleep." The only reason I was able to leave that night was his promise to call me if he felt unsafe. Eight days later, he told his parents that what I had said that night was true. He told them that his intrusive thoughts might take control of his actions. Following the safety plan I made with him, he asked his parents to take him to the Emergency Room to get help. Luckily, they did. He was accepted into a partial hospital program and now works with a psychiatrist and therapist. His parents have not spoken to me since. I accept this consequence. Weeks later, he thanked me for saving his life. However, I did not knock on their door at 11 pm that night to be a hero. I did it because I knew that his depression might cause him to take his own life. I wanted him to live to see the world in color again.

As he opened his bag to find an Elmo stuffed animal, one little boy’s face expanded in an unbridled grin. I will never forget his smile and the joy that a small, red muppet gave him. That boy wasn’t just a big fan of Sesame Street, he was a victim of the harshest tornado in Massachusetts since 1953, one which tore through the western suburbs in 2011. I was six when my family packed up the car and brought gifts to the children who had lost their homes in this natural disaster. Although the gravity of losing my home to a natural disaster was beyond my comprehension at the time, I learned the power of spreading kindness. Every year since my family and I provide holiday presents for homeless families in New England. The smiles on their faces when opening these gifts makes the dozens of hours spent acquiring and packaging these gifts worthwhile. These smiles have fueled my aspirations to pursue a career in philanthropy, or my thought as a six-year-old, professional smile-giving. In March of my freshman year, COVID-19 shut down the world. Families struggled without their usual income, local restaurants were forced into closure, and doctors, like my mother, risked their lives each day. Under this front of uncertainty, a 14-year-old affecting meaningful change seemed impossible. I took my first steps in overcoming that fear of the impossible by organizing donations to the Parmenter food pantry in Wayland. Then I fundraised purchases of meals from a family-owned Thai restaurant, then donated those meals to health care staff at Newton-Wellesley hospital. Empathizing with so many other students stuck at home who were plagued with the same doubt in their efforts to make a difference. I felt I could inspire other kids– not only in the United States but also around the world–to recreate this model. After developing a mission statement, I registered my idea as a non-profit organization called TeamUKAPS (Uniting Kids Against Poverty and Sickness - https://mayalee05.wixsite.com/teamukaps ) I created a turn-key process for each student to have an efficient way of helping as many people in their community as possible, that could be applied in any region of the globe. I established local chapters, contacted students, and fundraised over $25,000 to facilitate aid to local food banks, family-owned restaurants, and healthcare facilities in each town. Using this process, we have reached over 40 communities worldwide, so far. Seeing the smiles, not only on the citizens' faces but also of the students involved from Honolulu, Hawaii, Jakarta, Indonesia; Hamburg, Germany; and Ra-anana, Israel, always brings a smile to my face. After founding my non-profit, I was accepted for an internship working directly with the COO of Family Aid, one of the top nonprofits for homeless prevention in the country. As her intern, I can see that the measure of success in non-profit work is not in statistics, but instead on the faces of each family helped. Working at a renowned non-profit has further solidified my devotion to making non-profit work my profession. When I was a kid, I was asked what do you want to be when I grow up. As I began to navigate my way out of my childhood bubble, I experienced a global pandemic and learned more about the magnitude of discrimination, injustice, and hate that permeates our society. With growth and comprehension, compassion and understanding, I still live by my childhood mantra: “I want to be a professional smile giver!” That is what I envision for my future.

He spoke slowly, “Every day looks gray. I don't feel anything anymore.” I held back tears, listening to my best friend. We were parked in front of his house when he confided in me that in the past few months he noticed his depression was getting worse. His body was shaking. His eyes were closed and tears streamed down his face. “I only have enough energy to get through each day. I’m so tired. I just want to rest.” I rubbed his back and repeated to him, “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” But nothing I said made any difference against the depressive thoughts that consumed him. “You need to let me tell your parents that you have depression and it is really serious” I pleaded to my friend, “Would they take you to the Emergency Room if they found out you had broken your femur and it might be at a life-threatening point?” He continued to stare blankly ahead and murmured, “yah … But they won’t understand. I have been worse than this before and they did not notice.” My brain processed his statement and I realized that it was fortunate that he was still alive. I was so grateful that he was able, to be honest with me, but I asked myself why isn’t sharing this information with his parents or his primary care doctor. I found out the answer to my question later that night. When I shared my concern about Lucas and his depression which had been crushing him for over two years, Lucas spoke to his mother: “do you remember last summer when I checked off on the questionnaire that I was having suicidal thoughts and the doctor read this off? What happened after that? Nothing.” This doctor's appointment was over a year ago. His hope for feeling better sunk lower and lower as the adults who knew this did not make sure that this soft-spoken, kind 17-year-old boy with suicidal thoughts got connected to the mental health care he needed. I thought I had failed him that night; in telling his parents against his wishes, and witnessing his parents try to reassure me that he was just feeling stressed and he would feel better in the morning. Two weeks later, he thanked me for “helping me in a way that no one else did my entire life.” I will never forget the nights in August, worrying if Lucas would make it to the morning alive. I also felt so angry; I knew that Lucas's parents made sure he had high-quality physical therapy for his back muscle pain from swimming, but over a whole year, they did not seem to even try to get him high-quality mental health therapy, even after he checked off the box that he had suicidal thoughts. This was my first witness to the lack of mental health care parity. I am committed to pursuing a career focused on advocating for the safety of others starting with mental health parity in health care. I strive to learn more preventative strategies towards human neglect and suffering during my next four years at college.

He spoke slowly, “Every day looks gray. I don't feel anything anymore.” I held back tears, listening to my best friend. We were parked in front of his house when he confided in me that in the past few months he noticed his depression was getting worse. His body was shaking. His eyes were closed and tears streamed down his face. “I only have enough energy to get through each day. I’m so tired. I just want to rest.” I rubbed his back and repeated to him, “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” But nothing I said made any difference against the depressive thoughts that consumed him. I asked, “Are you going to be able to keep yourself safe tonight?” His eyes stared blankly ahead. He responded, “I don’t know.” He told me that he could no longer decipher reality from his depression. He explained how sometimes when he is driving, he thinks about driving off the road. I begged him to tell his parents or his doctor, but he refused. After I dropped him off, I immediately called his mom, but it went straight to voicemail. I pulled over on the side of the road, took a deep breath, and let myself process what he had just told me. I recognized that he needed help urgently and that I had to break his trust in order to keep him safe. When I arrived home, my voice broke as I told my mom, “I think he might kill himself tonight. I have to go over and tell his parents.” She responded with reluctance, “His parents might not understand how critical his depression is, because he has denied it for so long.” She said she could come with me, but could not speak for me. She told me that I was the only one who could explain the severity of his condition because I was the only person he confided in. I asked myself if I could live with even a small possibility of him taking his life that night. I could not. His mother opened the door and his father told us we could discuss whatever it was in the morning. After I begged them to hear me out, they allowed my mom and me into the living room and agreed to a brief discussion. The next hour consisted of me explaining what he had told me for the past few nights while he sat silently looking down. His parents repeatedly dismissed my concerns. They felt he was simply “overwhelmed and needed some sleep." The only reason I was able to leave that night was his promise to call me if he felt unsafe. Eight days later, he told his parents that what I had said that night was true. He told them that his intrusive thoughts might take control of his actions. Following the safety plan I made with him, he asked his parents to take him to the Emergency Room to get help. Luckily, they did. He was accepted into a partial hospital program and now works with a psychiatrist and therapist. His parents have not spoken to me since. I accept this consequence. Weeks later, he thanked me for saving his life. However, I did not knock on their door at 11 pm that night to be a hero. I did it because I knew that his depression might cause him to take his own life. I wanted him to live to see the world in color again.

He spoke slowly, “Every day looks gray. I don't feel anything anymore.” I held back tears, listening to my best friend. We were parked in front of his house when he confided in me that in the past few months he noticed his depression was getting worse. His body was shaking. His eyes were closed and tears streamed down his face. “I only have enough energy to get through each day. I’m so tired. I just want to rest.” I rubbed his back and repeated to him, “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” But nothing I said made any difference against the depressive thoughts that consumed him. I asked, “Are you going to be able to keep yourself safe tonight?” His eyes stared blankly ahead. He responded, “I don’t know.” He told me that he could no longer decipher reality from his depression. He explained how sometimes when he is driving, he thinks about driving off the road. I begged him to tell his parents or his doctor, but he refused. After I dropped him off, I immediately called his mom, but it went straight to voicemail. I pulled over on the side of the road, took a deep breath, and let myself process what he had just told me. I recognized that he needed help urgently and that I had to break his trust in order to keep him safe. When I arrived home, my voice broke as I told my mom, “I think he might kill himself tonight. I have to go over and tell his parents.” She responded with reluctance, “His parents might not understand how critical his depression is, because he has denied it for so long.” She said she could come with me, but could not speak for me. She told me that I was the only one who could explain the severity of his condition because I was the only person he confided in. I asked myself if I could live with even a small possibility of him taking his life that night. I could not. His mother opened the door and his father told us we could discuss whatever it was in the morning. After I begged them to hear me out, they allowed my mom and me into the living room and agreed to a brief discussion. The next hour consisted of me explaining what he had told me for the past few nights while he sat silently looking down. His parents repeatedly dismissed my concerns. They felt he was simply “overwhelmed and needed some sleep." The only reason I was able to leave that night was his promise to call me if he felt unsafe. Eight days later, he told his parents that what I had said that night was true. He told them that his intrusive thoughts might take control of his actions. Following the safety plan I made with him, he asked his parents to take him to the Emergency Room to get help. Luckily, they did. He was accepted into a partial hospital program and now works with a psychiatrist and therapist. His parents have not spoken to me since. I accept this consequence. Weeks later, he thanked me for saving his life. However, I did not knock on their door at 11 pm that night to be a hero. I did it because I knew that his depression might cause him to take his own life. I wanted him to live to see the world in color again.

He spoke slowly, “Every day looks gray. I don't feel anything anymore.” I held back tears, listening to my best friend. We were parked in front of his house when he confided in me that in the past few months, he noticed his depression was getting worse. His body was shaking. His eyes were closed and tears streamed down his face. “I only have enough energy to get through each day. I’m so tired. I just want to rest.” I rubbed his back and repeated to him, “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” But nothing I said made any difference against the depressive thoughts that consumed him. I asked, “Are you going to be able to keep yourself safe tonight?” His eyes stared blankly ahead. He responded, “I don’t know.” He told me that he could no longer decipher reality from his depression. He explained how sometimes when he is driving, he thinks about driving off the road. I begged him to tell his parents or his doctor, but he refused. After I dropped him off, I immediately called his mom, but it went straight to voicemail. I pulled over on the side of the road, took a deep breath, and let myself process what he had just told me. I recognized that he needed help urgently and that I had to break his trust in order to keep him safe. When I arrived home, my voice broke as I told my mom, “I think he might kill himself tonight. I have to go over and tell his parents.” She responded with reluctance, “His parents might not understand how critical his depression is, because he has denied it for so long.” She said she could come with me, but could not speak for me. She told me that I was the only one who could explain the severity of his condition because I was the only person he confided in. I asked myself if I could live with even a small possibility of him taking his life that night. I could not. His mother opened the door and his father told us we could discuss whatever it was in the morning. After I begged them to hear me out, they allowed my mom and me into the living room and agreed to a brief discussion. The next hour consisted of me explaining what he had told me for the past few nights while he sat silently looking down. His parents repeatedly dismissed my concerns. They felt he was simply “overwhelmed and needed some sleep." The only reason I was able to leave that night was his promise to call me if he felt unsafe. Eight days later, he told his parents that what I had said that night was true. He told them that his intrusive thoughts might take control of his actions. Following the safety plan I made with him, he asked his parents to take him to the Emergency Room to get help. Luckily, they did. He was accepted into a partial hospital program and now works with a psychiatrist and therapist. His parents have not spoken to me since. I accept this consequence. Weeks later, he thanked me for saving his life. However, I did not knock on their door at 11 pm that night to be a hero. I did it because I knew that his depression might cause him to take his own life. I wanted him to live to see the world in color again.