When I think about what it was like to lose my best friend, I imagine a house crumbling under pressure: a powerful metaphor for how we construct our lives. Just like a well-built structure needs a strong foundation, sturdy materials, and a dependable team, so do our lives. We rely on relationships, experiences, and guidance to weather the storms that come our way. From the moment we step onto a construction site, the importance of a strong foundation is clear. Every building begins with a base, the first and most essential step in the process. Without it, walls can buckle and roofs collapse, leading to total failure. In our own lives, friendships and personal relationships act as that base, offering stability and direction when things feel uncertain. In this ongoing process of building, each of us plays a role, much like members of a construction crew. Everyone brings unique strengths: engineers, architects, and laborers, all working toward a shared vision. Similarly, we need people in our lives to help us grow, guide us, and keep us grounded. We depend on each other in ways both big and small. When I think about my personal construction crew, I immediately think of my best friend, Ella. From the moment we met, she was a constant presence. A reliable support system through good times and bad. Her energy and optimism helped keep me grounded, even when my own foundation felt like it was starting to crack. Over the six years of our friendship, we built a connection that felt unbreakable. She wasn’t just my friend, she was a true pillar in my life, helping me stack the bricks of my dreams. But just like any building project, life is full of unexpected delays and disruptions. I faced major transitions throughout my school years. I had to change schools in 8th grade, again in 9th, and once more in 10th. Each shift came with new challenges; adjusting to unfamiliar environments, meeting new people, and managing different academic expectations. It felt like the blueprint of my life was being redrawn again and again. In the middle of all that chaos, Ella remained my steady anchor. When everything else was shifting, she stood firm, offering a listening ear, a comforting word, and unwavering support. She helped me make sense of the changes and reminded me I wasn’t alone. Ella was a go-getter in every sense of the word. She was ambitious and fearless. She graduated from high school early, started taking college classes, and constantly pushed herself to achieve more. She never let limits define her. Watching her chase her goals gave me courage to pursue my own. When she got into Georgia College, it was a proud and exciting moment. But it also meant she’d be moving 650 miles away. I comforted myself with the thought that distance wouldn’t change our bond. Her building was just relocating, I told myself. We would still hold each other up, even from afar. Then everything changed. On July 10, just days after her move, Ella was killed in a car accident. In that moment, everything I’d built seemed to collapse. The structure of my life, once held up by her presence, felt like it was crumbling. I was devastated. I couldn’t understand how someone so full of life could be gone so suddenly. How could the world rob her of the future she worked so hard to build? I felt hollow, lost, and broken. Attending Ella’s Celebration of Life, surrounded by her family and friends, I experienced both heartbreak and healing. We laughed, we cried, and we remembered the incredible person she was. In that space, I realized how vital it is to share Ella’s story. The universe, in its own mysterious way, reminded me that connection, even in grief, is what keeps us standing. Despite the pain, I’ve found strength in places I never expected. My two closest friends have been my support beams, holding me up when I couldn’t stand on my own. They’ve let me speak freely about Ella, helping me keep her memory alive. Through them, I’ve come to see that although some structures fall, others are rebuilt even stronger than before. Life, like construction, isn’t perfect. Some bricks will crack. Some plans will change. Walls will need reinforcement. But with love, support, and shared strength, we keep building. Together, we help one another create structures that are resilient and capable of withstanding the hardest storms.

Sitting in the doctor’s office, I waited for the diagnosis. I learned something about perception that day: When some people think of a diagnosis, they think of cancer. Their diagnosis is sending flowers after every round of chemotherapy hoping maybe it’ll work. When I think of diagnosis, I think of my own.  My diagnosis is seeing my doctor and exchanging BS so I can get my prescription filled. My diagnosis is having to explain to my new employer why I have had so many jobs because my mind can’t stand everyday monotony. My diagnosis is living in my own personal hell. My diagnosis is bipolar disorder.  Bipolar disorder is described as “a disorder with episodes of mood swings ranging from depressive lows to manic highs”. For me, manic episodes look like excessive spending, and reckless behavior, and ruining friendships just for the fun of it. And depressive episodes look like spending days in bed with the lights off, and crying until I can’t breathe, and not even showering for more than a week. My whole life I have always been a good student so that was enough to make my parents proud. When I turned 13, it was almost like a switch had flipped in me. I was happy to finally put myself out there, but I got in with the wrong crowd. I was associating with unfamiliar people and getting high. I had substance issues before I was even 14. My family was broken, and they spent countless nights wondering where I was. This is when my depressive episodes started showing more outwardly. My drug abuse had stemmed from my mania that I did not know I had. My life had slipped away from me, and I was in a deep manic episode for months.  Bipolar disorder feels like you’re climbing a mountain with rocky ground that cuts into your feet. The wind chills your bones as you struggle against the weight of the loosely tied hospital gown. Your legs are aching as you feel like Sisyphus and his stupid boulder was with nothing compared to your trudge. One step feels like 20 miles. You are alone on the mountain.  No cheering for you when you’re at the top.  No one congratulating you.  Nothing.  Just the sound of the wind rustling through your ears and your hair hitting your face as you’re trying to shield yourself with the gown. Standing still on the mountain makes you feel detached from your physical self, seeing your breath nearly gets you high, making you feel weightless. You don’t get to embrace the euphoric high for long. The mania causes the mountain to crumble. A sense of overwhelming panic fills your body while the ground shifts. There is a sense of helplessness and vulnerability as the mountain collapses beneath you.  What you want every time you go up the mountain is to see a cabin with your mom baking cookies waiting for you. A break to lull your mental torment. But it’s never there. The trudge up that mountain has been my ever-present reality for 5 years. The endless cycles of mania and depression have tested my courage and driven me to the end of my rope. But through the darkness, I have found a glimmer of hope and the courage to seek help and commit to my recovery. I am completely sober now and reminded of what brought me to this point. While my past may be full of reckless behavior and substance abuse, I refuse to let my diagnosis define me. I am not just another bipolar statistic; I am a beacon of hope for those struggling themselves. I am a fire ablaze on a snowy mountaintop. Each day of sobriety is a testament to my strength and resilience and each day is one step closer to reclaiming my life and embracing the person I am meant to be.