The Meadow of Moonbeam Magic In a meadow stitched from moonbeam thread, where jellybean trees grew overhead, there lived a collection of the most unusual creatures anyone could ever imagine. The grass sparkled like tiny pieces of emerald glass, and the flowers giggled whenever someone walked past them. At night, the stars seemed close enough to touch, and the moon painted silver paths across the hills. The meadow was home to a group of unicorns who loved drinking sugared rain from teacups carved out of candy canes. Their horns were dipped in stardust gold, and they spoke in rhymes both young and old. Whenever one of the unicorns sneezed, something peculiar happened. Instead of an ordinary sneeze, tiny colorful dreams floated through the air like bubbles. One unicorn might sneeze out a dream about flying through a rainbow. Another might sneeze out a dream about swimming in a sea made entirely of marshmallows. Sometimes the dreams were so strange that even the unicorns could not understand them. Beyond the hills where giggles grew lived a dragon named Ned. Ned was not like the dragons in most stories. He was not especially fast, and he was not very good at roaring. In fact, when Ned tried to roar, it usually sounded more like a squeaky cough. “Roar!” “Bless you,” a unicorn would say. Ned would sigh. “I was trying to roar.” “I know,” the unicorn would reply kindly. Ned was also rather slow. While the other creatures could race across the meadow in seconds, Ned needed much longer. He never minded being slow, though. Ned believed that there was nothing wrong with taking your time. Every morning, Ned sat beside his little cottage and toasted his toast. He liked his toast very carefully toasted—not too light, not too dark, but exactly the right shade of golden brown. Unfortunately, Ned was not very good at remembering when his toast was in the toaster. One morning, he became distracted while watching a cloud shaped like a dancing potato. “Oh!” Ned said. “What an interesting cloud.” A few moments later, smoke began drifting from his cottage. “My toast!” Ned rushed toward the kitchen, although his version of “rushing” was more of a determined shuffle. When he reached the kitchen, his toast was completely burnt. Ned looked at it. The toast looked back at him. “Well,” he said, “I suppose today is not a toast day.” He threw the toast into the compost pile and made himself a bowl of jellybean cereal instead. Ned thought it was going to be an ordinary day. He was very wrong. That afternoon, something strange happened. The meadow stopped sparkling. The flowers stopped giggling. The jellybean trees stopped growing. Even the unicorns' magical sneezes disappeared. The creatures gathered in the middle of the meadow, staring around in confusion. “What happened?” asked one unicorn. “Where did the magic go?” asked another. Nobody knew. The meadow had always been filled with imagination and wonder. Nobody could remember a time when the flowers had stopped laughing or when the stars did not twinkle brightly above the hills. The oldest unicorn stepped forward. “We must find out what happened,” she said. Everyone began suggesting ideas. “Maybe a giant cloud covered the sun!” “Maybe the jellybean trees are hungry!” “Maybe the magic went on vacation!” The creatures talked and talked, but nobody seemed to have a real solution. Then Ned raised his claw. “I have an idea.” Everyone turned toward him. Ned felt nervous. He was used to being slower than everyone else, and sometimes the other creatures did not take his ideas seriously. “What is it?” asked the oldest unicorn. “I think we should look for clues,” Ned said. “If something changed, maybe we can find out why.” The animals agreed. Together, they searched the meadow. They looked beneath the jellybean trees. They searched behind the candy-cane teacup fountain. They even checked the hills where giggles grew. Ned moved slowly, but he noticed things that the others overlooked. Near one of the trees, he found a tiny silver feather. “Look!” Ned said. The unicorns gathered around. “What is it?” “I don't know,” Ned admitted. “But maybe it belongs to whatever caused the magic to disappear.” They followed a trail of silver feathers through the meadow until they reached a quiet corner of the forest. There, underneath an enormous mushroom, they discovered a tiny creature. It was a little star-shaped creature with droopy wings. “Who are you?” Ned asked gently. The creature looked frightened. “My name is Pip,” it whispered. “I didn't mean to cause trouble.” “What happened?” asked Ned. Pip explained that he was a young dream-maker. His job was to sprinkle imagination across the meadow while everyone slept. But the night before, he had become frightened that he was not good enough at his job. “I tried to make a dream,” Pip said, “but I couldn't think of anything wonderful. I became embarrassed, so I stopped trying. When I stopped making dreams, the meadow slowly lost its magic.” The creatures looked at Pip. Nobody was angry. Ned sat beside him. “I know how you feel,” Ned said. Pip looked up. “You do?” “Of course. Sometimes I try to roar, and it sounds like a squeaky cough. Sometimes I try to make toast, and I burn it. Sometimes I have an idea and worry that everyone will think it's silly.” “Do they?” “Sometimes,” Ned admitted. “But that doesn't mean I should stop trying.” Pip's wings lifted slightly. “So you don't think I'm bad at being a dream-maker?” “No,” Ned said. “I think you're learning.” The other creatures nodded. The unicorns began sharing their own mistakes. One admitted that she once sneezed a dream into a puddle and accidentally turned it into a mountain of pudding. Another explained that she had once tried to fly through a rainbow and landed in a bush. Everyone laughed. Even Pip. Then Ned had an idea. “Why don't we all make a dream together?” Everyone agreed. The unicorns gathered around Pip. The jellybean trees began swaying gently in the breeze. The flowers opened their petals. Even the clouds seemed to lean closer. Pip closed his eyes. At first, nothing happened. He frowned. “I can't think of anything.” Ned smiled. “You don't have to think of something perfect. Just imagine something you would like to see.” Pip took a deep breath. He imagined a purple moon. Then he imagined golden rivers flowing through the sky. He imagined unicorns with butterfly wings, dragons wearing tiny hats, and clouds that bounced like trampolines. The moment he opened his eyes, a tiny spark appeared above his head. Then another. And another. Suddenly, thousands of glowing dreams floated into the sky. The purple moon appeared above the meadow. Golden rivers of light curled through the clouds. The flowers began giggling again. The jellybean trees grew taller. The sugared rain returned. And the unicorns began sneezing dreams once more. The meadow was filled with magic. Everyone cheered. Pip smiled proudly. “I did it!” “You did,” Ned said. “No,” Pip replied. “We did it.” From that day forward, Pip never worried about being perfect. He understood that creativity was not about having the best idea immediately. It was about being curious, trying new things, making mistakes, and trying again. Ned also learned something important. Being slow did not mean being less valuable. Because Ned took his time, he had noticed the silver feather that everyone else had missed. Because he was willing to ask questions, the creatures discovered Pip. And because he understood what it felt like to make mistakes, he knew exactly what Pip needed to hear. The creatures of the meadow never forgot that lesson. Whenever someone felt nervous about trying something new, they remembered Ned. Whenever someone made a mistake, they remembered Pip. And whenever someone thought their imagination was not good enough, the unicorns would say: “Magic doesn't have to be perfect to be wonderful.” From then on, the meadow became even more magical than before. The flowers giggled louder. The stars shone brighter. The jellybean trees grew candy-colored fruit. And every evening, when the moon rose above the hills, Pip sprinkled dreams across the meadow. Sometimes the dreams were beautiful. Sometimes they were silly. Sometimes they made absolutely no sense at all. But nobody complained. Because the creatures had learned that imagination does not need rules. And somewhere beyond the hills where giggles grew, Dragon Ned sat beside his cottage, carefully watching his toast. This time, he remembered it. He lifted the perfectly golden toast from the toaster and smiled. “Success!” Then he looked up at the sky. A dream shaped like a dancing potato floated past. Ned laughed. “That's a good one.” The Message Behind the Story I chose kindness, creativity, curiosity, and resilience as the main messages of this story because these are important qualities for children to develop as they grow. The story shows that everyone has unique strengths, even if those strengths are not immediately obvious. Dragon Ned is slow and sometimes makes mistakes, but those qualities do not make him less important. In fact, his patience and careful observation allow him to solve a problem that the faster creatures could not solve. The story also teaches resilience. Pip becomes afraid that he is not good enough and stops trying. Instead of making fun of him or criticizing him, the other characters encourage him. Ned helps Pip understand that making mistakes is part of learning. This shows children that failure does not mean they should give up. Sometimes, the best thing someone can do is try again. Another important message is kindness. When the creatures discover that Pip accidentally caused the problem, they could have become angry with him. Instead, they listen to his story and help him. Their kindness gives Pip the confidence to try again. This demonstrates how one kind response can make someone feel supported and brave. Finally, the story celebrates creativity and imagination. The magical meadow is filled with impossible things because children should be encouraged to imagine beyond what they see in everyday life. Creativity allows people to explore new ideas, solve problems, and express themselves. How Storytelling Can Positively Impact Young Audiences Storytelling is a powerful way to teach children because it combines important lessons with characters, emotions, humor, and imagination. A child may not always remember a simple instruction to “be kind” or “never give up,” but they may remember a character like Ned who demonstrates those qualities through an adventure. Stories can also help children understand perspectives different from their own. When readers see a character feeling nervous, making mistakes, or struggling with something, they can begin to understand those emotions in themselves and others. This can encourage empathy and compassion. Imaginative stories can also encourage curiosity. A magical world filled with talking flowers, flying dreams, and jellybean trees invites children to ask questions and create their own ideas. This kind of imagination can inspire children to write, draw, invent, explore, and think creatively. Most importantly, stories can help children understand that they do not have to be perfect. The characters in this story make mistakes, but their mistakes become opportunities to learn. Ned burns his toast, struggles to roar, and moves slowly, yet he still becomes an important hero. Pip struggles with his creativity, but with encouragement, he discovers his confidence again. The overall lesson is simple: everyone has something special to contribute, and it is okay to make mistakes while discovering what that is. Through Dragon Ned, Pip, and the magical meadow, young readers can learn that kindness helps people grow, curiosity helps us discover new things, creativity helps us imagine possibilities, and resilience helps us keep going when things do not work out the first time.

My goals are rooted in my desire to continue growing as a writer and lifelong learner while creating opportunities that extend beyond earning a degree. As a first-generation college student, education has always represented something deeply personal to me. It is an opportunity to accomplish something for myself while honoring the sacrifices and experiences of the people who came before me. My educational journey has taught me that earning a degree is not simply about completing coursework; it is about discovering my voice, challenging myself, and creating a future that once seemed out of reach. I have already earned an Associate of Fine Arts in Written Arts. I'm at the tail end of a Bachelor of Science in English. Each step of my education has strengthened my appreciation for language, literature, and the power of storytelling. My academic goal is to pursue graduate-level study in creative writing. I want to continue developing my abilities as a writer while learning how to transform personal experiences, observations, and research into meaningful work. I am interested in poetry and creative nonfiction because they provide opportunities to examine difficult experiences while also exploring resilience, identity, personal growth, and the process of finding one's voice. One of my long-term goals is to develop a creative nonfiction project while continuing to write poetry. I am interested in writing about experiences that shape people and ways we learn to understand ourselves through those experiences. Graduate study would give me the opportunity to work closely with other writers, receive feedback, and develop the discipline necessary to complete larger creative projects. My academic journey is especially meaningful because I am a first-generation college student. I have seen how a lack of educational opportunities can limit someone's professional choices and ability to advance. That knowledge has made me appreciate the opportunities I have had while also making me determined to continue moving forward. Completing my education is something I am doing for myself, but it also carries significance for my family, particularly my mother. Pursuing higher education has become a way for me to honor the opportunities she did not always have while building on the strength and determination she demonstrated throughout her life. Continuing my education requires balancing school and responsibilities of adulthood. I work as a massage therapist, and my profession has taught me valuable lessons about empathy, communication, discipline, and the importance of understanding people's individual experiences. Working while attending school has strengthened my ability to manage my time and remain committed to long-term goals. However, balancing employment and graduate education also presents financial challenges. Receiving this scholarship would reduce some of that financial pressure and allow me to devote more of my attention to my academic and creative development. Financial assistance could help offset tuition, books, educational materials, and other expenses associated with graduate study. More importantly, it would give me additional time and mental space to concentrate on writing, research, coursework, and participation in the academic community. My education has already changed the way I see myself and what I believe is possible for my future. I do not view graduate school as simply another credential. I see it as an opportunity to become a stronger writer, deepen my understanding of my craft, and create work that may eventually resonate with others who are learning to find their own voices. This scholarship would be an investment not only in my education but also in the work I hope to create and the people I hope to reach through it. With this support, I would be able to continue building upon everything I have already accomplished.

Being a first-generation college student means I am completing something not only for myself, but also for my mom. The idea of higher education has always been more than simply earning a degree. To me, it represents opportunity, independence, and the ability to choose the direction of my life. Growing up, I watched my mom work hard and still be told that she did not have "enough" education to move forward. She was repeatedly turned down for job advancement opportunities, not because she lacked dedication, intelligence, or experience, but because she did not have the degree employers wanted. Watching that happen affected me more than I realized at the time. Somewhere along the way, I made a promise to myself: that would not be my story. My path has not been the traditional one. Instead of simply working for someone and waiting for an opportunity to come along, I created my own business. Building a career as a massage therapist has taught me that education happens both inside and outside of the classroom. On the days I am not sitting at a desk discussing literature, writing, grammar, or ideas, I am working with clients, running a business, solving problems, and learning how to connect with my community. Some days, I move directly between these two worlds. I may spend part of the day thinking about sentence structure and the other part thinking about muscle structure. Both require patience, attention to detail, and the ability to understand how individual pieces work together. Being a first-generation student also means that sometimes I feel the weight of what I am accomplishing. There is no family roadmap telling me exactly how college is supposed to work. I have had to figure things out as I go while balancing school, business, responsibilities, and the occasional moment when I wonder why I thought doing all of this at the same time was a "good" idea. Still, every class I complete reminds me of why I started. When I am in the classroom, I often think, "Mom, we are going to have a degree." Technically, my name will be printed on the diploma, but emotionally, I know she will be standing there with me. Her experiences helped create my determination. Every paper I write, every difficult class I finish, and every time I choose to keep going feels like I am honoring us both. For me, being a first-generation college student is about changing the direction of a family story. My education does not erase what my mom experienced, but it allows me to build something positive from it. I am creating a life in which education, entrepreneurship, and determination work together. When I finally hold that degree, I will know that I earned it for myself, while part of me will be thinking, "Mom, we did it."

I am a Creative Writing/English major because it is cheaper than therapy. As a writer we chose to live our experiences twice—I believe Anne Lammot said that. Or something similar to it. In my twenties, when I was attempting to juggle adult-life of going to school, working, and a relationship something would have to give. It would be school. Most of these were by no means long-term relationships, so I would inwardly become angry at myself for getting into the situation. As the cliche goes: “A lesson is repeated until learned.” I did that until I was 28 and I was leaving a verbally abusive relationship swearing I would take care of myself first, and then get in a relationship on my terms. For the next two years I wrote my story on to paper for the first time in a community college that had Creative Writing as a major. When pouring my words onto paper I learned to write Poetry not by the instructor, but by emotion. I wrote what was in my heart in my own rendition of what I thought poems should look and sound like. The instructor did not teach. I submitted my poems to the annual student literary magazine and I was accepted. I could see the steam in his ears when I entered class. After, I continued that development for ten years after graduation. I took it one step further and submitted a quote for a tea tag. I was accepted. I never found the tea tag though. While in my two year experience I also took my first Creative Non-Fiction class. I turned my sorrow of being the victim of an insecure man to that of a woman of strength who chose to walk-a-way from the partnering because it was not serving her best interest. Now, I am wanting more of it. I am wanting to write through my other heartaches and see how those challenges are now viewed. I want to live it twice without therapy. My goals for myself? As a writer, is to write at least two poems a month. As a Non-Fiction writer I want to find my authentic voice in prose writing. I want to share my story. I have already helped a few friends that have continued with their writing careers in advanced degrees by ghostwriting their material. They have been asking me when I am going to become published. I stammer in an unknown. I just know that I am going to put a website together first, over winter break, to build my audience. Then, I will continue my chapters and let the book unfold while I juggle classes to finish my four-year degree. How do you want to affect others through creative writing? I would like to put together a retreat with other woman who too have gone through the emotional aches of unrequited love, or abusive relationships. I want to let them know how healing writing is. Ideally, it would be a week-long retreat with nutritious healing comfort food, yoga, time in nature, and time with a journal. Maybe a therapist, just in case. The book that I would recommend to writers is Anne Lammot’s “Bird by Bird.” It tears at the heart of what it means to be the critique, the advocate, and the therapist of your written work.It takes you through the perils and traumas of being a writer. Yet, she nourishes the reader giving them a grain of hope. That you can get through this because it is in fact cheaper than therapy, and nobody wants to pay for that. The book I would recommend to a reader is Scott O’Dell’s “Black Star, Bright Dawn.” I personally read the book in the early 90s as a kid who read everything. The imagery has stuck out with me the most. The main character runs the Iditarod. She seems older more mature yet remembered as being not much than myself. In my own adventurous experiences that I write about I still picture the moon hovering over the soldier lined trees as Bright Dawn ran over sheets of ice and glittering snow.

Anne Lamott says that “writing is cheaper than therapy.” Or something to that extent. I find that in writing we experience life twice. We first live the event and then we reflect on it with our words. I write this way to friends and family in snail mail. I let them know I have made it through the latest and greatest. I am penning this idea to paper in an Epistolary story in the lessons of life associated with heartache and woe that I wish I could share with the most influential man in my life—my grandfather. My goals for myself? As a writer, my goal is to write at least two poems a month. I am self-taught and I currently devolving voice and style that is my own uniqueness. As a Non-Fiction writer I want to find my authentic voice in prose writing. I have overcome. I have survived. And I have experienced. With that I want to share my story. I have already helped a few friends that have continued with their writing careers in advanced degrees by ghostwriting their material. They have since been asking me when I am going to become published. They exclaim that they love my writing. My answer, I stammer in an unknown. I just know that am working on website first, to begin building my audience outside of friends and family beta-readers. Then, I will continue to work my chapters and let the book of growth unfold while I juggle classes to finish my four-year degree. How do you want to affect others through creative writing? My ultimate goal: I would like to put together a retreat with other woman who too have gone through the emotional aches of unrequited love, or abusive relationships. I want to let them know how healing writing is. Ideally, it would be a week-long retreat with nutritious healing comfort food, yoga, time in nature, and time with a journal. Maybe a therapist, just in case.

My greatest achievement to date? Going back to school and pursuing my passion that grabs me on the deepest aspect of my soul. I live to write. I write to live. It quenches my thirst on the unspeakable level of satisfaction of purpose. After a ten year break of school, at which time I write two poems a month, I am back to continue forth. What did this achievement teach me? As a person who has grand dreams of sitting at a cafe and drinking bottomless cups of tea while working on her I writing. I did it. I did it cafes. I did it libraries. I did it at local parks. I did it at yoga studios. I stayed in my craft. I wrote. It showed me that I could write anywhere. It showed me that I could pursue my passion. It showed me that did have the ability to continue regardless of what I have picked up and possibly not finished in the past. This was the goal I had for myself. It was the goal that I want for myself. What do you hope to achieve in the future? I am a Creative Writing/English major because it is cheaper than therapy. As a writer we chose to live our experiences twice—I believe Anne Lammot said that. Or something similar to it. In my twenties, when I was attempting to juggle adult-life of going to school, working, and a relationship something would have to give. It would be school. Most of these were by no means long-term relationships, so I would inwardly become angry at myself for getting into the situation. As the cliche goes: “A lesson is repeated until learned.” I did that until I was 28 and I was leaving a verbally abusive relationship swearing I would take care of myself first, and then get in a relationship on my terms. For the next two years I wrote my story on to paper for the first time in a community college that had Creative Writing as a major. When pouring my words onto paper I learned to write Poetry not by the instructor, but by emotion. I wrote what was in my heart in my own rendition of what I thought poems should look and sound like. The instructor did not teach. I submitted my poems to the annual student literary magazine and I was accepted. I could see the steam in his ears when I entered class. After, I continued that development for ten years after graduation. I took it one step further and submitted a quote for a tea tag. I was accepted. I never found the tea tag though. While in my two year experience I also took my first Creative Non-Fiction class. I turned my sorrow of being the victim of an insecure man to that of a woman of strength who chose to walk-a-way from the partnering because it was not serving her best interest. Now, I am wanting more of it. I am wanting to write through my other heartaches and see how those challenges are now viewed. I want to live it twice without therapy. My goals for myself? As a writer, is to write at least two poems a month. As a Non-Fiction writer I want to find my authentic voice in prose writing. I want to share my story. I have already helped a few friends that have continued with their writing careers in advanced degrees by ghostwriting their material. They have been asking me when I am going to become published. I stammer in an unknown. I just know that I am going to put a website together first, over winter break, to build my audience. Then, I will continue my chapters and let the book unfold while I juggle classes to finish my four-year degree. How do you want to affect others through creative writing? I would like to put together a retreat with other woman who too have gone through the emotional aches of unrequited love, or abusive relationships. I want to let them know how healing writing is. Ideally, it would be a week-long retreat with nutritious healing comfort food, yoga, time in nature, and time with a journal. Maybe a therapist, just in case.

I am a Creative Writing/English major because it is cheaper than therapy. As a writer we chose to live our experiences twice—I believe Anne Lammot said that. Or something similar to it. In my twenties, when I was attempting to juggle adult-life of going to school, working, and a relationship something would have to give. It would be school. Most of these were by no means long-term relationships, so I would inwardly become angry at myself for getting into the situation. As the cliche goes: “A lesson is repeated until learned.” I did that until I was 28 and I was leaving a verbally abusive relationship swearing I would take care of myself first, and then get in a relationship on my terms. For the next two years I wrote my story on to paper for the first time in a community college that had Creative Writing as a major. When pouring my words onto paper I learned to write Poetry not by the instructor, but by emotion. I wrote what was in my heart in my own rendition of what I thought poems should look and sound like. The instructor did not teach. I submitted my poems to the annual student literary magazine and I was accepted. I could see the steam in his ears when I entered class. After, I continued that development for ten years after graduation. I took it one step further and submitted a quote for a tea tag. I was accepted. I never found the tea tag though. While in my two year experience I also took my first Creative Non-Fiction class. I turned my sorrow of being the victim of an insecure man to that of a woman of strength who chose to walk-a-way from the partnering because it was not serving her best interest. Now, I am wanting more of it. I am wanting to write through my other heartaches and see how those challenges are now viewed. I want to live it twice without therapy. My goals for myself? As a writer, is to write at least two poems a month. As a Non-Fiction writer I want to find my authentic voice in prose writing. I want to share my story. I have already helped a few friends that have continued with their writing careers in advanced degrees by ghostwriting their material. They have been asking me when I am going to become published. I stammer in an unknown. I just know that I am going to put a website together first, over winter break, to build my audience. Then, I will continue my chapters and let the book unfold while I juggle classes to finish my four-year degree. How do you want to affect others through creative writing? I would like to put together a retreat with other woman who too have gone through the emotional aches of unrequited love, or abusive relationships. I want to let them know how healing writing is. Ideally, it would be a week-long retreat with nutritious healing comfort food, yoga, time in nature, and time with a journal. Maybe a therapist, just in case.

I currently work as a small business owner as Professional Licensed Massage Therapist, and feel like this is helping my community make a larger impact on the world. Through the power of informed compassionate touch I can make someone feel better within an hour's time. Through the power of informed compassionate touch I can reach out to someone without medication or drugs to help someone make a safer and healthier choice for their body. Through the power of informed and compassionate touch I can educate people on how to care for their bodies long-term. 1. I can make someone feel better within an hour's time. Due to working in a clinic along side a Chiropractic team I have a time limit in which I can help someone, so I have to quickly and effectively. I have to make an immediate impact to get someone out of pain. This is usually muscle or fascia based pain in the body's structure. I have to hone in the site of injury or pain and get to work instantly. I'm not a spa massage therapist. I'm not there to make things feel good. I let people know that I will create a little bit of pain to help them get out of pain. This can usually be done in a minimum of two visits. 2. I can help someone without medication or drugs. Using the power of my hands and some arnica cream I can create some pretty amazing results. People tell me that they no longer take daily pain relievers to get out of pain. Instead, they are excited to see me to get their appeasement. 3. I can educate people on how to care for their bodies long-term. Following the massage treatment I add longevity exercises. These are also known as Neuromuscular Re-education exercises. The idea behind these is help remind muscles how to work correctly after in an injury. Or how to work effectively if they haven't been working at all. I usually show up to three exercises and ask for feedback in about a week's time on how they are working for the client/patient and most of the time I get remarks of, "Something is different, I can't put my finger on it." Getting one person out of pain in an hour's time is a trickle down effect into the community. It may lead someone to smile a little brighter and inform someone's day. Or some other form of kindness. I feel like this echoes throughout the world when there is positive informed compassionate touch. This is done in one hour's time. This is done without medication or drugs. And this done with re-educating the body with Neuromuscular Re-education exercises.

Being diagnosed with Hoshimoto's Thyroiditis most people think that you just need Thyroid medicine and you are set to jump back into life with your head held high. This isn't true. Being diagnosed with Hoshimoto's Thyroiditis means you keep your head down and read labels--constantly. Being diagnosed with Hoshimoto's Thyroiditis means you can't enjoy the same foods as your friends and family. Being diagnosed with Hoshimoto's Thyroiditis means you have to put your health first. 1. Keeping your head down and reading labels means you have look for trigger foods that create more inflammation in your body. Inflammation is what you are trying to rid your body of so that it can heal and function at it's best. In my case, it is learning what my food sensitivities are and riding my body of any of it and reintroducing the foods slowly to see what triggers a reaction. This is dairy, wheat/gluten, and bell peppers. Guess what's for lunch at the cafeteria today? Pasta with cream sauce and sautéed peppers. I have to politely decline, and go home and make my own gluten free pasta and pepper free and dairy free sauce. This is isolating in feeling. 2. The pasta with cream sauce and sauteed peppers sounds delish, to my friends who can enjoy it, but when I decline it actually makes me feel isolated. I feel like I am alone in my journey of eating this way. My Dad will tease me saying that I am making "bunny food." My mom will still feed me traditional store-bought bread with a meal. Occasionally, I will have a friend visit and share a meal with me. I don't know if they like it or not. It makes me want to cry. I have a community online thanks to Danielle Walker's Against All Grain. There I have the support of people who are going through the exact same thing. There I find recipes I can make for me to eat that are similar to what other people eating in "normal" food. The pasta dish would be something like, gluten free noodles, zucchini, and a cashew cream based tomato sauce instead of the trigger foods. It makes me feel less isolated. This is eating according Auto-immune Protocol, or AIP. 3. Putting your health first. Changing the way I eat and support groups are only a small way I have put my health first. I am taking the avenue of using Acupuncture with herbs instead of taking a Thyroid medication. The needles are inserted into areas that need more energy to keep me going. The herbs help curb symptoms instead of masking them, like medication. The foods that help with feeding my constitution nourish me instead of depleting me. This keeps me actively enrolled in my health and wellness. It keeps me curious. In the beginning of this essay I said I was carrying my head down, but really it's because I am researching on how to better myself while living with my diagnosis and to live more vibrantly with it through not eating trigger foods, having a support group, and putting my health first through other avenues than using medication.

For the past ten years I haven’t been able to speak clearly. My Dad would say things like, “Stop swallowing your words,” or “Spit it out!” I simply couldn’t. I was diagnosed with Spasmodic Dysphonia, so the words I wanted to say were literally caught in my throat. I have since tried several treatments, and they are: Botox injections, speech therapy, yoga breathing techniques, and bagel toning. With Botox I experienced the joy of having a voice again, but it wasn’t my authentic voice. It was different from what I had recognized it as. And the first month, after the injection, I had difficulty swallowing liquids. I’m active and concerned about dehydration because I live in high desert. Speech therapy was more like a college class where I learned why my vocal chords weren’t working, because the homework didn’t seem to effect things. Yoga breathing was coupled with yoga exercise and auditory sounds of “ah” or “ha” to produce relaxation. It is great to do when in yoga class to enhance relaxation. I alternate this idea with cavalier toning or humming to help keep my throat and neck area relaxed, so I am no longer swallowing my words. I also attend Toastmasters on a weekly basis to practice speaking in my authentic non-Botoxed influenced voice to hear what I sound like when speaking. With it I am writing speeches to inform, education, and to encourage new perspective while, I, as a writer can stay in my craft. More importantly I can practice saying what is on my mind for those moments I am prompted to speak without notification, or with what I hope to be my poems as a book one day.

I am the product of two divorced parents from the age I was three months old. From that young age, I quickly learned that my father figure was my mother's father. This is because my father wasn't ready to be a father, and he instead chose his path. This story isn't about him. It is the repercussions of his choice, and because of that one, I gained a grandfatherly dad. And his four sons, my four uncles, as brothers. Together, we all seemingly grew up without missing a beat. From Pops, I learned how to cook, read engineering plans and books of great lengths, garden, and grow vegetables. Well, maybe what I learned was how to eat vegetables while gardening. When he retired, when I was 12 years old I wrote him letters. This became one of my avenues for writing. I would give him the history of the place he was visiting somewhere in the United States, and he would tell me first-hand what it was like in the present moment he was looking at it. I would ask for advice in those letters. I felt closer to him in those letters than I have any man I have had an intimate relationship with. I couldn't hold on to him forever, when I was 16, a sophomore in high school, he died of Cancer. The family gathered close together again, like in the old days when I was younger. My uncles again became brothers. During that time they each took turns teaching me to drive in warehouse parking lots, practice dancing with them in the kitchen for prom, or even how to fix a broken toilet. The memories are close to my heart to this day. But I felt them pouring out of my eyes one day when I was attempting to work as a nursing assistant in a nursing home. During that time, I was struggling: I was struggling to find my footing with relationships. I was struggling to find my footing in life. And I was struggling with unknown mourning while working with other people's grannies and grandpas passing into their next. It was welling up inside of me, and at the end of every shift on my drive home, I would cry. I cried memories. I cried for mourning I did not know how to do at 16. I cried for my grandfather. I cried until I would go to sleep, and when I woke my heart was heavy with grief like his death had still happened. That summer after trying to be a nursing assistant for 90 days, I went back to college and I transmuted my grief. I wrote. I wrote my story of what I was frustrated about at that time--mainly my failed relationships saying I was better for having left them. And then I wrote poems. I didn't write about my grandfather at that time. Flash forward 12 years later, I went back to a junior college I had attended and came full circle with the subject. I wrote to him. I wrote to my grandfather. That is the piece I am sharing here. It is the piece that is inspiring me to continue with my path in college to pursue a degree in English with an emphasis in Writing. It is also inspiring a collection of letters to the men in my life who have either helped me in some unknown way because of me walking away from them to those who flat out helped--just because they were good guys and deserve recognition.

My breathe is for creativity and creativity alone. It is something that informs my day with cooking breakfast and transitioning to lunch and dinner. A well-made is a meal from inspiration. My outlet for communicating deep heart-felt emotion for the past 12 years has been writing poetry. In my musings I talk about hope for something better, mending a broken heart, or the frustrations I may encounter in the kitchen. I am going to school to pursue this idea of continuing to write. I want to share my words created on page to others outside of friends and family.

My tuff lil ruff. My goof floof. Yes I make my Yorkie look like a dorky, because life is funner when you have a little dude named Gunner. He does not chase a ball; he loves us all. We three are his pack. Cookies are his favorite snack. He likes squeaks-- they make Mom shriek. High fives with Daddy. Before coffee is preferred, and usually two afterward. Massages with Melissa— deep tissue is no issue. When I do Yoga, he does headstands, and chases after lost hairbands. Life is merrier with a Yorkshire Terrier. Ode to Gunner by Melissa Goldsmith

Anne Lamott has said “To be a writer is to live twice.” I don’t know if that is a direct quote, or the idea of the quote I want to remember. Either way, as a writer I live first through the exhilarating thrill of experience with all five senses fully open. I am alive and awake. Then, I have to share the experience. I have to remember that heightened exhilaration. I have to remember that stomach turning knot of ache that made me want to toss my cookies and milk and communicate the disorientation spinning of the room and the words that have fallen on deaf ears. What did they really say in that moment? Did I imagine what they said like the Anne Lamott quote? I run the gambit of extreme like a diagnosed Bipolar Manic Depressive, because this is how I savor my craft in writing. It is with my words that feel I can share myself with the world and say these have been my experiences of being kicked in the gut. I have been kicked once physically. I have been kicked again emotionally. As an English major I write. As a self-proclaimed nerd I read. I read Biographies, Memoirs, How-to-write books, Poem, Modern Prose, Cookbooks, and those lesser acclaimed books that have gone under the radar like the “A Wrinkle in Time” series. I do this to learn of different experiences, learn of similar experiences, learn how to, learn how not to, and to learn voice.

My pursuit of college has come in spurts. These spurts are usually after a major upheaval in life that causes me grab on and hold on to my identity by reinforcing it. The first time I did this was after graduating high school. I attempted a two-year college after my grandfather’s death, and because of not really being engaged in school for two years prior as I was coping attending college was no different. In turn, I sold myself on my sculpting skills that I knew I had by attending massage school. Occupationally, I massaged for ten years until this idea came about again. Ten years later I was at the tail end of heart from a relationship based on broken trust and support of his dream. I thought I knew what I wanted with massaging so I was trying to figure out how to grow in that field. He wanted to write, so he did. It reminded me of creative embers. He also told me he had a gaming addiction while living in Las Vegas, Nevada. I did what I knew how to do in trying, but I couldn’t trust, so I left. In doing so, I went back to school. I’m going back to school I completed a degree in Written Arts. It was a two year degree that fed me and nourished the wounds of relationship. It reminded me that I wanted to write, so I did. I submitted work to the student literary magazine, and it was accepted. I changed my story saying I wasn’t a victim. I said I was brave for leaving and wanting something better for myself. After completing that two year degree I continued on to another associates degree and then yoga teacher training. Over the next ten years I experimented with writing poetry to find my voice. And then one day, in wanting another drastic shift in my life I recognized what I was supposed to do with writing. I plan on ghostwriting for women whose voices have been silenced because of those moments they have experienced broken trust. I want to help them transmute their rage into word. I want them to share their story if they are willing. I plan on hosting a woman’s retreat where I meet these women and give them nourishing food, yoga, self-defense classes, counseling, and words to heal with other sisters. As an English major I will gain further writing skills to help me make the retreat and the ghostwriting aspect of my creativity possible. I look forward to helping other women who have been in the same situation or similar situations because I love learning of stories of triumph and overcoming, because I have. I am not a victim. I am a woman who has chose to say there is something better for me. I am now finding it. I am now supported so that it can best happen now.

As a first gen and low-income student this idea has been my identification marker while in college. I need the label to say I need assistance for my college education. But I see myself as something g more than that. I am a writer. I am an English major. And I am a woman. As these identities I am taking back my voice which was swallowed up and lost in an abusive relationship that did not support my creative growth. Instead it fostered domestication—something I have always struggled against. Me leaving the house several days a week to pursue school while he was gone was a threat to him because I was becoming empowered in thought and in voice. And physically, because I was on the Crew team and taking a Kickboxing class. I learned women did not stand for less than their idealism—not their partners. And that most women who were standing on their own two feet did not have a partner. I first recognized this when reading “A Woman of Independent Means.” Then everywhere I looked this iconic woman of courage was in all of my classes from Clara Barton to Emilia Airheart I just had to recognize her and appreciate her. As I did so I began to write of courage and heart-felt strength. When I did write like this I was told I could not write by my partner. He told me my words were flat and I would never get anywhere as a writer. Conversely, I had a Poetry class taught by the same instructor three quarters in a row who did not teach us how to write Poetry. My first term I took what I thought was Poetry and submitted it to the student literary magazine. I was published in the magazine! It gave me incentive to continue with a Written Arts AFA degree. I also took Creative Non-Fiction class where I told my story that was once victimhood to that of triumph. I began learning my power. Long story short, I left the abusive relationship after graduation from my two-year degree. I am wanting to continue with a Bachelors degree in English so that I may have the writing skills needed to edit and ghostwrite for those women who are finding their voices with written word. This is important to me because for the past ten years I haven’t had a voice. I just wrote. I don’t know if it psychologically induced, or because of injury, but the time gave me reflection to recognize what I truly wanted in life. My life. My life as an independent woman that I had previously read about. Also, I plan on hosting a women’s retreat. That retreat will be open to women of wounds and needing to be reminded of their resilience with writing, self-defense, yoga, massage, nutritiously sound meals, and counseling if need be.

Living with a mental health diagnosis has created a sense of gentleness in my life. I used to go hard and all out in sporting activities like water polo or Crew. In these activities, I would push myself to the limit to exhaust myself. At work, I was no different. I would work 8-12 hours a day in manual labor as a massage therapist. I would do this up to six days a week. Now, I step back and say I cannot do that. I have to say I am no longer Wonder Woman to this lifestyle. Instead, I now gently rise at 8 am after going to sleep at 10 pm, but no later. I now work three days a week. I have to work for myself instead of an employer due to having higher expectations of my work. I now go to yoga class and breathe into strange postures which would have once made me question if I could ever do such a thing. I now take my time. I breathe in the world around me. I smile more. I pause more. I stop and smell the roses and pet puppies. And I have boundaries beyond these experiences. In having boundaries I have let go of having relationships that no longer serve me, because while in my stay at the hospital I had met a man that I thought could be my support team outside of the setting. I thought he would be a good friend to have. After our release, from "Club Med," we talked on the phone every day and emailed each other twice a day. Most of the time in our conversations I was being strong for him. In our emails, I was sending inspirational quotes. One day when I called to check in on him his mother answered the phone and said that Jim had committed suicide. I was shocked and in disbelief. Thankfully, I had the support of family to get me through, and a wonderful talk therapist. Ten years later, I decided it was time to try a relationship. Again. This time it was with a man who was also diagnosed with a mental illness. I thought he would be understanding and sympathetic towards me. It was the furthest thing from the truth. He thought I was an emotional punching bag and blamed me for all of his wrongs. When I suggested a counselor could better help him he said that is what I was supposed to be. I corrected him saying I was a massage therapist, not a therapist. I didn't want to stick around for further abuse, so I left. I have been flying solo ever since. Correction, soaring solo. Before the diagnosis, I was searching for something: a connection to my higher self, a connection to God/Goddess, or connection to the whole. I felt like I was nothing in the world and that Source did not know who I was or did it value me. I was in and out of relationships working through my own problems, running because I wasn't happy, and hoping to find answers. It wasn't until I stopped looking, sat down, and began to reflect in silence that the Source was actually with me all along. It was just waiting to be called upon. In turn, I don't look at mainstream religion as my answer.

Bread by Melissa D. Goldsmith Ripped. Sliced. Diced. Sometimes torn. I like the holidays, At least then I can offer some spice. Other days, I am merely a ball of Wonder. Knotted. Crescent-ed. Braided. It is very often that I am seen being masticated. I feel empty without wheat, because my "whole" purpose is not complete. I am: Rye Dry And sometimes, so brittle that I make the toughest mothers cry. Crouton Biscuit Wasa Is this really bread? I never wanted to be low-carb and tasteless. I am better than that. I am a memory. I am an old friend. Enjoy the moment I am one with your lips, because I shall forever be on hips, like your grandmother warned. I will be with you to the end even if you don't fend for mine drenched in olive oil suffocated by cheese I will always have you asking, "More bread please."

Art is my water. I thirst for it. I don't have any other analogy than that. There is something about writing that informs my life and fills my cells with being alive and charismatic. After a good cry, I feel beaten down and exhausted. With a good piece of art, I feel like I am understood. In my craft, as a writer, I can let all of the unsaid that was swallowed come back and out. With writing, I can say, "I love you" in a million different ways. Or I can simply write a letter and let the reader know that what they are going through in heartache has been experienced by someone else somewhere before. I believe I was born to write. My mother used to make me write letters to her when I could not articulate an emotional response. Before going to sleep at night I would leave one of those letters on the kitchen counter, and in the morning I would find her response waiting for me. The only time in our growth together that I did not do that was when my grandfather had died when I was 16. I did not know how to articulate loss. It took me 12 years to find my way through that grief. It took me another 12 to finally write about it, and how much he had meant to me. That is the experience writers get. They get to live life twice according to Anne Lammot. I live first for experience. I then live to write to share my wisdom of how the event has changed me and/or my perspective and/or my character. It is sweet. It is becoming your own counselor. It is becoming the parent. It is becoming the best friend you always wanted.

Education has shaped my view of world by fulfilling my curiosity and learning how other people view the world. As a writer I take to heart in what Anne Lammot said about being a writer means living life twice. I first live through experience and then as a student who produces a written piece I live it again with wisdom and perspective that only tells of maturity. As an academic this is what fuels me: learning what someone else thinks and gaining their perspective it helps enrich my little created world saying they are here with me having the same lesson I am. They are here experiencing the same heartache of another bad relationship. They are here to say “I too am going through my own trials, and this is how I have handled it.” Maybe another way to look at is that a reader leads a thousand lives and the non-reader lives just one. Through my fellow authors I don’t get stuck in a pity party of being the only going through this experience. I am knowing that someone else is that I can pull through and come out better on the other end of it.

Bedtime, 6p! Woo hoo! Way to stay up and socialize with friends. It’s what my life looked like for five before I was properly diagnosed with Hoshimoto’s. Now, I can make it to 8p—sometimes 10p. Either way, I still set my alarm for 6a, and wake up at 8a. There’s nothing better than a good night’s rest, and not to mention healthful eating and herbs from the acupuncturist to make everything function. Why the non-traditional approach you ask? My answer is easy for me complex to the onlooker. I was born a month early and I was born Jaundice. I spent the first month of my life in a hospital. That pattern continued while living with my Mom when I was growing up. As I was maturing I would read about nutrition and how it healed the body, so we agreed I could take vitamins. Fred and Wilma in sour orange became a go to. Then my Granny, her Mother, opened a nutrition store and it all came together. Or at least my primary way of taking care of myself came together. When I moved out the house at 18, I became Vegetarian thinking it was more healthy. I was also lactose intolerant, so I touched on pre-fad Veganism with little knowledge of how much the sour orange Fred and Wilma’s actually helped a growing body and now a nutritionally changing body. I thought fruit and veggies had it all. In short, I became anemic and came down with adrenal fatigue and I did everything possible in western medicine to get better, and it didn’t happen, so fatigued and starving for nutrition I went to an acupuncturist. At the acupuncturist I learned that food is medicine like Socrates said. I also learned how to properly use it. The anemia went away and eventually so did the adrenal fatigue, so I went on my merry way. Life progressed. Stress happened. Soon it was too much and I wasn’t bouncing back. Again, I went the western allopathic medicine route. I didn’t like my answers saying things were within range, but “normal.” I didn’t feel normal. I would go to bed at 6p, and wake up tired at 10a. I did my own research. Then once I had insurance I went in for a blood test. I had it read by my primary and she could give me answer as to what it said. I was devastated. I wanted answers why my nails were brittle, why my hair was falling out, why I was gaining weight, and why I was tired. Being in the wellness side occupationally I began asking around. I was pointed to Functional Medicine. Again, tests were done. Again, results were told. I had adrenal fatigue, again. I had low vitamin D levels. I also had Hoshimoto’s. I was given a shopping bag of supplements and left the office feeling overwhelmed. Having had results with acupuncture the first time I wasn’t at 100% I began asking around at my new location, and was pointed to a medical acupuncturist who I now see on a regular basis. He provides custom herbs. I provide the nutrition questions. I have only started seeing him in April of this year, and I already feel a world of difference, and because of that difference I have decided to go back to school, because I am now no longer exhausted at 6a when my alarm goes off. I can get out of bed and go to class. I can also inform others who I consult with on an option that they may not have thought of.

1. Write about a time when you experienced the arts in your community. How did it impact you? I had a disheartening experience with the arts in my small town community. I went to a Rumi poetry slam that was hosted by the public library, and I saw an associate of a talk therapist I saw for a few sessions when I first moved to the area due to a mental health crisis. The associate was cordial, but distant. I asked how the main talk therapist was that I was seeing because I hadn't seen him in a while due to having made progress. He informed me that Peter had committed suicide. That night in listening to the poets read it was like Peter was talking to me directly through them letting me know that he had moved on and was no longer suffering with his own battles, and that he was by my side continuing to cheer me on. 2. Writer about your favorite teacher in high school. What class did they teach, and what was the most important lesson you learned from them? My favorite teacher from high school was Miss Woldenburg. She was my senior class Jewelry instructor. She was closest to all of us seniors in age due to having just graduated college herself, and it was her first year teaching. She gave us a taste of the freedom we would be growing into through giving us an assignment and then letting us create what we wanted around it. As an artist it was empowering to learn I could create anything from just a small idea. Years later I was at a Friendsgiving gathering and she was there. I told her thank you for that, because it has fostered who I am today in so many different ways: Creative Non-Fiction writing, poetry, cooking, and even little gifts I find as trinkets for loved ones in local coffee shops. 3. How do you think the arts help communities? Give one example of an event, installation, or program you might try to create for your own community as a way to share the arts and enrich those who participate in it. As a writer, my ultimate goal is finding my voice. I have a diagnosis where my voice doesn't always come out. It's like it is hoarse and then nothing. No words. I attribute this to speaking someone else's voice when I was in a verbally abusive relationship. Slander is not how I know how to speak, so I lost my true authentic voice when speaking back to him the way he spoke to me. Writing gives me that chance to say the words to him that I wanted to in my own way. I want to give other women that opportunity. 4. Describe a time when you failed and write about the impact it had on you. I am failing now. I am procrastinating on putting together a blog of my poetry and prose writing to gain my audience for publication. Words from the previously mentioned relationship still sting saying that I will never make it as a writer, but I already have. I have taken the first step and gone back to school. I also do this because I have had no formal writing practice in poetry up until this summer when I took a poetry class.

The COVID-19 pandemic has pushed me into my primary career choice, so I am back in school fulfilling that dream. For the past 22 years I have been employed as a Licensed Massage Therapist going to school here and there to brush up on current trends in the industry. I have also completed two associates degrees—one of which I poured my heart out onto pages and pages in writing classes. It was what I needed to heal and to overcome several abusive relationships, because being a writer means I must experience life twice according to Anne Lammot. I used writing to nurse my wounds and once they healed I began to tell my story anew. I said I was the heroine of my story because I walked away. This has given me courage to start my own massage practice and to see what other limitless possibilities I could try, so that’s why I’m stepping it up and going back to school. Now is my time. And then there’s little notice of having job security just in case we have to shutdown again. With that, I can continue working and not have to be concerned about lost income.

I am a Creative Writing/English major because it is cheaper than therapy. As a writer we chose to live our experiences twice—I believe Anne Lammot said that. Or something similar to it. In my twenties, when I was attempting to juggle adult-life of going to school, working, and a relationship something would have to give. It would be school. Most of these were by no means long-term relationships, so I would inwardly become angry at myself for getting into the situation. As the cliche goes: “A lesson is repeated until learned.” I did that until I was 28 and I was leaving a verbally abusive relationship swearing I would take care of myself first, and then get in a relationship on my terms. For the next two years I wrote my story on to paper for the first time in a community college that had Creative Writing as a major. When pouring my words onto paper I learned to write Poetry not by the instructor, but by emotion. I wrote what was in my heart in my own rendition of what I thought poems should look and sound like. The instructor did not teach. I submitted my poems to the annual student literary magazine and I was accepted. I could see the steam in his ears when I entered class. After, I continued that development for ten years after graduation. I took it one step further and submitted a quote for a tea tag. I was accepted. I never found the tea tag though. While in my two year experience I also took my first Creative Non-Fiction class. I turned my sorrow of being the victim of an insecure man to that of a woman of strength who chose to walk-a-way from the partnering because it was not serving her best interest. Now, I am wanting more of it. I am wanting to write through my other heartaches and see how those challenges are now viewed. I want to live it twice without therapy. My goals for myself? As a writer, is to write at least two poems a month. As a Non-Fiction writer I want to find my authentic voice in prose writing. I want to share my story. I have already helped a few friends that have continued with their writing careers in advanced degrees by ghostwriting their material. They have been asking me when I am going to become published. I stammer in an unknown. I just know that I am going to put a website together first, over winter break, to build my audience. Then, I will continue my chapters and let the book unfold while I juggle classes to finish my four-year degree. How do you want to affect others through creative writing? I would like to put together a retreat with other woman who too have gone through the emotional aches of unrequited love, or abusive relationships. I want to let them know how healing writing is. Ideally, it would be a week-long retreat with nutritious healing comfort food, yoga, time in nature, and time with a journal. Maybe a therapist, just in case.

Family. Time spent in the richness of togetherness with my family is what makes me the most fulfilled. Together we can sort through our challenges to overcome any obstacle that is in our way. This foundation leads us to using these skills in problem solving with close friends who confide in us. If we don’t have an answer we will find one. The drive isn’t to say we are better than you because you don’t have an answer we are just sharing a perspective that may help, a loved one, or someone that you may know.