When I look back at middle school, one field day stands apart from the rest. It was the year after quarantine ended, and as we waited for the day to begin, my best friend sat next to me like always. We spent the first few minutes talking and joking around. Suddenly her tone changed. Her face no longer lit up, and in its place was a serious expression. At first, she seemed hesitant, but she looked around, made sure no one was listening, and lowered her voice. Without looking away, she whispered, “I’m going to tell you something, and you can’t freak out. The other night, I tried to overdose myself.” She often spoke about how she hated her life and believed that no one cared for her or would miss her if she were gone. Whenever she said this, I reminded her that her family cared for her and that I cared deeply for her. I always listened to her and offered my advice on any problems she was going through. I knew I wasn’t giving a lot of help, but I always believed it was enough to get her through each day. Hearing how close I was to losing her left me feeling terrified and helpless. I felt my stomach drop, and I struggled to hold back my tears. The only thing I could think of was to make her promise not to do it again. A promise that could easily be broken. Although she reassured me and quickly changed the subject, that moment stayed with me. It made me realize how much young people suffer in silence. After that day, I stopped seeing pain as something that happens every once in a while, but instead as something continuous. As I grew older, I began to notice the same pain in others around me. Almost everyone carried something that weighed them down, trying to hide it through jokes, anger, or silence. Yet in certain quiet moments, I could see the sadness and exhaustion in their eyes. Many felt like no one understood them, and opening up would show weakness or prompt neglect. I always felt that I should help, whether it was through giving advice or simply listening. Whenever one of my friends seemed down, I would make sure that they were alright, letting them know that someone cared and would not leave them. These experiences inspired me to pursue a career in mental health, specifically art therapy. I understand how difficult it is to communicate specifically with children and adolescents during vulnerable moments. In school or community settings, I hope to support youth by providing one-on-one support and collaborating with counselors and educators to create safe spaces where students feel comfortable expressing themselves. Art offers a safe and comfortable form of communication, letting emotions be expressed in ways words can’t. Beyond communication, art therapy can also support healing and growth. That’s why I plan to attend Caldwell University and major in Art Therapy, a dual program combining psychology and art. Through psychology courses like Human Development and Psychopathology, I will learn how youth think and feel, while art courses will teach me how to turn those into art. Internships will help me apply this knowledge in real-world settings. With these skills and experiences, I hope to support young people in meaningful ways. I want to become the person I once wished I could have been for my friend: someone they can fully trust, feel safe with, and rely on as they move forward.