Recovery, to me, means living life on life’s terms. I entered college in 2024 afraid. I dealt with lifelong depression, using drugs and alcohol to cope since I was thirteen. But alone at school, occasional use turned daily. Everything revolved around using. My grades and health suffered. I didn’t want to lose my education. I went to school after an overdose, sat in class in psychosis. Desperate, I reached out for help. A counselor, campus recovery groups, and another student in recovery led me to my first AA meeting. I was timid, but said yes to every suggestion. I found home in AA. I got a sponsor, and worked the steps. I found relief from cravings, shame, and hopelessness. I returned for sophomore year with restored hope, believing deeply that no matter what life brought I’d never have to use again, one day at a time. Then, three months sober, my father took his life. It was the greatest loss I’ve ever known. Shockingly, I discovered I could accept life as it came, not as I wished it. It was painful, but freeing. I grieved sober, and completed sophomore year. Recovery allowed me to experience grief fully, and that is a gift. Recovery gave me strength I never believed I had. Recovery allows me to pursue my education to my fullest potential. I gave my life to a program of recovery, and it gave life back to me. Through my experience, I know there is hope for everyone still suffering.

As a child, the world was a confusing place, but I was an opinionated, inquisitive kid. Back then, nothing was more exciting than learning something new. Oftentimes, I found curiosity getting the better of me. I would journal my questions, search the internet and all the books I had just to satiate that craving, and then proudly present my evidence to my teachers. My discoveries felt so profound in my world, yet “grown-ups” whom I yearned to impress failed to see them as such. Despite my best efforts to discover the world myself, I was usually criticized for what I had gotten wrong, what I still didn’t understand. Of course, I acknowledged some explanations, but my questions began to feel like little failures, and my inquisitiveness waned. Without the words to describe it, I begrudgingly accepted that things were easier when I didn’t ask questions. I learned to stay quiet. Adults appreciated my unquestioning acceptance of their reality. I felt respected. I felt smart. But I left myself, inadvertently, without a reality of my own. Acquiescence always seemed to be the path of least resistance, so I followed praise as a determining factor of truth. Going into middle and early high school, I latched on to ideologies that weren’t necessarily my beliefs but what would impress the adults around me. My once concrete sense of self blended into a muddled mass of people. I found myself feeling bored. School didn’t excite me like it used to, and learning felt like a chore. The once bright and fascinating world around me was rigid and cold. However, sometime in biology class junior year, a spark ignited. For my birthday, I asked for a microscope, something I had always wanted, hoping to feed that little light the best I could. With it, the first thing I inspected was the well-established water of my fish tank. Peering through the lens, I marveled at a world of winding strands of algae, amoeba I didn’t yet know the names of, a bustling universe in one drop. It was as if, for the first time in years, I was free to question and explore just as I had wished when I was younger. As small as it may seem, my microscope began a perspective shift in me. Discovery brought me joy, just as it always had, and I realized insecurity had been holding me back from growing as a person and exploring my passions. I began to derive new excitement from my activities. Aspects of school that once felt like tasks became places for me to free myself from expectations and focus on new experiences. Orchestra, in and outside of school, gave me an artistic escape where I could develop skills for myself, not just to impress others. I learned to let go and enjoy being part of something bigger than myself by helping with drama club productions after school. My academics, especially my AP English and History courses, encouraged abstract thought, and my teachers reveled in my disagreement as a catalyst for conversation. My time on the debate team allowed me to solidify my opinions and explore new ones. Above all, though, science, especially biology, became my academic passion. It gave me direction and inspired me to continue my exploration into adulthood. Instead of fearing curiosity and shame in my ideas, I’ve learned to embrace them. I’ve learned knowledge isn’t found in accepting what you see, but by questioning the world like it’s never been known before, and through education I hope science allows me to inquire and question for the rest of my life.