The year 2020 was difficult for most, and I was no exception. When summer began, my dad, a Colonel, was stationed in Washington D.C. He left our Connecticut home for an apartment away from my sister, my mom, and me. When he came up on weekends, I often felt guilty–"Do I hang out with dad or feel included with friends?". This pattern of constant in and out is ongoing, but by the end of summer, it was starting to seem more normal. Nevertheless, before I could adapt to this new situation, my life was permanently altered. My best friend committed suicide on October 9th, 2020. A day hasn’t gone by where I don’t think of him. The grief that followed his death only added to the guilt of not spending time with family; I found it difficult to go to them, they didn't understand. Only a month into my junior year, the high achiever in me was burning out from AP classes and a broken heart. In November, my grandfather passed away. By then, I was constantly over at my friend, C's, house to cope—it was the only place I felt understood. My family didn't know my best friend, but C's family did. I spent the majority of every day with them, it became my second home. C's sister took me in and made me feel heard substantially more than my own. I found comfort and stability in these relationships and my coping in them...Until December. C's sister and her husband moved away. Half of my second family was gone. Although this drove me to want to mend my familial relationships for support and to escape the codependency I had created with C’s family, it was too late. Come January, my real sister also moved away. She went to Washington D.C. hoping for a college experience, not an online classroom. The only ones left in my house were my mom and me. With my mom losing her father, we were now both grieving which led to more misunderstandings and tension–no one was left to mediate our pain-ridden outbursts. These unfortunate events continued into February with my grandmother's breast cancer diagnosis. Although living alone in her 80s, she opted for surgery. My worried mother left for Ohio to help, followed by South Carolina to sort out her father’s estate. March came with my childhood cat’s heart failure; I now felt completely alone. The days dragged on and I was left alone longer as my parents were handling their own life changes and my sister was searching for independence. It was a coin toss between who was watching me: a parent, my grandparents, or nobody. My home became a motel with one permanent resident: me. I could lie and say I was strong throughout, but all of this broken habitualness within six months along with COVID had me questioning my ability to fight. As the addition of irregularities in my life subsided, I saw myself in a dark depressing hole--a place I never thought I’d be in. A place I didn’t want to be in. Importantly, a place I didn’t have to be in. I realized I had been bogged down with such strong feelings of grief and sadness, I forgot what I had to be proud of. Throughout all of these battles, I persisted. I continued to excel in school and learned to advocate for my mental health. I gained new techniques to manage change and worked on being proud of where I am without dwelling on the “what ifs”. With therapy, I learned to grieve in a way that allowed me to feel my emotions without harming my mental health. Soon, I had an epiphany. My family wanted me back in their lives too. I could still have C's family in my life without it being all-consuming. And lastly, my best friend who died certainly didn’t want the same fate for me. Realizing this, I slowly, over the next year, began to crawl my way out of that hole. Now that I’m out, I have to remember that grief isn’t linear. I often check on myself to make sure I’m not inching back into darkness; what’s helped me the most is using my strong emotions for growth. This experience awakened my love of helping others and biology which I’m using to pursue a path toward medical school. My grief made me realize I want to save lives in the name of my friend who didn’t make it. In the future, I want to help others fight, help them overcome their losses as I have mine and utilize the pain they feel in a positive direction. Overall, I want to share the lesson I’ve learned with others: tragedy may be a part of your story, but it doesn’t define your future.

My parents are the hardest working people I know. Both of them have served in the Air Force; my mom is recently retired and my dad is still active duty. My parents are my biggest mentors. I used to get nervous by moving and upset at having my parents circulate out of the house on duties, until I realized how unique of a childhood I was able to have. My sister and I were able to explore and live in different parts of the country while the people we met there were confined to their own little bubble. My parents taught us the importance of being respectful and kind to make friends with the people in these new places, as well as the importance of keeping in touch with them after we left. Because of my parents, I have friends across the globe. I had to grow up a little before I realized how well my parents had raised us. They were able to keep a steady family environment despite lots of change. They turned the change into a way for them to educate us on the importance of self discipline: learning manners and cleaning up after ourselves, as well as expose us to cultures different from our own. Being a military child has not only allowed me to become a more cultured individual, but it has helped me grow in other ways as well. Most importantly, my mom encouraged me to get involved in volunteering as a way for me to connect to the communities I moved into. Seeing how it made others feel, I instantly developed a love for volunteering. Thanks to the military and my parents, I now truly believe giving back not only helps the people on the receiving end but the doer as well. This love I discovered has pushed me to do some of the things I’m most proud of. For example, I wanted to inspire this love in others so I founded Caring for Connecticut to provide students at my high school with information and easier access to volunteer opportunities. Every time I’ve moved my mom and I have had to heavily research ways to help out because we didn’t have the built-in friendships and connections that most of my peers did. Since I know how hard it is to find places, people, and organizations to get involved with, I created Caring for CT as a way to lessen that burden for other students. We’ve done many projects; conducted a clothing drive, a diaper drive, and we even made cards for hospice patients. Nevertheless, the cause I’m most proud of being involved with was one that made a direct impact on our new town’s community. Caring for CT assisted over 1000 senior citizens in making vaccination appointments. It felt good to know I was leading a group helping ease the pain and confusion of a current issue. I was able to adapt around the problem of volunteering during a pandemic, and turned COVID into another reason to help. Without the military and my parents to show me how, I would’ve never been able to find light in such a bad situation. Through being in a military family, the strongest people I know have taught me to embrace change with flying colors and use it to grow into the best version of myself that I can be.

The distant hum of the heaters blasting out air in lieu of the sun on these winter nights is calming; however the warmth causes sweat to build up on the posterior of my knee hindering my ability to stick on the rotating, mirror-like, fourteen foot pole. I squeeze my left calf to my thigh while my right calf counters this force by pushing hard into the pole. My gaze is upside down from the bend in my back and I nervously stiffen my body to keep from falling as the room spins around and around. So how did a 16 year old, junior in high school get into pole dancing? Let’s rewind. The bustle of cars and buses shake the school as everyone rushes out ready for the weekly two-day break from waking up early and working seven hours. Running to my friend’s car, I look up to the sky feeling the warmth on my face; it’s one of the last nice days of fall before the winter frost creeps over Madison. I hop in his gray 2018 Subaru Outback and we speed out of the parking lot, trying to beat the buses which always end up blocking the exit. As we get to Hammonasset State Park, ready to feel the grain of slightly chilled sand between our toes, the front console starts to buzz. Seeing C’s name on my phone—the boy best friend to my boy best friend, I cautiously, confused as to why he’s calling, slide my finger across the screen. The motive behind his irregular call hits me. My best friend was pronounced dead at 10:13 A.M. on October 9th, 2020, a suicide. When someone that would read to you over the phone as you fell asleep decides to take his own life from this world, how do you handle it? For me, the girl with straight A’s since pre-K who always takes the highest level classes and is the poster child for perfection, you barely get out of bed for two months. AP U.S. History, a class I had an A in, was dropped to the only other option: a level 2 history class. I achieved the lowest grade of my educational career, a B+, in trimester one AP Biology (I know, shocking). I also began going to therapy. It seemed “little miss perfect” wasn’t as “perfect” anymore. However, unconventionally, “little miss perfect” actually got her priorities straight. B+’s no longer phase the overachiever in me. A tragedy helped me realize as long as I am furthering my knowledge, a B retaining information is better than an A+ from short term memorization. Fifty extracurriculars might look good, but what’s the point if you have no interest? I’ve switched from striving to be “little miss perfect” to realizing caring too much will only prevent my full potential. I chose to go to badminton club instead of Excel and now Thursdays are actually fun; less time slaving over studying allowed me to start my own volunteering club, Caring for Connecticut, and get more connected to my community. I signed up for a group pole dance class, ignoring the misogynistic misconceptions, and found that combining strength and dance is a great way to exercise and express deep emotions. I may be seen as “less perfect” in the textbook definition, but I’ve found exceedingly more joy in the person I’m becoming. I still firmly believe academics are important, but the realization that letting loose is sometimes necessary for influential learning has changed my life for the better. I ended up with an overall A- in that AP Biology class, and I held A’s in all my other classes as well. I founded Caring for CT allowing me to aid the community during the pandemic by helping 1000+ senior citizens make vaccination appointments, conducting a diaper drive, conducting a clothing drive, and writing cards to hospice patients. I became the president of Clay Club and raised $1000 for the Branford Community Dining Room selling club-made bowls. I was elected to be captain of my fencing team. I received school awards for excellence in history and world language as well as a “Leadership, Craftsmanship, and Contribution to the Creative Climate” award. Despite the challenges of my dad getting stationed in DC, leaving my mom and I in Connecticut, my best friend committing suicide, my grandpa dying a month later, my grandma getting breast cancer, my sister going off to college, my cat getting heart failure, being in my junior year of high school, and Covid-19 as a whole all happening in the same year, I persevered. In hearing my story I hope others can recognize that it’s okay, necessary even, to choose the things, activities, and people that you love over the things you believe others expect from you. Prioritizing your mental health–your wants and needs–over societal expectations creates long lasting joy in what would otherwise be superficial. The tragedies I’ve faced have only fortified my desire to help others. I aspire to become a surgeon, combining my interests in science, creativity, and giving back to save lives for my grandfather, for my best friend who committed suicide, and for anyone else who has felt the loss someone. It will never erase any of the pain loosing someone causes, but if I can prevent someone else from feeling that pain, even just one person, I will have succeeded in life. So, when the person who knows the most about you–the person taking up the majority of your heart--decides to take his own life from this world, how do you handle it? I decided to grow. The song ends and I unstick my sweaty legs from the reflective pole. Slowly climbing down, I head to check my form on my phone-recorded video already aware I’ll have to restart—I wasn’t pointing my toes.