I hear the distinct shatter of my phone as it slips out of my hand. My right hand twitches for the fifth time in the last ten minutes—one of my tics, hyper-stimulated after a long, overwhelming day at school. Growing up in an Indian household, these tics were brushed off as something I’d eventually “grow out of,” or worse, something I was doing for attention. But the truth is, they’ve never gone away—and they’re not something I can just turn off. Although Tourette’s was ruled out because I don’t have vocal tics, my physical tics are part of my daily life. I’ve learned over time that certain sounds, smells, and visuals can trigger them. I’ve also learned how exhausting it can be to feel like you’re constantly managing your own body in public. The physical discomfort is one thing—but the feeling of being stared at or misunderstood is something else entirely. My experience navigating this as an Indian American has shaped how I view mental health and disability. In my community, topics like this are still taboo. There’s pressure to appear “put together,” and asking for help is often seen as weakness. It took years for me to even recognize that what I was experiencing was real and valid, let alone advocate for myself. But now that I’ve found my voice, I want to help others find theirs. Volunteering as a crisis counselor has shown me just how much people are struggling silently—especially in marginalized communities. I’ve worked with individuals across a wide range of backgrounds—Black, Asian, Latinx, Indigenous, LGBTQ+, low-income, first-generation immigrants—and each one brought their own story and pain. I’ve supported people through anxiety attacks, depressive episodes, suicidal thoughts, OCD spirals, domestic violence, and feelings of deep isolation. Many of them felt like they had no one else to talk to. Being that one safe space, even for just a few minutes, has changed how I see the world—and how I want to show up in it. My goal is to pursue a career in clinical psychology, with a focus on culturally competent mental health care. I want to create spaces where people like me—neurodivergent, children of immigrants, or anyone who feels “different”—don’t have to justify their struggles or shrink themselves to be understood. I plan to continue volunteering, advocating, and eventually becoming a provider who leads with both science and empathy. My mental health journey has shaped every part of who I am—my beliefs, my compassion, and my purpose. It’s no longer something I hide. It’s something I hope to use to help others heal.

As I tugged on my “highlighter yellow” T-shirt, my nerves were nonexistent as the adrenaline pumped my veins for my first week of YMCA-Camp Boomerang; I was paired up with my “Buddy of the Week,” Marco. At 8:45 every morning, his remorseful trudges up the hill of the Hemby Program Center soon transformed into quickened paces as he saw all his friends. Marco is only a fifteen-year-old with diverse abilities, only a year younger than I was that summer. Wherever Marco goes, eyes follow the way he walks, ears perk up at the tone of his voice, and some even walk away, simply because he is not the “majority.” Within one day of swimming, climbing, trekking, and thinking from Marco’s perspective, I realized we were pretty similar. My eagerness to think from others’ perspectives only made me come to terms with the fact that wherever I went, eyes followed the way my brown skin twisted and turned, ears perked up at the way my R’s rolled off my tongue; and like Marco, some even walked away because they saw me as a threat because of the hue of my skin, and the distinct tone of Tamil, my mother tongue. By utilizing my ability to make Marco feel seen and listened to as a Camp Boomerang Volunteer, I made a difference in my community. People will now see that being “different,” is no disability…it’s just an ability to make a difference. However, the only way I was even able to "climb in [Marco's] skin and walk around in it," as advised by Atticus Finch, was by being able to understand how his brain works. Right when I thought I had him figured out, he would present another challenge that I had no solution to because I did not know the right way to approach him or express the right response to it. Studying Psychology would allow me to not only biologically and chemically understand how Marco acts or reacts, but also my future clients or patients that I will encounter as a Clinical Psychologist. Analyzing the brain and everything that is associated with this vital and complex organ grants me access to the minds of all my future patients, even teenagers like Marco. Long story short, the adventures of highs and lows I faced with Marco only sparked a burning fervor within me to pursue Psychology to better understand myself and the ones around me. However, for every high school senior applying to colleges, the elephant in the room seems to be prevailing in all intents and purposes; money. Money certainly does not grow on trees and can be utilized as motivation for students like me to continue my passion for mental health awareness to create a difference, as well as pursue my visions for my future as a Clinical Psychologist. Through the Ethel Hayes Destigmatization of Mental Health Scholarship, I would be given the ability to put aside the distractor of finances and solely focus on serving my purpose as an upcoming health professional for mental health. Not only would I be gaining support for my aspirations through this scholarship, but, I would also be an exemplary representative for the cause of exposure to mental health as well, by advocating for my beliefs; increased mental health resources in schools, 24/7 availability for human resources and mental health resources in colleges and universities, decreasing stigma within the psychology field and disdaining the idea that “women are just naturally more emotional,” or “men do not, and cannot cry.” This scholarship would be the more than ideal way for me to start a career within psychology to create mental health awareness across the state, country, globe, or to whatever extent I want to reach. I would be given the opportunity to reach out to my community and simply employ my passion for psychology to help them before it is too late.

As I tugged on my “highlighter yellow” T-shirt, my nerves were nonexistent as the adrenaline pumped my veins for my first week of YMCA-Camp Boomerang; I was paired up with my “Buddy of the Week,” Marco. At 8:45 every morning, his remorseful trudges up the hill of the Hemby Program Center soon transformed into quickened paces as he saw all his friends. Marco is only a fifteen-year-old with diverse abilities, only a year younger than I was that summer. Wherever Marco goes, eyes follow the way he walks, ears perk up at the tone of his voice, and some even walk away, simply because he is not the “majority.” Within one day of swimming, climbing, trekking, and thinking from Marco’s perspective, I realized we were pretty similar. My eagerness to think from others’ perspectives only made me come to terms with the fact that wherever I went, eyes followed the way my brown skin twisted and turned, ears perked up at the way my R’s rolled off my tongue; and like Marco, some even walked away because they saw me as a threat because of the hue of my skin, and the distinct tone of Tamil, my mother tongue. By utilizing my ability to make Marco feel seen and listened to as a Camp Boomerang Volunteer, I made a difference in my community. People will now see that being “different,” is no disability…it’s just an ability to make a difference. However, the only way I was even able to "climb in [Marco's] skin and walk around in it," as advised by Atticus Finch, was by being able to understand how his brain works. Right when I thought I had him figured out, he would present another challenge that I had no solution to because I did not know the right way to approach him or express the right response to it. Studying Psychology would allow me to not only biologically and chemically understand how Marco acts or reacts, but also my future clients or patients that I will encounter as a Clinical Psychologist. Analyzing the brain and everything that is associated with this vital and complex organ grants me access to the minds of all my future patients, even teenagers like Marco. Long story short, the adventures of highs and lows I faced with Marco only sparked a burning fervor within me to pursue Psychology to better understand myself and the ones around me. However, for every high school senior applying to colleges, the elephant in the room seems to be prevailing in all intents and purposes; money. Money certainly does not grow on trees and can be utilized as motivation for students like me to continue my passion for mental health awareness to create a difference, as well as pursue my visions for my future as a Clinical Psychologist. Through the Elevate Mental Health Awareness Scholarship, I would be given the ability to put aside the distractor of finances and solely focus on serving my purpose as an upcoming health professional for mental health. Not only would I be gaining support for my aspirations through this scholarship, but, I would also be an exemplary representative for the cause of exposure to mental health as well, by advocating for my beliefs; increased mental health resources in schools, 24/7 availability for human resources and mental health resources in colleges and universities, decreasing stigma within the psychology field and disdaining the idea that “women are just naturally more emotional,” or “men do not, and cannot cry.” This scholarship would be the more than ideal way for me to start a career within psychology to create mental health awareness across the state, country, globe, or to whatever extent I want to reach. I would be given the opportunity to reach out to my community and simply employ my passion for psychology to help them before it is too late.

I hear the distinct shatter of my phone as it slips out of my hand. My right hand twitches for the fifth time in the last ten minutes; one of my tics hyper-stimulated after a long day at school. Although Tourette’s had long been ruled out since I have no vocal tics, my daily tics gather the unwanted attention of others while causing physical and mental exhaustion for me. Growing up in an Indian family, this neurological “problem” was underscored as something “I’ll grow out of”; however, my tics are a prevailing part of my everyday life. Over the past four years, I had realized that certain visuals, smells, and tastes triggered my tics drastically. Being able to take BIOL 458 (Sensory Neurobiology and Behavior), would not only allow me to better understand the partnership between my body and brain, but to also help others that are going through the same “problem” as I am. Whether it be a patient with tics, or a friend that feels as if their body has control over their mind, I would have gained skills from this class to assist them in comprehending that their brain and body will always work together. I would also be able to gain personal confidence in my tics and let them illuminate what I embody through realizing that my tics do not define me, they are simply a part of who I am. Plus, I’d finally be able to understand why strong aromas trigger my facial tics… As I tugged on my “highlighter yellow” T-Shirt, my nerves were nonexistent as the adrenaline pumped my veins for my first week of YMCA-Camp Boomerang; I was paired up with my “Buddy of the Week,” Marco. At 8:45 every morning, his remorseful trudges up the hill of the Hemby Program Center soon transformed into quickened paces as he saw all his friends. Marco is only a fifteen-year old with diverse abilities, only a year younger than I was that summer. Wherever Marco goes, eyes follow the way he walks, ears perk up at the tone of his voice, and some even walk away, simply because he is not the “majority.” Within one day of swimming, climbing, trekking, and thinking from and with Marco’s perspective, I realized we were pretty similar. My eagerness to think from others’ perspectives only made me come to terms with the fact that wherever I went, eyes followed the way my brown skin twisted and turned, ears perked up at the way my R’s rolled off my tongue; and like Marco, some even walked away because they saw me as a threat because of the hue of my skin, and the distinct tone of Tamil, my mother tongue. By utilizing my ability to make Marco feel seen and listened to as a Camp Boomerang Volunteer, I made a difference in my community. People will now see that being “different,” is no disability…it’s just an ability to make a difference.

I hear the distinct shatter of my phone as it slips out of my hand. My right hand twitches for the fifth time in the last ten minutes; one of my tics hyper-stimulated after a long day at school. Although Tourette’s had long been ruled out since I have no vocal tics, my daily tics gather the unwanted attention of others while causing physical and mental exhaustion for me. Growing up in an Indian family, this neurological “problem” was underscored as something “I’ll grow out of”; however, my tics are a prevailing part of my everyday life. Over the past four years, I had realized that certain visuals, smells, and tastes triggered my tics drastically. Being able to take BIOL 458 (Sensory Neurobiology and Behavior), would not only allow me to better understand the partnership between my body and brain, but to also help others that are going through the same “problem” as I am. Whether it be a patient with tics, or a friend that feels as if their body has control over their mind, I would have gained skills from this class to assist them in comprehending that their brain and body will always work together. I would also be able to gain personal confidence in my tics and let them illuminate what I embody through realizing that my tics do not define me, they are simply a part of who I am. Plus, I’d finally be able to understand why strong aromas trigger my facial tics… As I tugged on my “highlighter yellow” T-Shirt, my nerves were nonexistent as the adrenaline pumped my veins for my first week of YMCA-Camp Boomerang; I was paired up with my “Buddy of the Week,” Marco. At 8:45 every morning, his remorseful trudges up the hill of the Hemby Program Center soon transformed into quickened paces as he saw all his friends. Marco is only a fifteen-year old with diverse abilities, only a year younger than I was that summer. Wherever Marco goes, eyes follow the way he walks, ears perk up at the tone of his voice, and some even walk away, simply because he is not the “majority.” Within one day of swimming, climbing, trekking, and thinking from and with Marco’s perspective, I realized we were pretty similar. My eagerness to think from others’ perspectives only made me come to terms with the fact that wherever I went, eyes followed the way my brown skin twisted and turned, ears perked up at the way my R’s rolled off my tongue; and like Marco, some even walked away because they saw me as a threat because of the hue of my skin, and the distinct tone of Tamil, my mother tongue. By utilizing my ability to make Marco feel seen and listened to as a Camp Boomerang Volunteer, I made a difference in my community. People will now see that being “different,” is no disability…it’s just an ability to make a difference.

To-Do List: Jaywalk Across Main Street My feet ache as I begrudgingly trudge behind my Amma as we jaywalk across Main Street on a typically frigid evening in Hartford, Connecticut. I see the majestic dome that haunts my dreams every night as I fall into the abyss of sleep, the dreaded Hartford Public Library. Today’s particular two-mile journey seemed longer than usual, especially since I just finished eating two full plates of mouth-watering biryani. “Amma, we are committing a crime!” I exclaim as my thick accent particularly slices across the stagnant Hartford air, and my Amma gives me one of those looks. I catch up to her fast-paced steps, determined to make it to the library before it closes, even though it closes at eight p.m. My eight-year-old legs had no chance when it came to Amma’s long strides. “Crossing the street is no crime Nivi, in fact, crossing the street is a privilege.” My Amma thoughtfully lectures as I am too busy offering an apologetic smile to the furious cab driver cursing my mom off. I was unwillingly reminded of our alter egos we left back in India, our home. Every time I crossed the street I risked my life; eating pani puris on the streets of Chennai knowing well I’d be facing the consequences later and going to sleep with angry horns blasting from truck drivers as my lullaby every night. My Amma is carefully fixing her dupatta across her chest and shoulders as a sign of respect as we enter the library. The cool air I’ve grown so accustomed to causes my brushed-out curls to go everywhere, and only fills me with dread as Amma tilts her chin up and directs us straight to the Children’s Books area in the far left corner. As I settle in my designated purple sofa, Amma looks for a book for me to start and finish within the next three hours. My fingers caress the well-used spines of the books near me as my Amma makes her decision of the day. The browns of her eyes almost disappear as her pupils dilate twice in size as she expresses her excitement. With each adventure I faced every day, I continuously circulated in what some like to call a sphere of books. That dread that was so persistent in my throat quickly turned into the enthusiasm that remained in my chest well past eight p.m. I started noticing my Amma’s look of adoration every time my eyebrows fell into a frown when Charlotte died in Charlotte’s Web, or when my lips involuntarily tugged up into a toothless smile when James had his happily ever after in America in James and the Giant Peach, just like I did in this new country. Soon, I found myself begging my Amma to jaywalk with me to our library so that I could immerse myself into an entirely different adventure from the previous day. Annoyance transformed into gratitude, while irritation turned into genuine happiness. Today, I find myself feeling the most confident in my writing which makes me proud, especially when a few years ago, I could barely speak more than “How are you?” No matter what my honors or accomplishments are, my proudest accomplishment is my bookshelf at home proudly boasting 139 books, starting from James Henry Trotter himself, all the way to Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy. I shake my head and exit my trance as the white, walking symbol appears across the street. I look down at the Zebra Crossing and almost hear my Amma, “Why aren’t you taking the shorter way?” I open the doors to the Matthews Library and let the cool air wash over my tightly made curls as I almost float over to the “Psychological Thriller” corner. Although my jaywalking days are over, without my Amma, I wouldn’t even know what jaywalking is.