Dad shouts for me and my sister to come out to the back yard. My sister and I exchange a look; what had we done now? Reluctantly, we go to the back yard. Dad tells us to stand next to his truck. I feel a slight tingle of fear. Did I forget to remove to last night’s takeout from the back seat? Dad opens the passenger side door, and tells me to look down. My sister and I search under the seat, but we don’t see anything. Then, a puppy lifts head, revealing his brown muzzle and eyebrows. My sister and I squeal so loud that the dog gets surprised and puts his head back down, his tiny, black body blending in with the material under the seat, making him invisible once more. We spend the next three hours arguing over a name. Eventually, we all agree to call him Joey. I am thirteen and my sister is nine. We get up early in the morning to mix Joey’s puppy food before school. We spend the entire school day fantasizing about going home. We run around and let Joey chase us all afternoon. Two weeks later, we beg our father to get us puppy shampoo so that we can give Joey a bath. We take him hiking with us, and everyone on the trail stops to stare at the little mutt, marveling at his puffy back fur, brown socks, eyebrows, and muzzle. He doesn’t grow past my calves. He barks like a big dog on helium. He somehow steals an raw eggplant from one of our barbecues and refuses to give it back until my sister and I distract him with a piece of beef. We call Joey our “everything dog.” He’s fluffy like a sheep, prances like a dear, has huge ears like an elephant, snorts like a pig when you scratch him behind the ears, and he looks like a baby seal when he’s sleeping on his tummy. He loved all of my baby cousins, and his favorite person was my Grandpa, who would always give him the best chest rubs. And when my grandfather died, Joey stayed next to me all night while I cried. One night, my father leaves out an old sofa, to be picked up by the trash in the morning. Joey barks for forty-five minutes straight, until my sister and I notice the glow, until my father runs outside and sees the fire. The couch burns, but our house doesn’t, because Joey, even at fifteen years old, was still looking out for us. One morning, Joey sneaks out to smell the flowers on the front lawn. A passerby catches him and takes him to a shelter. We search for a full week, and accidentally come across his picture on facebook, two days before he was going to be given up for adoption. My mother and father go to the shelter at soon as it opens the next day, and bring Joey home. At seventeen, he still runs around my legs like a puppy, happy to see me after a long time away. His brown muzzle turns white as he gets older. He stops running so much, but he’s still spry for his age, jumping up the stairs without a problem. Sometimes he sneezes so hard that he falls over. He makes friend with the neighborhood stray cats, and spends his days relaxing, being pet, and eating chicken, beef, and pork. He lives to be twenty-one years old. I sing to him when it’s his time to go. I don’t stop petting him until long after he closes his eyes. My parents, my sister, and I bury him under our fig tree. I still come home sometimes and wait for Joey to come and sniff my shoes like he always used to do. My cousins, my grandma, and my friends call to tell me how much they loved him too. Joey was my first pet. He gave me precious memories, laughs, love and support. My family didn’t always agree with each other, but we would always unite for Joey. Without him, I wouldn’t have led such a fulfilling childhood, nor would I have known unconditional love and companionship well into my adult years. I can’t express much a pet fills your heart with love and hope but I can say that I would do it all over again if I could. Thank you Joey. We brought you to our home, to love you, to take care of, but you gave us all more then you will ever know.

Dad shouts for me and my sister to come out to the back yard. My sister and I exchange a look; what had we done now? Reluctantly, we go to the back yard. Dad tells us to stand next to his truck. I feel a slight tingle of fear. Did I forget to remove to last night’s takeout from the back seat? Dad opens the passenger side door, and tells me to look down. My sister and I search under the seat, but we don’t see anything. Then, a puppy lifts head, revealing his brown muzzle and eyebrows. My sister and I squeal so loud that the dog gets surprised and puts his head back down, his tiny, black body blending in with the material under the seat, making him invisible once more. We spend the next three hours arguing over a name. Eventually, we all agree to call him Joey. I am thirteen and my sister is nine. We get up early in the morning to mix Joey’s puppy food before school. We spend the entire school day fantasizing about going home. We run around and let Joey chase us all afternoon. Two weeks later, we beg our father to get us puppy shampoo so that we can give Joey a bath. We take him hiking with us, and everyone on the trail stops to stare at the little mutt, marveling at his puffy back fur, brown socks, eyebrows, and muzzle. He doesn’t grow past my calves. He barks like a big dog on helium. He somehow steals an raw eggplant from one of our barbecues and refuses to give it back until my sister and I distract him with a piece of beef. We call Joey our “everything dog.” He’s fluffy like a sheep, prances like a dear, has huge ears like an elephant, snorts like a pig when you scratch him behind the ears, and he looks like a baby seal when he’s sleeping on his tummy. He loved all of my baby cousins, and his favorite person was my Grandpa, who would always give him the best chest rubs. And when my grandfather died, Joey stayed next to me all night while I cried. One night, my father leaves out an old sofa, to be picked up by the trash in the morning. Joey barks for forty-five minutes straight, until my sister and I notice the glow, until my father runs outside and sees the fire. The couch burns, but our house doesn’t, because Joey, even at fifteen years old, was still looking out for us. One morning, Joey sneaks out to smell the flowers on the front lawn. A passerby catches him and takes him to a shelter. We search for a full week, and accidentally come across his picture on facebook, two days before he was going to be given up for adoption. My mother and father go to the shelter at soon as it opens the next day, and bring Joey home. At seventeen, he still runs around my legs like a puppy, happy to see me after a long time away. His brown muzzle turns white as he gets older. He stops running so much, but he’s still spry for his age, jumping up the stairs without a problem. Sometimes he sneezes so hard that he falls over. He makes friend with the neighborhood stray cats, and spends his days relaxing, being pet, and eating chicken, beef, and pork. He lives to be twenty-one years old. I sing to him when it’s his time to go. I don’t stop petting him until long after he closes his eyes. My parents, my sister, and I bury him under our fig tree. I still come home sometimes and wait for Joey to come and sniff my shoes like he always used to do. My cousins, my grandma, and my friends call to tell me how much they loved him too. Joey was my first pet. He gave me precious memories, laughs, love and support. My family didn’t always agree with each other, but we would always unite for Joey. Without him, I wouldn’t have led such a fulfilling childhood, nor would I have known unconditional love and companionship well into my adult years. I can’t express much a pet fills your heart with love and hope but I can say that I would do it all over again if I could. Thank you Joey. We brought you to our home, to love you, to take care of, but you gave us all more then you will ever know.

“Don’t be a hero, live your life.” My mother had to fight a corrupted government just to get a plane ticket to America. Once here, with only two hundred dollars for a family of three, my parents experienced a fear they hadn’t expected: the fear that their children will be victims of violent crime. Coming from a small country where everyone knew each other, to living in a low income neighborhood, my mother and father did everything in their power to ensure that my sister and I were safe, and that including instilling a mantra of survival in us. I grew up being told to keep my head down, avoid danger, and not to stick up for others. This all changed when I began working with students with special needs. After I graduated UCLA, I worked for several non-profits. For the sake of confidentiality, I cannot specify which non-profit. My responsibilities included teaching independent living, academic, and social skills to students. The more I interacted with students in their homes and in schools, the more I realized how the system had left these students behind, and how they were struggling to improve their lives. I never expected to become someone that advocates for others, but I volunteered and created workshops to bridge the gap in students’ reading and writing skills. I joined students in meetings with government agencies, school counselors, and tutors. Yet, it’s not enough. I don’t want to be a hero. All I want is help others on their educational, career, or life’s journey, even if it’s something as small has lending a ear to someone that needs someone to talk to. That why, when I get my master’s in college counseling, I wish to create programs that would help students with disabilities reach their goals.

Taxes, housing, interpersonal drama, insecurities, concerns about the environment and the future, we live in a world where there is stress at every turn. Science has shown that when we’re in a constant state of stress, our brains interpret our surroundings as being in danger. Stress can result in all kinds of effects on the body, from painic attacks, pains such as head or body aches that have no underlying physical sources, to weight gain, and even stomach or digestive problems. This is why I believe that the best way to live a long and healthy life is to take care of one’s mind, first and foremost. It’s hard to eat healthy, exercise, sleep, or even spent time doing the things love when you’re mind is weighed down with all the concerns, self-hate, or worries about the world. Just like taking care of one’s body, taking care of one’s mind requires practice and diligence. I have to actively stop toxic thoughts as they arise, fight against stressful emotions by writing them down, repeating mantras, or reminding myself that everything will work out. It’s hard work, and it means unlearning a lot of unhappy thought processes and beliefs, but only after my mind is calm, can I accomplish the tasks I set out to do. I often see people calling others lazy, or putting blame on some personality trait for someone’s circumstances. It’s not often that people try to look for the underlying reason as to why someone is afraid to do something for their physical health. As someone that is trying to get their master’s in counseling, I believe that once the mind is healthy, then a healthy life naturally flows.

“Just forget it!” I sat there in my driver’s seat, silently trying not to cry. Behind me, sat my ex-friend Sarah. The atmosphere in the car had changed from friendly, polite debate, to awkward, uncomfortable silence. We had been talking and I had interrupted Sarah one too many times when she was trying to get her point across. When she had lost her temper and snapped, “can I please talk,” I immediately apologized and said, “please, go right ahead.” However, Sarah had stopped engaging and was silently fuming in the back seat. I felt awful for interrupting and I was at a loss as to what I could do to save the situation. My other friends didn’t know how to break the silence either. I had known Sarah for ten years. She knew I was sensitive, and stressed at the time we were hanging out. Throughout the years, I had blamed myself constantly for her bad temper, and I had tried to make a conscious effort not to interrupt her. Throughout our relationship, I had tried to express how she had hurt my feelings, listened to her on numerous occasions without interrupting, suggested she get help for her short fuse and feelings of isolation, but as I grew and set more boundaries, Sarah did not change. It’s hard to let go of people, but I’ve learned accept you for who you are, forgive you and communicate, and try to meet you halfway instead of making no effort. After the car ride, one of my other friends notice my mood, sat with me and listened. I eventually had to let Sarah go, because our friendship was not equal. We all grow as people, real friends grow and improve with you, not expect you to actor to their every whim.

The older I get, the more I realize that monetary value isn’t the true source of generosity. Sure, it’s nice to receive a present, but I feel more value from the time, affection, love, and support I get from my mother and sister, then I from the transactional behaviors of others. I’ve grown up in a very gregarious culture, where being a good host and maintaining one’s image in the community is paramount. I was raised to be polite and put the other person first. Members of my extended family would provide each other with food, opportunities, services for a lesser or free of charge. No gift was ever given without the expectation that the sentiment would be returned down the line. And while it’s great that my culture supports each other, this only worked when everyone is maintaining their put together image. Generosity shouldn’t only be given when people are professional, polite, and put together. The same people that smiled at me for coming over for barbecue, are also the same people that wouldn’t give me their time and comfort when I needed support. And when someone did lend me an ear, it was followed by judgement and my pain was spread around to the community. As someone that wants to be a mental health professional one day, this has shaped me into a better listener and supporter. Being generous doesn’t mean fancy gifts, networking, or opportunities. It’s about helping the needy without deeming them to be “worthy” of it first. Not everyone is put together every hour of the day, year, or month. True human compassion means understanding that we all have our ups and downs, and generosity flows when we give regardless of a person’s circumstances.

The need for human connection does not change regardless of age. When I volunteered at the Autumn Hills Medical Center, I noticed how willing the elderly patients were to talk to me or have me nearby. I enjoyed meeting with the patients, asking them about their lives, and just chatting. However, due to security reasons, I was discouraged by the volunteer coordinator from talking to the patients. I was there to help the physical therapists conduct their treatments, not to engage with the patients. It made me sad that most of the patients were indoors and didn’t have a lot of time to socialize with others. I believe having programs in which people come regularly and pursue friendship with the elderly would be a great help to their feelings of acceptance, mental health l, and overall quality of life. Adopt an elder programs could go a long way in fostering relationships between the elderly and the youth. Elementary school children could regularly visit a care center and play nearby, while supervised by their teacher. The more programs there are to keep seniors from feeling isolated and lonely, the more we would be supporting one of our most underrepresented group of people.

I have reread “Poison Study” by Maria V Snyder so many times that the cover page has started to fall off, despite my best efforts in keeping my books in mint condition. Growing up, I was told that I would never amount to anything because I was a girl. Being raised in a traditional culture, where my only value was to be a wife and mother, I had resigned myself to my fate, giving up on my dreams of a successful career and independence, until I read this book. The main character has experienced so much hardship and strife and yet she chooses to survive, face her fears, make friends, learn self defense and make her own future. Up until this point, the women I had seen in media had to be polite, forgiving and accepting of their roles on society, no matter how wronged or hurt they were. I had never experienced a woman like Yelena Zaltana, Poison Study’s titular character. The movies and shows I was exposed to as a child and teenager always depicted women that were shamed for having negative feelings like anger and wrath. They were cast in the villain’s role, shown to be crazy, or punished for not being kind and forgiving. Yelena broke all those conversions. Her experiences weren’t minimized. As a survivor of abduction and torture, she went through an arc where she not only reclaimed her humanity, but also carved her own place in a hostile world. For someone like me, who was always told to stamp down my emotions and to be there for everyone else but myself, Yelena’s journey spoke to me. It inspired me to pursue my dream career in college counseling. I will always be thankful for that.

As someone that has worked closely with college students with disabilities, I’ve seen time and again how students that need more specialized, direct, and creative teaching have been left behind by the K-12 system. As many of these adult students enter college, they face an uphill battle, where they have to learn how to study, get good grades, navigate a complicated and often inhospitable campus, all while learning the skills that they should have mastered upon graduating high school. In addition to this, the shame that these students feel, of not measuring up to peers without disabilities, also hinders their academic performance. College is considered a place for unparalelled opportunities, for one to grow intellectually and personally. Yet, except for a few accommodations on campus, such as extra test taking time, note takers, or ESL classes, there are few programs that exist to help students with disabilities fill the skill gap, or feel socially accepted on campus. Diagnosis of ADHD, Autism, and dyslexia have been steadily increasing in the last sixty years. Yet, in the three years I spent helping students with such disabilities, few programs have been implemented into schools that teach administrators, professors, and facility how to better support the students with disabilities. Moreover, most universities don’t have programs specifically made to help students with unique learning requirements gain the basic skills to succeed, such as how to study, understand what they’re reading, write properly, and advocate for their own needs. Extra test taking time and note takers are a good start, but I believe that universities need to implement a program that teaches every faculty member, from professors to financial aid advisors, how to best support students with disabilities, especially developmental disabilities such as autism. Educational equity for students starts with teaching the educators, and staff themselves. No new programs, opportunities, accommodations, peer mentor programs, or specialized courses can be created without first educating university leaders, professors, and staff about how students with disabilities learn, what their challenges are, and how to best teach and make these students feel like real and accepted members of the community.

I’m never bored. I’ve always been an imaginative person, to the point that, ever since I could remember, I’ve been creating stories in my head. When other girls in elementary schools were obsessed with boy bands and the newest fashion trend, I was more interested in creating sweeping narratives about warrior princesses and dragons. My highly imaginative nature has lead to a lot of creative problem solving skills throughout my life. Because I’m so quick at generating ideas, I’m usually the first person to suggest a plan of action. Consistently, whenever I’m on a group project, and everyone around is staring at each other, too afraid to speak, I’m the one that pitches an idea that the group inevitably follows. For example, in my cognitive science lab, we had to test how emotions affect memory. I came up with the idea of creating three picture sets, one predominately sad, one mostly happy, and the last neutral. The picture sets were followed by a questionnaire, and then the students were told to write down as many pictures as they remembered. My creative nature also helps me manage my stress and express myself more clearly. I often draw images to put what’s worrying on paper, lifting the burden from my mind in the process. Sometimes I fumble with my words, so I try to contextualize how I feel in a metaphor. I was once so nervous about an upcoming interview, but I didn’t look stressed. I explain my mental state, I told my mother, “a lone knight is about to face an army, and victory depends on the clarity of his own mind.” No matter what I’m facing, I fall back on imagined scenarios, metaphors, and mental images. These creations guide me in everyday life and an integral part of who am.

I’m not afraid of dying. I’m more afraid of reaching the end and knowing that I didn’t do everything I could to truly live. A few years ago, my grandfather died after a fifteen year long battle with prostate cancer. Before he went, he told me to keep living after he was gone. I’ve always been a little different from everyone else in my culture. I don’t really care for brand names or anything materialistic. I prefer to spent my money on experiences, and give my time to people that make me feel fulfilled. For me, true joy comes from remembering we’re alive, and all the small sensations and feelings that come with it. I love the sound of rain in the mornings, the flowers my mom grows in her gardens, the small, wooden keychain my grandpa made for me. I love dogs, making weird faces with my little cousins, and watching the waves on the beach. I like feeling tired at the end of the day, knowing that I accomplished something, even if it’s something as small as cleaning my kitchen, or finishing a drawing I’ve been working on for a while.I like being breathless after a workout. I was truly blessed by my mother and grandfather to see the beauty in nature, in the little things that we all take for granted. Even standing under a tree and looking up at the leaves can make me feel happy to be alive. I always think about all the things we’ll miss when we’re gone, and that makes me appreciate what’s in the here and now.

During my junior year at UCLA, my grandfather died. My grades slipped. Senior year, I was back on track. Then, during winter break, my great grandfather died. Two weeks later, my favorite uncle followed him. Growing up in a traditional, Armenian culture, therapy was considered an admittance of weakness. To avoid losing face in the community, Armenian’s don’t talk about their troubles. I was raised to be perfect, and to never allow my “over emotional sensitivity” stop me from doing what needed to be done, and to strive for academic excellence no matter what. Thus, speaking to the counselors at UCLA felt like spitting in the face of my culture. It was terrifying to go against everything I had been raised to believe, but my grief and pain were too big to be ignored. The counselors at UCLA were the first step to putting me on the journey to reconcile my culture’s expectations and place them below my mental wellbeing, as well as leading me to choose counseling as a career. I wasn’t the first in my family to get therapy. My little sister had always been the black sheep. Since I was the eldest, I was told to be a good role model for her, that it was my job to teach her how to behave. This parentification wasn’t healthy, neither for my sister, nor for me. The mistakes I learned from my parents trickled down to how I was “raising” my sister and that in turn, affected her self image. When I was in high school, my sister went to see a therapist, against our father’s wishes. He didn’t think she was “crazy” and felt that going to a therapist was the same as admitting she was. It took a long time for my sister to realize what I did when I went to college, but she eventually learned how to undo the toxic cultural mindset of perfectionism. Everything she learned, boundary setting, breathing techniques for anxiety, self love, was reflected back at me. I resisted at first, unable to look past my own toxicity, but, over time, as I unconsciously bonded with my sister over shared complaints about our upbringing, I warmed up to the idea. Still, the cultural shame of admitting weakness kept me from seeking therapy. However, my sister’s journey did pique my curiosity. When I graduated high school, I chose psychology as my major, because I wanted to know why people behaved the way that they do, and how we can help others improve. My experience my sister, the UCLA counselors and my professional journey following graduation eventually led me to choosing college counseling as a career. After I graduated, I worked as a behavioral interventionist. I worked with clients that had disabilities, helping them with their independent living, academic, or career goals. At the same time, I was meeting with my own therapist to discuss how to manage my stress and anxiety, all the while dealing with the difficulty of maintaining my cultural identity, even as I was discovering the drawbacks within my heritage. My healing extended to my clients, where I used what I had learned to talk them down from heightened fears of failure, redirection their attention to job searches or college applications. I once worked with a client from an Israeli background. It was here that I learned that my culture’s fixation on academic excellence was transferable to other cultures. My client’s parents compared her to her older brother, who was smart enough to be a grad student at twenty one. Relating strongly to my client’s struggles, as my culture also compared me to others, I repeated the same messages I had learned to my client, telling her to be proud of her victories and improvements, not compare herself to her brother. The words calmed her, but her underlying feelings of self reproach didn’t go away. I felt that she needed more professional help. This was the first time I considered becoming a college counselor. I desired a deeper professional understanding of counseling methods, communication, and career advisement, so that I could be a more effective mentor. Currently, I work as a direct support professional (DSP) for a non-profit called Family, Adult, and Child, Therapies. I help a diverse set of college students with disabilities. My role includes guiding students on college campuses, helping them utilize the college’s resources, such as counseling, tutoring, financial aid, and programs such as EOPS or CalFresh. I also help students keep track of their academic assignments and I’ve noticed, time and again, how students suffer the stress from the pressure to succeed academically. Over the years, I’ve gotten better at taking care of my own mental health, and I find myself teaching the same lessons to my students. I’ve lead workshops on mindfulness and stress management, and when I work one on one with most students, I remind them not to feel ashamed of their failures to to consider them steps toward success. Working as a direct support professional and seeing how the fear of failure affects so many students, I eventually chose to become a college counselor. Earlier this year I was accepted in the master’s in counseling, with a speciality in college counseling and student services, at California State University CSUN. As a behavioral interventionist and a DSP, I’ve seen so many young people struggle with the shame of failing to live up to their culture’s educational expectations. I want to be a college counselor that empowers students that are fearful of going against their heritage, whether it is to put their mental needs first, to pursue a field of study outside their tradition, to overcome guilt, or simply to have someone to confide in.

I got rejected from every college application I sent in high school. I had good grades, but my writing skills weren’t as polished back then. Still, I remember the heartbreak of knowing that I didn’t get a single acceptance letter. I grew up in an elitist culture that believed that if you don’t succeed the first time you try something, then the implication is that there is something inherently wrong with you. My mother was so upset that she enrolled me in West Valley Occupational Center’s esthetician program, just so that I would have some career to fall back on. Yet, I was empowered to seek my education no matter what. Though embarrassed, I enrolled into junior college. To my culture, this was a setback, but, to me, it was the opportunity I needed to be better. The years I spent at Valley college greatly increased my ability to speak English, write, think critically, and study effectively. Since there was less pressure to get into an Ivy League school, I was allowed to experiment, learn new methods to teach myself, and I eventually was accepted into UCLA. The trails didn’t end there. Between my junior and senior year, my grandfather, great grandfather, and favorite uncle died. Yet I knew they would want me to get an education regardless. I graduated from UCLA, and began volunteering and taking extra courses to get into CSUN’s physical therapy program. I was rejected. Once again, failure gave me time to reflect. In the years between CSUN’s rejection, I worked, saved money, and researched other options. I applied again, last year, for the master’s in college counseling and student services, using what I had learned from my mistakes. I was accepted. I’ve learned, that failure is the road to success, not the opposite of it.

Nature can reduce feelings of anxiety and depression. As an aspiring counselor, and someone that had gone through their own mental health struggles, nothing compares to the gentle healing effects of being in nature. My grandfather had a cactus garden. I grew up learning about succulents and celebrating with my grandpa whenever a flower bloomed on any of his prickly plants. Grandma also grew roses and apple trees in her front yard. My mother loved the ocean, and she would take me and my sister to botanical gardens, lakes, forests, and deserts. She would take us to zoos, teach us to bird watch, and I was raised to love nature. Whenever I get bogged down by stress, I go to the breach, watch the waves, pick up any garbage I see in the sand, or look out into the water. If I see garbage out in town, I pick it up, throw it away, or keep it to recycle. Recently, in Idaho, a bill was launched to allow vicious trapping of the wolf population. Specialists stated that the lax regulations on how the traps were used would reduce the population by ninety percent. That broke my heart. As someone that loves animals and nature, I knew I had to do something about it. I got as many friends as I could to sign a petition to overturn the law. I emailed and left a voicemail to the Idaho governor‘s office, and I donated to a few wolf charities. I know that, to protect nature, we have to protect fauna too. I found out, earlier this year that the bill was overturned. I’ve always loved nature, it makes me feel alive, so, even if there’s something I can do, I try to help anyway I can.

I didn’t truly start studying until I got into UCLA. In high school, I did the homework, crammed before tests, and pretty much aced everything. It wasn’t until I took my first ten week university class where I had to teach myself methods to study actively. As much as I love to read, I can’t look at a text and simply remember all the details. I have to read, take notes in my own words, and then read my notes multiple times. I couldn’t afford textbooks while at UCLA, so I had to use the library. Because I had to rent books for two hours at a time, I learned to concentrate for two hour bursts, reading, and taking notes. Once I completed taking notes on a chapter, I would add in-jokes and anecdotes that only I would understand. Then I would record myself reading the notes and listen to the recordings on my bus rides to and from school. Because I wasn’t used to the quarter system, and I did not have any true study skills, I didn’t do well in my first year at UCLA. So I forced myself to adapt, to rise above my failures, at least for the sake of my pride. I wasn’t used to getting anything less then a B. When Covid hit and I needed to take prerequisites for the master’s program I was applying to, the methods I had forged at UCLA, helped me tackle online classes. I was working full time, so all of my classes were self study courses with minimal help from professors. One of them was a five week course that had triple the workload as my UCLA classes. Yet, once again I adapted, took notes in my own words, and passed with flying colors.

I lost my true father when my grandpa died. Growing up, I had to fight for every spec of attention and praise from my family, by getting good grades, by being a well behaved little girl, by being quiet yet social, by being mature for my age. Everyone treated affection as a transaction, except for my grandpa. I was truly blessed to have a genuine gentleman in my life. Every time I’d enter a room, no matter what I was doing, he would proudly proclaim that his eldest grandchild had arrived. He died in 2019, after courageously fighting a fifteen year long battle with prostate cancer. I miss him everyday, but his words keep me going. Out of all the lessons my grandfather taught me, both purposefully and subconsciously, there are one that I remember the most. When I was in middle school, I got bullied a lot. I remember crying about how the bullies said I was stupid. I was self conscious growing up, but I never once thought that I wasn’t smart. My grandfather looked in the eye and said, “If you feel confident in something about yourself, such as your intelligence, don’t ever let anyone, especially people that don’t love and understand you, make you believe otherwise.” Now that I’m going to get my master’s in school counseling, his words are true now more then ever. We all need confidence to do well in life, to truly feel self love, and I hope to pass down his wisdom to the students that I want to help one day.