Since their debut in 2015, Seventeen has continuously attracted attention and recognition for their talent in terms of performance as well as for their humanitarian efforts and advocacy. For me, I was introduced to them by my best friend, who I’ve known for almost twelve years. My best friend got into the genre of K-pop through Seventeen, and I can remember her repeatedly begging me to watch music videos and interviews of theirs. I recall denying at first, because I had never encountered music quite like theirs before, and I was scared to try something new. The norms of K-pop, like music shows, choreography, and dance practices, all seemed so unfamiliar and different from the Western music culture that I was used to. I am so thankful however, that she convinced me to step out of my comfort zone, as I have found so much joy through K-pop since I began listening to it in 2018. Seventeen is set apart from most other K-pop groups in that it consists of smaller subunits: the performance, vocal, and hip-hop groups. Despite this, the members of the group are all well-rounded, and each perform the three categories of their music without flaw. One thing that caught my attention about Seventeen is that, despite the misleading name, there are only thirteen members. It turns out that this simple math formula can explain the discrepancy: thirteen members + three subunits + carats (their fan base) = Seventeen. Seeing that they included fans as part of their team is something that I found very endearing about them, as it encapsulated how devoted the group was to their fans. In supporting Seventeen, I have always felt like they were rooting for me just as much as I was rooting for them, which is something that is very rare in popular bands such as theirs. I can also thank Seventeen for one of the best memories of my life, in which my best friend (the same one who introduced me to them) and I attended their Ode to You concert in Chicago, Illinois, as part of their World Tour in 2020. The COVID-19 pandemic made its way to America shortly after our show, so we felt very fortunate that we were able to see them perform songs that she and I had bonded over and loved. When I miss my best friend, as we are both college students with busy schedules, I often look back at the album of photos and videos from this concert and reminisce on the fun that we shared together, screaming our heads off along with Seventeen while they performed the “Very Nice” encore for the fifth time. Aside from all of the things that I have gained from Seventeen, they have also contributed greatly to their global community. Each of the members has performed some act of advocacy, some of which include campaigns to encourage adoption, animal shelter volunteerism, LGBTQIA+ activism, and supporting brands and collections made by or representative of marginalized communities. Through their usage of largely gender-neutral language in their songs, Seventeen has become a beacon of safety for many members of the LGBTQIA+ community, and they have encouraged many younger groups to be aware of the importance of inclusivity as well. I feel that Seventeen have proven an impressive and prime example of what idols using their privilege for the better looks like, and I hope that they continue to succeed and fulfill their careers in ways that are meaningful not only to them, but to the world as well.

“You can’t miss what you’ve never had,” is something that I found myself saying a lot in my youth. I was raised by a single mother for as long as I can remember, and it seemed an almost daily occurrence that people would ask me what it was like or if I missed my father. Every single time, I felt obligated to explain that I couldn’t miss something or someone I’d never had, and that I wouldn’t trade the family dynamic that my brother, mother, and I shared for the world. I always thought that having one parent had no effect on me and that there was no disadvantage that I could experience when I had such a dedicated and loving mother. As I got older, however, I realized how hard my mom had to work to provide me and my brother with the things that dual family households could so easily generate. She had to work twelve-hour shifts at a pharmacy in which she was solely responsible for being the cashier, answering the phone, filling prescriptions, and taking inventory. I remember her saying to me that she would go the entire day without sitting, and I remember hearing her sighs of exhaustion when she came home from a busy day. Nevertheless, she never came home and got the rest that she so desperately needed, because she now had the task of being a parent to me and my brother. She would help us with our homework, never letting us go to bed or relax until it was done. She would critique our work and push for us to make it better. My brother and I always wondered why she was so strict when it came to school, and, as most children wouldn’t, we didn’t understand the importance of multiplication tables and reading comprehension. I felt as though she was a harder teacher than any that I had in school, which was something that agitated me as a child, but that I now appreciate. In being a disciplinarian and fighting for me to dedicate myself to my studies, my mother showed me how much I, myself, cared about my academics. When I grew older, my mother began loosening the reins on my school life, and I realized that I had picked them up myself. In instilling the importance of a good education within me as a child, my mother molded me into becoming a more hard-working student, which has enabled me to make it to the point at which I am today. I now realize how hard it must have been for her to play the role of the “bad guy” in order to benefit me and my brother down the road. My mother always wanted me to have a good education. She didn’t want me to be dependent on others, as she had experienced extreme financial difficulties in dealing with my father, who managed to cause her emotional and economic crises even while largely removed from mine and my brother’s lives. I remember the first time I told her that I wanted to be a doctor: her face lit up, and I saw the recognition behind her eyes that said she felt her hard work was not lost on me. I could feel her reminiscing on the days that she would read to me while I was a baby, fortifying me from an early age with a thirst for knowledge and a curiosity for the world. I can only hope that I can see her smiling at me with that same pride when I complete my education.

When you’re a kid, almost any behavior can be written off as being “eccentric” or “silly,” and sometimes, that’s all it is. That wasn’t the case with me. Ever since I can remember, I have done things in multiples. I could never just brush my teeth once when I was in kindergarten; I had to brush my teeth three times. If a teacher asked me to read two chapters of a book, I had to read six. Even in this essay, I prefer to give examples that exceed what is necessary to get my point across (sorry for that). The adults in my life laughed off my relatively unnecessary behaviors and insisted that I would grow out of them. One decade later, I was lying on the kitchen floor, having not slept or eaten for days, weeping because my paper had ripped after erasing the same geometry problem for about the fiftieth time. I was resorting to self-harm and battling suicidal thoughts every day. My freshman year of high school marked the point in my journey with mental health at which there was no alternative response: I was sick. After being forcibly admitted to therapy and prescribed medication, I received a three-letter explanation for the impulses I had suffered from for my entire life: OCD. It almost seemed laughable that all the sleeplessness, starvation, and seclusion could be constricted into a singular concept. Thinking of all the attempts to end my life for an acronym felt humiliating. Recalling the major depressive episodes and anxiety-ridden nights only made me feel weaker and even more embarrassed. Others in my family had trudged through so much worse, so why was I the first to break? School had always been the most important thing in my life: even when I wouldn’t sleep, talk to friends, or eat for days, I refused to submit anything that hadn't been agonized over. If I had to do the same question one hundred times, I would if it meant that I would feel better about submitting it the next day. I feared that seeking medical intervention would eliminate the work ethic that I so prided myself on, but once those who loved me assured me that my desire to improve my academics would override any chemical alterations, I was able to try it out for myself. I had feared that my OCD would make it impossible for me to become a doctor, as my repetitions had gotten to such a debilitating point during high school, but I now see that my disorder has taught me that where there is a will, there is a way: I just have to find it. Since being diagnosed, I have realized that mental health is so much more than anything that can be rationally derived. I have had therapists tell me after a handful of appointments that my disorder is something that I will deal with for the rest of my life; a cardiologist I saw for an unrelated issue once told me that I was merely unlucky and cursed with “bad luck.” I had given up hope that behavioral therapy would be able to help me with my condition, and I have since navigated the unknown yet somehow familiar waters of my mental health by myself, relying on the opportunities of tomorrow to fuel me for each day. Through my experiences, I feel that I have learned a lot about how mental health is viewed by others and how I view it, and I feel that this will make me a better doctor and supporter of others with mental illness.

I have always been asked about what my passion is, especially in the process of applying to college, academic programs, and scholarships. When asked this question, I continuously wound up feeling as though there was nothing that I truly cared about, which made me upset, as I felt that my dream of going into the medical field should be one that was fueled by something that inspired me. Following the Black Lives Matter movement in 2020, I found something that impassioned me in a way that I had never felt before: advocacy and activism. Emotions are often felt in a variety of ways and strengths, but an emotion that I have always found the most encouraging is anger. Sadness can disappoint and subdue, while happiness can comfort and placate, but nothing can spur change quite like rage. That feeling seemed enormous within me when I saw the footage of George Floyd being brutalized due to the intrinsic prejudice that the police force in America harbors to this day. I remember going to the gym after seeing the footage being stitched in a TikTok video; I hate working out, but that day, I ran on the elliptical for miles. Every time I looked up, the TV would blare footage of the murder, and dozens of reporters would comment on the incident and argue its justification. I had never felt anger quite like that before, and I realized that my passion did not lie solely in medicine, but also in the equity of providing medical care that prioritized fairness. After experiencing the disappointment and ferocity that I felt following the publicization of dozens of racist killings of African Americans, I found myself desperate to do more research on the topic to better inform myself as someone who had been ignorant of the plights of racial minorities for the entirety of my life. I found statistics about the fatality rates of Black Americans as compared to White Americans, in which the former is significantly more likely to be subjected to medical malpractice caused by bigotry. I wondered how I could fix this issue, as this very prejudice is why so many people of color feel intimidated and repelled by seeking medical treatment. I have agonized over the many inadequacies that I have as an advocate, and I have tried to recognize my own intrinsic biases, but this cannot simply be enough. I have to fight for the equal and proper treatment of racial minorities by the healthcare system, as they have never been prioritized nor have their needs been acknowledged by medical professionals. If there is anything that I can do to change this problem, it would be to become the kind of doctor that I want to see in the world. If I want to see doctors who treat their patients equally and with the same sincerity, dedication, and kindness, then I need to be that doctor. In sharing these healthcare disparities among different races with my friends and colleagues, I can raise awareness for how the doctors in my very homogeneous region can be better physicians and people as well. This scholarship would be very helpful in paying for textbooks for my undergraduate pre-med classes or for paying for my housing so that I can afford to live on campus and have access to Wi-Fi, the libraries, printers, professors’ office hours, etc. Additionally, this would put less stress on me to continue working at my part-time job during the school year, which could better dedicate my time to my studies. Finally, I must thank you for your incredible kindness and consideration.

If you had asked me about the importance of mental health when I was a kid, I likely would have looked at you with a confused, toothless gaze of inquiry. Mental health wasn’t something that my family knew anything about, despite generations of individuals fighting severe depressive disorders, PTSD, and anxiety, resorting many to then struggle with addiction. My mother admirably thought that there was no disorder that a little positive thinking couldn’t cure, and my father, although absent, refused to admit that his genes could produce anything less than "normal." When you’re a kid, almost any behavior can be written off as being “eccentric” or “silly,” and sometimes, that’s all it is. That wasn’t the case with me. Ever since I can remember, I have done things in multiples. I could never just brush my teeth once when I was in kindergarten; I had to brush my teeth three times. If a teacher asked me to read two chapters of a book, I had to read six. Even in this essay, I prefer to give examples that exceed what is necessary to get my point across. The adults in my life laughed off my relatively unnecessary behaviors and insisted that I would grow out of them. One decade later, I was lying on the kitchen floor, having not slept or eaten for days, weeping because my paper had ripped after erasing the same geometry problem for about the fiftieth time. My freshman year of high school marked the point in my journey with mental health at which there was no alternative response: I was sick. After being forcibly admitted to therapy and prescribed medication, I received a three-letter explanation for the impulses I had suffered from for my entire life: OCD. It almost seemed laughable that all the sleeplessness, starvation, and seclusion could be constricted into a singular concept. Thinking of all the attempts to end my life for an acronym felt humiliating. Since this diagnosis, I have realized that mental health is so much more than anything that can be rationally derived. Much like physical health, so much is left up to genetics and biology, and each condition is not the same for everyone. Over time, I have found ways to prioritize and manage my mental health to minimize the negative feelings that so often flood my mind and body. By being transparent with my friends and letting them know about the symptoms that I grapple with, I can feel less ashamed of my disorder, and open conversations about mental health can be normalized. In talking with my friends about my diagnosis, several of them have resonated with what I’ve said, and many have even been compelled to discuss their mental health struggles. As someone whose dreams, anxieties, and character have always centered around academics, I feel that I have learned how to overcome the additional difficulties that my mental illness adds to my life. I feel that I have gained a sense of confidence in my determination, which has made me more comfortable as I approach the remainder of my undergraduate year studying pre-medicine. After all, if I could stay awake for days at a time doing homework with no food or socialization, I would think that I would now be able to tackle the academic work I currently have. In summary, my fight with mental health has been a long one, but I am thankful for the things I have learned from that fight, such as checking up on others, prioritizing health, and overcoming the obstacles in my way to achieve my goals.

As someone who has always loved reading, I had previously thought that the very reason that people write creatively is to convey feelings and emotions that they harbor for others to relate to and empathize with. I, myself, find that when I write, it is because my emotions are pouring out of my body, and I must catch them with the siphon that is a pen. In the literary content that I have consumed, I have found that writers and authors create for reasons other than to cater to those who can relate to them: they also write to share their feelings with those who have never seen through their lens before and make them more empathetic and understanding of their circumstances. I have read books of every genre, and I have found that an author’s or character’s voice and life experience always find a way to peer through the words written. In reading books that center on the stories and struggles of minority groups, I have found that they enhance and elevate my empathy and receptiveness to other cultures and their hardships. In reading poetry by creators such as Ocean Vuong, I have envisioned the difficulties faced by immigrants and the expectations that so many hold of them. As a White American, I have taken for granted the privileges that I have as I have never known anything else. In reading about the struggles that African Americans and other racial minorities have faced in the past and still face today, I have realized a passion of mine to advocate for equality and fight for the betterment of minority treatment where I live. As I have always lived in the same suburban town that has a 92.1% White composition, I have been so blind and ignorant to the struggles that people of color have always been subjected to. In reading and exploring these circumstances, I have found myself becoming more dedicated to being a better activist and to being a better ally to communities whose difficulties I have never experienced. One book that I read, called Little Great Things by Jodi Picoult, illustrated the struggles of a Black nurse who was subjected to severe racism and stereotype-based bigotry. The story gave me the inspiration to do research about cases of bias-based malpractice in the healthcare industry, as I am in undergraduate school to enter medical school. Learning about the various inadequacies in the treatment of racial minorities, I have found a passion to do what I can to change the way that medical professionals are trained in order to decrease the cases of prejudice-based casualties in the industry. If it had not been for the multitudes of stories and lives that have been described to be in the form of books, I may have remained sheltered from the experiences of others and not felt the passion to fight for change in whatever ways I can. As I partake in writing poetry, I have also found an outlet for my feelings as a member of the LGBTQ+ community in a rather closed-minded household and region. Reading and writing can be so important to those who wish to share their innermost thoughts and emotions, and my life has been impacted all for the better by finding my passions for activism and advocacy through exploring the world via reading. I am forever thankful for the authors that have inspired me to do my own research in improving my activism, and I hope that others find their same passions through reading.

If you had asked me about the importance of mental health when I was a kid, I likely would have looked at you with a confused, toothless gaze of inquiry. Mental health wasn’t something that my family knew anything about, despite generations of individuals fighting severe depressive disorders, PTSD, and anxiety, resorting many to then struggle with addiction. My mother admirably thought that there was no disorder that a little positive thinking couldn’t cure, and my father, although absent, refused to admit that his genes could produce anything less than emotionally “normal.” When you’re a kid, almost any behavior can be written off as being “eccentric” or “silly,” and sometimes, that’s all it is. That wasn’t the case with me. Ever since I can remember, I have done things in multiples. I could never just brush my teeth once when I was in kindergarten; I had to brush my teeth three times. If a teacher asked me to read two chapters of a book, I had to read six. Even in this essay, I prefer to give examples that exceed what is necessary to get my point across (sorry for that). The adults in my life laughed off my relatively unnecessary behaviors and insisted that I would grow out of them. One decade later, I was lying on the kitchen floor, having not slept or eaten for days, weeping because my paper had ripped after erasing the same geometry problem for about the fiftieth time. My freshman year of high school marked the point in my journey with mental health at which there was no alternative response: I was sick. During this extremely draining period of my life, I did not engage much in anything that I had previously cared so much about. My best friend was forced to watch me ignore my lunch while I sat in silent agony at the table, doing the same notes for the hundredth time. No matter how many jokes she told or offers she made to hang out, I was so preoccupied with my internal struggles that I just couldn’t do it. I would go home from school every day, sit on the kitchen floor for the entire night, repeating the same homework problems over and over again until I would hopefully pass out for some little bit of sleep. School was everything to me, so that was what my OCD tended to manifest itself in. The thought of failing or of getting a grade that was even slightly below perfect made me feel terrible, and my anxiety over potential academic failure turned itself into a gigantic monster that dwelled within me and ate at me. After being forcibly admitted to therapy and prescribed medication, I received a three-letter explanation for the impulses I had suffered from for my entire life: OCD. It almost seemed laughable that all the sleeplessness, starvation, and seclusion could be constricted into a singular concept. Thinking of all the attempts to end my life for an acronym felt humiliating. Since this diagnosis, I have realized that mental health is so much more than anything that can be rationally derived. Much like physical health, so much is left up to genetics and biology, leading to people like myself feeling discouraged and as though there is nothing that can be done to improve it. Over the years, however, I have found ways to prioritize and manage my mental health to minimize the negative feelings that so often flood my mind and body. By being transparent with my friends and letting them know about the symptoms that I grapple with, I can feel less ashamed of my disorder, and open conversations about mental health can be normalized. In talking with my friends about my diagnosis, several of them have resonated with what I’ve said, and many have even been compelled to seek therapy or medication for their respective mental health struggles. I feel that my relationships with my friends and family have greatly improved as I have become more open with how I feel, and I have grown to realize that the love that companionship brings is something that matters so much more than anything you could learn in a book. Although OCD is not something that dissipates with the daily taking of a pill, I find solace and relief in my condition by keeping busy. I have noticed that the busier I am and the more on my plate, the less time I have to consider doing unregulated multiples of my daily tasks. During the summer, I particularly struggle with worsened symptoms, but by engaging in writing, working, and spending time with friends and family, I have been able to reduce and improve my symptoms. Through my experiences, I have found that I am more than my academic success and that my other personality traits, like my humor and determination, can serve me more than my pain can. In terms of my dedication to academics, my primary objective remains centered around my academics, which is something that I have learned to prioritize in different ways. I have learned that I can study to the extent of my abilities, not past them, and that hurting myself in such drastic and lasting ways will not better my success. The symptoms of OCD will never leave me as they evolve with me over time, but I have learned that instead of viewing myself as a person that must face additional struggles when studying or working, I can view myself as a person that is willing to confront the obstacles in my path and do what I can to overcome them. I have learned that I have more perseverance than 15-year-old me thought I did, and that even though I tried to give up so many times, I need to have faith in myself as someone that has fought to make it to this point in my life.

I would picture my ideal version of myself in the future to be one that prioritizes becoming a better and more inclusive person and supporter of other people by listening and learning about their cultures even when they differ from my own.

Everyone who grew up with a single parent has a narrative that tells of their family’s coming-to-be. No two people who grew up in such circumstances will have the same experiences due to differences in class, race, gender, etc., so in describing my experiences in growing up with a single mother, I must first tell you a story of a tragic, but transforming love. It began with the love my parents had for each other, but it ended with my mother’s love for her children. My mother fell in love with a very selfish, older man who had left half a dozen other families across the country struck by his absence and neglect, yet she had the persisting and altruistic hope that with enough love, there was nothing that couldn’t be fixed. My father didn’t want to add more children’s birthdays to his calendar; nevertheless, my brother and I were born two years apart. Shortly after I was born, my mom discovered that my dad had cheated on her with so many other women that when she asked him to give her a number, he honestly couldn't. Through his negligence, he gave my mother a disease that has caused her many health scares even now, almost twenty years later. Thus, my father’s abusive ideas of what he called "love" have left their lasting mark on my family’s tapestry. My father and I saw each other on sparse occasions, but our relationship was limited at best. My mother took his abuse and cruelty in stride and provided the best care that she possibly could to me and my brother. She ensured that we were cared for, and she worked as hard as she could to make sure that she could provide us with anything we could ever want or need, something that I now realize was such an incredible privilege. I always said “You can‘t miss what you never had,” when people would ask if I was upset about my small family. Unfortunately, I found myself resenting the things that conspired over time. When I began high school, my mother testified against my father in a federal court hearing regarding doings at his independent business, and he was convicted and sentenced to prison. He stopped paying child support, which greatly terrorized our already plummeting finances. Economically struggling, I realized the extent to which my life had been impacted not only by the abandonment of one parent but by the overcoming attitude of the other. Despite the pitied sighs and “bless your heart” gushings I’ve received during my life, I feel that I have been made stronger and more resilient by the things I’ve had to go through. I've learned that, despite the allure and fantasy-like nature of romantic love that is depicted in the media, other forms of love can have an even deeper substance and meaning. The love for your family and friends is important, but the care that you provide for yourself is crucial also. In watching my mom care for not only herself but also her two children and elderly parents, I am in awe of how much love she had to give. She could depend on nobody but herself to make do with what she had, and through her struggles, I witnessed the true nature of a mother: one that persevered through all that life threw her and bit back at it with a smile. This tenacity has made me work as hard as I can in all that I do, and I hope to make my mother as proud of me as I am of her.

When I was in high school during the COVID-19 pandemic, I read a novel that changed my life and shaped me into the person that I am today. The book was called "Small Great Things" by Jodie Picoult, and its story followed a Black nurse who faced severe racism and nearly lost her job in the obstetrics division in which she worked. This novel inspired me to do research on the vast mistreatments involving Black women in healthcare; through this process, I learned that Black women are three times more likely to die as a result of racial discrimination during pregnancy. Learning this at the same time that the Black Lives Matter movement began following dozens of murders of African Americans, I felt a flame ignite within me. I had known prior to my research that I wanted to be a doctor, but after learning of all of the injustices in the healthcare field, I knew that I had to become a better advocate first. If those in the medical field were to prioritize training to diminish bias, research the differences in symptoms among different minorities, and work to confront their own inherent biases, I think that the medical community has the possibility to change and grow to support all patients in a better and more compassionate way. It’s so easy to pride yourself on being an activist or an ally, which are labels that I have identified with for many years. It is an altogether different thing to do something about the inadequacies in the treatment of people through action rather than words. As someone who wants to become a doctor, I cannot merely accept the statistics that illustrate the multitudes of ways in which African Americans have been treated unfairly and poorly by the medical community. Instead of sitting idly by, I need to use my privilege to call for more comprehensive and nuanced bias training for those seeking to join the medical field. I should be using this fire within me to make a change and try to influence others to do the same, particularly in the rural, mainly conservative, and predominantly White state that I live in. By seeking out diversity in education to better identify certain conditions across different races and the varying symptoms or appearances of those conditions, I can do my own research to ensure that I do not treat my future patients with the same prejudice and cruelty that so many have faced throughout the bleak history of American medicine. If the medical community as a whole worked harder to push for inclusivity and diversity training in its employees, there may be a decreased fear of stigmatization from marginalized communities that may then feel more comfortable in seeking healthcare. Although I may not be able to change the field of medicine or change other people’s mindsets, I have to use the hope that one person can influence others to lessen their biases. If I had not been encouraged to explore activism through reading and researching by some of my high school peers and teachers, I may have never felt this passion for obtaining better equity in healthcare. All it takes is one person to show others that they care deeply about an important issue in order for those people to empathize and wish to further that change. In listening to the voices of marginalized patients, encouraging bias training in the medical field, and researching the best ways to treat my future patients as best I can, I hope to influence the medical field to prioritize and destigmatize the necessity to promote diversity.

Odds are a funny thing. What are the odds that I may get struck by lightning today? According to most statisticians, the likelihood is well below one percent, which is comforting to the majority of the population. What if my odds were tripled? Still, my chances of being struck by lightning remain under one percent. This does pose a question however: if you could triple your chance of getting struck by lightning, would you want to take that risk? Probably not. Unfortunately, Black mothers don’t get to make the choice of being statistically three times more likely than White mothers to fall victim to mortality during or after pregnancy due to racial bias and stereotyping by medical professionals. To me, this unfair bias that has cost innumerable Black women their lives is not only unjust, but also completely preventable. When I discovered this great disparity in fairness of healthcare treatment, I knew that I wanted to do something to change it. If those in the medical field were to prioritize training to diminish bias, research the differences in symptoms among different minorities, and work to confront their own inherent biases, I think that the medical community has the possibility to change and grow to support all patients in a better and more just way. It’s so easy to pride yourself on being an activist or an ally, which are labels that I have identified with for many years. It is an altogether different thing to do something about the inadequacies in the treatment of people through action rather than merely support. As someone who wants to become a doctor, I cannot merely accept the statistics that illustrate the multitudes of ways in which African Americans have been treated unfairly and poorly by the medical community. Instead of sitting idly by, I need to use my privilege to call for more comprehensive and nuanced bias training for those seeking to join the medical field. I should be using this fire within me to make a change and try to influence others to do the same, particularly in the rural, mainly conservative, and predominantly White area that I live in. By seeking out diversity in my education to better identify certain conditions across different races and the varying symptoms or appearances of those conditions, I can do my own research to ensure that I do not treat my future patients with the same prejudice and cruelty that so many have faced throughout the bleak history of American medicine. If the medical community as a whole worked harder to push for inclusivity and diversity training in its employees, there may be a decreased fear of stigmatization from marginalized communities that may then feel more comfortable in seeking healthcare. Although I may not be able to change the mindsets of all members of the healthcare community, I have to hope that I can influence even just a few to lessen their biases. If I had not been encouraged to explore activism through reading and researching by some of my high school peers and teachers, I may have never felt this passion for obtaining better equity in healthcare. All it takes is one person to show others that they care deeply about an important issue in order for those people to empathize and wish to further that change. In listening to the voices of marginalized patients, encouraging bias training in the medical field, and researching the best ways to treat my future patients as best I can, I hope to influence the medical field to prioritize the need for equal and less biased patient treatment.

I remember her old house, the one-story, red-bricked home on what she called “the bad side of town.” I remember the faded rose-pink bowls that she used to pour my Cheerios in when I stayed overnight and how she would always ask if I wanted to put some sugar in them. I remember the worn brown carpet that smelled so incredibly like “Grandma’s house” that it comforted me even on the worst of days, and I remember the tan couches with indiscriminate swirls of purple and green that tangled through time and space to loosen the pain in her back as she sat down. Now, as my grandmother has been separated from that house for so long, some of the details are blurry in my mind. I can’t help but wonder how much time will pass until I, like her, forget it ever existed and forget the little details of homeliness that made the place so special. Were the swirls on the couch ever purple? Or were they yellow? Only photos can tell me now- those same photos that depict a tattered couch with (yes, I checked) green and purple flowers (not swirls, I have come to discover) also do their best to capture a woman who simply couldn't be contained in one frame. My grandma, with her curly white hair and watchful eyes, steals the show in every picture, mostly because those who have loved her see a woman who used to tell them how much she hated seeing herself in pictures. Now, she doesn’t recognize herself when shown those photos, but old habits die hard, and she’ll still say, “Get that old woman out of here,” once you tell her that it’s her she’s looking at. For better or for worse, there is comfort in some things staying the same. The day that everything changed, however, was supposed to be so happy. It was Christmas Day in 2011, and my mother, brother, and I went up to my grandparents’ house as we always did on the holidays. I was only seven years old, so I didn’t understand much why everyone was so stressed in the small kitchen of my grandparents' house. My grandfather, who would pass away five years later, tried to regain normalcy as my grandmother sat by the sink with her head in her hands. My mother paced the kitchen as my brother and I sat at the table, waiting stubbornly for Christmas dinner. The atmosphere is something I will never forget. Everyone was so tense, and Grandma, who was usually bustling around the kitchen to cook for the occasion, was silent and ill-faced. Since that day, my grandmother has had a persistent and aggressive decline in her memory, which has been attributed to Alzheimer’s exacerbated by a TIA, commonly known as a mini-stroke. Money was tight, and she was adamant that she didn’t want to go to the hospital following the event- she assumed it was just a migraine- but ever since, I can’t help but wonder if her outcome may have been different if she had received immediate treatment. As a student that is studying pre-medicine, however, I know that her prospects were bleak immediately following the attack. My grandmother remained in her home, which was so characteristically hers, for several years, some with my grandfather, and some following his passing. He had metastatic cancer that was left untreated, and he died following a brain hemorrhage after being in a car accident. Before he passed, my grandmother's lapses in memory were not too severe: for instance, she would ask the same questions to my brother and me when the pair of them would come to watch us after school. “Did you have a good day at school?” she would ask on repeat until my grandfather would tell her that she had already asked several times. She’d laugh, say she was a “forgetful old woman,” then ask again a few short minutes later. My brother and I would stay at our grandparents’ house often when we were younger. My mother was single, working full-time, and did not have the resources to pay anyone to care for me and my brother. My grandparents, despite their ages and ailments, cared for me and my brother consistently until my grandfather’s passing. Before then, staying at their house was like a comforting home away from home. There was a routine in every night, as my grandparents would watch TV with us, eat some ice cream that their busted-up freezer was chock full of, then we’d go to sleep- my grandmother in her flowery nightgown, and my grandfather in his grey sweatpants and West Virginia sweatshirt. I’d sleep in the bed with my grandmother, and my brother would sleep in the bed with my grandfather. My grandma and I watched TV, and she would trace circles on my back until she’d fall asleep. I’d usually stay up and read the different markings on her wall, which included a framed image of a poem that my mother had given to her about being loved by all. After my grandfather passed, her memory took a turn for the worse, and staying at her house became a very different reality. My grandmother became extremely fearful and suspicious of her neighbors, and she was terrified that someone was going to break into her house. I would stay the night with her when my mother and brother would go out of town, and our nighttime routine of watching TV, her drawing shapes on my back, and me re-reading the poem on her wall remained. There were, however, some changes. She would get up many times in the night to check around the house and make sure that nobody was entering, and she would hide her things, like her medication, to make sure that nobody would be able to find them if they were to break in. When dogs would bark or tree branches outside would break, she would panic and become very afraid that someone was going to enter her home. She slept with a hammer under her pillow just in case, and she repeatedly told me of how her neighbors had her phone tapped. In 2019, her Alzheimer’s reached such a dangerous point that she began leaving her home at night to look around her house, then would become lost and wander the streets of her crime-ridden neighborhood in the same flowery nightgown that she used to watch the TLC channel with me in. My mother had to make the devastating decision to take her out of her home, but due to the state of our house, she could not move in with us for her own safety. My mother and I cleaned out my grandmother’s house, the same house that she had lived in for fifty years, and sold it so that we could use the money to pay for her to stay at an assisted living facility near our home. As the years pass, my grandmother remembers us less and less, while she remembers the love for our names more than she does our faces when she sees us. Her kindness and brightness, however, remain, as she greets us with the biggest smile and a hug even when she doesn’t know who we are. When my mother and I come to visit her, we take her to the Dairy Queen down the street and get her a large vanilla ice cream cone, she becomes so happy and excited that her glee is reminiscent of a child’s. I suppose ice cream is the symbol that I would choose to represent my grandmother, as her love for it has surrounded my youth and now adulthood. Now, as I pursue an undergraduate degree in pre-medicine and intend to go to medical school, I realize all that I have learned through the pain of watching someone I love so dearly go through such a devastating condition. I’ve learned how delicate and gentle my grandmother has remained despite the fear that she has, and I’ve seen first-hand the love that she feels for everyone, even if she doesn't know who they are. Seeing her mental decline over the years has given me practice in patience and in being supportive of her struggles as opposed to being hurt or taking personally her lapses in memory regarding myself. I know that this disease does not determine who she is, and it will certainly never change my memories of her watching the news on the same couch that now sits in a storage unit, begging for its flowered patterns to be traced. I will love my grandmother for the rest of my life, and I encourage anyone who has elderly relatives or loved ones to let them know how loved they are, even if you suspect they won’t remember it. Happiness is a fleeting thing, but even the shortest second of it can give someone a brightness that lights them up for the time you have with them.

I tend to find that the best books or stories transport me somewhere else, sometimes to a place that is not real, and sometimes to a place that is lost in the past. The book that I think could change the world, however, is based in the past, the present, the future, and everywhere in between, as it is the story of its author’s life. This novel is called “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous” by Ocean Vuong, who retells the story of his tumultuous life through immigrating from Vietnam to Boston; suffering from poverty, xenophobia, and homophobia; the impact of mental illness on his family; and addiction. A story of time and tragedy, this novel moved me and expanded my worldview to consider the struggles of immigrants that I had never previously imagined and enabled me to sympathize with those struggles. So many people in America are eager to judge and belittle immigrants, as is described in Vuong’s novel, but rarely do those individuals consider the difficulty and trauma that comes with leaving the only place you’ve ever known and moving somewhere with an entirely different language and culture. In Ocean Vuong’s novel, he details the horrors of the Vietnam War that produced his mother and the colorism that followed his mother being born of mixed race during that period. He paints a photograph of an exhausted woman desperate to give her son a better life, so she works nonstop to provide for him and her elderly mother. Although I could not begin to understand the struggles of Vuong's family in terms of the xenophobia that they faced, I felt that I connected with his [Vuong’s] depiction of his mother. He saw her as a saint while simultaneously seeing her in a much more negative light as a result of her harsh way of trying to get him to assimilate quicker and her poor reaction to him revealing his homosexuality. Through his vibrant storytelling, you can feel the frustration of loving someone so much yet struggling to accept their flaws. I feel that if people read this novel, they would relate to some of the overflowing emotions that Vuong so bravely portrays without fear of backlash, and they would be more likely to sympathize with the struggles of those dissimilar to them. In feeling compassion and sharing sorrow with others, we can grow as a global community and unite together.

If you had asked me about the importance of mental health when I was a kid, I likely would have looked at you with a confused, toothless look of inquiry. Mental health wasn’t something that my family knew anything about, despite generations of individuals fighting severe depressive disorders, PTSD, and anxiety, resorting many to then struggle with addiction. My mother admirably thought that there was no disorder that a little positive thinking couldn’t cure, and my father, although absent, refused to admit that his genes could produce anything less than emotionally perfect. When you’re a kid, almost any behavior can be written off as being “eccentric” or “silly,” and sometimes, that’s all it is. That wasn’t the case with me. Ever since I can remember, I have done things in multiple. I could never just brush my teeth once when I was in kindergarten; I had to brush my teeth three times. If a teacher asked me to read two chapters of a book, I had to read six. Even in this essay, I prefer to give examples that exceed what is necessary to get my point across (sorry for that). The adults in my life laughed off my relatively unnecessary behaviors and insisted that I would grow out of them. One decade later, I was lying on the kitchen floor, having not slept or eaten for days, weeping because my paper had ripped after erasing the same geometry problem for about the fiftieth time. My freshman year of high school marked the point in my journey with mental health at which there was no alternative response: I was sick. After being forcibly admitted to therapy and prescribed medication, I received a three-letter explanation for the impulses I had suffered from for my entire life: OCD. It almost seemed laughable that all the sleeplessness, starvation, and seclusion could be constricted into a singular concept. Thinking of all the attempts to end my life for an acronym felt humiliating. Since this diagnosis, I have realized that mental health is so much more than anything that can be rationally derived. Much like physical health, so much is left up to genetics and biology, leading to people like myself feeling discouraged and as though there is nothing that can be done to improve it. Over the years, however, I have found ways to prioritize and manage my mental health to minimize the negative feelings that so often flood my mind and body. By being transparent with my friends and letting them know about the symptoms that I grapple with, I can feel less ashamed of my disorder, and open conversations about mental health can be normalized. In talking with my friends about my diagnosis, several of them have resonated with what I’ve said, and many have even been compelled to seek therapy or medication for their respective mental health struggles. Although OCD is not something that dissipates with the daily taking of a pill, I find solace and relief in my condition by keeping busy. I have noticed that the busier I am and the more on my plate, the less time I have to consider doing unregulated multiples of my daily tasks. During the summer, I particularly struggle with worsened symptoms, but by engaging in writing, working, and spending time with friends and family, I have been able to reduce and improve my symptoms. In finding community with others who share struggles with mental health issues and in normalizing conversations to discuss them, I find that I am not alone, which is something that I hope those like me can also uncover.

If you asked me to recall my childhood, one face sticks out from the multitudes of individuals who helped raise me: that face has enormously curly blonde hair, piercingly fierce eyes, and the most genuine smile you could ever see. That face belongs to my mother, who raised me and my older brother on her own from the time I was born. When my mother was asked about what she wanted from her future as a young girl, she would say that she wanted an incredible husband, two kids (a boy and a girl- sorry, Mom), and a big house with a pool. Unfortunately, she didn’t get any of those things. She met my father and fell in love in a way that your family never understands, because how could you love someone who treats you so poorly? He was older, more mysterious, and he had been married several times before and already had kids. After they got married, my parents’ relationship began to falter. My father, being twelve years older than my mother and having already had four children, didn’t want any more. However, my mother did. After much arguing, my brother was born, and two years later, so was I. One thing about my father is that he never really wanted kids- that was apparent from the harshness with which he treated my brother as an infant. Seeing this, my mother had to choose to prioritize either her marriage or her children. She chose us, and she’d tell you that she would do it again one million times over. Without a partner, my mother spent every cent she had and every fraction of time she could with her children, never considering dating or opting to spend time without us. She worked full-time at a pharmacy in which she was solely responsible for taking inventory, ringing up customers, filling prescriptions, and giving immunizations. She would often tell me and my brother that she would go the entire day without using the bathroom, eating, or sitting down- as she would get so busy- but she never considered compromising the ability to provide her children with anything they could need. No matter how much she worked, she made it her priority to make herself present at as many school events of mine and my brother’s as she could. Even if she would pass out on the couch within seconds of coming home after a long day, she called the house and made sure my brother and I were okay, and she begged her elderly parents to check on us as often as they could. Even if she was exhausted, she would read to us, because she said that she wanted us to explore the world through learning and strive for high goals. To this day, she tells me of how she would read to me when I was in her womb, ignoring the pleas of my father that “it wouldn’t matter.” It mattered to her, and it matters to me now. My mother always wanted me to go to college and achieve a good education. She didn’t want me to be dependent on others, as she had experienced extreme financial difficulties in dealing with my father. I remember the first time I told her that I wanted to be a doctor: her face lit up, and I saw the recognition behind her eyes that said she felt her hard work was not lost on me. Now, as the two of us navigate the expenses of college together, I dream of seeing that look in full when I graduate from medical school.

When I was born, people would see me and think that I was exactly what my mom had wanted: she already had an older, all-American boy that played every sport known to man, and now she had a perfect little girl, complete with pigtails, a kitchen play set, and pink, frilly dresses. As I grew older and my consciousness began to fully occupy the lengthening skin I resided in, I felt so detached from this girl. Who was she? By the time I reached my sophomore year of high school, I had realized that she wasn’t me. I had no idea how I identified, but I knew how I didn’t. Relief flooded through me when I realized that there was a reason that I didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin, but panic set in when I realized the journey ahead in terms of accepting myself. For many years, I identified as nonbinary, but now, I identify somewhere between there and being a transgender man. I grew up in a conservative household, in which gay and transgender rights were virtually unspoken of except in harsh whispers and ill groaning when they were mentioned in church. I never told my mother how I identified, and I probably never will, but my friends and classmates at school slowly caught on as I carefully unveiled myself. Now, when my classmates and teachers thought of the valedictorian that had always strived for excellence, many of them instead envisioned a confused social and religious outcast whom they no longer recognized. I had always known that I wanted to go into medicine, sort of in the same way that I had always known that I wasn’t a girl- subtly. When I was accepted into Marshall University’s BS/MD program, I was so excited, because I could have a chance to start over with new people who had no idea what I used to look like. Majoring in Biological Science, minoring in Chemistry and Pre-Professional Healthcare, then going to medical school after three years was something I’d dreamed of doing for a long time. It quickly became apparent to me, however, that starting over is never so simple. Aside from my first college roommate being loudly uncomfortable and disgusted with me and switching dorms, my suitemates and peers in my program have been welcoming, understanding, and accepting of me. Being disrespected as a transgender individual in the STEM field has not fully become something that I’ve grown used to. Most of it stems (wordplay) from misogyny, which I should praise my amazing female friends for enduring through our similar academic journeys. The goal of becoming a doctor is something that I know I want to reach, and no matter how overwhelming the stress sometimes gets, I know how important it is for me to keep going. I can't imagine the comfort my younger self would have felt if I'd had a doctor that I knew respected me. Upon graduating from medical school, I wish to be a pathologist. In the state of West Virginia, the medical field appears very homogenous: filled with cisgender doctors that wouldn’t think of asking a patient what pronouns they used. However, it is said that if you wish to see great changes, you must make them yourself, and by becoming a transgender medical doctor, I hope to change the field of medicine by making it more inclusive and less daunting to transgender and gender-nonconforming individuals. The medical field should become more diverse, and if I want to see a rise in inclusivity in the medical community, I suppose I should start with myself.

The repetitions started when I was in kindergarten. It wasn’t much: I’d just wash my hands three times every time I felt the need. My brother thought that it was funny and called them my “threes and bets,” since I seemed so fond of doing things three times. By the end of fifth grade, I was running up and down the stairs ninety-nine times a night, afraid of the unknown- of what would happen if I didn’t. I can almost hear the TV static and the background noise of Jake and the Neverland Pirates playing as I raced feverishly up and down at 5:48 in the morning, ninety-nine times turning into three hundred, and my mother wondering why I was so restless. Regardless, a little less sleep didn’t affect me all that much. By seventh grade, I was becoming exhausted with the sleepless nights. I was tired constantly and couldn’t motivate myself to do anything other than complete my schoolwork, which was all I thought that life could possibly revolve around anyway. Either way, I was fine, determined that I could work through it. Then came ninth grade. From the first day of my first AP class, I knew that I was going to struggle- I just didn’t yet understand how much. Taking notes from my AP Human Geography textbook may as well have been a death sentence for me. I copied the book word for word, my collection of loose-leaf paper notes as extensive as the very textbook I regurgitated the words from. Maybe I could have made it work if it hadn’t been for everything else that life entailed. I had cross country after school every day, three other classes to do work for, and community service to do. I stayed up all night doing each geometry problem that I was assigned around twenty times. Every word I typed or wrote had to be retyped or rewritten, holes being burned into my pages from my smoldering eraser. Very quickly, more so than at any time in my life, I was breaking. I wouldn’t let myself eat or sleep until everything was done, because, after all, school was the only thing that mattered- not my best friend, who watched me slip away behind a book at lunch, tossing my sandwich in the bin to look as if it had been eaten; not my mother, who listened to me scream into the night, tormented by the thoughts that would not leave as she prayed that things would change; and least of all, myself. By the time winter rolled around, I was a ghost of the bright, energetic kid I used to be. I hated changing my clothes, and looked like a lifeless skeleton, my hair falling out and my eyes bulging. But then, winter came. Not really, it was still November, but it came in the form of my AP Human Geography teacher, Mrs. Dolin. She had watched silently and patiently as I trudged into and out of her class every day, my hands shaking from writing so much and my stomach perpetually empty. “Are you okay?” are the words she asked that changed my life. The second they fell from her lips, I was sobbing, an avalanche of suppression overflowing. She closed her door, took me into her arms, and comforted me, asking me what was going on. For some reason, it was so much easier to explain what I was going through in that moment, and I divulged what I had carried on my mind since kindergarten yet never verbalized. She talked to me about my situation and encouraged me to seek professional help, which nobody had yet convinced me to agree to. Now, after three years of therapy and medication, as well as a diagnosis of OCD, I have learned to thrive rather than just survive, and I couldn’t have done it had I not gotten help. It's amazing how strange things seem when you begin to view them through a new lens. Once I got on medication and my thoughts were not so intrusive and severe, I found myself able to communicate my feelings verbally rather than by crying and breaking down. I could talk to people, laugh, tell jokes, exercise, eat, and sleep well for the first time in years. I never knew how bad my obsessive compulsive disorder was until it was diminished so much. Although it still persists, I cannot imagine living how I did then, and I wouldn't trade my current condition for anything. Once you vacate the stormy seas, you begin to appreciate and seek out the sunny, peaceful shores, and that is exactly how my overcoming of my OCD was. I feel like a different person now, someone who can have friends and a life outside of my repetitions, and I realize now that I and everyone else with OCD can be capable of living fulfilling and happy lives, even if we never thought we could.

As a nonbinary person, I have learned that some spaces simply don’t feel as though they were made for those of us outside of the heteronormative spectrum. From having teachers and peers who refuse to see you as anything other than male or female to having to act as someone else to appease others and avoid discrimination at school or home, many environments can feel unnatural and daunting to those that are viewed as “different.” Intelligence and hard work are so often associated with the expectations of each sex that those that don’t fit those molds tend to be ostracized. For instance, female scholars are expected to be organized, neat, and submissively innocent with kind attitudes and demeanors, and male scholars are expected to be introverted outcasts of society who couldn’t succeed in sports, and so had to turn to the books. I used to be a perfect fit for this mold when I was a young girl, but as I got older and learned more about the personality and identity that I had suppressed for so many years, that mold became rather tight around me, suffocating me as I struggled to escape it. Now, as I speak my mind when I feel there is injustice, when I correct people for how they perceive me, and when I stand up for myself against bigoted remarks, I am seen in a different light: a child corrupted by the heathenish Internet that needs to be quiet in order to be appealing to others. Appearances are used against us as we change the outside to match the inside, or merely to reflect how we like to look. After cutting my hair and adopting more gender-affirming attire, I’ve received so much more disdain and subjugation from peers and parents. Now, the same parents that used to say, “She’s a lovely student,” say, “She was such a beautiful girl- what happened?” In actuality, I’m a better student now than I have ever been, my passion for education never wavering, but because I no longer look like the image of a scholar that society has perpetuated, I am seen as having changed. It has been so hard adjusting to the ways in which some people judge and ostracize me, but I have been fortunate enough to find friends who support me and make me feel safe. Being around people who have listened to the ways I feel and the ways I wish to be perceived has been so beneficial to my mental health and my acceptance of myself. I believe that one may feel the most powerful when helping others feel powerful too; thus, having a community that not only helps you, but that you can help, can make all the difference in the world in terms of self-acceptance and support. It has taken so long, but by finally learning to accept myself, I have been able to feel comfortable in my own skin at last.

The repetitions started when I was in kindergarten. It wasn’t much: I’d just wash my hands three times every time I felt the need. My brother thought that it was funny and called them my “threes and bets,” since I seemed so fond of doing things three times. By the end of fifth grade, I was running up and down the stairs ninety-nine times a night, afraid of the unknown- of what would happen if I didn’t. I can almost hear the TV static and the background noise of Jake and the Neverland Pirates playing as I raced feverishly up and down at 5:48 in the morning, ninety-nine times turning into three hundred, and my mother wondering why I was so restless. Regardless, a little less sleep didn’t affect me all that much. By seventh grade, I was becoming exhausted with the sleepless nights. I was tired constantly and couldn’t motivate myself to do anything other than complete my schoolwork, which was all I thought that life could possibly revolve around anyway. Either way, I was fine, determined that I could work through it. Then came ninth grade. From the first day of my first AP class, I knew that I was going to struggle- I just didn’t yet understand how much. Taking notes from my AP Human Geography textbook may as well have been a death sentence for me. I copied the book word for word, my collection of loose-leaf paper notes as extensive as the very textbook I regurgitated the words from. Maybe I could have made it work if it hadn’t been for everything else that life entailed. I had cross country after school every day, three other classes to do work for, and community service to do. I stayed up all night doing each geometry problem that I was assigned around twenty times. Every word I typed or wrote had to be retyped or rewritten, holes being burned into my pages from my smoldering eraser. Very quickly, more so than at any time in my life, I was breaking. I wouldn’t let myself eat or sleep until everything was done, because, after all, school was the only thing that mattered- not my best friend, who watched me slip away behind a book at lunch, tossing my sandwich in the bin to look as if it had been eaten; not my mother, who listened to me scream into the night, tormented by the thoughts that would not leave as she prayed that things would change; and least of all, myself. By the time winter rolled around, I was a ghost of the bright, energetic kid I used to be. I hated changing my clothes, and looked like a lifeless skeleton, my hair falling out and my eyes bulging. But then, winter came. Not really, it was still November, but it came in the form of my AP Human Geography teacher, Mrs. Dolin. She had watched silently and patiently as I trudged into and out of her class every day, my hands shaking from writing so much and my stomach perpetually empty. “Are you okay?” are the words she asked that changed my life. The second they fell from her lips, I was sobbing, an avalanche of suppression overflowing. She closed her door, took me into her arms, and comforted me, asking me what was going on. For some reason, it was so much easier to explain what I was going through in that moment, and I divulged what I had carried on my mind since kindergarten yet never verbalized. She talked to me about my situation and encouraged me to seek professional help, which nobody had yet convinced me to agree to. Now, after three years of therapy and medication, as well as a diagnosis of OCD, I have learned to thrive rather than just survive, and I couldn’t have done it had I not gotten help. I never thought during that stressful and exhausting year that I would be able to become my school's valedictorian or achieve any of the positions that I now hold in my school, like the National Honor Society and Mu Alpha Theta President as well as a member of Student Council. I thought that I would have to change my career aspirations as a result of my condition, something that made me feel incredibly broken-hearted and discouraged, since pursuing a career in the medical field was something that I had always wanted to achieve. Through therapy, medication, and mostly time, though, I have learned that I although my mental illness may make things more difficult for me than other people, I can do anything that I set my mind to, and I am capable of anything so long as I take care of myself and persevere.

It’s always said not to judge a book by its cover; therefore, I settle for judging a book by how it impacts me and how I view life. The book that most accurately fits that criterion can be only one: Looking for Alaska by John Green. Reading a novel such as this when I was around 13, I was introduced to themes that were relatively undiscovered in my previous exploration of life, such as the effects of childhood trauma on adolescents, how blame creates obligation, and the weight that grief holds on a community. On the surface, Looking for Alaska is a novel that follows the story of a teenager going away to boarding school, leaving behind his quiet life and adopting one filled with new friends, nicknames, lots of drinking, and adventurous teenage antics, most of which include the beautiful and intricately mysterious Alaska, a girl at his new boarding school whom he immediately befriends. As the story develops, however, it becomes clear through drunken admissions and adrenaline-rushed, cigarette-laced breaths how these characters came to be. The characters then blossomed before my eyes as not just funny teenagers, but as mosaics of all of their experiences and struggles pieced together by humor and substance. Following Alaska’s untimely and unanticipated death, the story changes track, blame and guilt clouding the once honey-sweet and joyful swigs of pink liquor. Her friends agonize, place blame, but nobody shoulders more blame than that of Alaska, which led to her accidental death. Now, in her absence, the friend group that had once been strung together by laughter is now strung together by the grief that they share. The depth of the story always captivated me and made me realize how complex and multi-faceted humans are, making me feel comforted and self-assured of my place.

Looking around at our world that we have polluted, abused, and scarred, it feels almost impossible to determine what the single largest issue is. It is, however, apparent that some problems cause other problems. Climate change, violence, and prejudice, for instance, all root back to one human problem, from which stems multitudes: greed. We humans have taken so much from our planet, stripping it bare of natural resources all for our own gain- after all, it’s so much easier for companies to cheaply extract coal rather than to invest in solar farms or hydropower, which are better for our environment. But who cares if it’s better for the environment when it inconveniences us, the most important beings in the world, or so we think. People kill, steal from, and hurt others for their own gain- more money, more happiness, or more relief. Some take from others so that they, themselves, can have more. Entire groups of people beat others down and establish ways to separate them from their own for the same reason: so that they can have more and others, less. Humanity is based upon taking from all so that the individual may succeed, and, as repercussions on others and their welfare are rarely considered, I thus think that human greed is the biggest problem facing the world. Because humans have the ability to affect and alter the world more than any other species, our greed has a costly weight on not just other humans, but other organisms and the world as a whole. The only way I feel that we may overcome this is to not think of humanity as billions, but as one, and to live in ways that perpetuate the survival of the human race and all of the other organisms that the human race affects.