A woman never forgets how she is made to feel during her pregnancy, birth and postpartum period. While much focus is given to how a fetus develops in response to its physical and emotional environment, far less is said about the transformation of the woman herself -who, in many ways, is also being shaped and "born" into motherhood. It is the quiet moments that form the mother - a care provider dismissing concerns, a partner missing a moment for connection, a credit card declining the car seat purchase, or the overwhelming weight of doing it all alone. Through my work and volunteer experiences, I have come to understand that these moments are where support matters most, yet they are often where it is hardest to find. I am pursuing a path towards a master's degree in social work, with the goal of working with women on labor and delivery and postpartum floors at the UCSD hospital where I am employed. As a birth and postpartum doula, I have had the honor of supporting women during some of the most vulnerable and transformative times in their lives. I have also volunteered my birth doula services with a local military hospital, low-income families and single mothers, where I have personally witnessed the disparities in access to emotional, physical, and informational support during pregnancy and postpartum recovery. One of the most pressing social issues I am committed to addressing is the lack of comprehensive, compassionate care for mothers- especially those navigating financial hardship, isolation, or systemic barriers. Too often, women are expected to recover physically, adjust emotionally, and care for a newborn without adequate support systems in place. This gap affects mothers, but also the long-term well-being of their children, families, and communities. In my role as a doula, I strive to meet women where they are, providing practical support, reassurance, education, and advocacy. Whether it is helping a first-time mother feel confident in caring for her newborn, supporting a single parent navigating postpartum recovery alone, or simply being a steady presence during an overwhelming moment, I have learned that small, consistent acts of care can have a lasting impact. My work has reinforced my belief that empowering mothers is one of the most effective ways to strengthen families and, in turn, entire communities. Pursuing a career in social work will allow me to expand this impact on a broader scale. I hope to integrate clinical knowledge with my hands-on experience to advocate for policies and programs that provide more equitable support for mothers, particularly in hospital settings where critical early interventions can make a lasting difference. I am especially passionate about ensuring that women from underserved communities receive the dignity, care, and resources they deserve during pregnancy and postpartum recovery. Jeannine's legacy of compassion, creativity, and service deeply resonates with me. Like her, I believe in using my skills to make meaningful contributions to the lives of others. Supporting mothers is not just a professional goal for me- it is a personal calling. By investing in the well-being of women during one of the most pivotal times in their lives, I hope to help create stronger families, healthier communities, and a more compassionate world.

Multiple people who survived jumping off bridges, in failed suicide attempts, report the same thing: they regretted it the moment their feet left the edge. As they plummeted downwards, every one of them was begging God, the universe, or whatever higher power they subscribe to, for a second chance at life. I knew this fact even while I was swallowing a handful of aspirin. While I lay there in that dark room, my mind a prisoner in my paralyzed body, I finally understood. Suddenly I was splashed in the face with the cold clarity that I did not want to die. I especially did not want to leave my son motherless. I imagined the look he would have on his face while being told that he would never see me again and the wall of numbness I had shielded myself with shattered. I did not want to die. I did not want to take myself out of this world. I realized I simply could not keep living with this catastrophic amount of emotional pain every day. In that moment of deep despair, I found strength I did not know my fingers still possessed, grabbed my phone and called 911. Over the following months I dug into the deepest, darkest, and most raw corners of my soul and found power I had never before witnessed in myself. Forcing myself to delete the old codes and rewrite my engrained thought patterns often made me feel like my brain was actually breaking. The days after my attempt were so utterly bleak. I knew nothing but survival. I had no will of my own, only knowledge of what I was supposed to be doing. For years I had heard people say that everyone needs to exercise regularly, go outside, make healthy food choices, socialize and feel their feelings in order to be happy. This was supposedly the tried and true recipe for psychological health. However, I did not believe that it would work for me. For some reason I was under the impression that joy would always elude me. I was the exception to the rule. I felt blips of good feelings, mainly when I enjoyed activities with my son, but there was this ever-present current of anguish deep inside me. This raging river consistently threatened to pull me under, sometimes just long enough to scare me, and other times in a deadly pursuit. I followed the recipe to a T and out of the oven came out a future with potential for an amount of happiness and success that I never would have thought were possible for me. Even though it is a very real struggle juggling school, a full-time job and being a single-mother, I am grateful every single day that I get the chance to live. I get the chance to strive for a better life for me and my son. I carry my experience with me in everything that I do and every word that I say to others. Every day, when my son asks to play, I wholeheartedly say yes. One day I hope to help others, through my career and personal experience, to experience the profound shift in mental health that I have. For now, I enjoy the journey.

Multiple people who survived jumping off bridges, in failed suicide attempts, report the same thing: they regretted it the moment their feet left the edge. As they plummeted downwards, every one of them was begging God, the universe, or whatever higher power they subscribe to, for a second chance at life. I knew this fact even while I was swallowing a handful of aspirin. While I lay there in that dark room, my mind a prisoner in my paralyzed body, I finally understood. As I noticed, detached but still aware, that the time between my heart beats was growing farther and farther apart a glimmer of a feeling began to replace the apathy. With every slowed thump thump of my heart a panic began growing inside me. Suddenly I was splashed in the face with the cold clarity that I did not want to die. I especially did not want to leave my son motherless. I imagined the look he would have on his face while being told that he would never see me again and the wall of numbness I had shielded myself with shattered. I did not want to die. I did not want to take myself out of this world. I realized I simply could not keep living with this catastrophic amount of emotional pain every day. In that moment of deep despair, I found strength I did not know my fingers still possessed, grabbed my phone and called 911. Over the following months I dug into the deepest, darkest, and most raw corners of my soul and found power I had never before witnessed in myself. Forcing myself to delete the old codes and rewrite my engrained thought patterns often made me feel like my brain was actually breaking. The days after my attempt were so utterly bleak. I knew nothing but survival. I had no will of my own, only knowledge of what I was supposed to be doing. For years I had heard people say that everyone needs to exercise regularly, go outside, make healthy food choices, socialize and feel their feelings in order to be happy. This was supposedly the tried and true recipe for psychological health. However, I did not believe that it would work for me. For some reason I was under the impression that joy would always elude me. I was the exception to the rule. I felt blips of good feelings, mainly when I enjoyed activities with my son, but there was this ever-present current of anguish deep inside me. This raging river consistently threatened to pull me under, sometimes just long enough to scare me, and other times in a deadly pursuit. I used every last ounce of strength I had to swim through those choppy waters to shelter. In the beginning I still did not believe that happiness was in the cards for me. Despite my doubts, I was at least determined to suffer less. Perhaps I would never feel a calmness in my heart, but maybe if I exercised, ate more vegetables, got more sunshine, made plans with my friends, and cried more I would not want to die. So I did all the things. I also got a therapist and started using a sleep aid. And who would have guessed? The waves quieted from a threatening crash to a soothing roar. It was working. I followed the recipe to a T and out of the oven came out a future with potential for an amount of happiness and success that I never would have thought were possible for me. I am grateful every single day that I did not die that day. I carry my experience with me in everything that I do and every word that I say to others. Every day, when my son asks to play, I wholeheartedly say yes. One day I hope to help others, through my career, to experience the profound shift in mental health that I have. For now, I enjoy the journey.

Melson Nandela, my grandmother, has a lot of great ideas but I'm going to focus on my own to answer this question. I deserve this scholarship because my Dad gave me a million dollars because he believes in me so you should too. I did spend all the money while tanking a steak business. However, you should have full trust in my fiscal responsibility. Truthfully, I am attending college because I love the student discount I receive at my local froyo parlor. It's a lie to say that I am passionate about mental health and dream of becoming a psychologist for people of the lgbtq community. I think it might be a fun idea to open a practice that focuses on comprehensive health, including counseling, nutrition, yoga, and meditation. As a single mother that goes to school and works full-time, applesauce pouches are the bane of my existence. One day my son asked me for that particular snack and I became so distressed. I called my sister, best friend, and then my therapist. Together we were able to open the unnecessarily difficult pouch of smoothie. I have learned that being vulnerable with the people I love when I struggle with snacks is the way to overcome any obstacle.

When I discovered that my husband, and the father of my child, had been unfaithful to me, my world imploded. I held his phone in my hand, completely forgetting that the reason I had it was to put on a Youtube video for our three-year-old, and my entire universe fatally crashed into the median. My heart banged in my chest so intensely that I heard the blood rushing in my ears, my hands shook with an energy I was unfamiliar with, and my vision blurred in an attempt to shield me from the incriminating text message that had popped up on the screen. I told him to leave that day. He packed a bag and took my appetite with him. For four months after that, I could not eat. My thoughts terrorized my mind to the point that my body began to shut down. I tried to get food down, but I physically could not stomach anything. I stood in front of the oven, grilling a chicken quesadilla for my son, and tried not to visibly gag. I began withering away to the point that people around me began to take notice, but it was the wrong kind of attention. "You look fantastic!" "I'm so stressed I can't eat." I would deliver the news with a laugh because I did not know how to ask for help. "Well, it's working!" The realization that most people were prouder of my appearance than concerned for my mental health shocked me into a self-sabotaging silence. It's been over a year since that traumatic time in my life. Things changed for me slowly. The turning point happened in a bakery. My beautiful friend was relaying to me the latest news in her love life while happily munching on a sticky bun. My stomach rolled with nausea, and I looked down at the Americano I was swirling around in my hands. "I'm not okay," I blurted out, interrupting her story. Her animated face fell, and she gazed into my face, searching for truth. "Tell me." I ripped my heart out my chest and laid it all out for her to see and the most amazing thing happened. She saw me. Since then I approach the topic with vulnerability and invite others who may be secretly struggling to know that they are not alone. Nourishing oneself with regular healthy meals is a requirement for a happy and successful life. I have learned that my relationship with food mirrors my relationship with myself. I now know that I can measure my mental health by acknowledging how I have been treating food. The days that I delight in chopping away at fresh vegetables to throw into my instant pot are always good days. I am very busy single mom, juggling full-time work and school. Even so, I do my best to prioritize my and my son’s health. It is very normal for us to spend time together in the kitchen, as my goal is to prepare at least one home-cooked meal a day. Preparing soups, breakfast muffins, and nutritious snacks with my son have become some of my most joyous memories and a tradition I plan to continue forever. When I finish school, I will open my own mental health practice, focused on taking on well-being in a comprehensive way. I will be incorporating nutrition, yoga, and the benefits of nature into my treatment plan with my patients. I am so excited for my future of helping others to find the health, joy, and zest for life that I now know is possible.