I never became too envious of material things. However, being born in a third-world country; the first time I stood wide-eyed and open-mouthed in front of a Toys ‘R Us, I am sure I almost passed out. Nevertheless, I accepted what toys and gifts my parents worked hard to give me and chucked whatever everyone else got up to luck. The first time I truly despised someone for having something I didn’t have was in high school. Body changes, environmental changes, personality shifts, and weight of impending disappointment from my immigrant parents were enough to send me into a spiral. A spiral I denied was happening because freaking out and being “confused” was a luxury I could not afford. I had to win, finish, exceed and excel and every other positive thing I could think of. One Tuesday evening found me wide-eyed and open-mouthed once more. She told me the reason she had been absent the day before was that she had been feeling sad a lot. She talked to her mom about it and her mom let her take the day off to recuperate and speak to a therapist about it. It’s hard to say whether I was jealous of her for having a mother who cared about her feelings and took them seriously or her mother who did not think therapy was for the crazy people. I simply nodded at her and continued to stuff down everything that was rising in my chest. That memory was one of the many reasons I wanted to pursue psychology as a major and later a career. Learning how to analyze and believe my feelings is the gratification I need for growing up in an environment that felt that you were simply being ungrateful or dramatic. As an African American, first-generation college student raised in another country, there’s nothing more freeing than being a voice for other young immigrant kids. I want to be a part of the group that pushes the needle against the fear of therapy in black and brown families. Lack of knowledge and exposure may have kept me and others like me from tackling our childhood trauma but it’s never too late to learn how to be better humans for our ever-evolving society. To do all of this, education is extremely crucial. Getting my bachelor’s and later my master’s are the foundations I need to achieve my goals. I want to become a therapist in the future and provide hope for other kids who look like me and feel like I once did. I am by no ways perfect, mental health is a daily journey but I now know not to be ashamed of it.

I plopped myself in the back seat of a 2007 Honda between some puffer jackets and a box of my favorite novels, six of them to be exact. I am not sure who told me that I would have time to reread my favorite books as a college freshman taking 18 credits but, they lied. However, none of that mattered because I was listening to Empire State of Mind by Jay Z on repeat. I sang along quietly as one does to prep themselves for the big move-in day to a university in New York. Music frames a lot of my core memories. I can hardly forget my very first day of classes. My roommate had not moved in yet, so; I set the song Optimistic by Sounds of Blackness as my alarm. Before the melody came in, my head started nodding along to the music. I wanted to wake up to something that reminds me of home, which would jump-start my university experience on a positive note. So, I jumped off my bed and grooved around our little room, shaking away the jitters. That song went on to be a pocket of rejuvenation whenever I was down. Unfortunately, that positive attitude began to crumble, and chemistry classes melded into trying not to sleep in the third row of Statistics. Nevertheless, a tired Tuesday night led me to a dance club, one of the many clubs I signed up for during our school's club fair. As I slowly stepped into the dance studio, I can only describe the feeling as -the three drops of sweat down the back of your neck - feeling that you get right before you give a big presentation in front of an entire class. My eyes darted from the boy twirling on his tiptoes to the girl stretching with her left leg poised against the wall. I tucked myself in the back row as the older dance leaders started their introductions. It had been a while since I pushed through any dance routine, so my body stuttered through several eight counts. They made us all form one large circle towards the end of practice. Once the beat started, the older kids beckoned us to randomly jump in the circle and freestyle to a song I had never heard before. The music in question was Aerosol Can by Major Lazer and Pharrell Williams. It was mandatory, but I felt they wanted to see who would take the bait to assess who could handle the spotlight. My body swayed to the sound of the drums while I watched several older dancers try to encourage someone new to jump in. Some girl beside me shoved her friend in the circle; our cheers were cut short when she quickly ran back to her spot. In all the commotion, my feet lunged my body out into the abyss. I am sure my eyes were closed for the first thirty seconds because of how quickly my heart was beating in my chest. A couple of eyes turned my way. They glanced about to see who had pushed me in. My chest dipped out and in as I began to get comfortable with the music. Whoops, and squeals erupted as I continued this impromptu freestyle that probably seemed better in my head than in actuality. Three people joined me in the circle, and we broke into a fake B-boy routine. That night, I walked back to my dorm after rehearsal with Aerosol Can thumping in my headphones. That Statistics class I sometimes fell asleep in resulted from me spending a hefty amount of the night catching up on homework and studying. A combination of work right after classes and straight into dance rehearsals had begun to wear me down. I could not afford to pick up fewer hours, but I also needed dance as my mental escape from everything. One evening at around 1 am, I was one page into a seven-page paper due the next day, and I could barely keep my eyes open. I took, what was probably my fifth break, and walked down to the first floor to refill my water bottle. Someone had left the tv on in our lounge, and I heard a song in an Apple commercial that made me pause. A rich voice that diffused into piano scale techno is the only way the song can be described. I neglected the primary mission and decided to find that song. After fifteen minutes of standing in that exact spot, I found it. The auditory Adderal that powered me through that essay, also known as, Till It's Over by Anderson Paak, solidified a spot in my playlist that night. I made it through midterms and finals by God's grace and slight Redbull addiction, which called for a celebration. The beauty of the city is that there's always something to do and memory to create. We spent the train ride discussing the empire of Pitbull and how all his songs make little sense but at the same time make a lot of sense. Without hesitation, we started breaking down the lyrics of Give Me Everything by Pitbull. We must have been performing a little too loudly because the older woman in the seat across asked us if we were in a band. The night landed us in a karaoke lounge after stuffing our faces with tacos. One of my friends'' typed in a song on the screen, and once the music began to swell in that dimly lit, slightly musty room, I could not help but smile. What followed was a full-out, standing ovation-worthy performance of We Are Young by fun. No, none of us were actual singers. But, yes, It was a fantastic performance. I have a playlist called Snapshots that contain all these songs. Each song is tethered to a part of my college experience, whether it was good or bad.