Mental health has always been personal for me. Growing up, I saw how it quietly shaped myself and the people around me - friends struggling with anxiety, family members dealing with depression - and I realized how invisible but powerful these struggles can be. Even I saw it in myself later on in my life. Experiencing that made me want to understand mental health in a real, human way, not just from a textbook. Because of that, I've learned that empathy and being present matter more than anything. When someone is struggling, they don't always need advice; they need to feel heard. That's how I try to show up for my friends and family: checking in, listening without judgment, and encouraging people to reach out for help when they need it. Those small actions have taught me how relationships thrive when mental health is valued and talked about openly. This is also why I want to pursue a career in psychology and counseling. I want to be someone who creates space where people feel safe sharing their struggles, someone who helps them feel seen, understood, and empowered. I want to help break the stigma around mental health, not just for the people I work with, but for families and communities, so support feels like a normal, necessary part of life, not something people have to hide or feel ashamed of. One thing I've realized is that mental health touches everything. Helping someone work through their struggles can change their relationships, school, work, and overall life. Knowing that pushes me to want to make a real impact, not just treating symptoms, but helping people feel stronger and supported in all areas of their lives. Receiving the Autumn Davis Memorial Scholarship would mean more than financial support. IT would be a reminder that the work I want to do matters; that investing in mental health can actually change lives. It would let me keep learning and growing as someone who can make a difference in the lives of others. Mental health has shaped the way I think, the way I connect with people, and what I want to do with my life. It taught me patience, empathy, and the importance of being there for others and myself. I hope to carry those lessons into my career, helping people feel heard and supported, and leaving a positive impact - one person, one conversation at a time.

I'll never forget the first time I felt like softball was more than just a game. I was nine, standing at the plate in a club league game for one of the first times, heart pounding, hands sweaty, trying not to freeze. When I swung and felt the crack of the bat hit the ball, everything else disappeared. I was running to first base, adrenaline rushing, and I knew I needed this. Softball became my place to challenge myself, to push through fear and frustration, and to find my own strength. Over the years, it's taught me lessons that reach far beyond the field. I've learned that being a teammate isn't about being the loudest or the fastest; it's about noticing when someone needs a quiet word of encouragement, celebrating the little wins, and showing up when things get hard. Those lessons shaped who I am off the field, too. I try to carry that energy everywhere - lifting people, cheering them on, and reminding myself that we're all in this together. After playing on 4 different teams over the years, I play for Phoenix Fastpitch 18U, and it's been a wild, amazing journey. I've spent countless hours practicing swings, refining my pitching, and learning to read the game, but what matters most isn't the stats; it's the bonds I've built and the moments we've shared. There's nothing like encouraging a teammate to hit her first home run or picking each other up after a rough inning. Those are the things that stick with you. Recently, I was accepted to Lawrence University, where I'll be working to get my degree in psychology, and the coach offered me a spot on the team. That feels like a dream coming true, but it also feels like responsibility - to keep pushing myself, to lift my teammates, and to honor every hour I've poured into this sport. I hope to grow there, not just as a player but as someone who helps others find their love for the game, just like I did. Reading about Bre Hoy hit me in a way I can't really explain. Her energy, her fire, her way of lifting everyone around her; those are the things I want to bring to the field every day. I hope to inspire my teammates, work hard, and leave a mark on my team, just like she did. Receiving this scholarship wouldn't just support my future in softball; it would honor someone who made every moment count and remind us all why we play. Softball has shaped who I am and who I want to be. It's taught me resilience, patience, and the joy of celebrating the small victories along the way. I want to keep carrying that forward, leaving a positive mark on every team I'm part of, and playing every game like it matters - not just for me, but for the people around me.

In eighth grade, my friend Loki died by suicide. I remember the English classroom as if it were yesterday: the words from the teacher slid past me at first, impossible to process, and then they all hit me at once. I stood up abruptly, snot covering the lower half of my face, and left the room without a word. I ended up in the yellow girls' bathroom, screaming until my throat burned. A teacher eventually found me and took me to a "support room," where I was seated in front of a priest. He wanted me to talk, to pray, to accept it. I couldn't. I didn't need words; I needed Loki. Later, I found out his parents had left a loaded revolver on the living room table. That detail still feels like a punch in the gut. How fragile life can be, how quickly something preventable intersects with pain, and suddenly a person I loved is gone. I felt furious, helpless, hollow all at once, guilty. If something so small had been different, they would still be here. Grief doesn't come in a straight line. Heartbreak, confusion, guilt, anger - they all hit together, and none of it makes sense. I kept replaying memories, trying to find the signs I had missed. The words I could have said. I thought about how they laughed in the hallway with me, how alive they seemed, and I couldn't reconcile that with the silence they left behind. It was the first time I realized how invisible pain can be - that someone can carry so much, and the world never sees it. Loki's death changed the way I see everything. I began noticing the cracks in people's armor, the faces that smile while their hearts hurt, the friends who say they're fine but are really not. I learned to ask questions that mattered, to sit in silence when words failed, to offer presence instead of empty reassurance. I learned that showing up matters even when it feels small. It also forced me to confront my own mental health. I carried anger, sorrow, and the terrifying thought that maybe I could disappear just as suddenly. Some days I still do. But through family, music, and the people I trust enough to be honest with, I've found fragile lifelines. They don't erase the pain, but they make it possible to keep going, to carry the grief instead of being crushed by it. Survival itself becomes its own kind of courage. Years later, I carry Loki with me. Their death is not a memory - I feel it in my chest, my bones, my thoughts. It shapes the way I want to live and the way I want to help others. I want to become a therapist, not because I have answers, but because I know what it feels like to sit in the questions, to feel lost, and to wish someone understood. I want to remind them their life matters even when they can't see it. This scholarship honors Elijah, a non-binary student who lost their life to suicide. Their story, like Loki's, is heartbreaking. Perserverance isn't about pretending grief disappears-it's about carrying it forward, letting it shape you, and choosing to turn that weight into something that might save someone else. Loki's life mattered. Elijah's life mattered. And if I can help even one person feel seen, heard, and alive, their deaths will have changed the world.

For most of my life, I thought the only way to deal with pain was to keep it to myself. I figured if I stayed quiet about what I was going through, it would go away on its own. Spoiler: it didn't. The more I pushed my feelings down, the heavier they got until I couldn't ignore them anymore. My mental health has been messy, uncomfortable, and exhausting, but it's also shaped me into the person I am and who I'm becoming. Some of my struggles came from relationships where I felt overlooked or disrespected, like I didn't matter as much as they did. Other times it was pressure I put on myself - to be good enough, to meet impossible expectations, to always "handle it." I ran myself into the ground and called it strength. Burnout hit me hard. There were days I wanted to disappear, not because I didn't care about living, but because I didn't know how to keep living with the weight of everything on my chest. For a long time, I believed that admitting I was struggling would make me weak. But it wasn't just that, I also felt like if I said I was hurting, I was somehow invalidating other people who were struggling too. Like my pain wasn't "serious enough" to take up space. I told myself I didn't deserve to complain when others might have it worse. That mindset kept me silent. And silence doesn't make the pain go away; it makes it grow. It turns into shame. And shame is the thing that makes people feel trapped. Slowly, I've been unlearning that. I've realized mental health isn't something to hide, and it definitely isn't a competition. Everyone's struggles are valid. Everyone deserves to be heard. And the more open we are about it, the less power stigma has. My journey has changed how I show up in relationships - all of them. I used to let people treat me however they wanted, even if it left me feeling small. Now I know that boundaries aren't selfish - they're survival. I've had to walk away from people who didn't value me, and even though it hurt sometimes, it taught me that my peace matters just as much as others. At the same time, I've become more intentional with how I care for people I love. If a friend seems off, I check in. If someone opens up, I listen instead of trying to "fix" them. Real connection comes from honesty, not pretending everything's fine. These experiences are also why I want to become a therapist. It's not just a career choice, it's personal. I know how hard it is to feel alone with your thoughts, to feel like no one gets it. I want to be the kind of therapist who meets people where they are, who says, "You don't have to minimize your pain. You don't have to go through this alone." Going through my own struggles has also changed how I see the world. I used to think people were either strong or weak, happy or sad, okay or broken. But life isn't that simple. The strongest people I know are the ones who admit they're struggling and keep going. The most compassionate people are the ones who've had to fight their own battles. That realization has made me more empathetic, more careful with my words, and more aware that everyone carries something we can't always see. I won't pretend I've figured it all out. I still have hard days where the weight feels like too much. But I keep moving forward because I believe my story has value. I believe that speaking up, even when it feels uncomfortable, can make someone feel less alone. That's why this scholarship means so much to me. Ethel Haye's story is heartbreaking, but it also shows why destigmatizing mental health matters. Struggles like these don't just affect one person; they affect families, friends, and entire communities. When we stay silent, stigma grows. But when we speak, we create a connection, and that's where healing starts. My mental health journey has shown me that my purpose isn't to pretend I'm fine or keep everything inside. My purpose is to use what I've been through to create something better, for myself, for the people I love, and for the people I haven't even met yet. I want to be that voice in someone's life that says, "You matter. Your story matters. And you don't have to carry it all alone."

Mental health has shaped my life in ways I never expected. My struggles with depression and CPTSD didn't feel like a storm or breakdown; they felt like nothingness. For a long time, I was just empty, like a husk of myself. I went through the motions of school and daily life, but I was so shut down that I couldn't even remember whole days. I was a dissociative mess, existing without really living. At the time, I didn't even realize I needed help. It took someone else noticing; my eighth-grade history teacher called my mom, worried I might commit suicide. At first, I was just mildly surprised, but my mom sat me down. She cried as she told me how scared she was of losing me and asked me to get help. Hearing her voice crack and seeing how much pain she was in broke through the numbness in a way nothing else could. That conversation wasn't dramatic or full of begging, but it was raw and real—and it made me realize this wasn't just about me. It was about the people who loved me, too. That's when we started looking for a therapist. Therapy wasn't easy, and it wasn't instant, but it forced me to have a place where I could finally be honest. Slowly, I started putting the pieces of myself back together. I began to feel, instead of numb, remember instead of dissociate, and let people back in instead of pushing them away. It wasn't until about three years later that I started anxiety medication. By then, I had built trust with my therapist and had done a lot of healing, but there was still a wall I couldn't climb over. My mind was constantly racing, my chest always tight, and even on good days, I felt like I was bracing for disaster. When I finally started medication, it didn't make everything perfect, but it made the noise quieter. For the first time since my best friend committed suicide, I could breathe without feeling like the world was closing in on me. I may need medication for the rest of my life, and that used to scare me. Now, I see it as a lifeline instead of a weakness to be ashamed of. It gives me the chance to live fully instead of just surviving. That's why Cade's story resonates deeply with me. Like him, I want to turn my struggles into something meaningful. I know how easy it is to want to escape when your own mind feels unbearable, and I understand how dangerous that desperation can be. My goal is to become a therapist specializing in working with teens and young adults who are dealing with depression, trauma, and substance use. What I've been through has given me compassion, resilience, and determination - not bitterness, but purpose. Pursuing psychology feels like the most honest next step in my life, the way I can turn pain into light for someone else. If given this opportunity, I will carry Cade's legacy forward by being that light. I want to help others reclaim themselves piece by piece, just like I did, and remind them that life, even when it feels unbearable, is still worth holding onto.