I grew up as an unsolved case. In kindergarten, my mother was burdened with washing the same outfit each night because I refused to wear anything else besides Little Mermaid underwear, a grey skirt, and a light pink t-shirt. In elementary school, I would cry if the lights were on the wrong brightness setting. I began to learn about my religion and refused to sleep in the belief that I would be captured by Nazis in the middle of the night. When I was ten, I started to see a therapist. We tried all the anxiety strategies; I took probably a thousand deep breaths. It didn’t help me at all. I continued through middle school with my “anxiety” getting progressively worse. I became malnourished from the lack of food, convinced that anything I ate would poison me. I saw about ten specialists for diseases I thought I had and didn’t. I couldn't escape my anxious thoughts, leading me to engage in self-harm and being chauffeured by ambulances to the hospital a handful of times, because I was so panicked over something like a lamp being on that I couldn’t function properly. Eventually, I graduated from the ER and was admitted into a psychiatric facility. There, I was re-diagnosed with anxiety. I refused medication, also convinced it would poison me. For the duration of my stay, I kept my head down, participated in group, and did everything I could to get out. When I got home, I was overdue for a neuropsychological evaluation. I was tested for almost everything. I will admit, I had a surprisingly fun time taking the cognitive tests, and I didn’t want to leave when it was over. A few weeks later, I was still pretty unsolved, labeled with anxiety, oppositional defiance disorder, and an adjustment disorder. I continued with therapy, which was still of no benefit, and reluctantly agreed to start taking medication. I was dealing with the same, if not exacerbated, challenges, but one difference emerged: I was able to articulate my feelings more clearly as I grew older. After nearly eight years of therapy and misdiagnosis, I finally found out that I have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, ironically, the one disorder I wasn’t tested for in my neuropsych. With this diagnosis, my entire treatment plan changed to a focus on Exposure and Response Prevention therapy, and my medication plan was also adjusted. While my case may never be completely "fixed," it was solved. Now, I am progressively improving each day and making substantial progress in healing. My journey taught me that a wrong diagnosis can be as devastating as no diagnosis at all. It cost me years of my life, my health, and my peace of mind. It’s why my deepest career goal is to become a psychiatrist. I want to work relentlessly to ensure that every person receives support until the root of their behavior is accurately discovered and addressed. I will be the clinician who listens past the symptoms, ensuring no one else spends years labeled an "unsolved case" due to diagnostic blind spots. I aspire to one day open my own mental health practice, and create a team of clinicians that can work each day to diagnose, treat, and heal with an expansive variety of strategies, ensuring that every patient that walks through is cared for to the best of my ability.