One summer afternoon, when I was around five, I remember my father taking his shotgun out from the mudroom wardrobe, tugging me outside along with him. I remember his look of concentration as he held the shotgun up to his shoulder, the side of his face against the gun. And I remember the force of the blast as he fired and the tiny screech that sounded after. He had shot a groundhog, and the expression of pure nothing he wore afterward scared me. He tugged me along once more, forcing me to carry a full-sized shovel in my tiny hands, and I remember trying my very hardest to hold it above the ground so it wouldn’t drag against the dried dirt. I had to focus on something. When we finally approached the groundhog, it was twitching uncontrollably in a pool of its own blood, tiny agonized squeals erupting from its body. My father then instructed me to put the groundhog into the shovel. I protested, saying it was still alive. In response, he forced me to watch as he stomped it to death. I still remember the sounds of the bones crunching, of the groundhog's final breath. How the innocent animal’s twitches had stilled, and how my father's brown boots were now bloodstained. I put the groundhog in my shovel without any protests afterward. My father then instructed me to follow him. I did. We walked past our house, down a small trail on our property. We came to a stop, my father standing in front of me. He then grabbed the shovel out of my tiny hands and threw the groundhog into a pit. I was crying at this point, and although I tried to hide it, the grass I was staring at started becoming a burry mass of green. My father noticed, and he told me to look at the pit. Out of fear, I followed his orders. The pit was filled with the dead bodies of dozens of animals, some just bones by this point and some half dead and rotting. He kneeled down to my level, staring into my tear-stained eyes, and grabbed the sides of my face, hard. He said, I remember vividly, “If you don’t listen to me, this is where I’ll put you.” The fear I felt was unimaginable. My body felt like stone, and yet I remember somehow running away from him. After that, the day is a blur - like much of my childhood. My story is just one of many neglected and abused children’s stories. It is not unique. I am not unique. But I have stopped running. Instead, I’m sprinting toward my future - my goals, my dreams, and my happiness. For the longest time, I believed my life would amount to nothing and that the world was a bleak and terrifying place. I never realized that being outside the darkness of my past was possible - not until I came to college and started studying for my bachelor's degree in Psychology. My childhood gave me deep insight into many different mental health issues. My fathers, my mothers, and then my own. If I had not experienced the things I had, I doubt I would hold such a deep sense of justice and have such strong empathy. I would not believe in myself as much as I do, and I would not be so incredibly interested and enthralled with Psychology as I am. My childhood and my own mental health struggles, whether it’s dealing with my PTSD, depression, or anxiety, has shaped who I am. And it has influenced my goals deeply. If I had not witnessed my parents’ struggles and gone through my own mental health struggles, I doubt I would want to help heal other people’s anguish so much. I want to let others know that they are not alone, that their emotions and feelings and fear are heard and listened to. And what better way to help heal others' mental anguish than by aiming to be a Psychiatrist? My understanding of the world when I was a child was that it was cold, uncaring, and dark. But as an adult, I realize life is full of light if we choose to be the light that shines in the darkness. So, every day, I choose to make my life bright. And hopefully, I shine that brightness onto others. I have volunteered at my campus warm-line, Agora, and I currently volunteer at a local healthcare clinic, Simply Salud. Both of these incredible experiences have made me realize I truly love Psychology and medicine and have re-solidified my goal of becoming a Psychiatrist one day. I'm also involved in my campus’s Residence Hall Association and National Residence Hall Honorary, where I volunteer and try to make my campus a better place for all students through campus events, campus clean-ups, and more. I try every day to make our world a better place, where kids like me can become something. I have found wonderful, supportive friends here on my campus, whom I hope to know 50 years from now. I feel happy, something my five-year-old self would never have even hoped to imagine. And I feel lucky. Lucky to be at college, to be studying what I love, and to be helping people. So, to all the people like five-year-old me who felt as though their trauma will never end, that life is better off without them, and that they don’t matter: your trauma will end, life is better with you in it, and you do matter. Depression may come and go, and trauma may stick with you. But life is bright and wonderful and so full of amazing things. Five minutes from now, maybe a friend will call you to tell you about their day, maybe your cat will meow, or maybe the sun will rise. Maybe none of that will happen - maybe all of it will. Our lives are uncertain, but in uncertainty, flowers can bloom.

The first time I realized just how deeply my depression affected others was when I was laying in a hospital bed. I remember watching as my mother broke down, sobbing uncontrollably at my side. I remember the way she looked at me, the way her eyes were so heavy. And I'll never forget the cracks in her normally solid voice as she said she loved me. I realized then that I had almost taken my mother's daughter from her. I had almost ripped the heart of the person that had raised me in half, and that she would have never recovered. It broke me, even if I was already broken. The second time I realized just how much I had influenced the people around me with my mental illness was when my older brother was diagnosed with cancer. It was the first time I had to put my feelings aside, really, truly aside, and care for someone else. Over the months that he received treatment, I witnessed his own mental health struggles. I witnessed him express his sorrow, his depression, his anger, and his fear. I witnessed him cry and scream. I was like my mother, when she had been sobbing and holding my hands as I laid in the hospital bed. Except now, I was the one sobbing, alongside my mother, holding my brother’s hands as he laid in the hospital bed. It was because of my mother and my brother that I vowed to myself that I would stay in this world. I knew that the broken part of me would never leave, and it still hasn't, but I vowed to myself that I would do something. Something other than allow my depression to win. It was my own broken part, the part of me that led me to attempt to end my own life, that has led me to love people with a sort of kindness I don't think many people are capable of, or that many people can even comprehend. That same broken part allowed me to care for my brother when he was going through his own time of grief and fear, and it showed me that I don’t want others to feel the things I feel. It has led me down the path of medicine because I want to try to help heal the broken parts of others because I know how much it hurts. The part of me that is broken has made me a better human being. Because even if living while broken is difficult, and some days, basically impossible, it allows me to see the light in what other people may label darkness. And maybe, I'm not really broken at all. Just different. I would not have such a passion for medicine and psychology if I had not first experienced my own depression, and then second, saw someone else experience depression and grief in such a horrific way. If I had not witnessed healthcare professionals care for my brother, I doubt I would want to become one so desperately. I do not just want to help myself, or others like me, but I want to help all the brothers and sisters and daughters and sons and children and parents in the world. I want them all to know that even if it is not ok, they are loved. They are seen. They are heard. That I see them, and hear them, and love them. And that even if it is not ok, that maybe I can help it be a tiny, little bit less painful.