When I was 7, I immigrated with my father from Egypt to the United States. Our destination was Carmel, NY, a small town where over 90 percent of the population was White, and less than 1 percent were immigrants. My father, wanting me to acculturate to the city stopped speaking Arabic to me, and told me not to speak of Egypt or my culture at school. I was confused because I was proud to come from a country filled with life and history, however, he realized sooner than I did that was not how people may view me. Very quickly, I found myself living a double life, and despite trying to fit in, my classmates and teachers consistently reminded me that I was different. After a few years, I gave up and stayed to myself; while I did not have friends at school, at least I had my family and told myself that was more than enough. The truth is, while my dad was enough and provided an endless amount of support, I always felt like he did not understand because he never went to school in the U.S. and understood how mean children could be. However, as cliche as it could be I found solitude in school. While there were endless things at school, I could not control, at least I could control how well I did. While my father had goals for me, I enjoyed the challenge as it was also an opportunity to ahow my classmates and teachers that I was intelligent creative, and that the labels they tried to place on me were false. School allowed me to control the narrative, and that helped my mental health more than anything. For high school, I moved to a more diverse community and I realized that what I experienced for the first decade I was in the United States should not be normalized, and I would try to do what I could to decrease the hate, racism, and isolation that minoritized students feel. I currently work full-time at a nonprofit in Albany, NY that works to provide services to those struggling with addiction and mental health struggles. I coordinate our two scholarship and intern programs that allow those with lived experience to get a credential in mental health and substance use advocacy for free so they can support others who were previously struggling with the same things they were. In addition, I am a full time college student who is obtaining a degree in child and adolescent development, and I hope to obtain my doctorate in psychology. I could only think about how different my school experience could have been if I had a support system at school, and I want to be that support system for children. In addition, I will continue to advocate for immigrants because the truth is, everyone except native Americans is an immigrant of the U.S.

At the age of seven, I immigrated with my father from Egypt to the United States. Our destination was Carmel, NY, a small town where the SWANA (Southwest Asian and North African) population was less than 1 percent at the time—and remains so today. Arriving in this predominantly homogeneous community, I felt like a sunflower in a cornfield. My uniqueness stood out starkly against the backdrop of my new environment. As a child, I strived to find common ground with my peers, hoping to bridge the gap created by our differences. However, despite my best efforts, these differences were often highlighted in unsettling and isolating ways. I encountered unfounded rumors and misconceptions not just about me but about my country, my heritage, and my ethnicity. These rumors, devoid of any factual basis, painted a distorted picture that was deeply disheartening. The burden of representing an entire MENA (Middle Eastern and North African) population weighed heavily on my young shoulders. Whenever I strived to conform or to act “appropriately,” I was met with the peculiar comment, “You’re a good one,” implying that I was an exception to a negative stereotype applied to others. It became clear that this sentiment was less about me and more about the faulty narratives perpetuated by the broader community, often echoed by their parents. The prevailing stereotypes that cast MENA individuals as terrorists, thieves, or societal misfits have only partially waned over the years. While progress has been made, significant work is still required to dismantle these damaging narratives. The portrayal of MENA heritage as inherently negative remains a challenge that continues to affect perceptions and interactions. The historical context of this prejudice is rooted in the legacy of imperialism and colonization. Many SWANA countries have been subjected to centuries of foreign intervention that have contributed to their current economic and political struggles. These nations often grapple with poverty, financial instability, and high levels of corruption—issues exacerbated by ongoing Western influence that subtly ensures these countries remain dependent and underdeveloped. The systemic impact of such historical exploitation contributes to a misleading perception that these nations are incapable of stability or prosperity. The lack of accurate representation and understanding of SWANA countries further entrenches the prevailing false narratives. If the true history of these nations were taught more comprehensively and if the voices of individuals from these regions and their diasporas were not only heard but actively highlighted, the dominance of Western narratives would be challenged. By elevating these authentic voices, we can unravel the misconceptions and biases that persist. Furthermore, a more inclusive and accurate portrayal of SWANA history and culture could foster a greater appreciation for these nations' rich heritage and contributions. This shift in understanding has the potential to weaken the control exerted by dominant Western narratives and support the rebuilding efforts of SWANA countries. By promoting a more nuanced and respectful dialogue, we can work towards altering the negative stereotypes and enabling these nations to reclaim their narrative and achieve a more equitable global standing. Ultimately, the journey from feeling like an outlier to advocating for a more informed and empathetic perspective requires collective effort and perseverance. Through education, representation, and dialogue, we can challenge and transform the prevailing narratives, paving the way for a more just and accurate understanding of SWANA cultures and histories.

Currently, over 4 million people are living with traumatic brain injuries (TBIs), and the long-term effects can range from persistent headaches to serious mental health challenges. Seventeen years ago, I wouldn't have given much thought to the impact of a TBI. However, everything changed when my dad, who was both my primary caretaker and my guiding light, suffered a severe car accident. This accident not only altered the trajectory of his life but also fundamentally changed mine. My dad was a remarkable person. He had an innate ability to brighten any room he entered, making everyone feel at home, no matter how far they were from theirs. His presence was like the sun—warm, welcoming, and irreplaceable. But all of this changed drastically after his accident in 2007. Although he physically recovered after three months of intense rehabilitation, the emotional toll was far more profound. People often think of TBIs in terms of their physical impact, but the emotional and psychological consequences can be even more severe. My dad transformed from someone I confided in and shared everything with into a stranger I struggled to understand. His doctors reassured him that these changes were part of the healing process and that his brain simply needed time to recover. Yet, as time went on, the more he seemed unlike the person he once was. This emotional shift had a ripple effect on my own life, leading to my entry into the foster care system. Seven years later, when I aged out of the system, I was left grappling with a profound sense of loss, confusion, sadness, and guilt. A therapist once asked me if I harbored any anger toward my dad, and without hesitation, I answered "No." The therapist seemed surprised, and anticipating the follow-up question, I elaborated, "Because it wasn’t his fault. When he reported his behavioral changes to his doctor, he was told it was a normal part of the healing process. At that time, mental health issues were stigmatized, and therapy was often seen as a sign of weakness. My dad believed that seeking help would reflect poorly on him especially being a first generation immigrant" Today, I am encouraged by the growing acceptance of mental health discussions, but I yearn for a future where talking about mental health is not only normalized but seen as a sign of strength and respect. We must continue to challenge the stigma and create an environment where seeking help is encouraged, not discouraged especially with the immigrant population. I am currently enrolled at the University of Minnesota's Master's in Developmental Psychology Program. Through this program, I am aspire to continue studying the impacts of psychopathology-what the impacts of abnormal development are, and how we as a society can assist those individuals in the most effective and healing way possible. Thank you for your time and consideration.