I was always the good kid. I got good grades, volunteered in my community, was well liked by friends and teachers alike. I was smart, talented, and a high achiever. I had it all, my future was bright. It's a pretty picture, right? A good kid does good things, gets good grades, goes to a good college, gets a good job, leads a good life. It's all so good. Yeah. I was a good kid, but I was a great actor. Anxiety has always been part of my life, but for a really long time, it was also a shameful secret. Throughout my life, it manifested in different ways, from inability to focus, to compulsive praying, to washing my hands until they cracked and bled. I was miserable, but I kept good grades and high test scores, so no one was the wiser. I was able to keep up this act even when anxiety's best friend depression came along. In fact, I was so good at this act that I had even fooled myself. I thought that as long as I could keep doing well, keep performing, keep achieving, and most importantly, keep doing everything by myself, one day I would feel normal, whatever normal meant. My entire act crumbled when the pandemic hit. The structure and routine that had allowed me to maintain my high performance had been ripped away in an instant. Online school was fine for the 10 weeks at the end of eighth grade, but the transition to high school could not have been worse. The isolation from my peers, the constant onslaught of new and ever-changing information, and the uncertainty of those unprecedented times - I would give anything to never again hear the word "unprecedented" - dramatically exacerbated my struggles with depression and anxiety, rendering them impossible to hide. I lost contact with my friends, stopped doing homework, couldn't muster up the motivation to get out of bed. I was failing all my classes at one point. Not failing in the high achiever way, in which a B is devastating and world-ending. Actually failing. I had a 10% in my AP World History class. I have very few memories from that time in my life, though it was only three years ago. My most vivid memory, however, is of standing in my mom's home office, staring at my grades, nodding along to my parent's angry lecture. I was ruining my chances at a good college, a good job, a good future, they told me. I needed to get my act together. The therapist I started seeing in the midst of all the chaos was the first person to show me how normal my struggles actually were. She was my lifeline, my decision to seek help a turning point. Life isn't a play, I am not a performer, the act is not necessary. I'm still a good kid, still a high achiever. But I am also a human being, with human emotions and human struggles. And I'm okay with that. It only takes one safe, kind adult to make a huge difference in the life of a young person. And in being open about my struggles, during college and into my career, I hope to normalize them, and to be that safe adult for someone else.

I’m the only brown person in this room. I’ve adopted this keen awareness of my surroundings. I’m proud of my heritage, but as one of only a handful of students of color, and one among even fewer students of color in upper-level classes, it has certainly presented some challenges. Located in a northern Colorado suburb, my high school is mostly white, but it has a significant population of minority students. In Advanced Placement, concurrent enrollment, and honors classes, however, there are very few of us. Three Latino students and three Asian students attend my college-level Spanish course, myself included. Four students of color attend my honors English course, myself included. Three Asian students attend my AP psychology class, myself included. In my gifted and talented seminar class, there is just one person of color, me. While I may not have many peers from my background, at least I have a seat a the table. Upper-level classes are not accessible to many students. I’m very lucky to have two hardworking parents who are willing to support all of my academic needs. I have great relationships with my teachers and peers. I have the option to pay for expensive test fees or spend hours every night studying or doing homework rather than working to support my family. These privileges are not available to everyone. I’ve spent most of my academic career surrounded by the same people or at the least the same demographic of people. White, middle to upper class, able-bodied students, with English as their first, often only, language. There is a pervasive culture of academic elitism. It feels like I always have to prove myself, that I belong in the rooms and spaces I find myself in. How much more difficult is it for people who don’t have the academic and familial foundation and privileges that I do? Academic elitism is part of the systemic oppression built into American society. Luckily, my generation is focused on changing that system. By partnering with Colorado State University and the Center for Public Deliberation, a group of students known as Student Equity Advocates dedicated to creating a culture of inclusivity has spent the past few months hosting conversations with students of diverse backgrounds. Our goal is to collect data on school culture, student safety, peer-to-peer and student-to-teacher relationships, and the overall well-being of the student body by hosting meaningful conversations with students. I am proud to be a Student Equity Advocate, because the work we do creates equity for BIPOC students, students from the LGBTQ+ community, students of different economic backgrounds, students with disabilities, and many more from historically underrepresented and excluded communities. In the spring of 2022, we will present this data to policymakers at the school and district levels. In the past, it would have been incredibly difficult, if not impossible, to gain an audience with powerful adults. But now we have real stories from real students, and our collective voice will help create real solutions. No one is voiceless, but not everyone’s voice is heard. Allyship is about passing the microphone to those who have been overlooked and ignored. This project has affected me in many ways. In holding those in power accountable, I’ve had the opportunity to examine my own behavior and thought processes, and to learn from my peers in ways that students don’t often have the chance to experience. Allyship is a journey. I will use my new skills in deliberation, facilitating conversations, and creating inclusive spaces for the rest of my life, and in doing so, help build an inclusive, diverse, equitable future for everyone.