We deserve to die with dignity. That is the value I’ve recognized as a deep driving force in my professional and personal future. As a trans, disabled person of color, I have had many experiences where my identity has either been the very thing that saves me, or the thing that could drive me over the edge in the past. Some communities embrace you completely, while others pick you apart, question you, and criticize you. Are you doing it for attention? Do you need to be saved? Why are you doing this to yourself? So much judgment that blinds people from seeing that each time I am honest about my struggles with mental health and suicide, each time I come out, each time I share a piece of my story, I am doing this for myself. I feel many of these moments go hand in hand, as I’ve had to face my identity in more ways than one, peeling back a layer each time and moving towards self-acceptance in a world that denies me that sense of belonging; A world where I’ve had to think: “If I died today, would I be buried in the right clothes, with the right name? Who would be there to show others how I want to be remembered? Do we even get the gift of dignity in death?” After realizing that I didn’t plan to die tomorrow, the thought has still stuck with me in the sense of considering how I will be remembered in the future. So even though death is still on my mind, now it has taken a different shape. It drives me to be my full self and keep going for myself, so every corner of my world knows who I am and what I want to be remembered for. This has helped me step forward in my personal life and professionally as well. This, and all of the others who deserve to be remembered with dignity, has inspired me to pursue a career in criminal justice and push for more inclusive crime data, especially for those who are often marginalized and filed away. We’ve often been taught to shrink ourselves and obey others’ orders and expectations, never taking time to make room for ourselves. I want to encourage others to do the same for themselves, take up space, and be their own voice when they are not being heard.

I want to establish more disability advocacy services within my community, especially serving those with more intersectional identities, such as People of Color, people with physical disabilities or chronic illnesses, people living with neurodivergence, and more. I feel that with mental health services, we are currently being presented with programs that believe in a one-size-fits-all approach. Still, we need more commitment to helping and recognizing the whole individual and all their experiences. Once we start to look at mental health problems as a piece of the puzzle rather than the entire system, I feel that assistance can improve. Once we understand more than one kind of problem, doors to more considerate and inclusive solutions will open.

I support and am actively involved in crisis and peer support for marginalized groups. Living as a trans and disabled person of color, I understand that stigma isn’t just a mentality and action, it’s a forced presence in many lives. Accessing help and support for mental health and in general can cause many unfortunate labels to appear around you: “weak,” “broken,” and “too much” being some of the milder ones. Harsh judgment and isolation can be pushed upon people when they open up about their struggles, and they are left to feel unseen and rejected because of who they are and what they are facing. This is where crisis and peer support play a big role in creating villages to support everyone facing struggles, whether that’s connected to mental health, physical health, lack of access to resources, discrimination, or more. Building a community where you can acknowledge that you are not alone is important not just for survival but for thriving. This is important to me because with having access to mental health care and community support, I wouldn’t be here. I would have accepted that there seemed to be no space for me, no one to listen, and I would have caved to that deep feeling of loneliness. My found family, those who embraced me unconditionally and encouraged my seeking of support, saved my life. It taught me the strength of community, empathy, and advocacy. Without others who started supportive programs, there would be no voice to advocate for my right to support or any force to push against stigma. When I explain stigma, I like to see it as a silencer on a gun. The bullet being fired could be anything: a harsh insult, a misconception, a lack of understanding. Stigma silences all of these, it blocks out the impact of the bullet and leaves the people affected to feel invalidated. Many bullets could be fired and no one would turn in concern because stigma tells them that being targeted is the norm, and to keep living, you must survive and blend in, or else a silenced bullet might just come your way. If you don’t stand up, you’re at less risk of judgment, isolation, and ostracization. Advocacy rejects that ideal, that mold, and instead questions the model of the gun that fires the bullet. It asks why the gun was created in the first place, and questions its purpose in a society where others are more likely to be fired at than the rest. It makes noise when someone is fired at and harmed, and doesn’t turn away when someone is knocked down. It calls for the protection of those vulnerable groups and defends their right to thrive without being targeted. To reach out for support, get connected with resources, find your people, and know that you deserve this as a right. I want to keep making noise for myself and my community in a world full of silent bullets, and push against the impact of stigma.

I was ten years old, my hands brushing the itchy carpet of my new home, which I was forced into. My mom was right beside me, but if I'd been told I was moved to an entirely new dimension where no one knew my name, I’d have believed it. I turn to my mom, someone who has witnessed my joy, struggles, and experiences for a decade and I say “When I smile, I don't feel it in my eyes anymore”. That was the closest I got to describing the deep episodes of depression and anxiety. It was the closest I could get to explaining the alien feeling that rushed throughout me when I saw my body, heard my voice. Three years later, it only worsened— those deep lows began to be followed by exhilarating highs. My smiles beamed through my eyes, I completed all my homework, and I sped through the house I absolutely hate. What looked like success and motivation was my own personal tightrope. It was a given that one day, I wouldn't want to walk it anymore. So, one night, I decided to step off of it. I ended up in a partial hospitalization program. It was both the start of my journey of self-discovery, and the start of just how many masks I wore, how long my performance had gone on. A year later, at age 14, I had first heard of the labels ‘asexual’ and ‘non-binary’. At first, they were rigid shards of glass being thrown at the familiarity of my right rope. I could jump off, but was I ready to walk away this time and live instead? Living meant accepting that there was a chance, so I pushed myself into a grey area. I had to sit with those feelings, operate within an autopilot setting until I could settle on a solid path. Suddenly, I was 16 and completely split. Entertaining the chance of being myself, I gradually knitted a safety net at school, going by my preferred name, pronouns, and talking to friends about medically transitioning one day. As soon as the bell for the last course rang, I climbed back up on my tight rope, but each day, I could see my safety net growing along with my impatience. I saw the life I could live at school, with friends, in my room at 3 a.m. with my secret chest binder and mascara covering my upper lip to imitate a mustache. At some point, every day became exhausting. With the masks I was constantly ripped off my mask, my skin grew raw. I lost the depth of my smile, similar to back when I was 10, and felt so close to the edge, like at 13. Pushed and pushed across that line, I felt a breaking point, but when I had lost almost all of my hope, I graduated early. That was the end of my day's performance. The rest of my time has been spent meeting other people who have lost their smiles once, who have wanted to change into themselves, who wanted to drop off the tightrope with no safety net. After all these years in the grey area, being able to explore myself and my identity has turned my world technicolor. Those sharp labels now welcome me home, and new ones ask if they can come visit. I can now welcome it all, not with ease, but with patience, and sometimes, even with a genuine smile on my face.

Trading has been a part of humanity since the beginning of time. Whether it was knowledge, experience, or goods, there has always been value seen in something that could be used and lived in more. I've found this to be an especially strong concept in marginalized communities, where we have had to work with what we have and share what we can. Many people in the groups have been mistreated, misguided, and underestimated in terms of their ability to contribute to society, constantly questioned over whether they can prove their worth. In the future, I hope to establish a business and community platform for people with marginalized identities to offer fair barters with one another to continue this community value of trading. This would also be a space to nurture peer support, discussions that provide guidance and community, as well as to shine a light on those working hard in their craft. With the divisiveness present during these times of struggle, fear, and doubt, this space would be a reminder that there are still others who are ready to share, receive, and care about building a loving environment with you. By guiding other peer volunteers in ensuring that the space remains respectful and safe, I plan to shine my light by creating a self-sufficient community that can help one another and share their skills, services, goods, and support. This would not be a place of questioning, but a space to be embraced as you are. I am here today because people decided to give, whether it was a chance during a job interview, advice on how to explore my identity, or a different perspective when I felt hopeless, I feel I am a collection of everything people have decided to share with me. I know the strength of sharing and trading with one another because many times, my life has called for leaning on others and giving back once I was on my feet once again. My legacy would be felt in each wave that is created when someone chooses to give to others, and helps give their gift a new life when it is used again. Whether someone can receive or give help for a day, a week, a month, or a lifetime, I would love to know that it continues to make an impact in many lives and revive the culture of trading to further strengthen a community.

I would describe myself as a determined, creative and empathetic person who pushes to use connection as a form of healing and empowerment. Creative arts and higher education have been vital tools for me, not only for self expression and access to opportunity, but to build bridges with others, especially those living with mental health challenges, substance use recovery, and social marginalization. As someone living with a deeply intersectional identity within these areas, I understand the stigma and judgement faced daily through firsthand experiences. Those challenges have sparked my passion for peer support and advocacy work, placing the act of empathy and connection as the beginning of true service to others. As a certified peer recovery supporter, I connect with people in recovery daily—all from different walks of life who reach out for stability, belonging and care. My role involves active and reflective listening, motivational interviewing that highlights strengths, and offering support by applying my lived experiences. One memorable moment from this role has been when a person reached out for job help, later requesting help with their resume. I understand the anxiety that job access can cause as a person in recovery and being a part of marginalized communities. I offered feedback, focusing on how the could present this perspective with pride and authenticity. After this time, they later returned and shared that they were hired. Though this may have been a few minutes of resume feedback, the experience reminded me that the power of service and support can also be felt through these small acts of support. True services often occurs in the everyday exchanges and bonds built when others can feel heard, supported and believed in. The power of active empathy and consideration has helped me see how people can be uplifted when there is support that recognizes their worth and abilities to move toward opportunity. From this experience, I gained a deeper sense of confidence in my own supportive abilities and it showed the strength of flexibility and creativity in service work, allowing me to meet people where they are and adapt to their needs. I also saw that advocacy is much more than emotional support, but can also include help others access resources, such as employment and education. Everyone deserves the chance to find a role that fits them, rather than feeling forced to fit and conform into a role. This moment reaffirmed why I am dedicated to behavioral health care and peer recovery support. Each act of service, regardless of size or reach, gives strength to the power of compassion and inclusion. My goal is to continue breaking barriers for those who face stigma and judgement, helping create pathways for people to rediscover their strengths and opportunity for finding their own meaning of success. In helping others reclaim a sense of purpose and presence, I’ve found my own, and that has been a wonderful reward in providing supportive services to others.

“The arrogance of the able-bodied is staggering. Yes, maybe we'd like to be able to get places quickly, and carry things in both hands, but only because we have to keep up with the rest of you. We would rather be just like us, and have that be all right.” ― Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible This quote means the world to me. It means a different kind of world where people like me, with physical and mental disabilities, are truly welcomed instead of tolerated and ridiculed. I have spent years trying to reeducate those around me, trying to break the stigmas surrounding people with disabilities. I have been trying to say that it is this world that is disabled, it lacks the openness it preaches about. This quote is special because it completely denies the assumption that people with different needs, different builds, want to be the same. This world continues to tell us that we should want to be the same because they provide only one way to be happy and successful, even though there are so many ways to be human. This quote opens a space for an accepting version of humanity when looking at differences. I wholeheartedly rather be me than anyone else, regardless of the pain and struggle I go through. It's a part of me. It makes me my own kind of human.

Throughout my life, I've cared for many friends and family. One family member that comes to mind when I think about my academic goals is my mother. She's one of the strongest people I know. Even when I see her in her weakest moments of panic and anxiety, she shows perseverance and determination. She has taught me that even if I am tired and unmotivated, it will all be worth it if I truly care. My academic and career goals include becoming a social worker and assisting adolescent patients and their loved ones with their mental health. Comfort and health are two important factors in my life. I've struggled with health all my life. Whether it be mental, emotional, or physical. I have friends that deal with similar circumstances and we have learned to support each other. I would love to be a figure of comfort and support to those who seek help with mental health. Mental health is way more impactful than people think at first. It can affect every aspect of your life if you aren't careful. It's important to care for yourself. To check in on yourself so you can be at your best. Caring for my friends and family has inspired me to take mental health seriously. I want to be at my best, not only to succeed but to help others succeed. Success is subjective. I want to help each individual that seeks help from me, have their version of success. Whether that be getting out of bed or graduating high school. I don't just intend to pursue the major of social work. I intend to go as far as I possibly can with this knowledge. I intend on helping people put their puzzles together or even just find pieces. I intend to do whatever I can to help those in need of mental health care. I didn't hear about social work and it's broadness until I got my social worker due to mental health issues. I instantly was interested in helping others the way that my social worker helps me. I wanted to encourage and inspire people to have the want to reach their goals. I then started to become curious about every aspect of this work. It doesn't just start and end in an office. It has a wave-like effect on society. Words and teachings can carry so much weight. Words don't just disappear in a moment. They're carried, translated, and remembered. I want my words and actions to lift the weight of life off of those I help. I want to help them learn how to care for themselves and others. I want my words to be carried and remembered. To know that I could open new and brighter paths for people makes me so glad to have the opportunity to be educated. I hope that those who receive my help understand that they are truly worthy of going down those paths. I am not able to help everyone in the world in person, but I hope my words and actions are powerful enough to be carried after I'm gone. Even if it's just a sentence, I want to bring relief with my abilities.