Blue Jays are loud, stubborn birds. They show up whether you are ready for them or not, and they announce themselves to the whole forest. There is something about that presence that I have always connected with. The refusal to be ignored, the insistence on being heard. In a way, my life has felt similar. My life goal is to be a psychologist specializing in adolescent mental health. That goal came from years of trying to understand my own mind. Growing up, I struggled with Bipolar II Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. There were periods when everything became overwhelming enough that I needed hospitalization and extra support. From a young age, I began learning about psychology before I could even name it. I found myself constantly observing and questioning, trying to piece together why people behave the way they do (personality typology and the work of Carl Jung especially interested me), and why emotions can feel so intense and unpredictable. I was drawn to understanding how therapists help people make sense of traumatic experiences. I wanted to know how they sit with someone and help them understand themselves and what they've gone through instead of pushing them away. The more I learned, the more the storm started to feel less chaotic. I realized that mental health struggles can also become powerful sources of empathy and perspective. I started to channel my inner Blue Jay and began to fly without faltering. My struggles helped shape my purpose. I know what it feels like to sit on the other side of the conversation, to be the person trying to explain feelings that seem scary and unclear. I know what it is like to want someone to truly listen, not just respond. Because of that, I feel a strong calling to give back. I want to help others who might be navigating storms of their own, especially adolescents who are often experiencing these emotions for the first time without guidance. Outside of my personal journey, I have actively worked to build that same sense of voice and connection within my community. I serve as Vice President for my school's SADD chapter, where I help lead initiatives centered around mental health awareness, peer support, and safe decision-making. I created and led my personal project called “The Blue Jay Project”, with over 50 people attending. It was an interactive event teaching healthy ways of coping with negative emotions. I am also the president of my school’s Alliance Club, where I focus on creating an inclusive environment where every student feels seen and valued. These roles have taught me how to listen to a wide range of perspectives and how to advocate for others, even when their voices are not being heard. Creativity is another essential part of who I am. As Editor-in-Chief of my school’s literary magazine, Polaris, I help others express themselves through writing, often giving people a platform to share stories they may not feel comfortable saying out loud. I also participate in theater and recently performed as Gretchen Wieners in Mean Girls, an experience that strengthened my confidence and deepened my ability to understand and portray complex emotions. In my free time, I write poetry and songs, using creativity as a way to process emotions and connect with others on a deeper level. Through these qualities, I have already begun doing the work that I will continue in my future career. I want to be someone who not only understands the science behind mental health, but who also understands the human experience of it.

Relationships have always felt like tending to a garden I was never taught how to care for. I learned how to maintain it through trial and error. Through planting seeds in unfertile soil, overwatering when I thought more care would make something grow, and wondering why some things withered no matter how much attention I gave them. Throughout my life, relationships have played a defining role in my personal growth. I would enthusiastically consider myself a “people person.” Yet, in my earlier days, this was one of my flaws. I had often found myself drawn to people who are struggling deeply with their mental health. These connections are rarely simple. They are deep and meaningful in their commissary, but also unpredictable. Being close to individuals navigating their own struggles has required me to develop a heightened sense of empathy and awareness. I have learned how to listen closely. To notice sudden shifts in someone’s mood, and how to accommodate for that. However, just as in a garden, not everything grows simply because you care for it. There were times when I gave too much of myself, believing that if I just tried harder, I could help someone overcome their traumas. I overextended, enmeshed myself, and poured energy into relationships that were not rooted in stability. Over time, I realized that without care, relationships can do more harm than good. These experiences taught me one of the most important lessons I carry with me today; not everything is mine to fix, and everything healthy requires balance. These lessons are a large part of why I want to become a psychologist specializing in adolescent mental health. Psychology, at its core, is about building relationships that promote growth. A therapist does not force change or “fix” someone, but instead creates space where growth becomes possible. It is similar to tending a garden. You cannot control how quickly something grows, but you can provide the right environment. My personal experiences have given me a deeper understanding of what it means to struggle emotionally, both within myself and in my relationships with others. I know how overwhelming it can feel to figure out emotions that seem unpredictable, and how isolating it is when no one seems to understand. Because of this, I am driven to create spaces where individuals feel safe, supported, and heard. I want to help others develop the tools they need to grow in a way that is healthy and sustainable. Relationships will always play a central role in my life and career. Personally, I strive to build connections that are rooted in mutual respect. I want to move away from patterns of unhealthy behaviors and toward relationships that encourage growth. Professionally, I will rely on my ability to form meaningful connections with clients. If my life began as a garden I struggled to maintain, then my future is about learning how to tend it with intention. I now know how to help both myself and others grow without losing our roots.

“Hey Shea! How are you?” It didn’t matter how loud the hallway was, or if he was in a rush. Mr. Moniaci always said it like he meant it, his greeting always followed by a fist bump. Like I wasn't just a student passing by; I was a person who mattered. His classroom became something more than just a place where I learned AP United States History. Every 7th or 8th period, it was somewhere I could go when everything felt like too much. Where I could sit down and rant about whatever I wanted to, and I knew he would always listen. There was never judgment, never a sigh or a “not again, Shea.” Instead, I was always met with a smile and a safe space. What makes this kind of support so meaningful is that he showed up consistently. He made it clear, in small ways every day, that I didn’t have to go through things alone. When I opened up to him last year about where I was for 2 ½ months, I felt incredibly vulnerable. I wasn’t sure I was ready to say those words out loud. But he didn’t look at me differently. He didn’t treat me like I was fragile or broken for being in a mental hospital. He listened intently, and he took me seriously. He reminded me again and again that my struggles didn’t make me any less worthy – instead, they gave me strength. Outside of the classroom, he is the advisor of Students Against Destructive Decisions (SADD), where I am Vice President. Through that role, I’ve had the privilege of developing a personal project focused on promoting healthy coping skills. Mr. Moniaci has thoroughly supported me every step of the way, from helping me plan and organize my ideas to assisting with purchasing materials and reaching out to faculty and students. More than that, he has consistently validated the importance of the topic, reminding me that mental health matters. His support has helped bring my project to life and strengthened my confidence in creating it. Because of him, I think differently about the kind of person I want to be. I want to be someone who creates that same kind of space for others. Someone who notices when people are struggling and never casts a single judgement. Someone who understands. And when I graduate, I’ll look back on that fist bump and I'll pass it forward.

Blue Jays are loud, stubborn birds. They show up whether you are ready for them or not, and they announce themselves to the whole forest. There is something about that presence that I have always connected with. The refusal to be ignored, the insistence on being heard. In a way, my life has felt similar. My life goal is to be a psychologist specializing in adolescent mental health. That goal came from years of trying to understand my own mind. Growing up, I struggled with Bipolar II Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. There were periods when everything became overwhelming enough that I needed hospitalization and extra support. It often felt like my mind was a stormy sky that was unpredictable and hard to navigate, with the sky turning thundery one second and calm the next. As a bipolar teenager, it is confusing trying to understand why your brain sometimes feels like it is racing ahead of you, with thoughts moving too fast to hold onto, and other times feels stuck in place. From a young age, I began learning about psychology before I could even name it. I found myself constantly observing and questioning, trying to piece together why people behave the way they do (Personality typology with the works of Carl Jung especially interested me,) and why emotions can feel so intense and unpredictable. I was drawn to understanding how therapists help people make sense of traumatic experiences. I wanted to know how they sit with someone and help them understand themselves and what they've gone through instead of pushing them away. The more I learned, the more the storm started to feel less chaotic. I realized that mental health struggles can also become powerful sources of empathy and perspective. I started to channel my inner Blue Jay, and began to fly without faltering. My struggles helped shape my purpose. I know what it feels like to sit on the other side of the conversation, to be the person trying to explain feelings that seem scary and unclear. I know what it is like to want someone to truly listen, not just respond. Because of that, I feel a strong calling to give back. I want to help others who might be navigating storms of their own, especially adolescents who are often experiencing these emotions for the first time without guidance. If I can be even a small part of helping someone else find hope in their lives - like a Blue Jay, calling out from the trees, saying that something can survive the storm - then every step of my journey will have been worth it.

The retching sounds were louder than the running faucet; sharp, eerie, and violent. I froze in the hallway, staring at the light beneath the door. My mom had just driven home from work, complaining of a headache. Her body heaved behind the bathroom door, each vomiting noise echoing against the tiled walls. When she returned, her formerly tan face was grey, clammy, and fragile, her long hair damp against her neck. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered, though she was trembling. She always said that. Two days later, she wasn’t fine. In the ER, machines buzzed and blinked, almost with impatience. Tubes pierced her arms. A doctor said the words “brain aneurysm”, his voice brimming with concern. In a few days’ time, she would suffer a stroke, then another. She has never walked out of that building. Something inside me shifted. Depression took hold of me like I was its hostage. My mind taunted me at night, whispering to run, escape, and disappear. All I wanted was to end things, yet some hidden part of me wanted to keep going. When I couldn’t keep myself safe, I was admitted into a mental facility. I remember the heavy doors shutting behind me with a thud that shook me to my core. They took my shoelaces, my hoodie, my phone. The thin mattress in my room sagged from all the previous broken spirits before me. Nighttime was disrupted every 15 minutes when a nurse turned on my light to check if I was still breathing. Days blurred together in fluorescent lighting and distasteful hospital meals, but slowly, something shifted. Group therapy taught me connection. I expressed myself energetically with art therapy. My journal was filled with Dialectical Behavioral Therapy exercises, poetry, and hope. My insistent psychiatrist and therapist on the unit constantly asked me, “Are you a danger to yourself or others?” and one night, for the first time, I could confidently answer: “No.” That was my first fight. Through these experiences, I learned. I learned why my brain had betrayed me. Why my heart would palpitate at nothing, why my stomach would turn with no rational danger in sight. I learned about fight-or-flight, the amygdala, anxiety, and depression. Psychology gave me direction to turn my pain into purpose and equipped me with the tools and perspective to advocate for adolescents who are struggling with their own setbacks. My difficult circumstances deepened my compassion and reinforced my purpose in life – to help others and become a psychologist. To declare my commitment to my future, I exclaimed to the staff while my dad signed me out, “Next time you see me, I’ll be working here!” I was discharged, and the outside world was left unchanged. My mom was still in her hospital bed, her body unmoving, her words in whispers. But I had changed. I had proof I could survive. Sometimes I sit in my mom’s bed and talk to her. One week, I was telling her about my school experience. I recounted the clubs I’m in, the resources and support I have, and the deep sense of safety and security I found within myself. I laced my hand through hers and whispered, “I’m fighting, Mommy.” She looked at me with love in her eyes. I knew she understood. When the doubt whispers run, I return to that hospital room, with her fingers intertwined with mine, and repeat the promise I spoke to her: “I’m fighting, Mommy.”

My educational journey has felt like walking through a dense forest without a map. The path forward often disappeared beneath the severity of my mental health struggles, and there were moments when I genuinely could not see where I was going. My frequent hospitalizations and diagnoses of Bipolar II and Generalized Anxiety Disorder pushed me back academically at times. Being in the psych-ward five times can hurt your grades, especially when you are dealing with something far bigger than schoolwork, which is learning how to survive. When you are in the hospital, your priorities change. Instead of focusing on assignments or exams, you are focusing on stabilizing your mind, understanding your emotions, and finding ways to keep moving forward. My life felt paused while the rest of the world continued without me. Watching classmates move ahead while I stepped away to heal was incredibly difficult. There were moments when I questioned whether I was on the right path, or if it would ever feel stable. Yet, those experiences forced me to develop resilience earlier than many of my peers. They taught me something I might not have learned otherwise. I learned that education is not just about achievement or a perfect GPA, it is about the growth you gain along the way. Every time I returned to school after a setback, I carried new insight with me. (If you didn't know, the mental hospital is a very interesting place!) Therapy, medication, self-reflection, and hard work in my treatment helped me develop healthier coping skills (especially through DBT,) and a deeper understanding of how the human mind works. I took everything I experienced as a way to learn and grow. Through my experiences, I realized that psychology was not simply an academic interest, it was my calling. I want to become a psychologist because I know what it feels like to sit in the dark and wonder if anyone truly understands what you are going through. I know the loneliness that can come from struggling internally while the outside world pressures you to keep functioning normally. But, I also know how powerful it is when someone listens without judging and helps you find your way towards recovery. The mental health professionals who supported me during my most difficult moments showed me the life-changing impact compassion and understanding can have. Seeing that support firsthand kickstarted a strong sense of moral responsibility in me. I want to give back to the communities and individuals who are still searching for their own path through the forest. And today, when I look toward my educational goals, I no longer see an endless forest without direction. I see a path that has been shaped by my perseverance and my deep commitment to helping others.