My name is Shenouda, and I was born without lower limbs. From a young age, I had to learn how to navigate a world that was not built with me in mind—physically or socially. I also immigrated from Egypt, where disability was heavily stigmatized and schools denied me education because of how I looked. These early experiences made me feel like an outsider in almost every space I entered. At the time, I did not have the words to explain what I was going through. Now, I understand it was more than just physical access—it was the mental and emotional toll of being unseen and unheard. As I got older, I began to realize that mental health was just as important as physical health, if not more. I saw how many people, especially those from marginalized communities, carry pain that is invisible. Immigrants battling shame and pressure. Disabled people navigating constant judgment. People of color struggling to find a therapist who understands their background. I knew I wanted to be part of the solution. That’s why I decided to pursue a career in psychology. I graduated high school at 16, and I’m now pursuing a master’s in Clinical Psychology with plans to earn a PsyD. My goal is to become a licensed psychologist who works with people who are often overlooked—those who live at the intersections of disability, race, immigrant identity, and trauma. I hope to create a mental health space where clients feel safe, respected, and empowered to explore who they are. My own experience with mental health has taught me that healing starts when someone finally listens to your story without judgment. I’ve had seasons where I felt deeply isolated, even when I looked fine on the outside. Therapy gave me the language and space to face those feelings, and I want to give that same space to others. I believe that mental health work is a form of activism. It pushes against systems that tell us to be silent, strong, or invisible. Through my work, I want to challenge those messages and replace them with empathy, validation, and hope. I plan to give back not just through one-on-one therapy, but also through community outreach and education. Whether it’s hosting support groups for disabled youth, working with immigrant families, or simply showing others that a person in a wheelchair can be a therapist too, I want to be part of something bigger than myself. My life has been shaped by struggle, but also by strength. I carry both with me into this field, and I’m committed to making mental health care more inclusive, more accessible, and more human for everyone.

Mental health has always felt personal to me. As someone born without lower limbs and raised as a first-generation Egyptian-American, I have experienced what it feels like to be left out—both physically and emotionally. My identity shaped my understanding of the world early on. I saw how people with disabilities were treated differently, how immigrants struggled to be heard, and how mental health was often a silent topic in both spaces. These experiences made me want to create a future where people feel seen, supported, and valued for who they are. That is what drew me to the field of psychology. My passion for mental health is rooted in empathy. I know what it feels like to face barriers that have nothing to do with ability or intelligence. In Egypt, schools turned me away because of my disability. In the United States, I finally found access to education, but I still had to push through systems that were not built with people like me in mind. Over time, I realized that while my physical disability was visible, many people carried invisible ones—anxiety, trauma, self-doubt. I wanted to understand those experiences and be someone who could help. Academically, I have always been driven. I graduated high school at 16 and am on track to earn my bachelor’s degree at 19. I recently began a master’s program in Clinical Psychology, with plans to pursue a PsyD. My goal is to become a licensed psychologist who serves marginalized and underserved communities. I want to work with people who have experienced trauma, exclusion, or identity struggles—especially disabled individuals, immigrants, and youth who feel like they do not fit in anywhere. I also hope to eventually open a practice that prioritizes accessibility and cultural humility. Diversity and inclusion are not just values to me. They are personal. I live at the intersection of disability, immigrant identity, and mental health advocacy. Because of that, I bring a unique perspective to this field. I want to help push mental health forward by breaking stigma in communities that have long been silent about it. I also want to contribute to creating spaces that welcome people of all backgrounds and abilities, not just with words but with actions—whether that means accessible therapy rooms, inclusive language, or simply showing up with compassion. Inclusion also means representation. Growing up, I never saw therapists or psychologists who looked like me or shared my experiences. That absence made it hard to imagine myself in this role. Now, I want to change that. I want to be the person that younger versions of me needed—someone who listens, understands, and makes others feel like they belong even when the world tells them otherwise. Mental health is not just a career path for me. It is my calling. It connects everything I care about—people, healing, justice, and hope. I believe that when we care for the minds and hearts of others, we change not just individuals but whole communities. I am committed to being part of that change, and I am ready to keep learning, growing, and giving back in every way I can.

Living with a physical disability has shaped almost every part of who I am, from how I think and solve problems to what I hope to do with my life. I was born without lower limbs, and because of that, I have had to navigate a world that was not designed for people like me. Simple things like getting through a doorway, reaching a counter, or even being invited to join in on activities were not always guaranteed. That experience taught me something early on. I could not afford to wait for the world to change. I had to learn how to adapt, advocate, and make space for myself in ways that others might never have to think about. At times, it was really hard. I faced rejection from schools, was stared at or excluded, and often had to prove that I belonged, even when I had every right to be there. Over time, those challenges made me more determined. I learned how to speak up when something was not accessible. I learned how to stay calm and creative when things did not go as planned. Most importantly, I learned how to connect with others who felt left out in different ways, whether because of their disability, their background, or their emotional struggles. That is where my passion for psychology began. I realized that even though I could not change the fact that I was in a wheelchair, I could still use my experiences to help others feel seen, understood, and supported. Mental health became something personal to me, not just something I wanted to study, but something I wanted to build a meaningful and lasting career around. I know what it is like to carry invisible pain, to wrestle with identity, and to try to find meaning in a world that does not always understand you. I want to be the kind of therapist who listens without judgment and reminds people that their story matters, even when they feel broken or alone. In school, I bring that mindset with me. Whether I am writing papers, joining discussions, or supporting classmates, I carry the belief that every person deserves to feel like they belong. My physical disability is part of my story, but it is not what holds me back. If anything, it pushes me to dream bigger. I hope to use my education to serve others, especially those who are often overlooked, and to build a future where more people feel like they are enough just as they are.