If asked to label my identity using one word, it would have to be storyteller. As a Jewish Latina woman, I come from a long line of people who tell stories to keep our culture alive in the face of threats of eradication and genocide. I grew up hearing stories about how my parents immigrated to the United States from Argentina during times of economic and political instability in their home country and about how their grandparents got there in the first place after escaping the gas chambers during the Holocaust. I was raised with the understanding that these stories of transformation from trauma to hope were there for me to absorb and pass onto my own children, but I often questioned weather I had a valid role as a storyteller given the fact that I was born with a level of safety and privilege my grandparents and great grandparents could have never dared to imagine. However, it was not until I faced my own trauma that I realized that storytelling was my birthright too—it was a took to uncover hope and humanity in the face of dehumanization. At 15, I sat in front of my doctor at the eating disorder unit as he told me I had two weeks left to live since my organs were all failing, but my weight was considered “normal” (despite being far too low for my natural set point) so there was nothing the hospital could do for me. I realized that day that as a Latina woman living in a naturally larger body, the American medical system was not built with me or my family in mind, but rather it was built as part of the same capitalist system of oppression that fits people into claustrophobic boxes in order to drive profit that underlies so many social injustices. I began to write about my experience in journal entries and poems, and built a voice for myself after being silenced. I now tell my story on national platforms and even shared it with President Biden last year. I am working with the national government as a fellow at the Department of Health and Human Services and advisor to the National Alliance of Mental Illness to use to story to help shape mental health policy so no young person has to go through what I did just five years ago. I aspire to use my college education to continue to build a career of changemaking and activism through storytelling.

If asked to label my identity using one word, it would have to be storyteller. As a Jewish Latina woman, I come from a long line of people who tell stories to keep our culture alive in the face of threats of eradication and genocide. I grew up hearing stories about how my parents immigrated to the United States from Argentina during times of economic and political instability in their home country and about how their grandparents got there in the first place after escaping the gas chambers during the Holocaust. I was raised with the understanding that these stories of transformation from trauma to hope were there for me to absorb and pass onto my own children, but I often questioned weather I had a valid role as a storyteller given the fact that I was born with a level of safety and privilege my grandparents and great grandparents could have never dared to imagine. However, it was not until I faced my own trauma that I realized that storytelling was my birthright too—it was a took to uncover hope and humanity in the face of dehumanization. At 15, I sat in front of my doctor at the eating disorder unit as he told me I had two weeks left to live since my organs were all failing, but my weight was considered “normal” (despite being far too low for my natural set point) so there was nothing the hospital could do for me. I realized that day that as a Latina woman living in a naturally larger body, the American medical system was not built with me or my family in mind, but rather it was built as part of the same capitalist system of oppression that fits people into claustrophobic boxes in order to drive profit that underlies so many social injustices. I began to write about my experience in journal entries and poems, and built a voice for myself after being silenced. I now tell my story on national platforms and even shared it with President Biden last year. I am working with the national government as a fellow at the Department of Health and Human Services and advisor to the National Alliance of Mental Illness to use to story to help shape mental health policy so no young person has to go through what I did just five years ago. I aspire to use my college education in creative writing to continue to build a career of changemaking and activism through storytelling.

If asked to label my identity using one word, it would have to be storyteller. As a Jewish Latina woman, I come from a long line of people who tell stories to keep our culture alive in the face of threats of eradication and genocide. I grew up hearing stories about how my parents immigrated to the United States from Argentina during times of economic and political instability in their home country and about how their grandparents got there in the first place after escaping the gas chambers during the Holocaust. I was raised with the understanding that these stories of transformation from trauma to hope were there for me to absorb and pass onto my own children, but I often questioned weather I had a valid role as a storyteller given the fact that I was born with a level of safety and privilege my grandparents and great grandparents could have never dared to imagine. However, it was not until I faced my own trauma that I realized that storytelling was my birthright too—it was a took to uncover hope and humanity in the face of dehumanization. At 15, I sat in front of my doctor at the eating disorder unit as he told me I had two weeks left to live since my organs were all failing, but my weight was considered “normal” (despite being far too low for my natural set point) so there was nothing the hospital could do for me. I realized that day that as a Latina woman living in a naturally larger body, the American medical system was not built with me or my family in mind, but rather it was built as part of the same capitalist system of oppression that fits people into claustrophobic boxes in order to drive profit that underlies so many social injustices. I began to write about my experience in journal entries and poems, and built a voice for myself after being silenced. I now tell my story on national platforms and even shared it with President Biden last year. I am working with the national government as a fellow at the Department of Health and Human Services and advisor to the National Alliance of Mental Illness to use to story to help shape mental health policy so no young person has to go through what I did just five years ago. I aspire to use my college education in public health to continue to build a career of changemaking and activism through storytelling.

If asked to label my identity using one word, it would have to be storyteller. As a Jewish Latina woman, I come from a long line of people who tell stories to keep our culture alive in the face of threats of eradication and genocide. I grew up hearing stories about how my parents immigrated to the United States from Argentina during times of economic and political instability in their home country and about how their grandparents got there in the first place after escaping the gas chambers during the Holocaust. I grew up with the understanding that these stories of transformation from trauma to hope were there for me to absorb and pass onto my own children, but I often questioned weather I had a valid role as a storyteller given the fact that I was born with a level of safety and privilege my grandparents and great grandparents could have never dared to imagine. However, it was not until I faced my own trauma that I realized that storytelling was my birthright too—it was a took to uncover hope and humanity in the face of dehumanization. At 15, I sat in front of my doctor at the eating disorder unit as he told me I had two weeks left to live since my organs were all failing, but my weight was considered “normal” (despite being far too low for my natural set point) so there was nothing the hospital could do for me. I realized that day that as a Latina woman living in a naturally larger body, the American medical system was not built with me or my family in mind, but rather it was built as part of the same capitalist system of oppression that fits people into claustrophobic boxes in order to drive profit that underlies so many social injustices. I began to write about my experience in journal entries and poems, and built a voice for myself after being silenced. I now tell my story on national platforms and even shared it with President Biden last year. I am working with the national government as a fellow at the Department of Health and Human Services and advisor to the National Alliance of Mental Illness to use to story to help shape mental health policy so no young person has to go through what I did just five years ago. I aspire to use my college education to continue to build a career of changemaking and activism through storytelling.

If asked to label my identity using one word, it would have to be storyteller. As a Jewish Latina woman, I come from a long line of people who tell stories to keep our culture alive in the face of threats of eradication and genocide. I grew up hearing stories about how my parents immigrated to the United States from Argentina during times of economic and political instability in their home country and about how their grandparents got there in the first place after escaping the gas chambers during the Holocaust. I grew up with the understanding that these stories of transformation from trauma to hope were there for me to absorb and pass onto my own children, but I often questioned weather I had a valid role as a storyteller given the fact that I was born with a level of safety and privilege my grandparents and great grandparents could have never dared to imagine. However, it was not until I faced my own trauma that I realized that storytelling was my birthright too—it was a took to uncover hope and humanity in the face of dehumanization. At 15, I sat in front of my doctor at the eating disorder unit as he told me I had two weeks left to live since my organs were all failing, but my weight was considered “normal” (despite being far too low for my natural set point) so there was nothing the hospital could do for me. I realized that day that as a Latina woman living in a naturally larger body, the American medical system was not built with me or my family in mind, but rather it was built as part of the same capitalist system of oppression that fits people into claustrophobic boxes in order to drive profit that underlies so many social injustices. I began to write about my experience in journal entries and poems, and built a voice for myself after being silenced. I now tell my story on national platforms and even shared it with President Biden last year. I am working with the national government as a fellow at the Department of Health and Human Services and advisor to the National Alliance of Mental Illness to use to story to help shape mental health policy so no young person has to go through what I did just five years ago. I aspire to use my college education to continue to build a career of changemaking and activism through storytelling.

Newly at the helm of our respective schools' Latinx cultural organizations, my friend and I decided to form an interscholastic event to discuss the common issues we faced and inspire collaboration. Seeing the need for this in the greater community, I reached out to dozens of high school Latinx clubs, explaining our idea. We received oodles of support and formed a planning committee. I stepped into the role of Founder of the Youth Latinx Leadership Conference (YLLC). Early on, I established a partnership with Nuevo Amanecer Latino Children’s Services (NALCS), an agency that educates undocumented and unaccompanied Latinx children, where I have been teaching since the age of twelve. I decided the event would benefit my students along with the high schoolers in attendance. To grow the event, I contacted Latinx professionals, explaining the YLLC’s mission to empower budding leaders. Dozens of affirmative responses later, we had panelists and workshop leaders representing top Latinx-founded companies. Inspired, I swung for the fences and cold-emailed politicians such as Representative Napolitano and Senator Padilla with jolts of hope pulsing through my fingers as I typed. My throat is still sore from the screams of joy that escaped my larynx as I read their responses. During the event, the 210 students in attendance sat face-to-face with their role models and discussed topics ranging from workplace diversity to language barriers. After the conference, our media partner, Spectrum News, conducted an interview with NALCS. Thanks to the report's success, the partnership between the YLLC, NALCS, and Spectrum garnered over 500 foster care inquiries for the undocumented children. The YLLC now reaches over 10,000 Latinx students and professionals through our partnership with Comcast/LTX Connect. Reflecting on the YLLC's impact, I decided to dedicate the rest of my life to the intersection of cultural pride and social justice.

I grew up to a cacophony of voices telling me to follow lines. When I was learning how to ride a bike, my dad drew a line on the track and told me to pedal alongside it. When I wrote kindergarten sight words diagonally across wide-lined paper, my teacher told me to erase it and write it on the lines that were already there rather than creating my own. But I didn’t listen. My entire life has been a series of refusals to follow the lines of limitation. My deviation from expectations began with birth itself. As the first baby girl in my family, I broke the long line of four generations of only boys born to my last name. My motor development literally defied lines when I was physically unable to write in straight lines due to my motor skill disability. At 13 years old, l proved my disability was a gift and not a handicap when I taught myself ambidexterity—in the span of five minutes. At 15, my life veered further from tradition when I was diagnosed with a life-threatening eating disorder. My eating disorder encircled my life; I was told by both medicine and society that I would never break free. Good thing I never believed in limits—I made a full recovery at 17. I refuse to attribute my second chance at life to the “miraculous recovery” trope. I recovered because I refused to follow the line that my illness drew around my life, not because of a miracle. Now, I advocate for others who live outside the lines of society. At 18, I watched myself on the news speaking about my work with unaccompanied Latinx child immigrants; I teach my students to join the battle against boundaries. A week later, I learned how that very interview led to over 500 inquiries about fostering these children. And then I cried. And cried and cried because I realized that me, these children, and this essay, exist because they refuse to respect the lines that society drew. My tears motivated me to continue my advocacy efforts. Shortly after being featured on the news, I was selected to be one of 30 youth advisory board members to Lady Gaga’s Born This Way Foundation. As a youth advisory board member, I advocate relentlessly for the organization to work to de-stigmatize mental health, especially in minority communities. I was also accepted to Mental Health America’s Young Mental Health Leadership Council, where I work with nine other young advocates to incorporate diverse perspectives and experiences to the organizations youth advocacy efforts. I know that my work does not end here. In fact, it does not end until mental health is de-stigmatized among every community, every school, every family, and every individual. I believe I was given the chance to survive so I can dedicate my life to this effort. Last month I took a leap into that future of courage as I sat crossed legged on the worn out, cheez-it ridden couch of my new DC apartment, phone pressed against my triple-pierced ear, exhaling deeply. On the other end of the line was Dvora Myers, an investigative journalist who I had reached out to six months prior to pitch a story about racist and fatphobic practices stemming from the use of the BMI in eating disorder treatment facilities. I had collected the testimonies of nine patients, including my own, and the story was picked up by editors at Business Insider. As my exhale sputtered out, I stated: “My name is Sophie Szew, I am an eating disorder survivor, mental health advocate, and writer. This is my story.”

Last month, I sat crossed legged on the worn out, cheez-it crumb ridden couch of my new DC apartment, phone pressed against my triple-pierced ear, exhaling deeply. On the other end of the line was Dvora Myers, an investigative journalist whom I had reached out to six months prior to pitch a story about racist and fatphobic practices stemming from the use of the BMI in eating disorder treatment facilities. I had collected the testimonies of nine patients, including my own, and the story was picked up by editors at Business Insider. As my exhale sputtered out, I stated: “My name is Sophie Szew, I am an eating disorder survivor, mental health advocate, and writer. This is my story.” The work that led to that turning-point moment of courage and activism began a couple years ago, upon the realization that I did not recover from a severe eating disorder and survive medical malpractice while in treatment just to complain and remain silent. I survived because the world needed me alive to tell my story. I survived so I could have the chance to tell my story and the stories of millions of silenced individuals. So, I began writing. I wrote articles, blog posts, poems, and speeches all with themes connecting to systemic injustice within the realm of mental health. I eventually found my way into writing applications--for Lady Gaga’s Born This Way Foundation, for Mental Health America’s Young Mental Health Leadership Council, for an internship in the U.S House of Representatives I now work with all three of these organizations, plus Business Insider and a few other publications such as FEAST and The Diary Healer, on written projects that aim to reform the mental health treatment system. My latest flurry of applications have been to colleges in the United States and abroad, about 40 in total, to study culture and language and their intersection with the nature of mental illness and eating disorders, especially among minority communities like the one I come from. Additionally, I hope to continue to fight for the dismantling of systemic disparities in access to eating disorder treatment through creative writing and journalism. As someone who now lives happily and healthfully in a larger body, I am no longer afraid to take up space like my eating disorder caused me to be at 15, which eventually led to devastating health consequences like liver and kidney failure. I feel I take up the most space when I do exactly what I am doing at this very moment: write from a place of catharsis and gratitude for the opportunity to create change.

Having been on my deathbed due to illness at the age of 15, I consider life experiences as trivial as being able to brush my own hair and paint my own toenails to be fulfilling and joyous. However, three years later and fully recovered, I am able to pinpoint one of my most joyous experiences in terms of my service work as, surprisingly, having taken place not in a service-based setting, but a spiritual one. Before starting high school, as my illness was beginning to fester inside me, I took a trip with my eighth grade class to Israel. Unlike one would expect from a school in the heart of Los Angeles, the culture at my school, while warm and nurturing in terms of staff, was not one of social freedom. Being a tight-knit traditional Jewish community, girls were expected to have life-aspirations such as marrying wealthy and perhaps attending community college if they were one of the unlucky and unpopular ones who valued education. So, it was shocking to not only my peers, but the hundreds of people around me, that I decided to wear tefillin, a traditional Jewish praying garment widely considered to be reserved for men (although this is not mentioned in any Jewish scripture) at the Western Wall, the holiest sight in Judaism. Despite being shunned, threatened, and verbally harassed by people deemed “pious”, I felt a sense of glowing pride and joy for this act that I consider to be of service to all Jewish women who are victims of sexism, and to the advancement of my community.

I began writing poetry at 13 from a place of catharsis, a need for self-care, and a ravenous desire to learn about the world through the lens of unconventional creativity. I fell so deeply in love with poetry that my days were not complete until I spent at least a good hour watching my screen fill up with words arranged in topsy-turvy shapes. I have since had my poetry recognized by literary establishments such as the Dillydoun Review, Tipping the Scales Magazine, FEAST, Detester Magazine, Teen Author’s Bootcamp, and the Santa Clara Review, and even got to read my original poetry for the inauguration of the mayor of Beverly Hills. In love with poetry, I fell in love with reading. As my poetry writing professor once said, “The best way to learn how to write poetry is to read it.” The writing of revolutionary poets in the likes of Terrance Hayes, Christian Bök, and Carmen Jimenez Smith infused my soul and the essence was distilled into inspiration for my own creative pursuits. One thing all of these writers had in common is that their writing sat squarely at the intersection between creativity and social justice. As a minority writer myself, I moved into this space and found myself not only writing poetry with themes relating to identity, body image, racism, antisemitism, and mental health, but also writing journalistic pieces about social justice in all capacities, which have now been published on sites like Channel Kindness, Jewtina y co, and a forthcoming Business Insider article.

I grew up to a cacophony of voices telling me to follow lines. When I was learning how to ride a bike, my dad drew a line on the track and told me to pedal alongside it. When I wrote kindergarten sight words diagonally across extra wide lined paper, my teacher told me to erase it and write it on the lines that were already there rather than creating my own. But I did not listen. My entire life has been a series of refusals to follow the lines of limitation. My deviation from expectations began with birth itself. As the first baby girl in my family, I broke the long line of four generations of only boys born to my last name. My motor development literally defied lines when I was physically unable to write in straight lines due to my motor skill disability. At the age of 13, l proved that my disability was a gift and not a handicap when I taught myself ambidexterity—in the span of five minutes. At 15, my life veered further from tradition when I was diagnosed with a life-threatening eating disorder. My eating disorder encircled my life, and I was told by both medicine and society that I would never break free. Good thing I never believed in limits—I made a full recovery at 17. I refuse to attribute my second chance at life to the trope of the “miraculous recovery.” I recovered because I refused to follow the line that my illness drew around my life, not because of any kind of miracle. Now, I advocate for others who live outside the lines of society. Last year in April, I watched myself on the news speaking about my work with unaccompanied Latinx child immigrants; I teach my students to join the battle against boundaries. A week later, I learned how that very interview led to more than 500 inquiries about fostering these children. And then I cried. And cried and cried because I realized that me, these children, and this essay, exist because they refuse to respect the lines that society drew. The sense of fulfillment that enveloped me motivated me to continue my advocacy efforts on an even larger scale. Shortly after being featured on the news, I was selected to be one of 30 youth advisory board members to Lady Gaga’s Born This Way Foundation. As a youth advisory board member, I advocate relentlessly for the organization to work to de-stigmatize mental health, especially in minority communities. I was also accepted to Mental Health America’s Young Mental Health Leadership Council, where I work with nine other young advocates to incorporate diverse perspectives and experiences to the organizations youth advocacy efforts. I know that my work does not end here. In fact, it does not end until mental health is de-stigmatized among every community, every school, every family, and every individual. I believe I was given the chance to survive so I can dedicate my life to this effort, and I will do everything in my power to honor the 15-year-old fighter, the one who was told she had just days to live, that got me here.

I grew up to a cacophony of voices telling me to follow lines. When I was learning how to ride a bike, my dad drew a line on the track and told me to pedal alongside it. When I wrote kindergarten sight words diagonally across wide-lined paper, my teacher told me to erase it and write it on the lines that were already there rather than creating my own. But I didn’t listen. My entire life has been a series of refusals to follow the lines of limitation. My deviation from expectations began with birth itself. As the first baby girl in my family, I broke the long line of four generations of only boys born to my last name. My motor development literally defied lines when I was physically unable to write in straight lines due to my motor skill disability. At 13 years old, l proved my disability was a gift and not a handicap when I taught myself ambidexterity—in the span of five minutes. At 15, my life veered further from tradition when I was diagnosed with a life-threatening eating disorder. My eating disorder encircled my life; I was told by both medicine and society that I would never break free. Good thing I never believed in limits—I made a full recovery at 17. I refuse to attribute my second chance at life to the “miraculous recovery” trope. I recovered because I refused to follow the line that my illness drew around my life, not because of a miracle. Now, I advocate for others who live outside the lines of society. At 18, I watched myself on the news speaking about my work with unaccompanied Latinx child immigrants; I teach my students to join the battle against boundaries. A week later, I learned how that very interview led to over 500 inquiries about fostering these children. And then I cried. And cried and cried because I realized that me, these children, and this essay, exist because they refuse to respect the lines that society drew. My tears motivated me to continue my advocacy efforts. Shortly after being featured on the news, I was selected to be one of 30 youth advisory board members to Lady Gaga’s Born This Way Foundation. As a youth advisory board member, I advocate relentlessly for the organization to work to de-stigmatize mental health, especially in minority communities. I was also accepted to Mental Health America’s Young Mental Health Leadership Council, where I work with nine other young advocates to incorporate diverse perspectives and experiences to the organizations youth advocacy efforts. I know that my work does not end here. In fact, it does not end until mental health is de-stigmatized among every community, every school, every family, and every individual. I believe I was given the chance to survive so I can dedicate my life to this effort.

My grandma moved to the United States 20 years ago from Argentina not speaking a word of English. She found work at Nuevo Amanecer Latino Children’s Services (NALCS) as a social worker for Spanish-speaking foster children. As a ravenously curious 12-year-old, I accompanied my Abuela to work. In the schoolhouse-style classroom for unaccompanied children, I found dozens of students aged 0-18; there were newborn babies with their teen moms and two-year-olds who crossed the border alone. On that day, I became NALCS’s youngest teacher. I would spend up to eight hours a day sitting with my students, teaching them how to count with colorful beads or how to write their names on etch-a-sketches. In turn, they taught me what it meant to be human—to be human is to have a story. Beyond being part of sympathy-stirring statistics on child immigration or human trafficking or gang violence, these children are people with stories about making pupusas with their aunties or adopting a puppy on Christmas. I have dedicated the past seven years to listening to these children’s stories, and learning who they are beyond news segments where the only details we remember are the septic rust on cages they were put in or the throat-twisting injuries they suffered when they were thrown over the border wall. They have stories to tell. That is why I tirelessly fight for these children to be able to call the United States their home.[j]

worn-out couch of my new DC apartment, phone pressed against my triple-pierced ear, exhaling deeply. On the other end of the line was Dvora Myers, an investigative journalist who I had reached out to six months prior to pitch a story about racist and fatphobic practices in eating disorder treatment facilities. I had collected the testimonies of nine patients, including my own, and the story was picked up by editors at Business Insider. I know that I did not recover from a severe eating disorder and survive medical malpractice just to complain and remain silent. I survived because the world needed me alive to tell my story. I survived so I could have the chance to tell my story and the stories of millions of silenced individuals. So, I began writing. I wrote articles, blog posts, poems, and speeches all with themes connecting to systemic injustice within the realm of mental health. I eventually found my way into writing applications--for Lady Gaga’s Born This Way Foundation, for Mental Health America’s Young Mental Health Leadership Council, for an internship in the U.S House of Representatives . I now work with all three of these organizations, plus Business Insider and a few smaller publications, on projects that aim to reinvent the mental health treatment system.

I grew up to a cacophony of voices telling me to follow lines. When I learned to ride a bike, my dad drew a line on the track and told me to pedal alongside it. When I wrote kindergarten sight words diagonally across wide-lined paper, my teacher told me to erase it and write it on the lines that were already there rather than creating my own. But I didn’t listen. My entire life has been a series of refusals to follow the lines of limitation. My deviation from expectations began with birth itself. As the first baby girl in my family, I broke the long line of four generations of only boys born to my last name. My motor development literally defied lines when I was physically unable to write in straight lines due to my disability. At 13-years-old, l proved my disability was a gift and not a handicap when I taught myself ambidexterity—in the span of five minutes. I began writing poetry that year from a place of catharsis and a ravenous desire to learn about the world through the lens of unconventional creativity. Early on, I rejected the rigid standards established by dead white men. I refused to write poems in the shapes of boxy stanzas with sparse enjambment and perfect straight lines. From my very first poem, I decided my poems read like art and look like art. My first poem, entitled “drink” used the extended metaphor of an emptying glass to reflect a soul that slowly emptied out due to societal beauty standards and mental illness. The poem took the shape of an emptying glass with lines that progressively trickled out like this until the glass and the page were empty. At 15, my life veered further from tradition when I was diagnosed with a life-threatening illness. My illness encircled my life; I was told by medicine and society that I would never break free. Good thing I never believed in limits—I recovered at 17. I refuse to attribute my second chance at life to the “miraculous recovery” trope. I recovered because I refused to follow the line that my illness drew around my life, not because of a miracle. Now, I advocate for others who live outside the lines of society. At 18, I watched myself on the news speaking about my work with unaccompanied Latinx child immigrants; I teach my students to join the battle against boundaries. A week later, I learned how that very interview led to over 500 inquiries about fostering these children. And then I cried. And cried and cried because I realized that me, these children, and this essay, exist because they refuse to respect the lines that society drew. And then, I produced the most beautiful nonlinear shape of them all: a smile.

My grandma moved to the United States 20 years ago from Argentina not speaking a word of English. She found work at Nuevo Amanecer Latino Children’s Services (NALCS) as a social worker for Spanish-speaking foster children. As a ravenously curious 12-year-old, I accompanied my Abuela to work. In the schoolhouse-style classroom for unaccompanied children, I found dozens of students aged 0-18; there were newborn babies with their teen moms and two-year-olds who crossed the border alone. On that day, I became NALCS’s youngest teacher. I would spend up to eight hours a day sitting with my students, teaching them how to count with colorful beads or how to write their names on etch-a-sketches. In turn, they taught me what it meant to be human—to be human is to have a story. Beyond being part of sympathy-stirring statistics on child immigration or human trafficking or gang violence, these children are people with stories about making pupusas with their aunties or adopting a puppy on Christmas. I have dedicated the past seven years to listening to these children’s stories, and to learning who they are beyond news stories whose only details we remember are the septic rust on cages they were put in or the throat-twisting injuries they suffered when they were thrown over the border wall. They have stories to tell. That is why I tirelessly fight for these children to be able to call the United States their home.

I decided early in life that my purpose is to reject and redefine the structures that dominate the human experience. My interest in English was sparked by my passion for creative writing, which I use as a platform to debunk conventional linguistic structures. My writing, which is inspired by my own experiences as a survivor of mental illness and a religious and cultural minority, also exists to debunk rigid social structures. This overflows into the study of Human Rights. I love to expand my knowledge of human rights as a whole, and also hone into human rights within Latin American culture, literature, and society. Every day I infuse my soul with texts by Latin American writers such as Pablo Neruda, Maria Elena Walsh, and Carmen Jimenez Smith, among others. I distill the essence into inspiration for my own writing and human rights advocacy efforts. So, in short, I learn how to change the world by reading the works of those who have changed it.

My grandma moved to the United States 20 years ago from not speaking a word of English. She found work at Nuevo Amanecer Latino Children’s Services (NALCS) as a social worker for Spanish-speaking foster children. As a ravenously curious 12-year-old, I accompanied my Abuela to work. In the schoolhouse-style classroom for unaccompanied children, I found dozens of students aged 0-18; there were newborn babies with their teen moms and two-year-olds who crossed the border alone. On that day, I became NALCS’s youngest teacher. I would spend up to eight hours a day sitting with my students, teaching them how to count with colorful beads or how to write their names on etch-a-sketches. In turn, they taught me what it meant to be human—to be human is to have a story. Beyond being part of sympathy-stirring statistics on child immigration or human trafficking or gang violence, these children are people with stories about making pupusas with their aunties or adopting a puppy on Christmas. I have dedicated the past seven years to listening to these children’s stories, and learning who they are beyond news stories whose only details we remember are the septic rust on cages they were put in or the throat-twisting injuries they suffered when they were thrown over the border wall. They have stories to tell. That is why I tirelessly fight for these children to be able to call the United States their home. That is also why I connected NALCS with the Youth Latinx Leadership Conference. All the media attention and proceeds from the YLLC would be used to benefit my students. The two news segments with Spectrum News resulted in over 500 inquirie about fostering Latinx Children through NALCS. Hearing this news from the CEO of NALCS, I knew that more stories would be heard.

My grandma moved to the U.S. from Argentina not speaking a word of English. She found work at Nuevo Amanecer Latino Children’s Services (NALCS) as a social worker for Spanish-speaking foster children. As a ravenously curious 12-year-old, I accompanied my Abuela to work. In the schoolhouse-style classroom for unaccompanied children, I found dozens of students aged 0-18; there were newborn babies with their teen moms and two-year-olds who crossed the border alone. On that day, I became NALCS’s youngest teacher. I spent up to eight hours daily teaching students how to count with colorful beads or how to write their names on etch-a-sketches. In turn, they taught me what it meant to be human—to have a story. Beyond being part of sympathy-stirring statistics on child immigration, human trafficking or gang violence, these children are people with stories about making pupusas with their aunties or adopting a puppy on Christmas. I have dedicated the past seven years to listening to these children’s stories and learning who they are beyond news stories whose only details we remember are the septic rust on cages they were put in or the throat-twisting injuries they suffered when they were thrown over the border wall. They have stories to tell. That is why I fight for these children to be able to call the U.S. home. That is why I connected NALCS with the organization I founded this year. The media attention and proceeds would be used to benefit my students. I pitched media outlets: “I am a high schooler who’s leading a conference benefiting Latinx youth as well as unaccompanied minors who crossed into the US from Latin America.” The news segments with Spectrum News resulted in over 500 inquiries about fostering children through NALCS. Hearing this news, I knew more stories would be heard.

I grew up to a cacophony of voices telling me to follow lines. When I learned to ride a bike, my dad drew a line on the track and told me to pedal alongside it. When I wrote kindergarten sight words diagonally across wide-lined paper inside a neon-carpeted classroom, my teacher told me to erase them and write them again on the lines that were already there rather than creating my own. But I didn’t listen. My entire life has been a series of refusals to follow the lines of limitation. My deviation from expectations began with birth itself. As the first baby girl in my family, I broke the long line of four generations of only boys born to my last name. My motor development literally defied lines when I was physically unable to write in straight lines due to my motor skill disability. At thirteen years old, l proved that my disability was a gift and not a handicap when I adapted and taught myself ambidexterity — in the span of five minutes. At fifteen, my life veered even further from tradition when I was diagnosed with a life-threatening illness. My illness encircled my life, the hospital became my second home, and I was told by both medicine and society that I would never break free. Good thing I never believed in limits. I recovered at seventeen. Looking back on my battle, I refuse to attribute my second chance at life to the trope of a “miraculous recovery.” I recovered simply because I refused to follow the line that my illness drew around my life, not because of a miracle. Now, I advocate for others who live outside the lines of societal expectations by working with undocumented and unaccompanied migrant children as their teacher and mentor. This year, I watched myself on the news speaking about my work with these unaccompanied and undocumented Latinx child immigrants and how I teach my students to join the battle against boundaries. A week after the news segment I was featured in came out, I learned how that very interview led to over five hundred inquiries about fostering these children. And then I cried. And cried and cried because I realized that me, these children, and this essay, exist because they refuse to respect the lines that society drew. And then, I produced the most beautiful nonlinear shape of them all: a smile.

I strongly identify with the term “Latina creative” as I believe that my Latindad influences every fiber, every word, every breath that goes into everything I create. I was raised in as a first generation American in an Argentinian-Jewish household where Friday-nights were coated with the scent of of bubbling tarta de choclo and manishevitz wine dripping down my papi’s barba. As one of the only Latinx identifying people in a predominantly Ashkenazi-Jewish community, I learned to turn to creativity and art and literature and advocacy to connect with my cultura. I have been fighting for the rights of undocumented Latinx immigrants, specifically unaccompanied minors, since the age of 12, when I began assisting my Abuela at her job at Nuevo Amanecer Latino Children’s Services (NALCS) as a volunteer teacher for unaccompanied child immigrants. This past year, I started an organization called the Youth Latinx Leadership Conference that was able to help secure over 500 inquiries about fostering the unaccompanied child immigrants at NALCS and garner the attention of politicians such as Rep. Grace Napolitano and Sen. Alex Padilla. Ever since founding my organization, my identity as a Latina change-maker and entrepreneur has provided me with the confidence and pride to delve further into my own family history and identity in my writing.

“Life is unfair” is one of the most common and even clichéd explanations that adults give to small children asking why their older siblings can have more candy than them or situations of the like. However, as one ages and matures, this phrase sounds mocking and acquires an emptiness about it. As I have grown and educated myself, I have come to the realization that the world is indeed not fair, and if it were fair, it would be a communistic chaos that would soon become totalitarian. However, life is not only unfair, but it is unjust, and it is this last clause that we have the power and human obligation to work on. The call of justice is the call of my young generation. As an avid reader of the Torah, the Bible, and its commentary, I have always been fascinated by the economy of language that Jewish texts invoke and the radical sense of purpose behind each word. Thus, the reasoning behind the repetition of the word Justice in the soul-stirring phrase and my now-favorite quote: “Justice, Justice, shall you pursue” (Deuteronomy 16:20) was something that I giddily wrestled to make sense of. After much pondering, I came to the conclusion that the commandment above is ultimately an emulation of the human heart. Every time the heart pulses, it really beats twice, and so I figured (as the young poetic mind naturally does) that justice is the heartbeat of society. From bullying to racism to degradation and xenophobia, my generation grapples with injustices that are as old as humanity itself but are finally being spoken about not only in governmental institutions but also in classrooms and even at dinner tables. This vocality, like so many occurrences in recent times, is dare I say unprecedented, and this is due to an ever-so-engaged youth activism population, one that is the sole pacemaker of the heartbeat of society--of justice.

I believe that Kindness saved my life. It was the kindness of one woman, Melody Mansfield, who gave me the hope and motivation to find my purpose in life. Here is her story: On a richly cloudy morning In December of 2017, I sat in Ms. Mansfield’s bright-walled Honors 10th grade English class at Milken Community High School, students’ minds already out the door and eating lunch with their clique. However, just as the clock hit 11:40, Ms. Mansfield announced that she had one last thing to say. “This is not going to be easy an easy announcement for me to make, but I am not going to be coming back after break. But don’t worry about me, I have Viking blood.” Little did I know that this would be one of my last English classes before I too had to leave school for health reasons. About a week later, I was dying. In the hospital, while my doctors and parents were worried about how I would survive the night, I was worried about missing school. So, I decided to email all of my teachers and explain that I would be out of school for a short while. However, when I began to write my email to Ms. Mansfield, something that can only be described as mystical came over my mind and told me to pour my soul out to her. So, I told her I was in the hospital due to complications from Anorexia, and that this came about because of my experience with abusive coaches while I was a rhythmic gymnast, but that writing, especially the writing I did in her class, was my way of coping. She replied almost immediately, saying that she basically had the exact same story that I did. She was a professional dancer who also became dangerously underweight due to Anorexia, but she turned to writing to cope. We continued emailing and I eventually learned that she was diagnosed with breast cancer and given six months to live. That was sixteen years ago, and she is still alive (yet not cancer free) today. Having someone hear my story, and say they understand what I am going through is an incredibly powerful feeling. I credit much of my recovery to Ms. Mansfield, and hope to bolster the mental health recovery of others by using the writing skills that Ms. Mansfield taught me as a mental health advocacy poet.

At the age of 12, I began volunteering at Nuevo Amanecer Children’s Services in East Los Angeles. There, I fell in love with my position as a volunteer teacher teaching undocumented, unaccompanied Latinx children immigrants the basic skills necessary to be future US citizens. Six years later, in April 2021, I was interviewed by Spectrum News One about my work with these children and the crisis at the US-Mexico Border. Attached are pictures from the interview. The faces of my students are not present to protect their privacy. News story here: https://spectrumnews1.com/ca/la-west/immigration/2021/04/28/local-organization-offers-help-to-unaccompanied-minors

In a hyperconnected society, I believe that the most significant issue facing my community is a perpetual state of disconnect to the self. My community of Los Angeles is a city of diversity, culture, and progress, but unfortunately, these attributes often remain untapped by most individuals, who grow up in sheltered bubbles and are shunned from building their own identity. Rather, they take the shape of the person they believe society wants them to be. Thus, I have dedicated and will continue to dedicate my life to helping others pursue their own individual identity. I began this initiative by connecting with parts of myself that became muffled in the superficiality of LA, and discovered my connection to my Latina identity by working with undocumented, unaccompanied Latinx children in East LA. Having established my own identity, I now help others do so too by fostering safeguards of self-discovery via two organizations of which I am at the helm, DemystifiED and the Youth Latinx Leadership Conference, both of which are geared towards youth who suffer the effects of pressured societal conformity. These two organizations that I founded are so far-reaching because they address niche, small community-based issues, but expand into spaces of advocacy that help change the lives of those beyond my community. DemystifiED is a government-accredited nonprofit that spreads awareness about eating disorders and strives to connect individuals to evidence-based treatment in order to bolster recovery. I do believe that eating disorders are not just a mental illness, but a societal one. Studies show that eating disorders are 80% genetic and 20% environmental, and having grown up in a society ravaged by fad-diet culture, sexism, racism, fat-phobia, as well as having a history of mental health challenges in my family, I was born into a perfect storm for an eating disorder to develop, one which nearly took my life. I am now fully recovered, but I know that I would not be recovered today without a supportive community of family members, doctors, providers, and educators. Not everyone has the privilege of having the robust support-network necessary for recovery, and through DemystifiED Corp., I hope to connect more people to the love they need to recover. This all starts with the de-stigmatization and demystification of the implications of eating disorders and eating disorder recovery. Similarly, the Youth Latinx Leadership Conference (YLLC) also hopes to demystify the daily struggle of Latinx Americans by creating a network of empowerment and kindness. The inaugural Youth Latinx Leadership Conference, which took place in April 2021, was an absolutely life changing event for those involved. We garnered over 200 sign ups for the conference from over 50 schools across Southern California, and the guest speakers at this 12-hour virtual conference included Sen. Alex Padilla, Rep. Grace Napolitano, NBC4 Investigative Reporter Lolita Lopez, Spectrum 1 News Reporters Giselle Fernandez and Lydia Pantazes, and panels featuring undergraduate and graduate students from Latinx organizations affiliated with Yale University, Stanford University, the University of Pennsylvania, Georgetown, and Harvard University. While this conference was fairly massive, it did have extrememnly local roots. All of the proceeds from the conference went to Nuevo Amanecer Latino Children's Services, the agency where I volunteer with undocumented, unaccompanied Latinx children in East LA, and where my passion for local advocacy began.

One attribute that I contain that is absolutely unignorable is my honestly. I am very open and honest about my struggles, and for me, this is not only a de-stigmatization tool, but also a coping skill to keep my mental health in check. One of the many struggles I am unafraid to start dialogue about is my struggle with a life-threatening form of anorexia nervosa. I struggled with low self esteem growing up, which can be attributed to me being an outsider as the only Latina in my community, and also athletic abuse that I endured as a competitive gymnast. Flash forward to fifteen, I was told that I had a very slim chance of making it to adulthood due to medical complications that I endured due to severe malnutrition. Studies have found that eating disorders like the one I was diagnosed with happen due to factors that are 80% genetic and 20% environmental. Not only does mental illness run in my family, but I grew up as a rhythmic gymnast in Los Angeles, participating in a sport that is body-shaming by nature in a city ravaged by diet culture. Since my diagnosis, I have endured thirteen different hospitalizations and worked painstakingly to untangle myself from the monster of an illness that consumed me. I am very proud to say that I am now fully recovered and more mentally healthy than I thought was possible, however, having struggled so deeply and for so long, I am empathetic to those who are still struggling. I make it very clear when I find something potentially triggering to others and make it a point to always offer my support. If someone talks about a specific diet or weight number, I will unashamedly stop them in their tracks and ask everyone involved if they need support. In doing so, I am also setting up interpersonal boundaries and setting up a space for open dialogue. Additionally, I have found purpose in advocacy. Advocacy is not only my way of healing a very broken world, but it is also a huge part of what healed my once-broken soul. This advocacy takes many forms. I founded a government-accredited non-profit advocacy organization called DemystifiED Corp. (formerly known as Fed Up Corp.) which strives to explore the intersection between eating disorder recovery, education, and advocacy. I also write extensively about my experience as an eating disorder patient and my struggles as a naturally curvy, Latina woman in a society that wants to change me. I have multiple poems published that focus this topic, which I strove to make public in hopes that they will inspire recovery for those facing mental illness, as well as raise awareness for and de-stigmatize mental illness. I also recently founded and hosted the First Youth Latinx Leadership Conference, a 14-hour long event with the purpose of providing inspiration and empowerment for young Latinx students and raising money and awareness to support undocumented children crossing into the US border. Through this conference, I gained partnerships with Spectrum News 1, NBC4, Sen. Alex Padilla, Rep Grace Napolitano, and many other ground-breaking companies and individuals. I hope to continue these endeavors through college, and use my education to further my career as a writer, entrepreneur, and advocate.

I believe that I was born to learn. In fact, it is this belief that quite literally saved my life. In December of 2017, I was diagnosed with an illness that many doctors did not believe I would recover from: anorexia nerviosa. My illness stemmed from years of low self esteem and lack of self love which was perpetrated by bullying from my peers and abuse from my gymnastics coaches. When I was first admitted to the hospital, I was not expected to make it to the age of 18, and even if I did survive past this milestone, I was told that the best I can hope for would be a couple years of juggling community college with intensive treatments and hospitalizations. However, I am proud to say that I am now turning 19 and completely recovered from my illness. I credit my recovery to my ambition for a better life. I am so passionate about education and knowledge that I refused to accept the future that my illness had in store for me. Of course, much of my recovery is thanks to the life-saving care that I received, but I am a strong believer that hope can be the final cure for any ailment. Thus, my hope for a life full of learning and discovery was the final remedy that allowed me to defeat my illness. I now spend my days reading novels, writing poetry, advocating for immigration reform, volunteering with children, directing multiple organizations, and learning and learning and learning some more. This is a far cry from lying in a hospital bed just a few short years ago, and an even further cry from what everyone expected my life (or lack thereof) would look like after turning 18. The furthest cry, however, would be going to college and majoring in my academic passion of creative writing and Latinx studies, and then going on to becoming a published author.