The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. That left me exposed to the ghostly ascent of the dementor-like figure, dressed in black, from the straight-backed chair near me. She glided over to where I hid beneath a side table and demanded I stop crying. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. Along the way, I learned of heroes that made mistakes, thieves that saved the world, and tired, broken old soldiers that destroyed curses. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. That left me exposed to the ghostly ascent of the dementor-like figure, dressed in black, from the straight-backed chair near me. She glided over to where I hid beneath a side table and demanded I stop crying. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. Along the way, I learned of heroes that made mistakes, thieves that saved the world, and tired, broken old soldiers that destroyed curses. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

It sometimes shocks me that my aunts and uncles are as popular with people as they are. First generation immigrants, they knew that nothing short of perfection in both their grades and resumes would send them through to their degrees. I don't remember one night all four of my aunts were not clustered in their shared room, each leaning and agonizing over their separate books. The competition between the age groups was fierce; my mother, who was herself a grade ahead, would complain about having to share a math classroom with her younger brother. These stories instilled in me an innate understanding of what standards were expected, and that understanding followed me into my highschool years. Here I continued on the narrow-minded path that education is a vessel through which to earn good grades. That same year however, a new English teacher began challenging my comfortably established routine. He began with assigning reading assignments I had never before encountered, his grading heavily based on each individual's participation during the in-class discussion. For the first time, I was forced to think critically about every small detail in an assigned work, and subsequently give my best effort to achieve success. Shockingly, I enjoyed it - not only that, but my grades began to creep up. Each week we would delve into a new society, a new religious principle, a new condemnation of certain persistent ideologies, and I could find nothing to complain about. This class taught me that education is a source with which to expand your outlook on the world and build a means of understanding the society you live in. So while I will never completely let go of my family's perfectionist policies, I have learned to put development into perspective and rediscovered the joy I once got from learning.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

In my family, dinner time has always been a requirement. This may sound nice, but when seated at the table is an opinionated political advisor, a mother more concerned with keeping the peace than responding to his proclamations, and four kids of varying temperaments, each meal is in danger of erupting into heated debate. My father is kind, generous, and the most stubborn man you will ever meet. Having worked as a senior advisor to the post-invasion government of Iraq, where he learned to strengthen his stances and [how to] impart them onto others, his ideals have become even more impossible to change. A board member at our local mosque and devout Muslim, he was swept up by the debates around social issues in our country and has begun leaning to the right. Inversely, I believe that - based on how our faith aligns with current political beliefs - the same social issues should push our support to the left. Being that I am the oldest and most similarly obstinate, we often clash, each individual fiercely defending their view. So when, on such a night, I glanced over to see his head bend and his eyes twitch into a discreet smile, I knew we would be in for something. “Have you heard about this Adam Tate?” “Andrew.” “Yes, Andrew. He’s recently converted to Islam, and people won't leave him alone about it.” I immediately shot back with an analysis of Tate’s misogynistic teachings, how he had begun targeting a younger demographic, and how his newfound ‘religiosity’ is allowing his message space to seep into our community. He scoffed at this ‘absurd’ analysis, immediately sidetracking the conversation - through a series of questions - to a discussion on freedom of speech. Angry and flustered, I responded, when suddenly the conversation turned left again to the free market and its role in keeping a balanced society. My voice rose with my frustration, the higher it climbed, the more disjointed my argument became. It was only when he uttered a dismissive chuckle at a wild reply to his unbalanced questions that I had eyes for the rest of the table: a sister rolling her eyes, another attempting to follow the conversation, and my younger brother, following with rapt attention. Hassan had just turned 11, which meant that he now had access to the internet and all it has to offer. Knowing that he was exposed to Tate’s ideas online and realizing that my father’s calm demeanor made his argument seem more rational, I felt a responsibility to change my approach. I took a breath and started over, slowing my speech and quelling my anger. As my father continued to try derailing the conversation, I stopped taking the bait and focused on the topic at hand. Though I might never know if what I said impacted my brother, this conversation showed me how a successful argument depends on more than accuracy and content. In truth, it relies heavily on your tone, audience, and the methods with which you make your case.

It sometimes shocks me that my aunts and uncles are as popular with people as they are. First generation immigrants, they knew that nothing short of perfection in both their grades and resumes would send them through to their own degrees. I don't remember one night where all four of my aunts were not clustered in their shared room, each leaning and agonizing over their separate books. School seemed to take up their lives and I both dreaded and stood in awe of the coursework I would someday - very very far away, I was sure - have to undertake. The competition between the age groups was fierce; my mother, who was herself a grade ahead, would complain about having to share a math classroom with her younger brother. These stories instilled in me an innate understanding of what standards were expected, and that understanding followed me into my highschool years. Here I continued on the narrow-minded path that education is a vessel through which to earn good grades. I started focusing only to the point where I understood the topic enough to complete the homework and ace the tests. The classes I once looked forward to felt pointless; and terrifyingly, math - the only subject I was forced to study on my own time in order to succeed - became something to look forward to. My grades began stagnating, and I could find no motivation to raise them. This got worse when we started online classes in 2020 where I was no longer even forced to focus on what the teacher was saying in class - I could search up a summary on the topic afterwards and complete the assignments that way. That same year however, a new English teacher began challenging my relatively successful, comfortably established routine. His curriculum was unlike the other teachers’, where a quick look at the coursework before class would leave you ready for the lesson. He began with assigning reading assignments of the sort I had never before encountered, his grading heavily based on each individual's participation during the in-class discussion. For the first time since I had started high school, I was forced to think critically about every small detail in an assigned work, and subsequently give my best effort in order to achieve success. Shockingly, I enjoyed it - not only that, but my grades began to creep up. No matter the difficulty of each reading or the writing assignments that followed them, I reveled in the effect these stories had on my worldview. Each week we would delve into a new society, a new religious principle, a new condemnation of certain persistent ideologies, and I could find almost nothing to complain about. His curriculum opened my eyes to many concepts so fascinating that I was compelled to look into them on my own time, and allowed me a glance into . This class taught me that education is a source with which to expand your outlook on the world and build a means of understanding the society you live in. So while I will never completely let go of my family's perfectionist policies, I have learned to put development into perspective, and through this, rediscovered the joy I once got from learning.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.

The magical worlds I have visited through my books have taught me three rules: nothing happens by chance; no interaction is as simple as it seems; and little girls' grandfathers don’t just die when they are five-years-old. Rather, as in House of Many Ways, a girl’s grandfather is an ever-present figure, an enduring ally, encouraging her to pursue her interests even when her own parents consider them scandalous. So, when the nurse told us that my grandfather was gone, I didn’t believe her. My sister and I had just brought up a bowl of atrocious hospital mashed potatoes for him to make fun of—what would become of them now? I burst into tears, focusing more on the nurse’s words than my surroundings. That left me exposed to the ghostly ascent of the dementor-like figure, dressed in black, from the straight-backed chair near me. She glided over to where I hid beneath a side table and demanded I stop crying. From that moment on, more family friends would push me to accept reality and move on. Instead, I retreated further into my stories, building a fortress of beautiful worlds and happy endings. Through my books, I dodged pain and embraced success. Along the way, I learned of heroes that made mistakes, thieves that saved the world, and tired, broken old soldiers that destroyed curses. In these stories, humans were nuanced individuals, always defined by more than their struggles. They made it easy to see the humanity of repentant murderers and corrupt leaders. But I continued to steer clear of any stories that risked opening any deep wounds. That was until the door to my fifth-grade classroom flung open and I watched Andrea virtually strut into my life. She had beautiful curly hair, a cunning countenance, and all the confidence in the world. She sat next to me and, sharing quiet comments and muffled snickers, offered me a reprieve from the burping competitions the class of mostly boys seemed otherwise interested in. Andrea didn’t know any of the books I’d mention but loved listening to me retell the various characters’ struggles and ultimate triumphs; the final, painful fights before the hero prevails. It wasn’t until one day sitting alone on a long stone bench behind the school that Andrea started telling me a story. It was not the type of story I would reach for. In fact, it was the type I actively avoided; the type of story that once pushed me to crawl under a table in the hospital’s waiting room, in denial. However, hiding was not an option here, nor one I’d even considered. Andrea’s own story – personal struggles of abuse at the hands of a parent, of self-harm – told stoically, though in slight whispers, allowed me a different perspective of the world I’d been actively avoiding any exposure to. Her strength in confronting her hardships, and ambition to succeed despite them, revealed to me the growth and maturity that comes with trauma. Since then, many friends have shared their painful secrets with me, often within only a few days of meeting me. Though my extensive reading was meant to shield me from tragedy, I later realized that it had in fact equipped me with the tools needed to empathize, to ease life’s burdens from others in any way possible. Stories like And Then There Were None would expose me to the horrors people are capable of, as well as the mentality needed to justify such acts. On the other hand, observing both the innocence and strength in my friends, and appreciating how they have helped me come to terms with my own struggles, has inspired me to recognize the possibilities in mental health development. As a clinical psychologist with a focus on adolescents, I intend to devote my life to working directly with children and young adults, listening to them weave their stories, and find strength in their own pain.