During my time as an undergraduate student, I have gravitated towards research. Research can be crucial for shedding light on societal issues that often go unnoticed. One of my psychological research interests has been focused on behavioral, mood, and cognitive disorders amongst Black students. Black students are more likely to be misdiagnosed or overlooked for neurological disorders. Bias from teachers, psychiatrists, and other adults makes it hard for Black students struggling with mental disabilities to obtain proper care and an accurate diagnosis. Psychological and educational fields also tend to lack Black workers, which can make it difficult for Black students to share their experiences when they are struggling mentally. I want to produce research on what causes these biases regarding the behavior of Black children who are on the spectrum. What makes it more difficult for Black children to get diagnosed at all, and what systemic barriers must be challenged to ensure that the mental well-being of Black children is cared for? With my research, I want to educate people as well as open up my own therapeutic facility catered towards Black communities, making services for Black children on the spectrum more accessible. Not only do I want to help students, but I also want to help families with neurodivergent children learn about the disorder and how they can help their children through educational programs. I also want to provide seminars and workshops for teachers, psychiatrists, and therapists regarding the racial and systemic barriers Black children often face, and their crucial role in ensuring Black children are no longer overlooked or written off as having “bad behavior.” In my family, many of my cousins, aunts, and uncles have ADHD or autism. I have seen how difficult it can be when family members are uneducated on the disorders, and how both children and parents struggle. I also spent my summer interning at a therapeutic facility dedicated to preparing neurodivergent students before their upcoming school years. I’ve witnessed the stigmas and ignorance around these disorders from adults and other children. Being neurodivergent or having any mental disorder is nothing to be ashamed about, but if people are not given safe spaces, proper guidance, and access to resources, many children and families don’t feel comfortable sharing their experiences or even searching for help. I want to center my life’s work around breaking the stigma that comes with Black children who have mental disorders. I want to prevent the bias they face from the adults around them and get more Black families involved with learning and caring for their neurodivergent children. I want teachers, psychiatrists, and therapists to be a safe haven and mentors for these children, and I also want more to push for Black professionals in these fields. I am still young, but my passion for children has been around as long as I can remember. They are the ones who will continue our legacies and triumphs, but we have to be the ones to help them succeed.

If I could improve my community, I would increase access to nutritious foods and eliminate the food desert. My entire life, my father always had to travel fifteen minutes or more to buy us groceries, and when my family needed a quick meal, the only options available were fast food. As a Psychology major, I’ve learned how important physical health and nutrition are to our mental well-being. Without healthy food, it’s harder to focus, sleep, problem-solve, and process the world around us. Healthy foods also prevent the development of some chronic illnesses, which often take a toll on a family's finances and mental health. Food is also a way to connect a community, and restaurants, bakeries, gardens, and farmers’ markets can help foster stronger ties within a neighborhood. When I look at my community and see the lack of healthy food, groceries, and restaurants, it is disheartening. To combat the inequities in healthy food, I would push for the opening of affordable grocery stores that are accessible to anyone living within a one mile radius. This would ensure that people don’t even have to travel more than ten minutes, let alone drive to purchase groceries. Along with a grocery store, I would start a community garden project through a local neighborhood school. This community garden will help get the young generation involved with food production and environmental protection, and bring the community together as everyone works together to ensure the garden thrives. This garden will also produce healthy vegetables and herbs that everyone can access at a low cost. I would then provide grants for people who want to open restaurants and bakeries so families have a place they can bond together, and to give families options to eat outside of fast food. Educating the community on how to eat healthy, food alternatives, and the impact of unhealthy foods is also important. I would bring in organizations to attend schools, churches, jobs, and other community events to educate people on food and holistic wellness, so when people go to grocery stores or need a quick meal, they are more inclined to choose the healthier alternatives. Food is a human right, and it should be easily accessible. Yet even in my community, which is located in a major city, that isn’t the case. It shouldn’t be an inconvenience to go grocery shopping, yet for many, including my own family, it can be. People deserve to fuel their bodies with vitamins, leafy greens, and whole grains and to visit restaurants where they can laugh over comfort food and shared love. I want to transform my neighborhood’s food desert into a food oasis.

A pessimist is not what I would categorize myself as now, but my younger self was skeptical of everything. Everything presented to me, whether it be food, ideas, or facts, had to go through the multiple wheels and conveyor belts that help my brain function. Believing was never easy for me; it was a challenge and a tedious process, but I never saw a problem with it. I never understood the importance of having blind faith or the importance of listening instead of questioning. Still, my views of life slowly changed the day after I sat by the window, preparing to learn an ancient language from a teacher with the biggest smile and the brightest cardigan. Ms. Strauss was my Latin teacher for five years, and she watched me go from a reclusive seventh grader into a vicarious senior. She had nominated and exposed me to any opportunity she could find and believed in me so deeply when I did not believe in myself. She saw traits in me that I had not learned to master yet and picked up on every sour mood I had from a bad day. She has changed my life in many ways, but turning me into a believer was the most crucial. I am a believer who never lets life's unpredictability or bleakness shake my love for who I am and where I have come from. History was one of my favorite subjects, but when it came to my cultural history I thought, what else is there to learn besides death, colonialism, and struggle? As an African American the same stories, figures, and challenges were repeated. The farther my history goes, the more struggle ensues. I was never ashamed of my history or who I was, but I never knew how amazing, complex, and beautiful ancient African history was. Ms. Strauss was not a traditional Latin teacher, and she believed deeply in the importance of not showing history through one lens. When teaching Latin, she had a unit about the history of Rome and Africa, which opened my eyes to a history I never knew was possible. At first, I was skeptical about the unit; I was afraid it would be just like any other history unit regarding Africa and Europe. Instead, it was filled with so much more. Trade routes, cultural exchanges, African queens who influenced Rome, and learning about ancient African civilizations made me realize that my history is much more than struggle. The struggle is just a fraction of the beauty and complexity of where my ancestors are from. Ms. Strauss went beyond the curriculum to expose me and other students to this history, shaping our lives and giving us more insight than the traditional curriculum. After my first year, I fell deeply in love with Latin and continued to have Ms. Strauss as my teacher until the end of high school. Her class excited me, and as our lessons continued, so did my love for history and faith in my future and the future of my generation and the generations to come. My life will forever be changed because of her lessons, and as I enter college, I will remain confident, knowing that who I am is not defined by my flaws or past but by how I choose to show up in the world despite it. Her impact on my life is engraved with many of the other important people in my life.

The summer’s heat refused to leave the building of my high school, and the AC seemed louder than usual. It was hard to mask my frustration as I tried to focus on Walden, or Life in the Woods, written by Henry David Thoreau, while the sound of the AC flooded my ears. I imagined that Thoreau was used to pestering noises like the AC since he self-exiled himself into the woods. It brought me back to my memories in the forest under the southern stars, and how I lost hours of sleep due to the junebugs, cicadas, and other giant bugs I was not used to seeing in the city. No matter how philosophical Thoreau sounded, I chuckled in disbelief. I could never imagine putting myself in a situation where I had to isolate myself from the modern world. Ironically I ended up doing just that. My isolation began the morning after I learned of the death of my former caregiver. I remember hearing my dad through the door of my bedroom briefly mentioning the words “hospital” “overdose” and “when” but I didn’t register that they would affect me until he came into my room with a solemn look I had never seen before. Since that day, I had fallen into the same routine of only leaving my room for school, food, and to walk my dog. The world around me continued to move forward while I had fallen behind, replaying my father's words like a broken record player. My friends eventually gave up on inviting me anywhere, leaving me like a lamb to the slaughter to my grief. It didn't take long for me to feel worthless, questioning my purpose in the world and wondering if my presence was necessary to anyone. For Thoreau, isolation had turned him into a new man. He had a greater sense of his life's meaning, existence, and purpose. If isolation was so eye-opening for Thoreau, why was it destroying me? Why did isolation make me forget my identity and my purpose in this world? Isolation made me forget that a few months ago, I was the girl who could go up to strangers and instantly turn them into my friend. I was the girl who loved to be a mentor and leader. I was the girl who wasn’t afraid to take risks and be the first to do it. Isolation made me forget how much I thrived in a community, using my knowledge to help others and soaking up new information I learned. Isolation in the woods helped Thoreau learn who he was, but it made me realize who I was not. But Thoreau left the woods at one point, and so did I. My isolation eventually made me crave more sunlight, more friends, and more productivity. The claws of grief began to lose their grasp on me when I joined my first club. Then they struggled to hold me when I became a student tutor. Finally, grief unhanded me when I gave my speech for the student council and then an interview for Cambridge University. The more I dedicated myself to working and helping others, the more determined I was never to let isolation shield me from my purpose. I am a girl who cares deeply about social change and will use my abilities to impact society confidently. The girl I was during grief made the girI I am now more resilient and more determined to keep myself and others from letting life's challenges make them lose sight of their purpose again.

Resilience is like a muscle; it needs to be trained to be stronger because the weaker it becomes, the harder it is to recover from the strains of life. Subconsciously we are always training our resilience as work through the minor inconveniences we experience daily. For most of my life, I felt invincible. I thought that working hard would always give me the results I wanted, and that was true for most of elementary school, but as I got older, I learned that what I wanted was only sometimes guaranteed. High school was filled with many setbacks but many accomplishments as well, and as I celebrate college acceptances, senior activities, and more, there is someone eagerly waiting for her journey to start as well. I was born an only child, and at a young age I accepted that I would never have a sibling, but the birth of my younger cousin quickly changed that. Despite not being my sister, we can never go a day without speaking to each other. Sleepovers, mall trips, vacations, wherever I went, my cousin would be there too. When I first got into high school, she constantly bombarded me with questions about my experience so far, but I never had the heart to tell her how hard I had struggled. Finding my place and purpose in a large school often made me feel like a deer that could not keep up with the herd. I would tell her about my classes and teachers but shy away from conversations about clubs, friends, awards, and activities. Part of me felt like a fraud, not telling the entire truth of my experience, but instead of letting that feeling take over, I decided to take back control of aspects of my life the high school made me think were uncontrollable. I joined clubs, tutored, volunteered, and studied abroad. Not only did I do these things for myself, but I showed my cousin that high school is filled with opportunities waiting for her to seize. I had to learn that waiting for my moments was not enough, but trying to find them made them happen. Now, my cousin is in eighth grade, preparing to walk the same halls I will no longer see. She has a million more questions, and now I am more prepared than ever to be transparent. She has watched me go from a shy freshman to a senior who never has time to sit in a chair, and if my resilience had never been challenged, the shyness may have remained. She has seen my journey and is now eager for her journey at my high school, and I know that even if there are waves in her journey, I have taught her that at the end of a wave, there is peace and that peace is an opportunity to swim.

My eyes could not stay focused on one object in the room. They switched from the monitor on the screen to the eyes of the doctor, then to my untied shoes. My untrained eyes were as sporadic as my disorderly thoughts, but the main question ringing in my ears was,” Where do I go from here?” It was my sophomore year when I was diagnosed with Polycystic ovary syndrome after experiencing symptoms for some time. After the diagnosis, making accommodations to my life was my main priority, but it was more difficult than I had anticipated. Switching medications, constant appointments, and symptoms still not improving were making me feel defeated. I felt that if I could not learn to control my symptoms now, then how could I do it ten or twenty years from now? Control was now the only thing ringing in my ears, and I craved it. I craved something that an autoimmune disorder like PCOS could never allow me to have. Despite the trouble with controlling my health, I felt more in control of other aspects of my life, especially when it came to one of my passions, which was helping others, especially children. I became Student Council Secretary, joined the Student Success Committee, became a freshman teacher’s assistant, and mentored sophomore classes. Despite how unpredictable younger students are, I never felt overwhelmed by it. Their unpredictability challenged me not to get used to routines and normalcy and to be quick on my feet when things change. These traits I lacked when my symptoms disrupted my energy, productivity, and routines. While working with younger students, I realized they often lacked an outlet or place to convey their problems without feeling invalidated. As an upperclassman, I had privileges they did not have because of my time getting to know staff members and my years in leadership positions. Younger students often needed to learn who to speak to or were frequently left defeated because staff did not give their problems first priority. I also remember feeling frustrated as an underclassman because I saw issues in the school but did not know how to tackle them. I wanted younger students to have an outlet while also learning how to grow into student leaders, so along with a few other students, we decided to restart a club that had been abandoned called the Student Voice Committee. At first, recruiting students, creating plans to tackle specific issues, and executing them was difficult. There were times when plans took several meetings to perfect and when plans fell through. The Student Voice Committee differed from my other clubs because it was new, had less structure, and my leadership was essential. Unpredictability in this club was not what I was used to, and my usual patience was being tested. But when it felt like plans would never stay the same, we found a routine that worked, even though it took a lot of time. When reflecting on the success of my club so far, I realized that success will not come without setbacks, and despite the setbacks in my life, I have always overcome them. Dealing with PCOS will have many setbacks, and even though I am still learning to manage it, I know that with time, I will find a routine that works best for me. My symptoms do not have to be controlled because, eventually, I will discover many new ways to deal with their unpredictability. In the Student Voice Committee, we found the answers with time, and with PCOS, time is all I have, and it is all I need.

An antelope calf, small and vulnerable, is injured. Her legs are so weak they may give out at any moment. The rest of the herd cannot wait nor stop for her, and she is forced to watch them fly by. She would rather close her eyes to make her fear and grief more bearable, yet she cannot because indifference would force her to give up instead of trying to keep up with the rushing herd. Growing up, I often felt like an injured calf, living with undiagnosed anxiety yet not knowing how the other kids around me moved through life gracefully like an antelope. I was well aware that something was wrong, yet no one in the herd was willing to stay behind and help me catch up. My experience is unique, but ironically, it is universal because many young black children have feelings and life experiences similar to my own. It is essential to have diversity in STEM fields to protect the lives of people who are often overlooked—black children who are purposefully exposed to inadequacy or ignored by the indifference of their oppressors. I grew up as a black student in a predominantly black urban public school, and I have seen how black children’s emotional/mental health is often not prioritized due to the lack of resources in public schools, especially in black schools, to address these disparities. Black children are frequently misdiagnosed for mood disorders yet underdiagnosed for certain neurological disorders. Students in predominantly black schools also have less access to psychologists and counselors compared to predominantly white schools. Mental health is just one area of the multitude of disparities we can experience, yet only one disparity has a grave effect on the well-being of thousands of people, and to think there are many more. Diversity in STEM can not only bring awareness to overlooked issues, but it can ensure that there are people willing to tackle them. People who will not continue to move forward, knowing others are being left behind. Knowing the hardship of being a black student suffering from mental health issues has made me determined to become a psychologist with a focus in educational psychology so schools are equipped to take care of black students and to research ways society can address growing mental health issues within black communities. When I reflect on the present and prepare for the future, I am no longer an injured calf. I am starting to learn how to leap gracefully through life, and hopefully, I can teach others how to leap as well.

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t wanna be where I am. Countin’ all of the beautiful things I regret. But it’s me who’s been making the bed”- making the bed, Oliva Rodrigo. When listening to the album I had been anticipating since the start of my sophomore year, one song that entered my playlist was “making the bed.” The slow melody and her calming voice instantly made me cling to the song, but the lyrics are what kept it on repeat. Olivia discusses her struggle with accepting her place in the world, the relationships in her life, and the struggle accepting her own actions. The particular lyric where she expresses how she’s upset with who she is despite her being the one who created the version of herself by “...making the bed…” perfectly captures my own teenage experience so far. I am familiar with the feeling Olvia expresses when she begins the lyric by saying,”...I don’t wanna be where I am.” Throughout high school, imposter syndrome plagued my existence. I felt as if no matter how well I performed or how hard I worked, there was always a student outperforming me, and I did not deserve to recognize my strengths. No matter how impressive it was, I was never satisfied with anything I did. Spending the summer at Harvard, getting interviewed by Cambridge University, and studying abroad in the Dominican Republic were events that changed my life experience, but I always left them wishing I had done more. Not only was it hard for me to accept my triumphs, but it was harder for me to accept my mistakes. When my consciousness snuck up on me, self-pity ran rampant in my mind. My constant tendency to analyze my strengths and criticize my weaknesses is similar to when Olivia states,”Countin’ all of the beautiful things I regret.” My regrets were easy to focus on, and when the lyric followed the,”...but it’s me who’s been making the bed,” it stuck with me. My life had been filled with insecurities dictating how I view myself and I allowed it. I did not have to live with regrets, nor did I have to undermine my success, I chose to “make my own bed.” As I continue to age and have new life experiences, I choose to begin each day by having grace with myself. As adolescents, it's easy to have our lives filled with comparison. We judge our value in the eyes of others. The most liberating thing a young person can do is choose to make their bed gently and learn to embrace it even when it’s messy. As I continue to be more intentional with my actions and my thoughts, I have realized that I am allowed to feel not only proud of myself but also confident even when mistakes are made. Making the bed will always resonate with my youth, but it’s also a reminder that the girl I was, I promise myself never to be her again.