Sadness had always been a familiar friend. I had plenty of objective reasons to be sad growing up in extreme poverty. The power being cut off for months at a time, homelessness, and regularly not knowing where diner was coming from. As a young adult in college, the unresolved burden of my past and ever-growing pressures of my present were too much to carry. Sadness morphed into suffocating and crippling depression. Not having family to rely on enough stability to finish school or maintain a job, my world became darker and darker. It became so dim that being passively suicidal was my new baseline. The monsters in my closet as a child now kept me company as I became more and more isolated. On one hand, I blamed myself for not being strong enough. On the other, I could see the systemic inequalities I faced and felt so small against these monoliths. For four years, I oscillated between psychiatric hospitalizations, being on the brink of homelessness again, and failed attempts at going to school or work. As of today, I’ve been able to maintain my housing for two years, work towards a degree in social work and am a proud cat mom. I won’t lie and say “If I could do it again, I would” because I absolutely would not. It’s a terrible thing to be so far removed from the world that you don’t want to be apart of it. It’s incredibly difficult to try your best every day and it is not enough. However, I will admit it has shaped me into the woman I am today. I thought I hated the world because it’s such a terrible place. While that statement has some merit, I realized I harbored so much discontentment because I deeply care for the world and its people. So much so, I’ve decided to dedicate my career caring for others. These experiences showed me bureaucracy’s ugly face, but now more than ever, I am encouraged to challenge and change them. I hesitate to say I’ve broken out of this cycle because given my back ground, the odds are not in my favor. However, if someone came to me with their hearts and spirits as broken as mine once were, then I’d tell them to keep showing up. It doesn’t have to be “insta-worthy” or heroic. I’ve showed up without having showered for a week, with my hair matter then later shaving it all off. There are many instances where all you can do is show up and nothing more. Sometimes you will show up and leave, you will show up and breakdown crying, you will show up and be given every reason not to be there but it still all counts. I kept showing up even when I didn’t know where I was going or why. No one wakes up and decides “I am going to wear a cape and be resilient today!”. Odds are, they showed up when others would not have. That is what I did to overcome the adverse hand of cards I’ve been dealt. My depression was paralyzing and it put me even more at a disadvantage to diverge from the well beaten path of poverty. There are days I lay in bed and have no desire to ever leave my four walls and cats but eventually, I put on some deodorant and take a step. The direction isn’t as imperative as the action itself. I hope one day I can take enough steps to forge a new trail for others to follow.

Growing up I experienced weeks with different utilities cut off. I’ve put cardboard in the bottom of my only pair of shoes because they had holes. I’ve told my mom I was full so she could eat my leftovers when in reality I knew she forfeited her dinner for mine. As I became an adult and held positions in various fields, I was always cautioned to not “care too much” or reprimanded for going beyond the scope of my role to help others. It’s not that I have a problem with authority. It’s that I am compelled to fill in the gaps I see in whatever capacity I can. That has looked like holding conversations with homeless people while others pass them by or finding clothes for the mom raced to be at her child’s side after they were life flighted to our children’s hospital. I am not approaching a career in social work simply because it’s the most “practical” next step or an easy one. I am here because I’ve seen both sides of the social worker role due to my lived experiences. Because of this I am passionate about caring for others and not letting it be shrouded by the bottom line of whatever institution I represent. I aim to create an impact by keeping my reason for going into social work as the driving force of every interaction I have; my love for others. It’s easy to get caught up in the bureaucracy of the world and playing the political game it can be to care for people. As I progress in my social work career, I will do my absolute best to see each client I encounter for the individual they are, worthy of dignity and respect. In a time where it’s so easy to be isolated while standing in a room full of people, how great is it to be seen? Not for what you do and don’t have but for simply existing. The greatest kindness someone has ever done for me, was willingly sharing space with me when I was at my lowest. They did not force platitudes on me or usher me along to the next person to deal with. As simple as it sounds, it’s a radical approach to interacting with the world that I hope others will see and be inspired by. It’s radical simply because it’s can be an emotionally and monetarily expensive thing to do. It may not get me six figures or a library in my name but it would absolutely still be worth it; for the sake of love and for the sake of others.

At nineteen years old I had my first psychiatric hospitalization. I was placed on an involuntary hold in emergency department, three to a room, until I was discharged to an inpatient facility. I wore blue paper scrubs that awkwardly fit too tight and loose. Some were lucky and only stayed a few days while others waited weeks for placements. I was sent to a Crisis Stabilization Unit (CSU) where I shared my time with people detoxing off of drugs & alcohol, needing somewhere to ride out homicidal ideations, or survived suicide attempts. A few days into my stay, when my roommate got discharged, my world shattered. I tried to get it together but couldn’t. Two other women came and held me. They didn’t give me platitudes; they just held me. I was eventually given medication to calm down while everyone went to group therapy. I woke up and joined the rest for supper where they greeted me with hugs. Some even snagged candy from the session for me. Most of it had been sitting there too long and the wrappers were looser than I’d ordinarily feel comfortable with, but it was the only sugar we were allowed to have. We had nothing but our broken hearts and stale candy and they shared both with me. I repeated variations of this cycle five times; one of which being after a suicide attempt. This saga has transformed how I interact with myself and the world around me to a way that is better driven by purpose and compassion. When I returned to my “normal” life, I began to evaluate the relationships I had with other people and realize how different my values and needs were than theirs. I value raw, ugly, and uncomfortable authenticity more than being able to meet a photographable aesthetic. Not only does my spirit need this to feel known and loved but to love and know others as well. I’ve since become more intentional with every encounter I have. Whether it’s a cashier or my neighbor; I engage with them not as a social courtesy, but to build real connections that show someone they are seen. There’s no real way to know my impact but I do know, even if only for a moment, I’ve shown someone compassion that nourishes both our souls. I used to believe I hated the world and my mental health issues kept me from reaching my goals. My goals of being the first in my family to go to college, not needing to skip meals, or planning how to live out of my car. While it’s partially true, a truer statement would be that my anger is secondary to my deep care of the world and its people. I see my mental health journey has actually fine-tuned my goals; which is to be someone who loves herself and others well. I’m not implying I’ve achieved a level of nirvana; but if my goal is to grow for the sake of growth and rooted in the love for others and myself, then I have no better ideology than that of a cancer cell. My journey with experiencing inadequate mental health support is a large part of the reason that has guided me to pursue a career in social work. I plan to become a clinical social worker to gain tools, like various psychotherapeutic modalities, that match my passion to advocate and love people. Moreover, I hope my career can help me gain more agency when sharing my story and inspire real change to our mental health infrastructure and inspire fellow sojourners to stay strong.

I never learned how to climb a tree, swim, or fish. I never went camping, to Disney, or the beach on vacation. I did, however, learn how to get ready for school when the water was cut off and use less than 16.9oz of water. I learned how quiet the house can become without electricity buzzing through its walls in the middle of summer. I thought this was normal because everyone around me has similar experiences. I learned there were very few material things that actually mattered to me the day I came home from school to find 13 years of my life piled in the driveway baking in the lazy Georgian heat, with locks on the doors, and nowhere to call home. When I got to college, it appeared I had a classic case of procrastination but I felt different than my peers. My hair pulling disorder got worse and sleep was as inconsistent as perfect fries at McDonalds. I started taking medication but this was only the beginning of how my mental health really would play out. My grades and attendance started dropping, then I started dropping classes and eventually dropped out of school altogether. I now had the space to evaluate the relationships I had with other people and realized how different my values and needs were than theirs. I value raw, ugly, and uncomfortable authenticity more than being able to meet a photographable aesthetic. I’ve since become more intentional with every encounter I have. Whether it’s a cashier or my neighbor; I engage with them not as a social courtesy, but to build real connections that show someone they are seen. There’s no real way to know my impact but I do know, even if only for a moment, I’ve shown someone compassion that nourishes both our souls. I also realized I didn’t hate the world but actually had a deep love for the hurting people in them. I joined the HamesNet Primary Care Research Network at the Medical College of Georgia Family & Community Medicine department. I collaborate with my research team to identify key areas of issue in our community that have led to poor health outcomes for the population and initiate potential remedies to alleviate its weight. One that I’ve always underscored and advocated for is homelessness. Not only am I pushing for structural changes that can prevent homelessness but I’m challenging the people who have power to remember the code of ethics they swore allegiance to. The rasion d’etre that all social justice warriors should have. It’s easy to get removed from your reason for advocacy when climbing the jungle gym of bureaucracy but we cannot forget who we are doing the work for. We are regularly asked why or how something is important but not who it is for. I am asking who. I am challenging the misconceptions of homeless people and sharing my story. During my four years of homelessness, very few people knew because homelessness isn’t a cardboard box or a shopping cart tucked into the tree line. I use my tattoo of a shopping cart not only to bring healing to my own heart, but to chip away at the stigma homelessness holds in many other hearts. Moreover, I hope furthering my career in social work can help me gain more agency when sharing my story and inspire real change to our country’s homeless infrastructure. Ultimately, I hope to inspire fellow sojourners and be a voice on their behalf.

In the fall of 2023, I presented at the American Public Health Association conference as a co-researcher on my project. I’m with the HamesNet Primary Care Research Network at the Medical College of Georgia Family & Community Medicine department. Since it was at a faraway conference center, I stayed in a nearby hotel. On my way to catch the conference shuttle one morning, I was stopped by a man named Paul. He said, “Excuse me, ma'am. I really hate to bother you, but I've been walking around for the past three days trying to get enough money to buy work shoes for a job I start today at 3 PM. I'm awfully tired, but if I don't have the shoes, I can't start. I have $32.45 and I need $50. Is there any way you can help?” I looked back to see if the shuttle had arrived yet, so then he asked, “Are you here for the conference?” I replied, “Yes, but I'm sure everyone else is much cooler than me.” I was surrounded by people who had enough decorations on their lanyards to reach their knees! He responded, “Oh no, not at all. You're the first one who's actually stopped and talked to me like a normal human. The rest of them just ignore me completely.” My heart broke into pieces, then lit ablaze. Not only had this man been trying his best with the cards in his hands, but the very people doing work that were supposed to support him walked past like he didn’t exist. I gave him some money, wished him luck, and asked if I could shake his hand. The palms of his hands were dry and calloused. The backs were like leather from having to weather his harsh realities. As I shook his hand, he laughed, “Wow, your hands are so soft!” We said our goodbyes as the shuttle pulled up. I took my seat and cried the whole ride. The reason why meeting Paul was so impactful for me was because I’ve experienced homelessness too, so I know the level of invisibility and inadequacy it brings. I collaborate with my research team to identify key areas of issue in our community that have led to poor health outcomes for the population and initiate potential remedies to alleviate its' weight. One that I’ve always underscored and advocated for is homelessness. Not only am I pushing for structural changes that can prevent homelessness but I’m challenging the people who have power to remember the code of ethics they swore allegiance to. The rasion d’etre that all social justice warriors should have. It’s easy to get removed from your reason for advocacy when climbing the jungle gym bureaucracy but we cannot forget who we are doing the work for. We are regularly asked why or how something is important but not who it is for. I am asking who. I am challenging the misconceptions of homeless people and sharing my story. During my four years of homelessness, very few people knew because homelessness isn’t a cardboard box or a shopping cart tucked into the tree line. I use my tattoo of a shopping cart not only to bring healing to my own heart, but to chip away at the stigma homelessness holds in many other hearts. Moreover, I hope furthering my career in social work can help me gain more agency when sharing my story and inspire real change to our country’s homeless infrastructure. Ultimately, I hope to inspire fellow sojourners and be a voice on their behalf.

I was nineteen years old with my first psychiatric hospitalization. I was placed on an involuntary hold so, there I sat in the emergency department, three to a room, until I was discharged to an inpatient facility. I wore blue paper scrubs that somehow fit too tight and loose. Doors were left open with a guard placed in front of the room. Some were lucky and only stayed a few days while others waited weeks for placements. I was sent to a state facilitated Crisis Stabilization Unit (CSU) where I shared my time with people detoxing off of drugs & alcohol, needing a place to ride out homicidal ideations, or survived suicide attempts. A few days into my stay, my roommate got discharged and my world shattered. I went to the bathroom to get it together but couldn’t. Two other women came in and held me. They didn’t give me platitudes or force me to smile; they just held me. Later, I was given medication to calm down while everyone else went to a group therapy session which was really a rotation of the same three people leading AA/NA meetings. I woke up and joined the rest for supper where everyone greeted me with hugs. They snagged candy from the group session to bring back to me. Most of it had been sitting there too long and the wrappers were looser than I’d ordinarily feel comfortable with, but it was the only sugar we were allowed to have. We had nothing but our broken hearts and stale candy and they shared both with me. I repeated variations of this cycle five times; one of which being after a suicide attempt. This saga has totally reformed how I interact with myself and the world around me in a way that is ultimately more intentional and compassionate. I used to believe that my mental health issues were what kept me from reaching my goals. My goals of being the first in my family to go to college, not needing to skip meals, or planning how to live out of my car. While it’s partially true, a truer statement would be that my mental health journey has fine-tuned my goals; which is to be someone who loves herself and others well. I’m not implying I’ve achieved a level of nirvana and curse all worldly comforts. But if my goal is to grow for the sake of growth and not out of love for others and myself, then I have no better ideology or greater purpose than that of a cancer cell. In this season, that looks like continuing my education in social work to be an empathetic advocate for social justice. Other times, it’s been taking on medical debt to see a therapist. In my stays in the CSU, I made connections with people I would have never interacted with. I was shown compassion in a physical and mental state I never thought someone could receive compassion in. When I returned to my “normal” life, I began to evaluate the relationships I had with other people and realize how different my values and needs were than theirs. They weren’t outrageous differences but enough to show we were no longer compatible. I value authenticity. Raw, ugly, and uncomfortable authenticity, more than being able to meet a photographable aesthetic. Not only does my spirit need authenticity to feel known and loved but to love and know others as well. Having been in the deep, dark trenches of the soul, I know how it feels to be surrounded by a group of friends and not feel seen. Moreso, how it feels to show up when you don’t want to, try your best, when you have nothing left, yet still be a ghost; utterly disregarded. I’ve since become more intentional with every encounter I have. Whether it’s the cashier at the restaurant I visit a bit too often, or my neighbor who has considered putting down smoking so he won’t have to face the oppressive summer heat any more than he already has to. I’m intentional to engage with them not as a social curtesy, but to build real connections that show someone they are seen. In a world where it’s never been easier to connect to others, people are feeling so much more invisible and alone. Will my brief conversations prevent them from making a bad decision or help them make a good one? There’s no way to tell; but what I do know is, even only for a moment, I’ve shown someone compassion that nourishes both our souls. A part of my depression not only stemmed from events in my childhood but also the disgust for the world I live in at present. During one admission, a police officer shared my report with his coworkers and they laughed. When I was literally being stripped of my entire identity and control, they joked, “I can think of easier ways to kill yourself”; right in front of me. Another time a patient got into a dispute with a nurse to which she responded, “Look at me and look at you. You’re the one in here and not me.”. Quite frankly, that shit pisses me off and gives me no desire to be a part of such a world; or so I thought. I thought I hated the world and everything in it. Turns out, that hate is a result of the uncontainable love I have for it and its people. So many people walk around with pain and trauma. For some people it makes them a workaholic and dream employee. For others, it makes them an alcoholic and a nightmare to be around. Both are equally as deserving of love even when the approach differs. My mental health epic completely destroyed my view of the world; but as any scorched land, my heart is now all the more able to receive & nourish others while fighting for our right to be a part of it.

My mom picked me up from school and asked how my day was. I cautiously said it was fine because I knew something was wrong but she wouldn’t tell me. As we pulled off the school grounds, she said “We’re moving.” Words came out of my mouth but I didn’t feel like I had any control over them. I whispered “When?” even though I already knew the answer. When she said today, my heart sank even further into my stomach. I asked where, and she said “I don’t know”. I had a six-minute drive to process the news until we arrived home. Or what was once home. In the driveway sat the last thirteen years of my life. Some of it in black bags, most of it thrown haphazardly in a pile, baking in the summer Georgian heat. My mom had to leave for a while so I stayed behind to guard what was left. After she was gone, I went to the backyard and broke down. I cried so hard, no sound escaped out while tears and sweat dampened my shirt. A few weeks later, we started staying in a motel with the assistance of a local co-op. There was a little boy, no older than four years old, who I saw outside playing despite the sweltering heat. Later that evening, I saw him again, now with his mother and the police. I overheard the conversation where the police explained they received a call from the manager about a woman loitering. It turned out they too were homeless and also had help with temporary housing, only they were at the end of their allotted stay. She said what she had to so the police would leave and she could keep her son. Even though allowing them to stay with us could jeopardize our own housing, I couldn’t ignore her pain. All we had that night to share were three cereal bowls and a Lunchable. So we did, along with our motel room and hearts. The next day, the boy told his mom, “When I grow up and own a hotel, I won’t make you stay outside.” I felt my throat tighten and face grow hot. The mom replied, “When you grow up, you gonna do something better than own a raggedy ass hotel.” They departed better rested and a little more hopeful than the night prior. I don’t know what ever became of them, but that interaction reiterated to me how much of an unfair society we live in and how much I love fighting for justice – for all. The thing is, I am not a martyr that marks the final chapter of homelessness in our society. Neither is that little boy, his mom, my mom, the man who lost his job and down on his luck, or the pregnant woman escaping domestic violence. Now in our country there are conversations of banning homeless people from sleeping outside. That’s like telling deer not to cross the road. Homeless people are already stripped of their dignity and voices silenced. The opening lines of the Declaration of Independence says, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”. Has this great country strayed so far from its founding principles? If not for the people, the principal of our nation is why we need to take a proactive approach to the injustice that homelessness is.

I thought it was normal to go months without running water or for the electricity to be turned off in the middle of summer because everyone around me had similar experiences. I grew up in Gwinnett County, a school system that claimed the title of “Best in the Nation” for several years. My high school was comprised mostly of minorities, some undocumented and many still learning English. Most of us were accustomed to supporting ourselves and families, which meant the graduation rate struggled to reach 60%. About a 12-minute drive, literally across the tracks, there was another school whose water polo team was thriving and had a graduation rate that never dipped below 97%. Our basketball coach, who was also our sociology teacher, poignantly reminded us of this in one of his lessons. According to him, we were ungrateful for the opportunities given to us because our aforementioned rival had the same textbooks but made better use of them. For years, I internalized these experiences as personal failures of myself, my family, and my neighbors; that if only we’d worked harder and expressed more gratitude, we’d be better off. Through continuing my education, I aim to utilize my lived experiences and passion for advocacy to become a clinical social worker dedicated to empowering marginalized communities to rewrite the narrative that has been set for them. Having been exposed to the same diverse struggles a lot of others face and strive to overcome, I have a unique talent that enables me to not only help others with compassion but to truly understand the shoes they are walking in. As a social worker, I hope to serve people and fight with them to claim their inherent place in their community. Social workers are here to protest social ostracization and further cultivate a society that has a place for everyone. Becoming a social worker gives me the agency to help them in practical ways while using these skills hopefully establish a healthy human connection with them; even if only for a moment. With so many innovative ways to connect with people and the rapid spread of culture, ideologies, and language, creating a global community has never been easier. For some, global means the 6 apartments in their building with families who share nothing in common. Unfortunately, I am not immune to my prejudices preventing me from being as willing to connect with others as I should be but by using my diverse background and academic knowledge, I hope to push beyond this and be a bride in my community. In my academic absence I have strived to fulfill this value by being a part of the HamesNet Primary Care Research Network with the Medical College of Georgia Family & Community Medicine department. I collaborate with the research team to identify key areas of issue in our community that have led to poor health outcomes for the population and distrust of the medical presence. I work to bridge the gap between the healthcare monolith in our city and the people it has hurt in its evolution. Having been on both sides of this dichotomy, I am able to insert my valuable firsthand experiences. The first step to building this bridge is to listen and respect others for all they do and don’t bring with them. In no corner of the world is this an easy task but I am committed to making a difference even if it’s one person every one hundred years. Above all else, I hope to love them and do it well.

I was three years old when I first started seeing a therapist. My dad left suddenly and I struggled with separation anxiety. Now, at twenty-five years old, I’ve spent more or less thirteen years of my life in therapy and I won’t be leaving any time soon. It’s not because I love going into debt for it or because my therapists have been that amazing, which is actually true. It’s because of the years I spent in therapy not stable enough to face my deep-rooted problems or the times I spent without a therapist drowning and trying to stay alive. Suppressing my own childhood trauma caused me to spiral in my second year of college and drop out several times throughout the following years. My “way out” of poverty was stifled by a neglected and exponentially deteriorating mental health; while my physical health suffered the same if not more. Instead of maintaining my Dean’s List status, graduating within four or five years then pursuing medical school, I spent time paralyzed by anxiety and depression in bed. I spent time wearing blue paper scrubs in government facilitated crisis stabilization units. My identity was no longer a student, it was a chronically mentally ill person. And for a long time, I thought I couldn’t hold both titles at the same time. There are still times when I struggle to merge the two identities but above all else, I realized that ignoring the latter is simply not a possibility. Advocacy for mental health in my community has taken several different forms. While I was in school, I saw a clinician with the student psychological and counseling services. As a long-term proponent of therapy, I was always very open with my friends about my appointments and highly recommended them to her. In the least arrogant manner possible, I initiated a chain of students seeing the same counselor on campus. Many of us barely knew each other but shared one thing in common; we were struggling and needed help. This isn’t to discount the merit of the therapist and her honorable work that has led to many people to love and trust her. With my family, I try to be as open and honest with them about my mental healthy journey despite it not always being well received. I’m also a community co-researcher in the HamesNet Primary Care Research Network with the Medical College of Georgia Family & Community Medicine department. I collaborate with the research team to identify key areas of issue in our community that have led to poor health outcomes for the population and distrust of the medical presence. One of the key things identified amongst gun violence and housing instability, was access to quality mental health care. Mental health is important to me as a student because it has everything to do with the type of student I am and why I am a student. In experiencing the result of inadequate mental health support and fighting to overcome it, I am led me to pursue a career in social work. This is further fueled by a profound understanding of trauma, resilience, and the necessity of compassion. Through continuing my education, I aim to utilize my lived experiences and passion for advocacy to become a clinical social worker dedicated to empowering marginalized communities and push for systemic change.