There wasn’t a sudden switch as to when I felt as though I couldn’t breathe in big crowds, was physically unable to talk in front of groups of people, or felt my chest caving in on itself whenever I had to order food. It happened gradually, but it undeniably happened, and I’ve had to deal with the crippling symptoms ever since. My life has been split into two distinct eras, before anxiety and after anxiety, separated by the seemingly unbridgeable and unapproachable void of an anxiety disorder. Before social anxiety, I used to be able to make friends at the drop of a hat. I was confident, joyful, and said hi to everyone that I knew in the hallways. I was funny, popular, and involved in everything. Then everything changed. I don’t know when, but I do know that the effects of social isolation due to the COVID-19 virus and trauma from my childhood years caught up to me, slowly but surely. It was like the tide was imperceptibly pulling back until a wave of anxiety rushed towards me and my feet were stuck in the sand. The water hit me full force, knocking me off my feet and tumbling me around until I didn't know up from down. My life became a turbulent sea of uncertainty, and the water that was anxiety has filled my lungs every day since then. I was officially diagnosed my freshman year of high school. My parents, who didn’t want anything to be “wrong” with their child, reluctantly brought me to a psychiatrist after I had immediately broken down crying in the safety of our car for the umpteenth time after the school bell rang. The formal words of my diagnosis were “social and general anxiety disorder comorbid to unspecified trauma and stressor-related disorder”. I simply called it “Trisha”. For the longest time, Trisha made me sit alone at lunch, hiding in the bathroom, because I was too scared to let anyone see me eat. Trisha sat on my chest and prevented me from taking a full breath, whispered in my ear that people were watching my every move, and convinced me to engage in self-destructive behaviors. Over time, I learned to cope by floating, literally, in the dangerous waters of social anxiety. Dissociation replaced Trisha, and I went from feeling everything, all the time, all at once to experiencing nothing at all. At first, it was a relief. I no longer cared what anyone thought of me, because I wasn’t “me” anymore. I was just a body, drifting in the once-overpowering tide of life. I couldn’t feel the icy coldness of the water seeping into my bones, slowly killing me from the inside out, or the dangerous sharks that nibbled away until I was no longer whole. I was no longer me. I didn’t know who, or what, I was. My parents decided to make a change. They saved me from being pulled into the depths. I started on medication and started going to therapy. Slowly but surely, the voice of Trisha backed down, the icy waters retreated, and the parts of me that were eaten away by the sharks were replaced with love. I’ve worked hard to get to the spot that I’m in currently, and I couldn’t be prouder of myself. Pursuing a college degree, moving away from my family and friends (my support system), and turning to a fresh page of my life will help me prove to myself that I am capable of so much more than Trisha tells me I am. It will help me move out of my comfort zone, which I’ve struggled a lot with for the past three years of my life. I’ve constantly been told by that little yet loud voice in the back of my head that nothing I do will ever be good enough, so I think that it will be really healthy and beneficial for me to pursue a degree that focuses on helping other people, because then I can stop focusing so much on myself and start focusing on other people. I’m under no illusions that my life is suddenly going to be easier in college, and that anxiety is something that I’m going to outgrow. Instead, I’m hopeful that it will give confidence necessary to move on from the past and look to the future. I’ve been drowning in the shallow end for so long, but now that I’ve learned to swim, I’m ready to conquer the deep end. I’m super excited to study Early Childhood Education with an emphasis in Special Education in college so that I can help people like me learn how to adapt and communicate. I believe that equipping children with the skills necessary to share their wants and needs in the world is extremely important for not only their communication skills but also their mental health. I’m looking forward to teaching kids to speak and advocate for themselves in their own way, and give them a voice because everyone deserves to be heard. Thank you for your consideration!

Words have always been hard. I was born with a severe bilateral cleft lip and palate due to an unknown genetic condition, which led to a structural speech disorder that has required over 10 major surgeries and 10 years of speech therapy to correct. Growing up, I struggled to talk, so I relied heavily on sign language and facial expressions to convey my wants and needs. As I got older, as a result of said speech disorder, I developed an anxiety disorder that led to selective mutism. It was incredibly frustrating to have so many thoughts and feelings and not be able to share them with others. In my head, my words were perfectly coherent, but when I opened my mouth, either nothing came out or a garbled mess of syllables spilled from my lips. So, I adapted. I discovered ways of communicating that didn’t require me to talk. I dove into community service; volunteering monthly at a homeless shelter, presenting my school with different fundraising opportunities for nonprofit organizations such as Smile Train, Lifewater International, and To Write Love On Her Arms. I co-lead my school’s Service Leadership class, which teaches students how to serve their community using the gifts and abilities that they have. I’m a leader for my school’s Mission Alaska team. I was nominated for Service Ambassador at Homecoming. I’ve been incredibly blessed to have a supportive group of friends and family who have had my back and raised their own voices for me when I was unable to do it myself. They’ve had such a huge impact on my life, and I look forward to being able to advocate for people like me who don’t have that same kind of support system. People don’t realize how important communication is until they’re stripped of it. I’ve experienced the condescending feeling of being “less than” because my voice was different from other peoples’ for most of my life, so I want to help others who experience it, too. I’ve had the privilege of working with amazing kids who have developmental, behavioral, and mental disabilities as a form of exposure therapy. Not only have they helped my words come out easier, but I have been able to help them discover their own ways to communicate as well, whether it be through facial expressions, laughs, or iPads. These amazing opportunities that I’ve been presented with have helped me gain the confidence and leadership skills necessary to tackle my next step: secondary education at a college where people have never met me and don’t know my story. I might look and sound different from the typical leader since I don’t talk much, but I’ve learned that it’s okay to break the mold and to be your own person because everyone has something to contribute. I’m super excited to study Early Childhood Education with an emphasis in Special Education in college so that I can help people like me learn how to adapt and communicate. I believe that equipping children with the skills necessary to share their wants and needs in the world is extremely important for not only their communication skills but also their mental health. Receiving the Sloane Stephen’s Doc & Glo Scholarship will help me teach kids to speak and advocate for themselves in their own way, and give them a voice because everyone deserves to be heard. Thank you for your consideration!

Words have always been hard. I was born with a severe bilateral cleft lip and palate due to an unknown genetic condition, which led to a structural speech disorder that has required over 10 major surgeries and 10 years of speech therapy to correct. Growing up, I struggled to talk, so I relied heavily on sign language and facial expressions to convey my wants and needs. As I got older, as a result of said speech disorder, I developed an anxiety disorder that led to selective mutism. It was incredibly frustrating to have so many thoughts and feelings and not be able to share them with others. In my head, my words were perfectly coherent, but when I opened my mouth, either nothing came out or a garbled mess of syllables spilled from my lips. So, I adapted. I discovered ways of communicating that didn’t require me to talk. I dove into community service; volunteering monthly at a homeless shelter, presenting my school with different fundraising opportunities for nonprofit organizations such as Smile Train, Lifewater International, and To Write Love On Her Arms. I co-lead my school’s Service Leadership class, which teaches students how to serve their community using the gifts and abilities that they have. I’m a leader for my school’s Mission Alaska team. I was nominated for Service Ambassador at Homecoming. I’ve been incredibly blessed to have a supportive group of friends and family who have had my back and raised their own voices for me when I was unable to do it myself. They’ve had such a huge impact on my life, and I look forward to being able to advocate for people like me who don’t have that same kind of support system. People don’t realize how important communication is until they’re stripped of it. I’ve experienced the condescending feeling of being “less than” because my voice was different from other peoples’ for most of my life, so I want to help others who experience it, too. I’ve had the privilege of working with amazing kids who have developmental, behavioral, and mental disabilities as a form of exposure therapy. Not only have they helped my words come out easier, but I have been able to help them discover their own ways to communicate as well, whether it be through facial expressions, laughs, or iPads. These amazing opportunities that I’ve been presented with have helped me gain the confidence and leadership skills necessary to tackle my next step: secondary education at a college where people have never met me and don’t know my story. I might look and sound different from the typical leader since I don’t talk much, but I’ve learned that it’s okay to break the mold and to be your own person because everyone has something to contribute. I’m super excited to study Early Childhood Education with an emphasis in Special Education in college so that I can help people like me learn how to adapt and communicate. I believe that equipping children with the skills necessary to share their wants and needs in the world is extremely important for not only their communication skills but also their mental health. Receiving the Joeiful Connections Scholarship will help me teach kids to speak and advocate for themselves in their own way, and give them a voice because everyone deserves to be heard. Thank you for your consideration!

The anesthesia feels cold as it enters my bloodstream through the IV, and I immediately taste its sickly sweetness at the back of my throat. I clutch my mom’s hand as my vision spins faster and faster, the details blurring until everything becomes a haze. The doctors ask me to count down from ten. Ten… nine… eight… seven… nothing. Darkness swallows me whole, and I desperately pray I’ll wake up again. Surgery is, for lack of a better word, terrifying. It’s difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t experienced it. To me, the worst part is the moment I’m put to sleep because it feels as though I might never wake up. Each time I’m under general anesthesia, I feel suspended in a fragile space somewhere between life and death. The temporary loss of bodily autonomy, the overwhelming vulnerability, and the invasion of privacy only compound the fear. I was born with a rare, severe variation of a bilateral cleft lip and palate, half of an upper jaw, and an underdeveloped throat due to an unpredictable genetic syndrome. Over the course of my 17 years, I’ve had more than 20 major surgeries to help me eat, drink, sleep, breathe, and speak. These surgeries have saved my life and allowed me to experience the world as normally as possible. Ironically, the very procedures that enable me to live often make me feel as though I’m dying. With the support of my friends, family, and teachers, I’ve survived school and the oftentimes harsh and insensitive words and questions of my classmates. I’m graduating with high honors, a member of NHS, and over 400 community service hours, most of which were served at a special education school for kids with developmental disabilities. What began as a struggle for survival slowly evolved into an opportunity to thrive as an active participant in both my life and my community. Though I wouldn’t wish the emotional, mental, and physical pain caused by my birth defect—or the surgeries required to treat it—on anyone, I am grateful for what I have learned. I realized long ago that neither my parents nor I could have prevented this condition, nor could I “fix” it overnight. So, I chose to focus on the positives: my otherwise healthy body and the chance to live a life I’ve fought so hard for. My experiences have taught me empathy for anyone facing hardship, especially those with physical disabilities. They’ve inspired me to advocate for people with my condition in developing countries and raise funds for Operation Smile at my school. Through these actions, I’ve learned the power of community and how small efforts can make a significant impact. The many surgeries I’ve endured, particularly the recent one in Taiwan, have given me not only a unique story but also an opportunity to grow in resilience and faith. These experiences have shaped my determination to make the most of my life—because others were determined to give me the best life possible. I aspire to study biochemistry and genetics, with the goal of researching congenital defects like my own. I hope to contribute to finding more effective treatments or even preventative solutions so future generations don’t have to endure the same struggles that many cleft patients face. My personal journey has also opened my eyes to the lack of mental health support for children undergoing invasive surgeries at such a young age. I’m committed to raising awareness about the emotional trauma that these children experience, and to advocating for families whose voices often go unheard as they fight for their children’s lives.

The anesthesia feels cold as it enters my bloodstream through the IV, and I immediately taste its sickly sweetness in the back of my throat. I clutch my mom’s hand as my vision spins faster and faster until the details blur together and everything turns fuzzy. The doctors tell me to count down from ten. Ten... nine... eight... seven... nothing. Darkness swallows me whole as I desperately pray to wake up again. Surgery is, for lack of a better word, terrifying. It’s difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t experienced it. To me, the worst part is being put to sleep because it feels as though I’ll never wake up. Every time I’m under general anesthesia, I’m helplessly suspended in a precarious state somewhere between life and death. The temporary lack of bodily autonomy, the forced vulnerability, and the invasion of privacy certainly don’t add to the appeal either. I was born with a rare, severe variation of a bilateral cleft lip and palate, half of an upper jaw, and an underdeveloped throat due to an unpredictable genetic syndrome. In my 17 years, I’ve undergone over 20 major surgeries to help me eat, drink, sleep, breathe, and talk. In other words, these surgeries have saved my life and allowed me to experience it somewhat normally. It’s somewhat ironic that the surgeries that allow me to live also make me feel as though I’m dying. At the end of my junior year of high school, my surgeons informed me that if I didn’t undergo a hard palate repair and reconstruction of my nose, lip, and soft palate within the next year, my bones and tissue wouldn’t be as malleable, and the chances of success for the mandatory surgery would drop considerably. So, a few weeks before my senior year began, I traveled to Taiwan, where they are the leading experts in tissue reconstruction. The surgery itself lasted only six hours, but the recovery—both physical and mental—took months. I started my final year of high school with a brace over my nose, unable to eat solid foods, unable to smile, and struggling to articulate clearly. However, with the support of my friends, family, and teachers, I slowly healed. I transitioned from merely surviving high school to thriving and becoming an active participant in my life and community. Although I wouldn’t wish the emotional, mental, and physical pain caused by my birth defect—or the surgeries required to treat it—on anyone, I’m grateful for the experiences. I learned long ago that there was nothing my parents could have done to prevent it, nor could I “fix” it right away. So, the least I could do was be grateful for my otherwise healthy body and live the life I had worked so hard to attain to the fullest. My experiences have made me more empathetic toward anyone enduring hardship, especially those with physical disabilities. They’ve inspired me to advocate for others with my condition in third-world countries and to raise funds at my school for Operation Smile. The numerous surgeries I’ve endured, especially the most recent one in Taiwan, have given me a unique testimony and an opportunity to grow in both resilience and faith. I’m determined to make the most of my life because others were determined to give me the best life possible.

I was born with a label and a birth defect. Specifically, “complete bilateral cleft lip and alveolus cleft palate of a severe grade”. I won the genetic lottery and allowed my life to be dictated by a diagnosis. Growing up, my life was set in survival mode as my parents and doctors raced against time to “fix” me before I got too old to respond to the surgeries. I didn’t have the time to figure out what my passions were because I had another surgery, another recovery time, another appointment, another session of speech therapy. I wasn't able to play sports, eat most food, hang out with friends, or communicate clearly. Because of this birth defect and my lack of bodily autonomy, I let others dictate what success meant to me. “The surgery, at last, was a success.” My doctor intoned as he shook my parents’ hands. “Great job today! We finally hit that “k” sound, so I’d say that this session was a success.” My speech therapist talked over my head to my beaming mother. “The mandibular jaw distraction worked, so I’m hoping that this set of braces will be successful.” My orthodontist stated as he stared at the x-ray. I’ve come to realize that life isn’t fun living in survival mode, and I don’t like having others tell me what I can and can’t do. So, I’ve started to take back my life and make it my own. I’ve stopped allowing other people to tell me what I need to do to be successful, and I’ve started celebrating every single thing that I accomplish. I’ve spent so much time waiting for others to tell me what success means that I never realized that my definition of success should be specifically tailored to my unique experiences and my definition alone. So here it is, my definition of success that I fought my entire life to discover: doing something that you love that helps other people. It’s simple, but then again, so are the most important things in life. This opportunity will help me achieve success because I’m hoping that I’ll finally discover my passions in college. I’ll be independent and have the opportunity to make my own choices for once in my life. Most importantly, though, I’ll study my hardest to become the best child life specialist that I can be in order to help other people in my situation find their own definition of success and be able to live life to the fullest. I was exposed to a side of healthcare that isn’t often considered: the neglect of the mental health of children as they endure medical trials. As a child life specialist, I’ll be able to advocate for the wants and needs of kids as they overcome the challenges of life. Growing up in the hospital has a way of making you feel like you’re a specimen instead of a human, and I want to change that. I want to make sure that every single child that I work with knows that they are a miracle, that they are more than capable of doing great things, and that they, too, can be successful in anything that they put their mind to. Thank you for your consideration.

There wasn’t a sudden switch as to when I felt as though I couldn’t breathe in big crowds, was physically unable to talk in front of groups of people, or felt my chest caving in on itself whenever I had to order food. It happened gradually, but it undeniably happened, and I’ve had to deal with the crippling symptoms ever since. My life has been split into two distinct eras, before anxiety and after anxiety, separated by the seemingly unbridgeable and unapproachable void of an anxiety disorder. Before social anxiety, I used to be able to make friends at the drop of a hat. I was confident, joyful, and said hi to everyone that I knew in the hallways. I was funny, popular, and involved in everything. Then everything changed. I don’t know when, but I do know that the effects of social isolation due to the COVID-19 virus and trauma from my childhood years caught up to me, slowly but surely. It was like the tide was imperceptibly pulling back until a wave of anxiety rushed towards me and my feet were stuck in the sand. The water hit me full force, knocking me off my feet and tumbling me around until I didn't know up from down. My life became a turbulent sea of uncertainty, and the water that was anxiety has filled my lungs every day since then. I was officially diagnosed my freshman year of high school. My parents, who didn’t want anything to be “wrong” with their child, reluctantly brought me to a psychiatrist after I had immediately broken down crying in the safety of our car for the umpteenth time after the school bell rang. The formal words of my diagnosis were “social and general anxiety disorder comorbid to unspecified trauma and stressor-related disorder”. I simply called it “Trisha”. For the longest time, Trisha made me sit alone at lunch, hiding in the bathroom, because I was too scared to let anyone see me eat. Trisha sat on my chest and prevented me from taking a full breath, whispered in my ear that people were watching my every move, and convinced me to engage in self-destructive behaviors. Over time, I learned to cope by floating, literally, in the dangerous waters of social anxiety. Dissociation replaced Trisha, and I went from feeling everything, all the time, all at once to experiencing nothing at all. My parents decided to make a change. They saved me from being pulled into the depths. I started on medication and started going to therapy. I’ve worked hard to get to the spot that I’m at currently, and I couldn’t be prouder of myself. Pursuing a college degree, moving away from my family and friends (support system), and turning to a fresh page of my life will help me prove to myself that I am capable of so much more than Trisha tells me I am. It will help me move out of my comfort zone, which I’ve struggled a lot with for the past three years of my life. I believe that it will be beneficial for me to pursue a degree that focuses on helping other people, because then I can stop focusing so much on myself and start focusing on other people. I’m hopeful that becoming independent in college will give me the confidence necessary to move on from the past and look to the future. I’ve been drowning in the shallow end for so long, but now that I’ve learned to swim, I’m ready to conquer the deep end.

~PAGES OF RESILIENCE~ Directed by: Tessa Fieldhouse Produced by: Tessa Fieldhouse Edited by: Tessa Fieldhouse Casting by: Allison Fieldhouse Top Movie Critics Reviews: “This movie is really good. I really like the plot. Probably because I’m in it.” - Molly Fieldhouse “Wow, so inspirational. I can’t wait to write my own movie to beat Tessa.” - Clara Fieldhouse Rotten Tomatoes: 5/5 on the tomatometer DOCTOR’S OFFICE– DAY YOUNG TESSA sits in a chair in a doctor’s office waiting room, holding a book titled “Wonder” by R.J. Palacio. Her mom sits next to her, scrolling on her phone. The clock over the reception counter reads “5:39”. The door opens, and a nurse pokes her head out. NURSE (impatiently) Tessa Fieldhouse? The speech therapist is ready for you. Tessa hops out of the chair and looks to her mom, who smiles encouragingly and holds out her hand for the book. Tessa pretends not to see her and, clutching the book to her chest, follows the nurse into the room. SPEECH THERAPIST BECKY Hey Tessa! Welcome back! I see you brought another book with you, what’s it called this time? YOUNG TESSA “Wonder”. You’ve probably heard of it. They made a movie about it. Mom said that I can watch it one day. Have you seen it? SPEECH THERAPIST BECKY I have. That movie reminded me a lot of you, actually. Because both you and Auggie aren’t ordinary but extraordinary. (Tessa giggles) Have you been working on your word list? YOUNG TESSA Yeah. My mom makes me practice every day. Some of them are too hard for me, though, and I usually skip ‘em. SPEECH THERAPIST BECKY That’s okay. Words can be hard sometimes, but that’s why I’m here. What game do you wanna play today? BECKY and TESSA walk over to the game cabinet, stuffed to the brim with dozens of card games, board games, and everything in between. Tessa thinks for a moment, then grabs Chutes and Ladders. They sit down on the floor and set up the pieces. SPEECH THERAPIST BECKY Alright, you can spin first after you do 5 “g” words. Go! YOUNG TESSA (thinking, hesitantly) Go… green… grape… glass… goat. SPEECH THERAPIST BECKY Great try! Remember to hit the back of your tongue to the roof of your mouth. Like this. (Becky opens her mouth and emphatically lifts her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Tessa tries to copy) YOUNG TESSA Ms. Becky, what does extraordinary mean? SPEECH THERAPIST BECKY It means that something is special. Something out of the ordinary. YOUNG TESSA So I’m extraordinary because I was born wrong? SPEECH THERAPIST BECKY Oh, sweetie, you weren’t born wrong. You were just born a little different. There’s nothing you or your parents could have done about it. Sometimes the world is mean like that. It hits you hard, and it’s up to you to hit back. I called you extraordinary because you pack one heck of a punch. Soon, the world won’t know what hit it! YOUNG TESSA Yeah! Look out world! (quietly) That’s why I like books. The people in them are strong and brave. Like Auggie. In my book, "Wonder". He was born different, too, and he got a standing ovation because of his bravery. I want to get a standing ovation one day. SPEECH THERAPIST BECKY Tessa, you’ll definitely get a standing ovation one day. You’re gonna change the world. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Trust in yourself and you can do anything. YOUNG TESSA Anything... I wanna help people! People like me who are born different! And I want to write a book all about it so people will read it and maybe give me a standing ovation. SPEECH THERAPY Go get 'em, tiger. Hey! That's a great word to practice! Try it out! The lights dim and Tessa's voice, trying to pronounce "tiger", fade into the background. And… scene! El fin.

Growing up, my parents instilled in me the importance of giving back to my community. They taught me that I should always look for ways throughout my day to help others, even if it’s a small thing, because you never know what other people are going through. They taught me to always love and never judge. They taught me that I should bless others with the blessings that God has given me. My passion for community service started at a very young age. I was seven years old when my parents brought me along to an early morning church event that cooked and served breakfast for homeless neighbors on the first Saturday of every month. Now, ten years later, I’ve been given the privilege to help introduce and run that very same monthly event for classmates to show up and volunteer for service hours. I was 15 years old when I applied for and was accepted into a highly competitive mission group at my school. I was 16 years old when I was hand-selected by the principal to be on the board for my school’s Service-Leadership class. I was 17 years old when I was nominated for service ambassador for homecoming. Growing up, I wanted to be a special education teacher like my dad, so I volunteered at a local school for kids with developmental disabilities for a year and a half. I wanted to be a social worker like my aunt, so every Christmas I grabbed as many Operation Christmas Child boxes as my parents would let me. I wanted to be a teacher like my mom, so I helped tutor the neighborhood kids in science and history. I wanted to be an entrepreneur like my uncle, so I started a lawn- mowing business where I mowed lawns for free. Surprisingly, that business didn’t last very long. I’ve had many, many interests throughout my life, switching from one to another at a break-neck speed that gave my family whiplash. Through it all, though, I’ve learned several important lessons: all people are deserving of love and respect, regardless of their appearance; everyone deserves a second chance in life; put other people first; and, if I’m going to start a business, I at least need to charge some money in order to make a profit. Officially, I’m listed as an “undeclared” major on all of my college applications. Not because I don’t have any passions, but because I don’t want to limit myself into a box so early on in my adult life. Also because I’m expecting to change majors as fast as I change interests. In the future, I hope to pursue a career that will help people and put a smile on their face. I want to use the gifts that God has given me to love others well. I’m looking forward to the next chapter of my life and I’m excited to see how God will work through me.

My hands shook as I entered my counselor’s office in ninth grade. I had always been afraid of her before, always thought she looked like Mrs. Dodds from Percy Jackson. I was crying before she even opened her mouth. “I think you have depression”, she said. My hands shook as I handed my new doctor the mental health questionnaire. She glanced down at the sheets, flipped through a couple of pages, and looked me in the eyes. “I think you have anxiety”, she said. My hands shook as I sat on the uncomfortable, scratchy chair in the psychiatrist’s office. Emotionally exhausted, vulnerable, and heartbroken after pouring out my painful life story to the only person who would listen. He straightened up and said in a clinical, emotionless voice: “I think you have C-PTSD”. All three times I’ve received a new diagnosis, my heart has stopped. My thoughts spiraled: why me? What did I do? When will this end? Why am I still here? Is this even real? Do I exist? But… then my heart started beating again. And it’s beat up to this day, and hopefully it’s still beating as you read this. I’m still alive. I exist. I exist. I exist. I’ve been surrounded by labels my entire life. When I was born: severe complete bilateral cleft lip and palate. In elementary school: shy, quiet, obedient, respectful. In middle school: outgoing, friendly, kind. In high school: gifted, advanced… depressed. I’ve come to realize that society is always pressuring us to fit under an umbrella and conform to the expectations that go along with being labeled. But I didn’t want to conform, because I know that we were all born to stand out. So, I’ve made it my life goal to not listen to what anyone else says about me and focus on choosing to be grateful. Some days I might not have it in me to leave my bed, and that’s okay. I can try again tomorrow, but at least I’m still here. Still breathing. My heart is still beating. I’ve started loving people deeper, because I know what it’s like to feel unloved. I’ve started including others, because I know what it’s like to feel alone. I’ve started being the person that I wish was there for the younger me when I was struggling to keep my head above water, wishing I wasn't alone, and wondering if I would be able to push through yet another day. I’ve grown closer to friends and family because I’ve realized that I’m just as much of a part of other people’s lives as they are of mine. I still struggle. My mental health didn’t magically get better overnight. Life, unfortunately, doesn’t work that way. I still rely on medication to get me through the day most of the time. But I’ve also realized that life is more than my mental illnesses, even if at times that seems impossible to believe. I am more than what my mind tells me I am. Through my turbulent, chaotic mental health journey, which is honestly only just beginning, I’ve learned that there’s so much more to a person than what other people say they are. We are so much more than labels. We are so much more than statistics. We are brilliant, shining stars. We are our own person. We all matter. Our hearts are all beating. You exist. You exist. You exist. I’ve learned, through painful trial and error, how to grab ahold of my future and cling tight to it, never letting it go, shaking hands and all.

My hands shook as I entered my counselor’s office in ninth grade. I had always been afraid of her before, always thought she looked like Mrs. Dodds from Percy Jackson. I was crying before she even opened her mouth. “I think you have depression”, she said. My hands shook as I handed my new doctor the mental health questionnaire. She glanced down at the sheets, flipped through a couple of pages, and looked me in the eyes. “I think you have anxiety”, she said. My hands shook as I sat on the uncomfortable, scratchy chair in the psychiatrist’s office. Emotionally exhausted, vulnerable, and heartbroken after pouring out my painful life story to the only person who would listen. He straightened up and said in a clinical, emotionless voice: “I think you have C-PTSD”. All three times I’ve received a new diagnosis, my heart has stopped. My thoughts spiraled: why me? What did I do? When will this end? Why am I still here? Is this even real? Do I exist? But… then my heart started beating again. And it’s beat up to this day, and hopefully it’s still beating as you read this. I’m still alive. I exist. I exist. I exist. I’ve been surrounded by labels my entire life. When I was born: severe complete bilateral cleft lip and palate. In elementary school: shy, quiet, obedient, respectful. In middle school: outgoing, friendly, kind. In high school: gifted, advanced… depressed. I’ve come to realize that society is always pressuring us to fit under an umbrella and conform to the expectations that go along with being labeled. But I didn’t want to conform, because I know that we were all born to stand out. So, I’ve made it my life goal to not listen to what anyone else says about me and focus on choosing to be grateful. Some days I might not have it in me to leave my bed, and that’s okay. I can try again tomorrow, but at least I’m still here. Still breathing. My heart is still beating. I’ve started loving people deeper, because I know what it’s like to feel unloved. I’ve started including others, because I know what it’s like to feel alone. I’ve started being the person that I wish was there for the younger me when I was struggling to keep my head above water, wishing I wasn't alone, and wondering if I would be able to push through yet another day. I’ve grown closer to friends and family because I’ve realized that I’m just as much of a part of other people’s lives as they are of mine. I still struggle. Every minute of every day. My mental health didn’t magically get better overnight, even though I wish it had. Life, unfortunately, doesn’t work that way. I still rely on medication to get me through the day most of the time. But I’ve also realized that life is more than my mental illnesses, even if at times that seems impossible to believe. I am more than what my mind tells me I am. And I choose to fight. As a result of this, I want to work in healthcare. I want to help people fight for their life, to let them know that I care that they exist, and to make their existence better. I want to fight for people’s quality of life like I wish someone had fought for mine. Through my turbulent, chaotic mental health journey, which is honestly only just beginning, I’ve learned that there’s so much more to a person than what other people say they are. I’ve learned that, in order to truly understand someone, I have to go to the source. We are so much more than labels. We are so much more than statistics. We are brilliant, shining stars. We are our own person. We all matter. Our hearts are all beating. You exist. You exist. You exist. I’ve learned, through painful trial and error, how to grab ahold of my future and cling tight to it, never letting it go, shaking hands and all.

I was born with a severe bilateral cleft lip and palate as a result of an unknown genetic issue. I’ve spent months of my life in the hospital to make every day things like eating, drinking, breathing, and speaking to the best of my ability possible. I’ve had over 20 major surgeries to correct my birth defect, many of them failing because of how “complicated” my case was. I’ve visited maxillofacial surgeons, oral surgeons, ENT doctors, orthodontists, dentists, speech therapists, audiologists, pharmacies, psychologists, and psychiatrists hundreds of times. As a result of my CLP, throughout my life I’ve been diagnosed with Social Anxiety Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Major Depressive Disorder, Unspecified Trauma- and Stressor- related Disorder, and a speech and articulation disorder. It’s definitely been difficult growing up looking and sounding different than everyone else. I’ve been bullied, teased, gossiped about, and denied participation in groups like sports teams and choirs. I’ve had to learn how to navigate awkward social situations where the person I’m trying to talk to is content with openly staring at my face instead of learning more about me. I’ve had to adjust to countless soft food and liquid diets after surgeries, and learn how to maintain a healthy weight when I was living off of less than 500 calories a day. I’ve had to shove down my feelings of hurt whenever a mother sympathetically looks at me after their child loudly asks her “Mommy, why is that girl so ugly? Why does she sound weird?” I’ve had to learn to swallow pain medication with a throat that is 30% as wide as the average person’s. I’ve had to train myself not to be embarrassed whenever I had to leave school early or get there late because I had a speech therapy appointment that taught me how to utilize the undeveloped structure of my mouth to best produce sounds that somewhat resemble English … in my senior year of high school, when most kids only attended speech therapy for less than a year in elementary school. I’ve had to deal with the heartbreaking words of “I’m so sorry, it looks like the surgery didn’t take” more times than I care to count, starting from the young age of 4. I’ve had to jump from surgeon to surgeon to find one qualified, experienced, and confident enough to take on such a “severe, specialized, complicated” case. I’ve had to watch my parents break down in tears when my first surgeon told them that the surgery that he did on me was the first time it didn’t work in his entire career. I’ve had to live my entire life with a chronic post nasal drip that fills my throat with mucus and, coupled with severe anxiety, has me struggling to breathe fully most days. However, I don’t think I would choose to be born without my CLP. It’s made me who I am: empathetic, caring, willing to serve. It’s brought out the best in me and taught me the importance of choosing gratefulness and optimism. It’s brought my family closer together. It’s given me fantastic friends. In the future, I aspire to help and advocate for those affected by congenital disorders, because I’ve experienced first hand how much they can rock your world. I’m going to either become a speech pathologist or a genetic researcher to help those living and not yet born achieve the best possible life, because they deserve it. I’m going to use my voice (however different it sounds) to speak for those that can’t, because I’ve fought to be heard and understood my whole life.

After taking the official Harry Potter Wizarding World sorting test 5 different times and being sorted into the same house each of those 5 times, I am officially a proud Hufflepuff. Although Hufflepuffs are often overlooked or seen as the "weak" house (or "a lot o' duffers" as Hagrid so eloquently put it), in my opinion, it's the best house there is. Hufflepuffs, myself included, are kind, compassionate, hard-working, inclusive, and the least likely to stab you in the back because of how loyal they are. The first time I read Harry Potter when I was 11 years old, I felt a huge connection with the Hufflepuffs, despite how underrated they were. I wasn't super brave like many of the Gryffindors; I didn't know what my passions were or what I wanted to do with my life, so I wasn't ambitious like the Slytherins; and while I was rather intelligent for my age, I felt uncomfortable being defined only by my wit and grades, as so many Ravenclaws unfortunately are. That left the Hufflepuffs. Despite their common room not being described at all in the series and having very, very few characters that are mentioned, I felt an immediate connection. Like me, all of the Hufflepuffs portrayed in the series (Cedric Diggory, Tonks, Ernie Macmillan, and Professor Sprout to name a few) were hardworking and loyal to their friends. Not once did they ever betray someone to get what they wanted, which is something that the other houses were likely to do. In addition, they were the only house that had the entire group, regardless of their age, want to stay for the Battle of Hogwarts and protect their home, while the rest of the houses only had a few of the older students want to stay and help. The Hufflepuffs, like me, were very loyal to their friends and wanted to protect them at all costs. I would do anything for my friends, especially my little sisters. They also valued kindness and fairness, since they were the house that never got into any conflicts with members from the other houses. Everyone was their friend and they didn't discriminate against people based on what house they were sorted into. This is exactly like me because I will do anything to avoid conflict with the people around me, especially my friends. I also strive to be super kind to whoever I meet, even if I've never seen them before and I will never see them again. Being a Hufflepuff taught me that being honest, hard-working, and kind will be more important than gaining recognition for your actions.

If I could have everyone in the world read just one book, I would have everyone read "Wonder" by R.J. Palacio. The first time I read it in 5th grade, I cried. Then every time after that, I also cried. It's such a beautiful book that celebrates people's differences, especially over things that they can't control, like their facial appearance. As someone who was born with a facial deformity, reading about someone else's experiences, regardless of the character being fiction, helped me feel a lot less alone because I had never met someone who looked "different". I thought that I was the only one who had to go to speech therapy, endure surgery after surgery, and constantly be stared at wherever I went because of something that I had no control over. It made me feel seen and validated like I wasn't the only one struggling with this kind of thing. I think that books that help others feel like they aren't alone are so, so important. We see so much representation of LGBTQIA+ people these days, which is fantastic because more people are being understood instead of shunned by society, but other minorities need recognition too. Everyone deserves to feel heard, and Wonder does just that. It reminds us, as a society, that we shouldn't judge people based on their differences, whatever those differences may be. Instead, we should take the time to get to know them and embrace them. Auggie forever changed my life. I could see myself in him, which made it so much easier to connect with what Palacio was trying to say. It made me a better person: kinder, braver, and more empathetic towards other people's problems. If everyone else could feel that way too after reading it, even on a smaller scale, the world would be a lot better place.