There is a five-year-old girl in love. She is not in love with someone, for she is not yet old enough to understand such things. She is not even in love with life, truly, but she is in love with what life could be. She spends hours reading fairy tales about dragons and knights and princesses, rife with magic and gold and excitement. She wants to live a life like that. She wants to create a world like that. There is a twelve-year-old girl who is not in love. Not with a person, not with what life is nor what it could be. In the night in which she exists, she waits for a sunrise she doesn't believe will come. And through it all, she clings to stories new and old, eager to find the light in a darkness she can't seem to escape. There is a twenty-one year old woman, and she is in love again. Still not with a person. Not with what life could be, either. No, she is happy with the life that is. And in that, she dreams of the life that could be with a sense of nostalgic fondness. Those fantasies brought her through so many hardships, gave her joy and comfort in good times and bad. She still loves the stories even if she no longer needs to cling to them. Instead, she can hold them close with a sense of contentment, turn them over in her hands and examine them like a beautiful seashell. I was once that girl, now a woman, who has always cherished stories. It was never enough to know those that others created–from the beginning, I sought to craft my own. To write is to create. To comfort. To explore both your own thoughts and the world around you. After years of writing, I slowly came to a realization. Nobles and duels and sorcery are all well and good. An epic plot and a creative, immersive world are important. More than anything else, though, are the characters. The struggles, the despair and the ultimate triumph, the part of the story that truly makes it human–characters are the most important in a story. To me, writing is important for those reasons. Literature helped to keep me afloat during some of the darkest times in my life. Seeing the trials characters faced and their eventual success meant so much to me. It still does. And maybe I don't need those stories the way I did while I was growing up. Perhaps, now, I can instead focus on making my own, in some hope that they could provide relief to others in the way they once did to me. I’ve always thought that if I could write a story even one person would like, then I should write it. More than that, if I could write a story that even brought one person hope or comfort, then I must write it. To write is to create. To inspire. To attempt to simmer down the human essence into something as flimsy and yet beautiful as words. It is art and it is love and it is something to be loved. So for that five-year-old girl, that twelve-year-old girl, and for myself as I am now, I will write. Always.

I grew up in the middle of the desert in the Las Vegas Valley. From the moment I was born in 2002, water conservation efforts were in full swing. There is a drought, people said. It will pass, they said. Especially coming from someone who has lived in the desert their whole life, I believe there is something sacred about water. Everyone needs it to live–more than food or shelter or anything else. Without food, it will take weeks for a person to die. Without water, it is only a matter of days. It is 2023, I am twenty-one years old, and now scientists are saying what is happening in my home may be no drought; the West may be experiencing a more permanent aridification. Rainfall will continue to decrease, and the deserts will spread. Water conservation measures are more important than ever as freshwater becomes scarcer and scarcer. Las Vegas is only one example of a phenomenon that is happening all over the world–droughts, aridification, and a shortage of water. It is unlikely this is something that can be reversed. As a species, humans are losing access to freshwater. This can be directly linked to climate change, and now we have to do something about it. Currently, I am pursuing a degree in civil engineering, but that is not where I want to stop. I want to go further, to specialize in environmental engineering so that I can be a direct part in solving this water crisis. I don’t want to help just the people in my home of Las Vegas, either. I believe that access to clean, drinking water should be a human right, and I want to be the one that builds the water treatment plants and develops the filter technology to make that possible. Hopefully, one day, I’ll even be at the forefront of fighting climate change. Also as of right now, I am an intern with the Clark County Water Reclamation District here in Nevada, working my way into the field that I wish to pursue. The service the department provides is critical to replenishing local water supplies, and I’m learning all I can. Beyond that, I am a member of the University of Nevada, Las Vegas’s chapter of Engineers Without Borders and volunteer with them whenever I can. They aim to provide basic infrastructure to all those around the world that need it, something that I wholeheartedly stand behind. In the end, water is the key to survival. With my education and volunteering efforts, I wish to make sure that all of us live on.

An ant is climbing a mountain. With each step of its tiny legs, it gets closer and closer to a peak that it cannot see. It is convinced, however, that it will one day stand at the top of the mountain. Along comes a dragon that watches the ant trek up the cliffs. The dragon is the creature that made the mountain, making the earth swell with the hoard of its riches. "What do you think you're doing?" The dragon cajoles. "An ant can never reach such a height!" "Maybe not," the ant replies. "Each step brings me closer, though. When I get there, surely I can get to work making a colony that will keep the peak beautiful. And, why, if you could just lend me a wing, it would be trivial for you to fly me to the top!" "Fly you?" the dragon jeers. "Why would I do that? What happened to getting there on your own?" "But it costs you nothing!" the ant responds. “If you will not fly me, could you stop making the mountain taller so that I might not chase a running peak?” “The mountain houses my treasure,” the dragon says, angry smoke pouring from its nostrils. “Why should I stop gathering it for you?” “Think about it!” the ant cries. “What happens when your treasure grows too great for the ground to hold?” “Why should I care?” the dragon says, flaring its wings as it prepares to fly away. “That day is as far away from me as the peak is from you!” The dragon soars away, then, and the ant continues marching up the mountain. The ant was right–one day, the dragon will stow away too much treasure, and the mountain will collapse. It will take the dragon with it, along with the ant, and everything else on and around the mountain. The message I aim to share is not a subtle one or one difficult to parse. When it comes to fighting climate change, the average, everyday person is the ant–always taking tiny steps toward a goal they can barely comprehend. The dragon is the leaders in the world–the governments, the corporations, and anyone else with meaningful power to enact change. They could help the ant, and in doing so, they would help themselves. In their greed and shortsightedness, however, they will spell doom for everyone. The ant can only do so much. It can take tiny steps–and so, the average person, like me, can do the same. Recycling, conserving energy, conserving water, and overall doing all they can to reduce emissions. But seventy percent of emissions are released by corporations, not individuals. Even if every normal person did everything right, there would still be that seventy percent. The most impactful way to fight climate change is not held in the hands of the people. Not by any direct action. The best we can do is demand that our leaders take the necessary steps to fight climate change on a much greater scale than any regular person could manage. The little steps matter, even if they won’t get us to the peak. But much more than that, the dragon must care. The dragon must stop hoarding its treasure and do more to save the earth that houses it. Despite the odds, the ant must find a way to make the dragon care.

It is the fall of 2022, and a song plays on the radio. I rarely listen to the radio anymore, so while it’s not new, it’s the first time I hear it. It’s catchy enough with an upbeat melody. I understood the message behind it, but I didn’t care much for it. The song was "Victoria’s Secret" by Jax, another pop song about loving yourself and renouncing beauty standards. I wasn’t overly impressed with it for a long time, but then, it got me thinking. The song was about the torture of being skinny and whatnot, but that’s not what stood out to me. What really caught my attention was the idea of talking to your younger self, sharing the hard-earned wisdom you’ve accumulated over the years, and, ultimately, forgiving them. It’s the silliest thing that inspired such deep self-reflection. For many years, I struggled intensely with mental illness that bittered my existence in several ways–from depression to anxiety to a schizoaffective disorder–but in all that time, I said nothing. I did nothing. I hid it from those that loved me, convincing myself that I could handle it. I told myself I had to be perfect–the perfect daughter, the perfect sister, the perfect student. And perfect people didn’t have those types of problems. Eventually, I reached a breaking point. I had to get help or I would do something drastic. And I did get help. I got better. I was given medication and support and met with understanding from the people I had once feared such rebuke from. But there was still that bitterness locked away. It was that song, that catchy, upbeat, silly little song that made me dredge up the bitterness and face it. I was angry at my younger self for her silence, but she’d been young and lost and scared, too. I was angry and hurt, but she didn’t deserve what happened. I didn’t deserve it. I wanted to forgive her. I’m the same person as that fourteen-year-old girl, but so very different, too. I hated her, once, but now I’ve learned to love her. And so, to reflect that, I wrote a poem. It's called "Monster Inside". There is a monster inside me She is not me, but she wears my face She is fourteen years old, and she is a case study But I do not fear the monster inside me There is only a rage that is burning How dare she do this to me? Hurt me, curse me, condemn me to this destiny? How could she keep her silence like a vow And anguish in secret until now? But then, the anger turns to sympathy For how could the monster have known? She was lost, she was alone A single breath could have blown her away And sent her shattered pieces cascading across the concrete The monster is me, All grown up and no longer seen And the sympathy sours to regret The regret mingles with the pain Is all this progress in vain? For the monster will never get to see the light She will never know the future just beyond sight She only has her tears and the loneliness without ever being alone Tormented, with no life to call her own But the monster is me, And I have seen the light I can hold the fourteen-year-old girl, And tell her it will be alright The anger and sympathy and regret Only make me tighten the hold For when all is said and told I love the monster inside me Who was never really a monster at all

“What’s in a Man” Who among you knows strength? I, roars the ape I, who can mash any danger, Who can beat any foe I know strength I, rumbles the hippo I, who can crush any in my mouth, Whose powerful teeth deter all I know strength No, I, says the man I, who will go to any length I know strength Who among you knows loss? I, squeaks the dolphin I, who hold my children When they leave me I know loss I, trumps the elephant I, who unmarked graves pass And cry for those who left I know loss No, I, says the man I, who erects a cross Overgrown with moss For those time has tossed I know loss Who among you knows love? I, purrs the cat I, who licks my darlings clean And holds them close I know love I, howls the wolf I, who only has one mate And will spend my life with them I know love No, I, says the man I, who lets fly doves To my single beloved I know love Who among you knows loyalty? I, barks the dog I, who will protect master To my dying breath I know loyalty I, neighs the horse Who will carry master To the ends of the earth I know loyalty No, I, says the man I, who devotes self in entirety I know loyalty Who among you know lies? Together, the animals cry, What is a lie? But with downcast eyes, the man whispers Not I

There is something sacred about water. Everyone needs it to live–more than food or shelter or anything else. Without food, it will take weeks for a person to die. Without water, it is only a matter of days. I grew up in the middle of the desert in the Las Vegas Valley. From the moment I was born in 2002, water conservation efforts were in full swing. There’s a drought, people said. It’ll pass, they said. It is 2022, I am twenty years old, and now scientists are saying this may be no drought; what is happening in the West may be a more permanent aridification. Water conservation measures are more important than ever as water becomes scarcer and scarcer. Las Vegas is only one example of a phenomenon that is happening all over the world–droughts, aridification, and a shortage of water. It’s unlikely this is something that can be reversed. As a species, humans are losing access to freshwater, and now we have to do something about it. Currently, I’m pursuing a degree in civil engineering, but that is not where I want to stop. I want to go further, to specialize in environmental engineering so that I can be a direct part in solving this water crisis. I don’t want to help just the people in my home of Las Vegas, either. I believe that access to clean, drinking water should be a human right, and I want to be the one that builds the water treatment plants and develops the filter technology to make that possible. It is understandable, then, that I think diversity in the workplace is of paramount importance. How could I possibly say that every human deserves the right to water but not to work? How could I contend that this problem concerning so many different people should be solved without consulting every kind of person? Everyone has their own wisdom and perspective to share on an issue, even one as clinical as an engineering challenge. Furthermore, I’d like to think that my own talents and differences would add to a workplace. As a Hispanic woman part of the LGBTQ+ community going into a STEM field, I represent the faces of many minorities. As a first-generation college student from a low-income family, I represent people from communities that are so often overlooked due to their economic class. Diversity needs to be in the workplace, and I plan on adding to it. And then, if all goes according to plan, the world will have access to life-giving water.

The world is strangled by mists. Classism drags common people into the ground while the elite grow richer and richer. An all-powerful king gazes out on the world from his palace of spires and rules with an iron fist. These elements could be the only part of the plot focused on in Mistborn by Brandon Sanderson, but it is the other, more subtle part that seized my attention and forever changed my view of the world and media as a whole. It is a story of recovery. The main character, Vin, is a young woman who has suffered through too many hardships to count. The loss of her family, the brutal reality of fighting for survival in a world that doesn't care whether a person lives or starves, and the abuse of men who hold more power than her, however slight that power might be. But that is only where the story starts, and it the ending that impacted me so. Despite trials and tribulations--more loss, more grief, more helplessness--Vin learns to trust. Vin learns to love. The book ends with victory over the malicious king and Vin wrapped in the arms of the person she loves. I have not faced even a fraction of the hardship of this character, but I didn't need to. Suffering is a universal human experience, and even if I have or have not had more of a share than others, I don't believe it matters in the end. What makes a difference is the moral of the story: recovery is possible. It is possible to love again despite whatever it is a person endures. That is my favorite kind of story, and the only one, I believe, that really matters. Tales of suffering are common. Again, everyone experiences pain in one way or another, at some point in their life or another. It is not revolutionary to write a story where grief and rage and hardship win. That is the easy way out–to decide that all the terrible things in the world are all that is and all that will ever be. To decide that the notion of a light at the end of the tunnel is somehow trite or that happiness is childish. Recovery takes work. It is like planting a tree and helping it grow; you must cultivate what happiness you wish to find. It is a lifelong endeavor, but in the end, you will have something which will grant you shade from the harshness of the sun. This is what should be important in life. Not pain but perseverance.

I mourn people that never existed. That’s not something a person can bring up in polite conversation. When asked, “What’s wrong?”, no one can say, “I miss people that no one else knew. I long for people that were never even real.” Just over a year ago, I was diagnosed with a schizoaffective disorder, but I had been suffering from my symptoms for much longer–nearly six years. In all that time, I experienced what I can only liken to intense daydreams. There were people in my head, ones I could hear and see, ones that had faces and voices and names. On one hand, I knew that they were not actually real, but on the other, they were real to me. There was Ivy, who was always warm and kind and compassionate and encouraged me even when it felt I had no one else. There was Child, who was sensitive and quiet, usually only making their voice known by their tears and their smiles. And then there was John. John never had a kind word for me, but he is the one that haunts me the most. A year ago, a couple of months before my diagnosis, they left me. It was two of the most terrifying moments of my life. First, when John began to cackle–just laugh like he was in agony, like he was dying, and then he was gone. Second, two days later, when Ivy said that I must not need them anymore, and they, too, were just gone. For the first time in six years, I was the only one in my head. It should have been a relief. Only, I no longer had Ivy’s kindness to battle my own depressive thoughts. Child’s steady presence was gone from my life. And just a couple of weeks before, in a moment that will likely haunt me the rest of my life, John–cold, cynical John–told me that love was the greatest thing in the world. It felt like I had lost a mother and a father and a sibling all at once, and I could tell no one. What could I possibly say to anyone? That there had been people in my head, and now there weren’t? Shouldn’t that have been a good thing? Eventually, things got worse, and then better. I got the help I needed, but the memories remain. The longing lingers. I loved these people that would never be put to rest because they weren’t ever there in the first place. Now, though, after time has soothed the pain of the loss and medication has eased my burdens, I can look back and see how this loss has pushed me forward. It made me focus on myself. I was the only one left, after all–my thoughts and dreams were the only thing in my head. I could see how my life laid before me, and I wanted more from it than to lose myself in the pain I had suffered and the people I had lost. John’s words hound me even now, though. In a way, his words were only a reflection of my own thoughts and feelings. Nonetheless, I want to live by them. Love is the most important thing in the world. Ivy’s kindness, too, that she so freely gave to me, compels me to be kind. And the sensitivity of Child taught me to be mindful of myself and my actions. I want to help people. No matter whatever else, I want to love others, just as they taught me. I am pursuing a degree in civil engineering, and I hope to one day be a certified professional environmental engineer. My goal is to be a direct player in making clean drinking water a human right. Water is something everyone needs to live and having access to that is the basis for all other aspects of life. With my college education, this is what I want to do to help others. There is more to life than just the physical, though. My hobby is writing, and one day, I hope to publish my stories. At the core of every story I write–in one form or another–is love. Romantic or platonic or familial, it doesn’t matter. It is just incredibly important to me that a message of the importance of love is spread. At the end of the day, isn’t that what the rest of life is about? I miss people that never existed, but now, I want to focus on the people that do. My friends, my family, strangers all over the world that could benefit from a bit of engineering or a kind word in a story, and even myself. I am far from the only one that suffers from mental illness–practically everyone in my life does. I want to be there for them as much as I want to help someone I don’t know at all. John’s words–my words–will hopefully dictate the rest of my life in all aspects. My goals, my relationships, my career, I want them all to reflect that simple statement. Life is cruel and unfair, but people can make it better for each other. Love is the greatest thing in the world.

I mourn people that never existed. That’s not something a person can bring up in polite conversation. When asked, “What’s wrong?”, no one can say, “I miss people that no one else knew. I long for people that were never even real.” Just over a year ago, I was diagnosed with a schizoaffective disorder, but I had been suffering from my symptoms for much longer–nearly six years. In all that time, I experienced what I can only liken to intense daydreams. There were people in my head, ones I could hear and see, ones that had faces and voices and names. On one hand I knew that they were not actually real, but on the other, they were real to me. There was Ivy, who was always warm and kind and compassionate, and encouraged me even when it felt I had no one else. There was Child, who was sensitive and quiet, usually only making their voice known by their tears and their smiles. And then there was John. John never had a kind word for me, but he is the one that haunts me the most. A year ago, a couple of months before my diagnosis, they left me. It was two of the most terrifying moments of my life. First, when John began to cackle–just laugh like he was in agony, like he was dying, and then he was gone. Second, two days later, when Ivy said that I must not need them anymore, and they, too, were just gone. For the first time in six years, I was the only one in my head. It should have been a relief. Only, I no longer had Ivy’s kindness to battle my own depressive thoughts. Child’s steady presence was gone from my life. And just a couple of weeks before, in a moment that will likely haunt me the rest of my life, John–cold, cynical John–told me that love was the greatest thing in the world. It felt like I had lost a mother and a father and a sibling all at once, and I could tell no one. What could I possibly say to anyone? That there had been people in my head, and now there weren’t? Shouldn’t that have been a good thing? Eventually, things got worse, and then better. I got the help I needed, but the memories remain. The longing lingers. I loved these people that would never be put to rest because they weren’t ever there in the first place. Now, though, after time has soothed the pain of the loss and medication has eased my burdens, I can look back and see how this loss has pushed me forward. It made me focus on myself. I was the only one left, after all–my thoughts and dreams were the only thing in my head. I could see how my life laid before me, and I wanted more from it than to lose myself in the pain I had suffered and the people I had lost. John’s words hound me even now, though. In a way, his words were only a reflection of my own thoughts and feelings. Nonetheless, I want to live by them. Love is the most important thing in the world. Ivy’s kindness, too, that she so freely gave to me, compels me to be kind. And the sensitivity of Child taught me to be mindful of myself and my actions. I want to help people. No matter whatever else, I want to love others, just as they taught me. I am pursuing a degree in civil engineering, and I hope to one day be a certified professional environmental engineer. My goal is to be a direct player in making clean drinking water a human right. Water is something everyone needs to live and having access to that is the basis for all other aspects of life. With my college education, this is what I want to do to help others. There is more to life than just the physical, though. My hobby is writing, and one day, I hope to publish my stories. At the core of every story I write–in one form or another–is love. Romantic or platonic or familial, it doesn’t matter. It is just incredibly important to me that a message of the importance of love is spread. At the end of the day, isn’t that what the rest of life is about? I miss people that never existed, but they taught me much while I knew them. I hope to dedicate the rest of my life to the people who are real and who are suffering and give them not only what they need to live, but a reason to as well.