As a society, beauty appears in various sizes, skin tones, looks, views, and mindsets. Like sculptures in a museum or hanging art pieces in an art gallery, beauty is art in human form. We express, create, and sometimes live through the purpose of being beautiful; however, like art, beauty is judged. Similar to being placed on display, we are an exhibit for the world around us. As humans, we are presentations that equip us to receive criticism from many viewpoints and harsh critiques. Being a young black girl from a small town in Kentucky, I viewed the criticism I received as a grocery list I must require. I observed the differences others shared from my appearance and took into consideration what I needed to change. My list of changes was quite grand and had no limits to any additions. Adjusting my diet, going to the gym, and missing out on certain meals to fit into three sizes smaller felt necessary.It wasn't until after my grandmothers' death, which sprung me into the valuing of myself and the career choice of becoming a nurse. Being born to two young parents who still desire to have fun in their early twenties, others practically raised me. The many people in my life who took the role of my parents at times were my grandparents. After years of being taken care of by my grandmothers, and the role being switched because of a diagnosis of cancer, the growth of a career choice was grown around the age of seven. Aiding in the assistance of my grandmothers' gave me purpose when in times it felt as though I couldn't supply or be there for them. The journey I had just began after my grandmothers' death was never going to be simple, and was now intertwined by my personal challenges of self love. To overcome my challenges of self respect and love, but the great desire to become a nurse, was my persistence and teamwork. These two characteristics became my remedy for the negative connotation I held for myself. My friends, myself, and my family uplifted my spirits when I was down. I went out more and began always getting dressed and taking care of myself. I began to love myself and hold myself to a higher standard. My reflection of these characteristics I wish to distibute in my career. Becoming a black nurse, working persistently to better the community that has faced a discriminatory history from the beginning of time; a community, I never grew up surrounded by because of the predominately white area I lived in. When it came to a decision of attending an HBCU, I knew my goal was to better my black and brown community. Nonetheless, the younger black and brown girls from my community looked up to girls like me because of the lack of out-of-state college attending students, specifically HBCU out-of-state college attending students. From taking care of my elderly and sick grandmothers, my decision of enrolling at Howard University as an incoming freshman nursing major was only suitable. The 23 other schools I had been accepted to and offered money could not live up to the image I had created of me attending the real HU. Reflecting on my decision of deciding to attend Howard always makes me think of my grandmothers and how proud they would be. While I did leave the community I have grown up in, I have shown other students and black girls that it is possible to leave a small town and attend an HBCU.

As a society, beauty appears in various sizes, skin tones, looks, views, and mindsets. Like sculptures in a museum or hanging art pieces in an art gallery, beauty is art in human form. We express, create, and sometimes live through the purpose of being beautiful; however, like art, beauty is judged. Similar to being placed on display, we are an exhibit for the world around us. As humans, we are presentations that equip us to receive criticism from many viewpoints and harsh critiques. Being a young black girl from a small town in Kentucky, I viewed the criticism I received as a grocery list I must require. I observed the differences others shared from my appearance and took into consideration what I needed to change. My list of changes was quite grand and had no limits to any additions. Adjusting my diet, going to the gym, and missing out on certain meals to fit into three sizes smaller felt necessary.It wasn't until after my grandmothers' death, which sprung me into the valuing of myself and the career choice of becoming a nurse. Being born to two young parents who still desire to have fun in their early twenties, others practically raised me. The many people in my life who took the role of my parents at times were my grandparents. After years of being taken care of by my grandmothers, and the role being switched because of a diagnosis of cancer, the growth of a career choice was grown around the age of seven. Aiding in the assistance of my grandmothers' gave me purpose when in times it felt as though I couldn't supply or be there for them. The journey I had just began after my grandmothers' death was never going to be simple, and was now intertwined by my personal challenges of self love. To overcome my challenges of self respect and love, but the great desire to become a nurse, was my persistence and teamwork. These two characteristics became my remedy for the negative connotation I held for myself. My friends, myself, and my family uplifted my spirits when I was down. I went out more and began always getting dressed and taking care of myself. I began to love myself and hold myself to a higher standard. My reflection of these characteristics I wish to distibute in my career. Becoming a black nurse, working persistently to better the community that has faced a discriminatory history from the beginning of time; a community, I never grew up surrounded by because of the predominately white area I lived in. When it came to a decision of attending an HBCU, I knew my goal was to better my black and brown community. Nonetheless, the younger black and brown girls from my community looked up to girls like me because of the lack of out-of-state college attending students, specifically HBCU out-of-state college attending students. From taking care of my elderly and sick grandmothers, my decision of enrolling at Howard University as an incoming freshman nursing major was only suitable. The 23 other schools I had been accepted to and offered money could not live up to the image I had created of me attending the real HU. Reflecting on my decision of deciding to attend Howard always makes me think of my grandmothers and how proud they would be. While I did leave the community I have grown up in, I have shown other students and black girls that it is possible to leave a small town and attend an HBCU.

The motto "Everyone comes with baggage" implies that everyone comes with stories, thoughts, or beliefs. This familiar slogan applies to me quite literally. Growing up in a small town near a military base, kids in school would mention in class how many houses or schools they attended. Naming the different schools and states classmates lived in was not uncommon in class. The reasoning behind moving for my classmates is evident: military parents. Having the ability to relate to my classmates, despite not being military, was perplexing. Explaining to others why I have moved houses or why I was living with my cousins was intricate because of the confusion many had. Keeping count of the number of houses I have moved into and out of is not easy. With the possibility of inaccuracy, I have lived with my cousins three or four times. Amid constant moving, I was consistently going to Louisville every other weekend to visit my father. Moving was not as big for my father, unlike my mother. I was present for one house move with my father but was not present for his next two in Georgia. With living in multiple houses in a year, each home has its own memories and stories. The ability to tell a story from my childhood thrived from separating every account from each home. Following these stories, people would question whether moving had anything to do with my character or background. Overall, the answer is that moving did not affect me but watching my mother in the process of each move did. My mother, a single mom with four kids, went through many unfortunate circumstances, but as my uncle says, "She always managed to land on her feet.” After moving out of a house and not being able to afford to go anywhere else, my mother would move us in with our uncle. The view of my cousins became more like brothers as we would get asked if we were all siblings in school. My cousins were more fortunate than my siblings and me, which was obvious. My mother spent a portion of my childhood attempting to help match the lifestyle my cousins had. From working two jobs most times to long days sleeping in because of exhaustion, my mother always tried her best. Unfortunately, though, my mom's exhaustion sometimes turned to anger or hurt, which over time, changed how I felt about her. I viewed my mother as mean and always told my friends I could never be around her for too long. However, once I started experiencing similar obstacles to my mother, I began to understand her. Having a troubled relationship, stressful job, and balancing tasks are not simple. A repeating schedule of the same responsibilities is not ideal and is often depressing. Coming from struggle to now, my mother has raised four kids to college level and is now passing. As a soon-to-be 19-year-old, my eyes begin to open to the obstacles my parents faced. As I play a part in my mother's story, the many lessons I have learned from her is the allowance of growing from "baggage" and working with what you have. Applying the lessons learned from my mother, I now know my "baggage" is not my story--it is merely a carry-on in the journey of my life.

Mental health problems have many sources and factors for many reasons some people may not understand. Being born to two young parents who still desire to have fun in their early twenties, others practically raised me. My only sibling out of three at the time shared the same childhood as me growing up, considering that she's the only sibling who shares both the same mom and dad as me. The many people in my life who took the role of my parents at times were my grandparents. During summer, I spent most of my time at the pool, zoo, or shopping with one of my grandmothers and my sister. My grandmother would teach us flashcards and force us to go to bed early, two weeks before school began. My other grandmother would allow us to play and cook with her during hot summers. One Christmas morning, my grandparents hired a man to dress up as Santa Claus and his grandchildren as elves at four in the morning. That Christmas night soon turned into one of the most memorable Christmas nights of my life. After all the fun times of spending time with my grandparents, reality began to sit in for my sister and me. Our grandmother was diagnosed with cancer. One of the few people who raised us from babies to five years old was no longer the same. Most activities we had done with each other began to seize because of her exhaustion. My other grandmother was displayed as healthy and was still working at the job she loved. She cooked for many holidays and never missed a birthday dinner. Despite obstacles in the way, the realization one of my grandmothers was dying in front of me didn't stop me from being a happy kid. On May 11, 2012, my sister, my cousins, and I were unusually picked up from school around two in the afternoon. We were gathered in the living room and given the news that our grandmother, who seemed healthy, had died from an unexpected heart attack at the age of 55. The loss of one of my grandmothers affected me from then on. I looked after my other grandmother, afraid to lose her too. I would help her around the house and would catch myself checking her breathing when she slept at the age of seven. The feeling of losing a mother role model in my life was too harsh the first time to undergo twice. My sister and I spent dreadful months going back and forth from our mother and father's house. We drove to our father's every other Friday at 6 pm and were picked up at 6 pm the following Sunday. In October of 2013, my grandmother, who was diagnosed with cancer, died. Not only did I experience the feeling of losing a mother role model again, but I burdened two parents who never got along. My routine became my parents' bickering and persuading my sister and me to live with them, a cycle that wouldn't cease until my father moved to Georgia with my younger siblings and my step-mom in July of 2018. Since the death of my grandmothers, I have purposely missed four funerals and counting. The loss of significant people who raised me has pushed me to become the best I can be involving school. Losing a loved one is a universal event that every human experiences in life and the depression and hurt, which comes from this event can make or break a person.

As a society, beauty appears in various sizes, skin tones, looks, views, and mindsets. Like sculptures in a museum or hanging art pieces in an art gallery, beauty is art in human form. We express, create, and sometimes live through the purpose of being beautiful; however, like art, beauty is judged. Similar to being placed on display, we are an exhibit for the world around us. As humans, we are presentations that equip us to receive criticism from many viewpoints and harsh critiques. Being a young black girl from a small town in Kentucky, I viewed the criticism I received as a grocery list I must require. I observed the differences others shared from my appearance and took into consideration what I needed to change. My list of changes was quite grand and had no limits to any additions. The phrase "beauty is pain," defined as the modification to be "beautiful" is painful, is spoken regularly today. At the age of ten, the phrase to me delivered the message "to be beautiful; you must make sacrifices.". Adjusting my diet, going to the gym, and missing out on certain meals to fit into three sizes smaller felt necessary. Asking my parents for the latest shoes or clothes to fit in did not seem to be a problem either, as long as I was not clothed in "hand-me-downs" or any other clothing not trending. I visited beauty salons across town to straighten the brown, loopy curls, which grew sporadically from my scalp. My social media accounts were bursting with crazy face-altering filters, flashes of light, and scribbles of color, all covering my face. The adjustments to my appearance never sufficed, nonetheless, as I spent many nights crying, questioning why I did not receive the same positive attention as others. My attendance in school became poor as I struggled with finding the motivation to go to school. My greatest enemy then became my mind, taunting me of why others did not like me. I began yearning for attention and love from people who negatively impacted my confidence. I allowed constant disrespect for my character, appearance, and reputation. The consistent condemnation lasted for almost seven years, until a warm July night when I looked into my mirror surrounded by pictures of idolized celebrities with tears in my eyes and no longer recognized myself. In the mirror sat a black girl scarred with self-inflicted injuries physically and mentally. The image from that July night in the mirror created a record of what I and others may need to change, and that is how we view ourselves and the derisive reviews we receive throughout life. Persistence and teamwork became my remedy for the negative connotation I held for myself. My friends, myself, and my family uplifted my spirits when I was down. I went out more and began always getting dressed and taking care of myself. My friends gave me constant advice on solutions for situations that hindered me. From stepping away from negative people to learning not to dwell on events, I formed a bond with myself. My persistence drove me to keep going and set an example for others in my community. Being different is never a bad thing and loving yourself can only empower you to reach for your goals.

A depressing moment can spark in early childhood or later on in life. Being born to two young parents who still desire to have fun in their early twenties, others practically raised me. The "party on the weekends and work on the weekdays" mindset was prevalent in my household growing up. My mother mostly slept during the day, worked at night, and had fun on the weekends. My father, however, worked and spent time with his friends day and night. My only sibling out of three at the time shared the same childhood as me growing up, considering that she's the only sibling who shares both the same mom and dad as me. The many people in my life who took the role of my parents at times were my grandparents. During summer, I spent most of my time at the pool, zoo, or shopping with one of my grandmothers and my sister. My grandmother would teach us flashcards and force us to go to bed early, two weeks before school began. My other grandmother would allow us to play and cook with her during hot summers. During fall and spring, my grandparents continued to spoil my sister and me. During winter, one of my grandmothers would warm a hot bath after playing outside with my sister. One Christmas morning, my grandparents hired a man to dress up as Santa Claus and his grandchildren as elves at four in the morning. That Christmas night soon turned into one of the most memorable Christmas nights of my life. I spent most of my holidays with my grandparents and barely saw my mother or father. After all the fun times of spending time with my grandparents, reality began to sit in for my sister and me. Our grandmother was diagnosed with cancer. One of the few people who raised us from babies to five years old was no longer the same. Most activities we had done with each other began to seize because of her exhaustion. She would take us to doctor appointments in Louisville instead, which substitute for missed fun from other activities. My other grandmother was displayed as healthy and was still working at the job she loved. She cooked for many holidays and never missed a birthday dinner. Despite obstacles in the way, the realization one of my grandmothers was dying in front of me didn't stop me from being a happy kid. On May 11, 2012, my sister, my cousins, and I were unusually picked up from school around two in the afternoon. We were gathered in the living room and given the news that our grandmother, who seemed healthy, had died from an unexpected heart attack at the age of 55. It was my first time dealing with death involving a person I had seen more than my parents. The loss of one of my grandmothers affected me from then on. I looked after my other grandmother, afraid to lose her too. I would help her around the house and would catch myself checking her breathing when she slept at the age of seven. The feeling of losing a mother role model in my life was too harsh the first time to undergo twice. My sister and I spent dreadful months going back and forth from our mother and father's house. We drove to Louisville every other Friday at six in the afternoon and were picked up at six in the afternoon the following Sunday. This cycle took place twice a month and involved lots of arguing. Many arguments shared between my mother and father escalated to points where my sister and I would miss school. It wasn't until a cold October day the arguing would stop. In October of 2013, my grandmother, who was diagnosed with cancer, died. Not only did I experience the feeling of losing a mother role model again, but I burdened two parents who never got along. My routine became my parents' bickering and persuading my sister and me to live with them, a cycle that wouldn't cease until my father moved to Georgia with my younger siblings and my step-mom in July of 2018. Since the death of my grandmothers, I have purposely missed four funerals and counting. The connection with death has always left a lingering depression and hindered my mental health. The loss of significant people who raised me has pushed me to become the best I can be involving school. Losing a loved one is a universal event that every human experiences in life and the depression and hurt, which comes from this event can make or break a person.

Being a young black girl from a small town in Kentucky, I viewed the criticism I received like a grocery list I must require. My list of changes was quite grand and had no limits to any additions. Adjusting my diet, going to the gym, and missing out on certain meals to fit into three sizes smaller felt necessary. Asking my parents for the latest shoes or clothes to fit in did not seem to be a problem either, as long as I was not clothed in "hand-me-downs" or any other clothing not trending. I visited beauty salons across town to straighten the brown, loopy curls, which grew sporadically from my scalp. My social media accounts were bursting with crazy face-altering filters, flashes of light, and scribbles of color, all covering my face. The adjustments to my appearance never sufficed, nonetheless, as I spent many nights crying, questioning why I did not receive the same positive attention as others. My greatest enemy then became my mind, taunting me of why others did not like me. I began yearning for attention and love from people who negatively impacted my confidence. I allowed constant disrespect of my character, appearance, and reputation. The consistent condemnation lasted for almost seven years, until a warm July night when I looked into my mirror surrounded by pictures of idolized celebrities with tears in my eyes and no longer recognized myself. In the mirror sat a black girl scarred with self-inflicted injuries physically and mentally. The image from that July night in the mirror created a record of what I and others may need to change, and that is how we view ourselves and the derisive reviews we receive throughout life.

Mental health problems have many sources and factors from many reasons some people may not understand. A depressing moment can spark in early childhood or later on in life. For me, my childhood had rarely seen depressing events and was sheltered from any sadness. Being born to two young parents who still desire to have fun in their early twenties, others practically raised me. The "party on the weekends and work on the weekdays" mindset was prevalent in my household growing up. My mother mostly slept during the day, worked at night, and had fun on the weekends. My father, however, worked and spent time with his friends day and night. My only sibling out of three at the time shared the same childhood as me growing up, considering that she's the only sibling who shares both the same mom and dad as me. The many people in my life who took the role of my parents at times were my grandparents. With my mom and dad separated, my sister and I went to two houses. My mom's parents taught my sister and me about our culture. My father's parents taught my sister and me about education, despite school being closed sometimes. We would be up by five and at one of our grandparents' houses by seven, either taking a nap before school or eating breakfast. My grandmother on my father's side cooked every morning. Eating hot breakfast almost every morning my whole childhood most likely accounts for my dislike of cereal now. Many people like my aunts, uncles, and cousins deemed my sister and me as spoiled from then on. During summer, I spent most of my time at the pool, zoo, or shopping with one of my grandmothers and my sister. My grandmother would teach us flashcards and force us to go to bed early, two weeks before school began. My other grandmother would allow us to play and cook with her during hot summers. During fall and spring, my grandparents continued to spoil my sister and me. During winter, one of my grandmothers would warm a hot bath after playing outside with my sister. One Christmas morning, my grandparents hired a man to dress up as Santa Claus and his grandchildren as elves at four in the morning. That Christmas night soon turned into one of the most memorable Christmas nights of my life. I spent most of my holidays with my grandparents and barely saw my mother or father. After all the fun times of spending time with my grandparents, reality began to sit in for my sister and me. Our grandmother was diagnosed with cancer. One of the few people who raised us from babies to five years old was no longer the same. Most activities we had done with each other began to seize because of her exhaustion. She would take us on doctor appointments in Louisville instead, which substitute missed fun from other activities. My other grandmother was displayed as healthy and was still working at the job she loved. She cooked for many holidays and never missed a birthday dinner. Despite obstacles in the way, the realization one of my grandmothers was dying in front of me didn't stop me from being a happy kid. On May 11, 2012, my sister, my cousins, and I were unusually picked up from school around two in the afternoon. We were gathered in the living room and given the news that our grandmother, who seemed healthy, had died from an unexpected heart attack at the age of 55. It was my first time dealing with death involving a person I had seen more than my parents. The loss of one of my grandmothers affected me from then on. I looked after my other grandmother, afraid to lose her too. I would help her around the house and would catch myself checking her breathing when she slept at the age of seven. The feeling of losing a mother role model in my life was too harsh the first time to undergo twice. My sister and I spent dreadful months going back-and-forth from our mother and father's house. We drove to Louisville every other Friday at six in the afternoon and were picked up at six in the afternoon the following Sunday. This cycle took place twice a month and involved lots of arguing. Many arguments shared between my mother and father escalated to points where my sister and I would miss school. It wasn't until a cold October day the arguing would stop. In October of 2013, my grandmother, who was diagnosed with cancer, died. Not only did I experience the feeling of losing a mother role model again, but I burdened two parents who never got along. My routine became my parents' bickering and persuading my sister and me to live with them, a cycle that wouldn't cease until my father moved to Georgia with my younger siblings and my step-mom in July of 2018. After the death of my grandmothers, I have purposely missed four funerals and counting. The connection with death has always left a lingering depression and hindered my mental health. Depression is defined as "...a mood disorder that causes a persistent feeling of sadness and loss of interest" (Mayo Clinic). To define depression and the effects of mental health from a personal experience, the most potent experience are the two deaths that affected me the most and continue to today. The loss of significant people who raised me has pushed me to become the best I can be involving school. To simplify my definition of depression from my personal experience, depression is a feeling of hurt or pain projected from an event, person, or simply nothing at all. Losing a loved one is a universal event that every human experiences in life and the depression and hurt, which comes from this event can make or break a person.