I once checked out 56 books from the local library. The librarian and my family doubted me, but I knew I’d finish all of those books before the two weeks were up. As a first grader who had been reading since she was two, reading stories was my most important task, a box I desperately needed to check. 112 covers — front and back, small or thin, and paperback or hardcover — carried journeys that I was ready to embark on. I checked out all of the elementary school classics. My grandma’s bookshelf (which I had adopted for storage purposes) held a cover of antlers and grass from The Three Billy Goats Gruff, a cover of red-headed siblings from Hansel and Gretel, and the iconic crimson hood on the cover Little Red Riding Hood, along with some rare finds like My Scary Godmother. It seemed as if everyone saw picture books as a stepping stone, but for me, they were more than that. These books were my backbone, a platform to leap off into a literature-loving future where I’d never forget my literature-loving past. I could thumb through fractured fairy tale novels like The Sisters Grimm series and never forget the fractured fairy tale picture books like The True Story of the 3 Little Pigs! and The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales. Seeing authors experiment with iconic staples in literature inspired me to pursue my own takes on stories I loved. My first serious writing project was titled The Princess Diaries: Diary of Snowy White, which I planned to make a series with other books such as Diary of Cindy Rella. I haven’t touched those documents in years, but I occasionally scroll through the PDF versions of the original to get a taste of how my mind worked back then. Now, I have found new inspirations for my literary endeavours, yet my passion hasn’t dwindled one bit. I admire Rick Riordan’s ability to create a world so similar to ours with its own rules and intricacies. I admire Jamaica Kincaid’s ability to weave together a one-sentence piece through intelligent punctuation use and gifted diction. Onnesha Roychoudhuri’s piece about her name and cultural identity inspired me to write my own because I admired her ability to intertwine different anecdotes using a common theme. As an arts high school student with a concentration in creative writing, I’ve been exposed to genres such as fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction through writing exercises, workshops, and the exploration of published pieces. Throughout my studies, I have appreciated the power of literacy, and I don’t know what I would do if I wasn’t driven by my love for literature. Because I hope to instill the same passion in others, I was appointed as my school’s National English Honor Society president. With the rest of my officer board, my co-president and I host and promote hour opportunities to get the student body involved with literature. We hosted a book gift exchange, shared literary scholarships, and highlighted fun written submissions from honor society members at our meetings. As I reflect on my life, I appreciate how strong my motivation to pursue literature has been. In college, I hope to more deeply explore both familiar and unfamiliar genres. Like all artists, I have room to grow. Besides the development of my craft, I hope to explore new aspects of the creative writing world, such as publishing to understand both sides of the process. With a degree in creative writing, I’ll use my connections and resources from college to go forward with publishing my own work.

I haven’t had eyelashes for more than a decade. Because of stress and anxiety, I don’t remember what it’s like to have hundreds of tiny fibers attached to my eyelids, deflecting dust and debris and protecting my eyes. All I know are the naked brown nubs I have today. All I know is the constant urge to have my hands near my eyes. All I know are the countless times I've had some unknown substance making its way into my unprotected cornea. All I know is the feeling of being called crazy for having a condition I cannot control. It hurts to be called crazy. When people are not affected by something, they lose a bit of their empathy for those who are affected. Seeing people’s reactions to others’ mental health issues taught me that some people do not understand. Some people deal with disorders and conditions that cause behavior that could be deemed “weird” to the unaffected. When navigating relationships, I’ve learned the importance of maintaining respect toward someone suffering from a mental health condition. I’ve learned the importance of being there to support people with whatever issues they may be experiencing. In terms of my mental health journey, I've learned how to navigate my condition in regards to other people, too. I have trichotillomania, which causes an irresistible urge for the afflicted to pull out their own body hair. Some people pull out the hairs on their head, leaving patches and bald spots. Some people pluck their eyebrows, leaving a lack of short, wispy lines above their eyes. Some people pull out their eyelashes, leaving those empty nubs I mentioned before. It’s a mental health condition — a result of stress, anxiety, and other factors. Because people like me cannot control everyday life, we resort to attempting to control the number of hairs on our body. Once we start, we can’t stop. My hands always find their way up to my eyes, no matter how hard I try to keep them away (like when I slip Vaseline onto the remaining stubs in an attempt to deter my grasp, only producing a challenge for myself, a challenge I’m determined to beat). My nails are the weapon my hands wield to conquer the familiar follicle land of my deserted eyelid. This lack of self-discipline and self-control led me on a path of self-awareness. In the battle versus myself for control of my body, I learned about the way I function. I need to adjust the way my mind works in order to accomplish what I want. Although it might be difficult to bring myself to start or get around obstacles, my biggest obstacle is pushing myself to act at all. Becoming aware of my experiences has caused me to think about the experiences of other people, too. I know that people who deal with mental health issues do not deserve to endure further suffering for something they cannot control. They need help and support. By acknowledging other people’s problems and subjective experiences, I have developed an interest in learning about other people and the way they work. I like hearing about people’s problems and providing advice to navigate challenging situations. My friends and family often depend on me to help them reframe a set of circumstances and think about them in a rational, logical way. I find immense joy in serving as a beacon of support and assistance for the people around me, and my passion for this type of social problem-solving has developed since middle school. By talking to people, listening to them, and helping them surpass their obstacles, my dedication to supporting other people has only grown. Exploring the lives of others has made me more aware of the importance of maintaining strong mental health. Exploring the lives of others has made me more excited about pursuing a career where I am able to assist people in that way in a professional manner. I have decided that this is the path I want to take. Because of my own experience with mental health, I realize that more needs to be done. Other people need to learn about mental health conditions to prevent misinformation and negative perceptions. The human race in general needs to learn how to deal with mental health problems using healthy strategies. I want to provide that health and support for people who suffer from mental health issues for the rest of my life. I hope to use my college experience to continue my journey through studying psychology and using that knowledge to make an impact as a cognitive-behavioral therapist. My biggest professional goal is to pursue a career as a mental health professional, specifically dealing in talk therapy for youth. Although I have started my journey by supporting anyone I encounter through navigating their struggles, I understand that making a greater change requires professional education. Achieving my professional goals (that allow me to truly make a change in the world and the way mental health problems are treated) requires the access to resources that allow me to afford all elements necessary to achieve my goals. To be a therapist and pursue the profession that I desire, I must earn at least a master’s degree, but I hope to earn my doctorate to extend my passions to the highest level of educational experience. Until I reach that point of further education, I will do whatever I can to improve the caliber of mental health care and resources in the current moment. As a college student, I will pursue internships at professional mental health service offices. I will pursue training to volunteer with organizations such as RAINN and Crisis Text Line, which are striving to improve the way that our mental health crisis is handled currently. The system is broken, and the only way to mend it and help future generations is from within that same system. As a therapist, I will be a source of comfort and support for children and teens struggling with their mental health. I have been inspired by my own mental health struggles, and I understand firsthand the importance of assistance, perseverance, and understanding.

I haven’t had eyelashes for about a decade (maybe more, maybe less). Because of stress and anxiety, I don’t remember what it’s like to have hundreds of tiny fibers attached to my eyelids, deflecting dust and debris from entering my circles of sight. All I remember are the naked brown nubs I have today, or being nursed for some unknown substance making its way into my unprotected cornea, or even being called crazy for having a condition I cannot control. It hurts to be called crazy. But when people are not affected by something, they lose a bit of their empathy for fellow humans who are affected. Seeing others’ reaction to others’ mental health issues taught me that some people do not understand. Some people deal with disorders and conditions that cause behavior that could be deemed “weird” to the unaffected. I have trichotillomania, which causes an irresistible urge for the afflicted to pull out their own body hair. Some people pull out the hairs on their head, leaving patches and bald spots across their craniums. Some people pluck their eyebrows, leaving a lack of short, wispy lines above their eyes. Some people pull out their eyelashes, leaving those empty nubs I mentioned before. It’s a mental health condition, a result of stress, anxiety, and other factors. Because people like me cannot control everyday life, we resort to uncontrollably controlling the amount of hairs on our body. Once we start, we can’t stop. My disorder has allowed me to realize I lack self-discipline. My hands always find their way up to my eyes, no matter how hard I try to keep them away (like when I slip Vaseline onto the remaining stubs in an attempt to deter my grasp, only producing a challenge for myself, a challenge I’m determined to complete). My nails are the weapon my hands wield to conquer the familiar follicle land of my deserted eyelid. This lack of self-discipline and self-control led me on a path of self-awareness. In the battle versus myself for control of my body, I learned about the way I function. I need to adjust the way my mind works in order to accomplish what I want. Although it might be difficult to bring myself to start or get around obstacles, my biggest obstacle is pushing myself to act at all. This disorder is not my only mental health obstacle I need to leap over. People who deal with mental health issues do not deserve to endure further suffering for something they cannot control. People who deal with mental health problems need help and support. Because of my experience with mental health, I realize that more needs to be done. Other people need to learn about mental health conditions to prevent misinformation and negative perceptions. The human race in general needs to learn how to deal with mental health problems using healthy strategies. I want to provide that health and support for people who suffer from mental health issues. Because of my battles, struggles, and experiences with mental health, I will be a therapist in about a decade (maybe more, maybe less), with or without hundreds of tiny fibers attached to my eyelids.

A warm hand travels back to clap mine, snapping me back into reality to adjust my focus. My favorite friendly face, Makena, often whips around to smile at me after requesting a high-five. She sits in front of me in creative writing, and as our teacher starts class, her hand floats in front of my face, waiting for me to complete the high-five. Makena has supported me through almost every senior year struggle. In creative writing, or any other environment, she always offers a smile to lift my spirits or kind words of wisdom to keep me motivated. The first time I met Makena, it wasn’t face to face. She would respond to my messages about baking and travel in the freshman year Google Meet chat. Our creative writing teacher would ask how our weekend went, so I’d often share how I tested a new recipe or watched a new movie. Makena was there, always encouraging my participation and engaging with my comments. Even from a computer screen, I felt seen because of her. I discovered that Makena was also in my language arts class, AICE General Paper. We found ourselves in a breakout room after our teacher gave us a Socratic seminar prompt. We discussed moral themes from stories like Romeo and Juliet and Night by Elie Wiesel. After our rich conversation, I felt refreshed and intellectually moved. Most of all, I felt comfortable. Starting high school virtually had hindered us all academically, emotionally, and socially. I found it difficult to connect with new people who stared back at me from a Google Meet square, but with Makena, it seemed effortless. Her smile didn’t falter, exuberating confidence and an eagerness to connect. Then when we met in person, she provided meaningful critiques during creative writing workshops and asked questions about my journalism experience (since we worked on the same newsmagazine staff in different sections). Still, even with distance, even with cloth masks covering our smiles, I could see her friendly energy in her eyes and in her aura. Because of her kindness, we became good friends. As seniors persevering through the college admissions process in addition to the normal everyday happenings of high school academics. We adopted our accountability system to keep each other motivated and focused. We send each other tasks we hope to complete within a certain amount of time, usually a few hours, to make sure we get it done. In the instance where I can’t reach all my goals, she still motivates me to keep going and supports me through the stress. I know that without her, I wouldn’t have made it through this year, and it’s been an honor to help her with her goals this year, too. Throughout our whole high school career, she has taught me that people function under different conditions and at different paces, and I’ve realized that that is okay. She has taught me that I can smile through the pain, but I don’t need to because I have her as a friendly shoulder to cry on. I’ll be attending Kenyon College, a decision that took me a while to accept because I was struggling with factors such as financial aid. However, Makena urged me to take my time, and after committing to Yale, she offered me advice, once again showcasing her support and kindness with a smile. As we travel to different regions to further our education, I know that I can always call her for a virtual high-five and her unfaltering kindness.

I learned to read when I was two, and I started writing soon after. Books, movies, songs, stories, and even my life experiences have always inspired me to write my own pieces. The first “book” I ever wrote was about my sister’s birth. Today its pages are yellowed, yet my love for writing has never faded. Over the years, I’ve filled journals and notebooks, and now Google Drive documents, with short stories and ideas. My arts school’s creative writing program has allowed me to explore unfamiliar genres like poetry and creative nonfiction through experimental writing exercises. In 11th grade, I wrote a poem about dealing with my mother’s death, which won a Silver Key in the Scholastics Art & Writing Awards. Later, I attended the Kenyon Young Writers Winter Workshop for creative nonfiction and also their summer workshop for multigenre exploration. My writing’s growth from those programs launched me into an Iowa Young Writers Studio workshop, where I studied fiction’s nuances and generated pieces focusing on a new fiction skill every week. Along with the typical genres that I’ve been exposed to through writing exercises, workshops, and the exploration of published pieces, my teacher has also introduced us to more contemporary genres such as the altermodern, but I hope to explore the genres that I am both unfamiliar with and familiar with in a more in-depth manner. I have dabbled in fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry, but like all artists, I have room to grow. Besides the development of my craft, I hope to explore new aspects of the creative writing world such as publishing to understand both sides of the process. With a degree, I’ll use my connections and resources from college to go forward with publishing my own work. I have a few pieces published already, but I want to pursue a novel or memoir using what I’ve learned from my time in college. To be a writer is to be endlessly curious about my own life and the lives of family, friends, and strangers alike. There are seeds of inspiration everywhere. Through my artistic journey, I have met new people and more deeply explored the lives of the people I already knew. I recognize that each individual carries their own chapters with indelible experiences and incredibly fascinating life lessons. Although that is one of my passions, I also have other interests that I would love to pursue degree-wise. I’m fascinated with the English language and literature, and all of their nuances, so I applied to be an English major for the opportunity to study concepts that I love. However, double-majoring requires funds and resources, and after obtaining a bachelor’s degree, graduate school is another expensive feat. If I had access to more resources, I would extend my schooling to explore other disciplines such as psychology that also pique my interest. Without worrying about finances, I can focus on what a post-secondary education is for: learning.

I once checked out 56 books from the local library. The librarian and my family doubted me, but I knew I’d finish all of those books before the two weeks were up. As a first grader who had been reading since she was two, reading stories was my most important task, a box I desperately needed to check. 112 covers — front and back, small or thin, and paperback or hardcover — carried journeys that I was ready to embark on. I checked out all of the elementary school classics. My grandma’s bookshelf (which I had adopted for storage purposes) held a cover of antlers and grass from The Three Billy Goats Gruff, a cover of red-headed siblings from Hansel and Gretel, and the iconic crimson hood on the cover Little Red Riding Hood, along with some rare finds like My Scary Godmother. It seemed as if everyone saw picture books as a stepping stone, but for me, they were more than that. These books were my backbone, a platform to leap off into a literature-loving future where I’d never forget my literature-loving past. I could thumb through fractured fairy tale novels like The Sisters Grimm series and never forget the fractured fairy tale picture books like The True Story of the 3 Little Pigs! and The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales. Seeing authors experiment with iconic staples in literature inspired me to pursue my own takes on stories I loved. My first serious writing project was titled The Princess Diaries: Diary of Snowy White, which I planned to make a series with other books such as Diary of Cindy Rella. I haven’t touched those documents in years, but I occasionally scroll through the PDF versions of the original to get a taste of how my mind worked back then. Now, I have found new inspirations for my literary endeavours, yet my passion hasn’t dwindled one bit. I admire Rick Riordan’s ability to create a world so similar to ours with its own rules and intricacies. I admire Jamaica Kincaid’s ability to weave together a one-sentence piece through intelligent punctuation use and gifted diction. Onnesha Roychoudhuri’s piece about her name and cultural identity inspired me to write my own because I admired her ability to intertwine different anecdotes using a common theme. As an arts high school student with a concentration in creative writing, I’ve been exposed to genres such as fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction through writing exercises, workshops, and the exploration of published pieces. Throughout my studies, I have appreciated the power of literacy, and I don’t know what I would do if I wasn’t driven by my love for literature. Because I hope to instill the same passion in others, I was appointed as my school’s National English Honor Society president. With the rest of my officer board, my co-president and I host and promote hour opportunities to get the student body involved with literature. We hosted a book gift exchange, shared literary scholarships, and highlighted fun written submissions from honor society members at our meetings. As I reflect on my life, I appreciate how strong my motivation to pursue literature has been. In college, I hope to more deeply explore both familiar and unfamiliar genres. Like all artists, I have room to grow. Besides the development of my craft, I hope to explore new aspects of the creative writing world, such as publishing to understand both sides of the process. With a degree in creative writing, I’ll use my connections and resources from college to go forward with publishing my own work.

An activity as simple as a class discussion makes my heart race and my breathing quicken as if I'm trying to run underwater. The stress of being a high school student feels like water pressure hindering my legs' movement as I exert as much force as possible but to no avail. Walking in hallways with seas of students, I paint a smile across my face as my lungs feel like they are filled with water; there is no room to breathe. I try my hardest in classes, pushing my brain to concentrate on lectures and focus on worksheet questions. When I get home, I take deep breaths, convinced that I can take time for myself and relax. But then my mind creeps off to wondering about unfinished assignments, my household responsibilities, and any other burdens that escaped from my memory. There is always something to do, whether that means editing for my school newsmagazine or doing six rounds of laundry. My life feels like a pile of books that I have to read, and every time I reach "the end" another novel is added to the stack. It feels like every day I take one step forward and three steps back. And although the struggles are difficult to persevere through, I find myself acknowledging the immense strength that I possess to be able to achieve what I want anyway. Even though the currents are pushing against me, hoping that I don't succeed, I am able to swim to success anyway. As I take three steps back, I applaud myself for never falling. I may stumble, but that is normal, and that is expected, and I eventually find my balance. Part of staying strong as the waves crash down on you is pursuing helpful coping strategies. When I recognize that I am in a rut or at a low point, I reach out to people who I know that I can count on. I do not typically present what I am going through at the moment, but I make an effort of turning my pain into efforts of support by asking them if there is anything that they would like to express or get off of their chest. I listen through my friends' struggles and make sure that they know they can always come to me if they find the urge to talk. However, there is only so much that I can do, so I also encourage them to seek professional help. I talk to my school's psychologist when I struggle. I make plans with people I care about in order to have something to look forward to. I find ways to acknowledge my struggles before turning them into activities that I am passionate about like creatively writing a new piece or trying out a new recipe to taste test. I share my coping methods and serve as a support system for my friends, but in the future, I hope to become a mental health professional myself. I have acknowledged my own setbacks, but I want to help other people like me cope with theirs. There is only one way to improve the system and provide support, and that is from within the system.

“They all say that it gets better, it gets better the more you grow. They all say that it gets better, it gets better, but what if I don’t?” sits in the back of my brain, squirming in its crevices. When my mind goes slightly silent, there are always soft whispers reciting the lyrics from Olivia Rodrigo’s “Teenage Dream.” It’s the last song on her album GUTS, symbolizing the last moments of her teen years. I turned 18 just days before GUTS released, and I feel the clock ticking as time runs out. Adulthood has arrived, but I don’t want to meet it. Once my teen years are over, it’s officially time to grow up, but I’m not ready. Olivia Rodrigo understands what it’s like. She lived her teenage dream but wonders if that was her peak, and I’m pondering the same question. Living as a burnt-out teenager makes me wonder if this is the best my life is going to get, and Olivia Rodrigo’s music captures those feelings perfectly. She is writing from her own experiences, but it feels as if she’s ripped out pages from my diary and claimed them as her own. I resonate with her lyrics as if I’d written them myself, with her music comforting me in my darkest moments. As I look toward my future with college applications, adulthood, and independence, I too wonder if the best parts of my life have already happened. I think about how “They all say that it gets better, it gets better, but what if I don’t?” I find myself often questioning my worth and growth. The heavy comparison culture within my age group promotes looking at the success of others before determining if I’m truly successful in whatever I try to achieve. I’m always looking to mature and develop as a person and regarding my skills, and people say as time passes, positive change occurs. But I always fear that I’m stunted. Where’s my growth? Where’s my improvement? What if my abilities get better, but I don’t? Adulthood is approaching. It’s practically knocking on my door. But how will I survive in the real world if the life I’m living now isn’t what I’d like it to be. And if the future holds great experiences, will I be able to get there? Living on the edge of childhood, closer to independence than support, has every person in their late teen years wondering if it gets better than this. Because they all say that it gets better, but what if I don’t?

The support beams creaked, but I didn’t care. I was practically flying on the swings, screaming like a child on a rollercoaster. From the bottom of my heart and from the deepest crevices of my lungs, Taylor Swift’s lyrics from her 2012 album, Red, emerged. My first favorite song was “I Knew You Were Trouble,” a song where Swift sings about the trajectory of a failed relationship from the Red album. I loved the storytelling in that song, and it was that aspect of Swift’s songwriting that made me fall in love with her entire discography. I’ve been with her since Fearless, and I’ve stayed past Fearless (Taylor’s Version). Taylor Swift rerecording her albums to take ownership and control of her own work, her own art, was a powerful feat. From Red to Reputation, I’ve been there, singing along and streaming songs like “All Too Well” and “Call it What You Want.” It almost seems as if my life is simply a chain of Swift-related moments with her songs ingrained into my memories throughout the years. I’ve learned that her lyrics are inscribed in my brain and in my life, as if her discography is rooted in the pages of my diary. I admire her ability to relate to her fans by writing about her experiences, connecting to women and girls everywhere, no matter what. During the Eras Tour, her reach has stretched to new horizons, visiting different countries and spreading her talent to fans worldwide. It’s been amazing for fans like me to support her through new journeys and new albums, whether it’s from the edge of the stage or the edge of movie theater seats with the release of her Eras Tour movie. Like her albums, my life has been separated into eras: each different than the last, and each with a lesson I have learned. In my debut era, or when I listen back to her first album now, I realized the importance of my name: I was named after a water goddess in Caribbean and African cultures, which sometimes comes with mispronunciations. But Taylor Swift’s self-titled album taught me that it’s important to acknowledge my identity because my earliest years are so formative. Fearless came out in 2008, when I had just started school. I strived to take on new opportunities like interesting chapter books and making friends, She taught me how to "take my own hand" and "drag myself headfirst" into new beginnings, fearless. Speak Now was written entirely by Ms. Swift herself, and her songs covered issues that she was passionate about from bullying to her growth as an artist and support from fans. I learned how to appreciate “the crowds” going “wild” to support me and how to ignore the “mean, pathetic,” and “alone-in-life liars” on my elementary school’s playground. The album Red has my heart, despite my lack of influential love life experiences. I love the way Taylor Swift expressed her heartbreak to us Swifties through her lyrics back in 2012, and I love Taylor’s Version of Red even more. 1989 was a fun album where she embraced a new side of herself while officially adopting the “pop” title. Songs from that era take me back to the refreshing last years of elementary school where Ms. Swift still bonded with me through her music. It taught me to appreciate the past and use it to fuel the benefits of my present. The albums I grew up on stick with me, but as the Taylor's Versions release and new lyrics are sung, my love for Taylor Swift shines like a mirrorball (for)evermore.

I’ve always loved to dive into a book’s pages like it was an “Alice in Wonderland” rabbit hole or the ocean in “Moby Dick.” Reading a new book is like entering a new world full of rules and behaviors and norms unlike our own, and having the key to unlock these pages, secrets, and experiences feels like having a key to heaven. I’ve opened the doors to Camp Half-Blood in Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series, and now I fortunately can’t escape the Greek mythology bug. Fixating on mythology with books stocked with stain glass window illustrations of scenes from the gods’ origin story was a distinct favorite hobby throughout my career as a reader. Hopping from one book to the next was like dipping my toe in puddles of knowledge to soak up different details with ease. However, immersing myself in the world of Greek gods and goddesses didn’t only inform me of the vast sea of lore lying within these stories. Immersing myself in a new world full of rules and behaviors and norms unlike my own didn’t only allow me to connect with readers who were just as intrigued and passionate as I am. Through flipping pages and serving as a sponge to gather details, stories, and ideas, my mind has grown. My brain has developed. My thoughts have expanded in a way that no other activity could alter them because the influence of written stories and getting stuck in a good book is indelible. Reading has taught me patience. Waiting for a plot to unfold is a feeling like no other. It takes time to focus on a character’s complexities within their behavior to figure out what may play out next. Good books can’t be rushed through; it’s best to fully enjoy a book instead of flipping through to get to the end. It’s best to allow the action to rise because it comes with a rush of excitement, and that isn’t specific to only reading. It is important to wait and perceive and learn to be successful. Like books, life is full of plots waiting to unfold under the right circumstances. I have no control over what the author of my story has decided for me, so all I can do is wait and watch for the tale to begin. I can’t rush artistry. Good plots are worth waiting for. Just like life, books don’t begin simply to end; books begin to tell captivating tales from start to finish, holding the readers in with loveable characters and complex storylines. My love of reading has lasted my whole life, and from the stories I’ve loved, I’ve learned.

I spent my elementary school summers sprawled out on my bedroom floor, pulling at strands of carpet, crayons in hand — some broken and some brand new. Stacks of coloring books lay beside me: a meant-to-be-stressless summer project. I would let my mind wander across the paper and wait for the results. Creativity has no limits, regardless of the form it takes. I would let my mind wander across paper, resulting in a captivating short story or a silly illustration. “Color inside the lines!” were words I heard often. Adults forced me to squish myself within the limits they set, the hindrances I wanted to pass. As much as I wanted to escape from the black boundaries, I was trained to stay within the lines. Somehow, I have broken through most barriers when it comes to learning. I’ve been on the advanced math track since elementary school, finishing all required math my freshman year of high school, leaping over the restrictions like hurdles on a track. More recently, I wanted to take AP courses that I knew I’d enjoy, but there wasn’t enough space in my schedule to take AP Psychology, AP Spanish Language and Culture, and AP English Literature and Composition. Each of these courses were like doors with locks on them, but I needed to pass through. I went ahead and took the required courses online to make space in my senior year schedule. Only those courses could quench the intellectual thirst that limits on my education had been plaguing me with. I had been waiting to take them since my freshman year when I found out they were options, and time was my only adversary. With those extra online courses, education was the key leading me to elevated academic success. I’ve escaped boundaries and evaded obstacles. However, there is one I can’t avoid. Economic status is the one hurdle I can’t leap over. Success based on finances is ingrained in the story of America, and without access to funds, it is hard for low-income students like myself to exceed expectations and reach goals. If I had the resources, if I could creep outside of those big black borders, I would transcend the confines and absorb as much knowledge as possible through my post secondary education experience. I would drain the sponge of information with my clutching interest in all there is to learn. I would reach into the depths of my brain, beyond the structured directions and boundary lines, to pull out the inspiration that can only be found where nobody dares to go.

@y.gasp

With the booming vocals of a mixed chorus and flashing visuals, "The Prince of Egypt" drew my kindergarten-aged eyes in immediately. Animated Egyptian enslaved chant between steps as they work to build the civilization's iconic structures against their will. Actress Ofra Haza's voice danced across my eardrums while I stared at my grandmother's television screen, mesmerized with my mouth ajar. The story follows Moses, the pharaoh's youngest son, whose mischievous actions lead to problems for his older brother Ramses, who is next in line for the throne. As a privileged prince, Moses did not understand the pain that the enslaved people endured, but he eventually learns that he was born to an enslaved mother because of a decision his adoptive father made to kill baby boys born at the same time as him. He uses this knowledge to seek liberation for the enslaved as part of God's mission, and the movie follows his journey to achieve that goal. No matter what someone believes in or what their religion is, it is likely they have heard of Moses or heard of this cinematic adaptation from the Book of Exodus. It serves as an ecumenical force and unifying factor bypassing the limits of religion because people from any background can relate to and identify with the themes of faith, perseverance, and hope. Moses slowly but surely shifts his belief, starting to believe in God after God asks Moses to liberate the enslaved people. And this theme is not limited to religion, like most of those in this story and in this movie. Moses' journey to liberating enslaved people after experiencing his own self-development represents a journey of believing in oneself and persevering through struggles and barriers and limitations to ultimately achieve something one has worked hard for and for so long. Through this movie, these themes have been instilled into my mentality and my approach to life since I have watched it since I was younger up until now. I consider it my favorite comfort movie, with a spectacular soundtrack and star-studded cast to elevate the quality of the story, the animation, and the iconic and everlasting message of hope. Singers Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey have a song on the soundtrack titled "When You Believe," which is sung by Moses' sister and wife in the movie itself. That song is one of the many aspects of the movie that can be applied to everyday life, and it is so important to have a strong example of how much change can come from determination and hope, and this idea surpasses the strictures of religion. It stretches into the ideas that humanity needs, and this movie has instilled these themes and ideas into me, encouraging me to believe and strive and thrive.

I click accept on my mom’s free trial offer each time I close my eyes. For a limited time only, I have access to her deep hugs and her smooth voice, unlike those of faded photos or blurry videos. While I’m asleep, I can feel her and hear her and see her, but only temporarily. I ask her questions and tune into her one-night-only productions, but when I wake up to the clangs of my unwanted alarm, I'm met with the pain of not having her for more than a few hours in real-time. Dreams only last so long. I can’t pause or rewind to take my psyche’s pixels in, so I am forced to fast forward past my moments with memories of her. Outside of my head’s nighttime streaming service, I don’t remember her voice without referencing words she used to say. I miss how her New York accent snuck through the word “water,” and I miss how she pursed her lips when she replaced “o” sounds with “aw.” I miss hearing her say my name. I don’t even remember how my name sounded on her tongue, but I think my dreams get it right. Since my brain’s a good actor, it really knows its audience. When she holds my hand in my dreams, it feels familiar and the memories come flooding back — but not for long. I’d like to think it’s the remnants of her soul reaching out to visit me, but I think it’s just my cortex playing tricks on a mental screen. I'd pay anything for a ticket to her eternal one-woman show, to sit in the audience and watch the lights glow across her skin, a few shades darker than mine, but her angelic wonder brightens her aura as if she were still alive. Advertisements and all, no price is too large. I'd chug cans of melatonin instead of energy drinks if it meant more than a six-hour dream with her. A mother’s love can’t be bought, but my brain barters beautifully. If sleep is the fee, I'd buy the key to her soul and unlock my clouded memories. Sometimes I don't believe my subscription to her ended. I keep thinking her body is still intact, and her love is what I get in return. My receipt reads "all dues are paid." but then I remember the burning in my eyes on the day she died, tears flowing instead of the blood to her brain. The REM gifting me a connection to her presence proves my brain stem still works, but I can’t say the same for hers.

My notes app is a department store: stocked up with everything anybody might need (along with a little extra just in case). The way that Target has aisles for iPad chargers, notebooks, and even $3 packs of assorted mini AirHeads, my notes app has folders for lists, secrets, and ideas. It’s like my own personal Dewey Decimal System since the lists alone might qualify for my own strictly digital branch of the local library. I have seven different to-do lists of several genres, all separated into categories like “urgent, now,” and “later” within each document, with “later” basically translating to never. Tasks at the bottom are pushed down to the forgotten “undone” domain, and once something gets buried down there, it’s never seen again, like my cranium’s personal trash folder — deleted in 30 days, or rather thirty seconds. All of these organizational tools lead me to live a perfectly planned out life, step by step, day by day, note by note. Except that’s a lie. As much as I’d like to believe my style means carefully designed perfection and structure, it’s not. I certainly have all the necessary resources to reach this result, but that doesn’t mean I use them the way I should. When I should be speeding through my to-do list, I usually find myself lounging in the document meant for story ideas (since inspiration strikes at all the wrong moments) or lingering in a random new note where I write things that I forgot to remember. As much as I want to follow a specific plan, I tend to get further by only organizing it than actually going through with it. Instead of being defined by my layouts and rules, I function better when I slightly reference those rules while doing what I do whenever I end up doing it.

My notes app is a department store: stocked up with everything anybody might need (along with a little extra just in case). Like Target has aisles for iPad chargers, notebooks, and even $3 packs of assorted mini AirHeads, my notes app has folders for lists, secrets, and ideas. It’s like my own personal Dewey Decimal System since the lists alone might qualify for my own strictly digital branch of my county's Library System. I have seven different to-do lists of several genres, all separated into categories like “urgent, now,” and “later” within each document, with “later” basically translating to never. Tasks at the bottom are pushed down to the forgotten “undone” domain, and once something gets buried down there, it’s never seen again, like my cranium’s personal trash folder — deleted in 30 days, or rather thirty seconds. All of these organizational tools lead me to a perfectly planned out life, step by step, day by day, note by note. Except that’s a lie. When I should be speeding through my to-do list, I usually find myself lounging in the document meant for story ideas (since inspiration strikes at all the wrong moments) or lingering in a random new note where I write things I forgot to remember. Instead of being defined by my layouts and rules, I recently discovered that I function better only when I slightly reference those rules. On December 31, 2022, I found myself struggling to write my list of New Year’s Resolutions for 2023. The fact that I never go through with them held me back, and I fought the urge to start that list because I knew it probably wouldn’t get accomplished (especially since the goals on the list for 2023 would have been the same ones for years 2020-2022). It took hours of procrastinating until I decided at the very last minute — 11:59 p.m. on New Year’s Eve — that it was simply not going to happen. I couldn’t force myself to make another checklist, another shelf in my department store. Since New Year’s, I stepped away from my desire to force everything into a plan I won’t follow and instead stepped toward the idea of letting life pull me by the wrist onto a journey of existing rather than outlining, free-flying rather than micro-managing. Although I do love a good list, I have learned to find the beauty in broad bullet points instead of pressuring myself to walk a thin line of restriction that I would undoubtedly fall off of.

Straining my voice to hit high notes not meant for my vocal cords, the glorious voice of the late Whitney Houston soars through my ears. If I take a moment to close my mouth and listen to what's coming out of hers, lyrics about self-love are delivered effortlessly. "The Greatest Love of All" by Whitney Houston carries a message of having a strong sense of self without depending on other people to feel secure. Listening to this song taught me that instead of looking to other people to support me, I should be looking to myself to reinforce the idea that "if I fail, if I succeed, at least I'll live as I believe no matter what they take from me, they can't take away my dignity." It takes a while to adapt to that mindset, and Houston herself sings about the necessity to teach children about "all the beauty they possess inside" and "give them a sense of pride" early on. I used to have (seemingly unbreakable) self-confidence when I was younger. I would walk into my elementary school like I owned the place with a brain that never struggled to learn academic lessons. After learning life lessons, my confidence withered, and I started to look outside of myself for love when in reality, the source of love I should have depended on was my own. We come into the world with only ourselves, and we leave the world the same way. We could lose anything at any moment: our friends, our family, and even our lives. The only thing we could never be stripped of is ourselves and our ability to love. "The Greatest Love of All" reminds its listeners that "learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all." You can "find your strength in love."

I made my first cake before my fourth birthday (with help from my mom). Of course it was a a store-bought cardboard box with a bag of dry ingredients and directions printed on the back. Of course the frosting was tightly packaged into a Pillsbury tub. Everyone has to start somewhere. I appreciated the time whoever manufactured the box cake took to ensure I knew the steps to produce something similar to the picture on the box. I appreciated Betty Crocker or whoever's brand the box was from. Producing a culinary creation takes work. I appreciate the method that goes into preparing edible art. I love the measurement (and occasional estimation) that allow you to create something delicious. It's like party planning: you know what you need to achieve the end result you want, but of course there is some special uncertainty on the side. Immersing myself in the creation process, whether that is cooking or baking, allows me to appreciate the energy and specificity that goes into the process itself. Experiencing the effort and work it takes to cook and bake and create captivates me. I consider myself an analytical being. My brain is constantly active, wishing to learn or pushing to think. My mind works like the bubbles in a boiling pot. New ideas are incessantly rushing to the surface, popping and leaving as fast as they arrived, but the flowing water of thoughts never ceases. I enjoy topics and concepts that raise the temperature of the stove and allow me to follow a procedure like the analytical creature I am. Nothing excites me more than following a procedure to create something wonderful and tasty. I love measuring out ingredients and mixing them together in bowls. I love following recipes. I even love reading the instructions on the back of a cardboard box packaging a bag of flour within.

Black History Month means a lot to Black people. But even a month meant to celebrate the existence, success, and achievements of the Black community ends up controlled by the oppressors. White organizations rush to voice their support for the 28 (or 29) days of our short February, but they go ghost as soon as March 1 hits the calendars. They fear being boycotted, or canceled, when they do not uplift our community, so they pretend to care while presenting performative activism for four weeks before calling it quits. I witnessed this firsthand. My school’s Black Student Union was preparing a showcase for the end of BSU Spirit Week, which took place during Black History Month. I’m unsure how far the production got, but halfway through the process, administration crashed in, scooping up the idea and replacing it with a Multicultural Show, rescheduling it for the end of Spirit Week in March. I love and respect all cultures, and I loved being a part of the Multicultural Show. I represented BSU with a step team, performing to the theme of HBCU Culture. There’s an absence at my school for the boosting of Black culture, besides BSU, and the Multicultural Show gave us the opportunity to blast and promote and shine our culture all over the school, and people loved it. It’s progress.

I haven’t had eyelashes for about a decade (maybe more, maybe less). Because of stress and anxiety, I don’t remember what it’s like to have hundreds of tiny fibers attached to my eyelids, deflecting dust and debris from entering my circles of sight. All I remember are the naked brown nubs I have today, or being nursed for some unknown substance making its way into my unprotected cornea, or even being called crazy for having a condition I cannot control. It hurts to be called crazy. But when people are not affected by something, they lose a bit of their empathy for fellow humans who are affected. Seeing others’ reaction to others’ mental health issues taught me that some people do not understand. Some people deal with disorders and conditions that cause behavior that could be deemed “weird” to the unaffected. I have trichotillomania, which causes an irresistible urge for the afflicted to pull out their own body hair. Some people pull out the hairs on their head, leaving patches and bald spots across their craniums. Some people pluck their eyebrows, leaving a lack of short, wispy lines above their eyes. Some people pull out their eyelashes, leaving those empty nubs I mentioned before. It’s a mental health condition, a result of stress, anxiety, and other factors. Because people like me cannot control everyday life, we resort to uncontrollably controlling the amount of hairs on our body. Once we start, we can’t stop. My disorder has allowed me to realize I lack self-discipline. My hands always find their way up to my eyes, no matter how hard I try to keep them away (like when I slip Vaseline onto the remaining stubs in an attempt to deter my grasp, only producing a challenge for myself, a challenge I’m determined to complete). My nails are the weapon my hands wield to conquer the familiar follicle land of my deserted eyelid. This lack of self-discipline and self-control led me on a path of self-awareness. In the battle versus myself for control of my body, I learned about the way I function. I need to adjust the way my mind works in order to accomplish what I want. Although it might be difficult to bring myself to start or get around obstacles, my biggest obstacle is pushing myself to act at all. This disorder is not my only mental health obstacle I need to leap over. People who deal with mental health issues do not deserve to endure further suffering for something they cannot control. People who deal with mental health problems need help and support. Because of my experience with mental health, I realize that more needs to be done. Other people need to learn about mental health conditions to prevent misinformation and negative perceptions. The human race in general needs to learn how to deal with mental health problems using healthy strategies. I want to provide that health and support for people who suffer from mental health issues. Because of my battles, struggles, and experiences with mental health, I will be a therapist in about a decade (maybe more, maybe less). With or without hundreds of tiny fibers attached to my eyelids.

Art is an abstract concept. Some people believe paintings are art. Others believe art is any piece of personal work. I believe it is open to interpretation, like music. I have such a strong appreciation for people who can do the things I cannot. Singers, songwriters, and singer-songwriters occupy a large space in my heart. I enjoy absorbing good music, and Taylor Swift is amazing at producing it. My favorite piece of art is "All Too Well (10 Minute Version) (Taylor's Version) (From the Vault)" by Taylor Swift. I wish I could say I was familiar with the original version, like most of her fans, but if I did, it would be a lie. That does not mean I cannot appreciate her creativity, lyricism, and talent like most of her fans can. Not only is she amazing at storytelling while keeping a steady rhyme scheme, the story she tells through the lyrics is compelling and relatable. I can hear the emotion painted across her vocal chords, complementing the musical score that travels behind her voice. This version of "All Too Well" explains the story of one of her relationships, including the highlights and lowlights, and how she dealt with the aftermath. Her powerful bridge and additional verses delivered clarity and further developed the ideas she planted in the original version. This newer version provides more context and elaboration on the situation, supplying more specificity for listeners to grasp through metaphors, rhymes, and relevant details. She sings her words in a way that invites her fans to scream along with her, evoking emotion for us to feel the lyrics as she sings them. I can empathize with her situation while drawing parallels with my own experiences too. Swift makes it so easy to understand her, and feel each chord and lyric.

In first grade, my teacher gave us spelling tests. I do not remember how frequent they were, but I imagine they were almost weekly. If I remember correctly, she never advised us to study. Perhaps I engaged in normal seven-year-old activities instead, like spending my afternoons reading my latest library acquisition for my reading log, or eating popcorn in front of my grandmother's television. The closest thing to studying for a spelling test was reading the subtitles under my favorite TV programs. When the days of the spelling tests came, she had us in small groups at a table as she read the words aloud. I liked sitting in the center so I could hear her better. Right after, I believe, we would check our answers and gather our final score. This one time, I think it was the third test, I had so much confidence in my answers because I got a perfect score on previous spelling assessments. Little did I know my downfall would be one of the first words I learned: one of the days of the week. To be fair, Wednesday always trips people up. Whether it is during the actual week and we mistake Wednesday for Thursday (or when really hopeful, Friday), or during first grade spelling tests where spelling it out in our heads does nothing. If I recall correctly, the word on my paper was "Wensday." Imagine the shock on my face, which I did a terrible job of keeping hidden, when I learned I spelled it incorrectly. I told everyone I still achieved a perfect score, lying to protect my prestigious reputation. Even now, I have to triple-check when spelling the word. Sounding it out does nothing. Every time I make a calendar-esque list, "Wed-nes-day" runs through my head to ensure success.

I find it difficult to decide which version of myself I want to be each day. I let external factors influence my behavior, choices, expressions, and even my words and preferences too often. I have the bad habit of allowing my people pleasing practice to rule my decisions, all for the purpose of keeping the people around me happy. However, the one aspect of myself that is unrelenting is how much I care. The one piece of my personality that people pleasing has not washed away is how affectionate and attentive I can be toward others. Some people make jokes about my abnormally close attention to the way I treat people and how this affects them. It is the one characteristic I take pride in wholly, no matter what other people may think. If I have the ability to help someone with their issues because I am not afraid to express how I care about them, I could never be ashamed of this. Caring about others is a good quality. I love being able to pay attention to someone's behavior, body language, and word choices to know when they are silently screaming for help. As much as I allow other people to dictate the way I live, the one thing that nobody can ever change about me is how much I pay attention to the well-being of people in my environment and how I make sure they are all doing okay.

When I was younger, I was set on becoming an author, singer-songwriter, and actress triple-threat. Hollywood would praise and fear me because of my extraordinary talent, and the elementary school version of me thrived off of those ambitions. Little did she know that along the way, unforeseen obstacles would stumble onto my path, blocking me from achieving my goals, or pushing me onto a different route. She had big plans for me in the future. She could not predict the periods of overwhelming stress that pushed me to the brink. She had no idea how many times I would consider giving up on everything in life, including life itself. I cannot pinpoint a specific moment in time where the deprivation of positivity sprouted for the first time. Maybe it was at age nine when I remember feeling I was a burden to my family, and although both my parents had psychology degrees and experienced working with children often, I fought the urge to express these thoughts to them. But moments like these started to become recurring events, and each time, my brain would somehow manage to lose a war against itself. I have the bad habit of pushing everything down until it explodes from too much pressure. It would be easier to disregard my emotions as if they do not exist. My feelings became random, exploding uncontrollably whenever I could not hold it anymore. I could not find a label to place on my experiences. Mental health issues are not like canned meals. There is not a checklist of ingredients that explain exactly what is happening and why it is happening. I felt what I felt. But I was not expressing it. I began to put on a mask for everyone, even the people I felt the closest to. Even my parents. It led to feeling like nobody had ever met the real me, since I changed my personality to cater to whoever I was interacting with. I did not want anybody to know the authentic version of myself. And nobody did. But because I understood the pain of holding everything back, this pushed me to make a conscious effort to help other people with their issues. I could empathize with their situations, and I did not want anybody to feel lonely or isolated. I wanted to be a resource, a friend, or a listener to anyone who needed it. Being that one person anyone could rely on did not only help others, but allowed me to strengthen my relationships and friendship quality. I like to support the people I care about, making it clear that everyone's feelings are valid. I learned what to say from my personal experiences with anxiety and depression. I try to understand the situations of other people as best as I can, in order to help them in the best way possible. People began referring to me as a therapist, and although my help is not the same as that of professionals, helping others altered my past preset plans. There is not a checklist of ingredients that explain how and why someone feels a certain way, but there is a way to study it. Learning how to support people using my own experiences put me on a path of interest for being a source of professional help. It is important to support people we care about without making them feel weird for expressing their feelings. Nobody deserves to struggle alone, and helping people through their struggles will forever be a passion of mine. Hollywood can wait.

To me, success and happiness are synonymous. If learning allows me to reach my goals in life, I will be happy. One of my biggest fears, when it comes to this, is balancing happiness and work. It is something that crosses my mind often, and something that comes up in life itself. The summer before my freshman year, I decided to take Algebra II online, in order to take Precalculus during my freshman year. I was mainly concerned with finishing on time, since the summertime slump hit me hard. My school mindset drifted away, taking with it my motivation to do anything. I started the summer doing what I do best: following an organized schedule. Some time around June, the schedule evaporated and I could not find any energy to put into finishing my Algebra II course. Summer math class radiated optional energy. It felt as if nobody was enforcing the rules, and my work sat untouched. My calendar of summer plans and activities, however, was being touched daily. I spent time baking, exercising, dancing, and socializing. These hobbies were sucking up all of my energy and motivation. My scale of time was unbalanced, the weight always increasing on the side of my interests and pastimes. It got to the point where I thought I would never return to my virtual school website. It got to the point where my teacher had to send me follow-up messages to get me back on track. I struggled, and still struggle, with being motivated and encouraging myself. I struggle with time management. As much as I love organization, planning, and lists, I do not always follow them. If I do not feel like being active, I tend to lack the energy to force myself to go along with schedules, even if I created them myself. Balancing work and my personal interests is a huge obstacle I needed to learn to jump over, in order to be at the level I wanted to be. After taking an unfortunate hiatus from completing the work I needed to do, I decided to reroute. I remade my plans, so I was not taking on too much work at a time. I reorganized my time each day in order to correctly incorporate my required assignments. Setting myself off track taught me to rethink my planning strategies. I learned to rethink my motives for doing certain things and how to be patient with myself to prevent feeling burdened and overwhelmed. I taught myself that the work was not optional, and if I wanted to reach my goals, I needed to ensure I was traveling the right road to get there. Balance is a large aspect of life, and it is imperative for anyone who wants to reach educational success to realize when their scales are unbalanced.

Some may refer to "You're the only you" as a cliche term. It is overused. First graders hear these words every day during self-esteem lessons. It teaches kids to be different, no matter what other people say or think. Although it can feel repetitive, it is a good thing to keep in mind. Several times throughout my life I have wanted to be like everybody else. I want to go with the flow and match the general population. If I let peer pressure take control, my life would be different. I am the only me. Without a difference in personality, we would all act the same and uniqueness would be rare. Only I think the way I do. Only I would check up on the people I care about in a daily rotation to the point where it could be annoying. Only I think about every possible outcome before making a decision. Everyone has these little things that make them, them. These unique behaviors make the world spin. It is similar to seasoning food; I would not want to eat flavorless meals every day, and I would not want to live in a world of strict similarities. If I was not here to be myself, who would be me? Who would be there for my friends? Who would affect my surroundings the way I do? Who would take care of the people I love the way I do? A world without each person being their individual selves would be flawed. Life would be like the shade of gray, no splashes to bring out the light and brightness of the world.

If somebody asked me why I think math was important three years ago, I would not know what to say. I pondered the purpose of school subjects for years, hunched over my desk and scribbling away. My love for mathematics was uninterrupted and strong until sixth grade. From that point in time to this one, I would start the school year struggling. My motivation was low, although I paid attention in class. It would take time to adjust to the teacher's style, the organization of the classroom, and the material itself. By the second quarter, I would be sporting an A, and my GPA would rise again. One purpose of learning math is the hidden curriculum it teaches. Math has taught me patience, problem-solving, and of course, the slope formula. My math journey every year of high school has followed the same formula: hard start, interesting middle, smooth solution. My teachers provide me with formulas and resources, but it is up to me to utilize them in my work. The start of the school year always takes me by surprise. In the moment, it all seems overwhelming. In that moment, I feel like I do not understand any of the concepts. I keep trying. I take notes. I barely pass tests. Halfway through the year, there is always that one lesson. One lesson that I understand. My brain finally clicks, and the answer on my paper matches the board. The process of waiting for this "ah-ha" moment, my catalyst for success, is the hardest math concept I have ever learned. My love for math has returned this school year. The order and specifics of the subject is my favorite part. Math equations never leave you wondering. You plug in the information and the result is your answer. I love how the simplicity of the rules juxtaposes the difficulty of the processes themselves. Whatever math topic being learnt may be hard, but there is a set of steps to follow. Formulas and steps and structure make grasping information easier. Although instructors teach the formulas and steps and structure, nobody talks about how you can apply these skills to real life. Having to memorize my sixth grade conversion sheet helps me every time I have to measure ingredients when baking. The long derivative-finding process teaches me to pay attention to detail and fix my mistakes; a skill necessary for editing articles for my school's publication. Checking my work in class requires me to copy the teacher's writing quickly, which allows me to finish my timed writing assessments before the clock runs out. I love the difficult simplicity of math. I love the rules and the systems. I love the rush I get when I figure out the tough concepts. I will never need the slope formula outside of my math classes, but I will need to solve the world's equation for "b".

The cliche of “life is short” may be overused, but it is recited often for a reason. Life is the longest experience that we will ever have, but it can end quickly. You can talk to somebody one day and have them leave the world the next. When someone close to me passes away, it urges me to get my life together. The loss of our loved ones can push us to try new things and make the most of the gift of life. We want to use the life that we were granted to make up for the life that was lost. The death of somebody we love reminds us that life is not permanent, and it can end unexpectedly. Losing somebody like that redirects our steering wheel, and puts us back on the right track. My grandfather passed away in May from COVID-19. He lived in a different country, and we did not see each other often, but I could not comprehend his loss. It still felt like somewhere in the world, my grandpa was breathing and smiling. COVID-19 already had my family on edge, but his death inspired us to take more safety precautions and work on other parts of our health. I returned to my fitness efforts and started being active each day. I began to fight hard for the life I wanted in the body that I wanted When someone close to me passes away, it helps me to improve my quality of life in their honor. It teaches me to appreciate my life since they did not get to finish living out theirs. In October of 2015, several television networks played iconic horror movies for spooky season. My mother was a huge fan of Michael Myers’ story, so we watched every installment in that series. My sister and I wanted to also watch “Child’s Play” with her, but we kept putting it off. The killer doll’s story sat in our DVR recordings for a few weeks. October transitioned into November, and the recordings sat unplayed. A week before Thanksgiving break, my mother got sick. We would not be going to school for a while, so we decided we would watch the movies on Thanksgiving. The Friday that Thanksgiving break was supposed to start, my grandmother ended up making a frantic 911 call, and my mother spent the first few days of the break in the hospital. The day before Thanksgiving, the day before we were going to sit down and enjoy the horror movies together, my mother left the earth. We put off living life until there was no life left to live. The death of somebody we love pushes us to take action and do more in life, to make up for the life that person did not get to live. We should indulge in the opportunities that life grants us regularly. Why do we always put off living life until death itself approaches us?

Everybody says their mother is an inspiration. Some people mean their mom inspires them because they do not want to end up like her. My mom is an inspiration because I want to be exactly like her, or better if possible. She was strong-willed, intelligent, thoughtful, and enjoyed learning. I pray that these qualities traveled into my bloodstream while I floated inside her stomach for nine months. While my mother was still alive, she treated everybody with respect including herself. This is something I struggle with currently. She held herself confidently, always connected to the earth and her surroundings. As amazing as she was, you would think she would be the cocky type. She was the opposite. Humble and honorable, yet talented in every way. She made me proud to be her daughter. She makes me want to succeed with the same humility that she did. Before she passed away, she was sick, but still hustling. She was working to support her family, single-handedly handling a move to a new home, and preparing to get a law degree to accompany her psychology one. The matters of the brain also tickle my fancy, so her success in that field encouraged me to give it a try. She always encouraged me to try my best at whatever I was doing without ever putting pressure on me. She was perfect in every way, and I do not understand if I will be able to ever reach her level. She worked hard, and this taught me to appreciate hard work when I notice it in others. Seeing the way that she pushed herself to be successful and how successful she turned out inspires me daily. I strive to be like her. I will never be exactly like her or as perfect in my eyes, but I hope to inspire my children the way that she still inspires me. I admire her drive and perseverance. Her wide skill set made her successful in life, and she was born to be amazing. Her talents and abilities only grew with her college education. I hope that I can attend a college to help me learn and grow like she did. One of my goals is to get an education learning about topics that I enjoy, some of these being the same as hers. She may not be on this earth any more, but I feel her presence and talent striking me with inspiration every time I take a breath.

The ability to mold and shape your own ideas into forms of art is exciting. I have always wanted to tell the stories that nobody else was sharing. I have always been an avid reader, and the stories I read pushed me to create my own. With this gift, I could decide the plot, the characters, and the ending. In the future, I will use my inspiration and inspiration to continue to share my stories.

The semicolon symbol is both widely recognized and concealed. It’s known by the many who understand the struggle of switching between periods and semicolons often. It’s unknown by the lucky people who don't know that they are lucky. People who have paid attention in English class or who complete the occasional punctuation-check google search understand the literal meaning. Most people know that the semicolon is used to connect two complete thoughts that relate to each other. Other people know that the semicolon symbolizes your decision to remove the period and not end your life, but continue it. I know several people who picked the semicolon over the period, including the girl in the mirror. I know how difficult it is to feel the effects of switching between the two punctuation marks. Saying that it “gets better” to people affected by depression feels like it doesn’t help at all in the moment. Eventually, when the message gets repeated to you several times, this trains you. When my mind sinks into that dark and deep place, I tell myself what everyone else does. When my brain targets itself, that motivation that emerged from choosing a semicolon over a period returns and strengthens me. I write my own story, and it is not over. After deciding to keep going, I use my past struggles to help others get through their issues. People who struggle with inner issues do not often express themselves. Sometimes they aren’t taught how to. It is good for them to know someone is rooting for them. If they ever reach that deep, dark place, they’ll remember that there are people out there that care, and they have a reason to keep going. It is better to be safe than sorry, and offering your bright light for their times of darkness can console them in times of need. When experiencing that internal struggle, trying to pick the semicolon over the period can be difficult. “It gets better” gets repetitive; but it is a phrase of truth.

I was often referred to as a closed book, with pages that were glued shut permanently. I took pride in my independence and ability to keep everything to myself. Holding in my thoughts and feelings was easier than expressing myself. People were constantly trying to force my pages open, which resulted in a shredded ability to trust. Throughout my 15, almost 16 years of life, my torn pages made it hard to be mentally secure. Since the beginning of time, my head was always on straight with a few loose screws that I never knew about. I was always planning, creating, and thinking of ways to accomplish what I wanted in my life. The story I wanted to write for myself was at the top of the bookshelf, while the importance of my health was left dusty and untouched. I would throw away any sticky notes that popped up in my brain reminding me to feel, until the garbage can was filled up. The emotions I had pushed down were awaiting eruption. Back then, my goals centered around anything besides my mental and emotional health. I mistook my lack of expression as strength. I felt that if I didn’t smudge my ink on anyone else’s paper, I would be fine. In my mind, it was best to be the only reader of my story. As I work with myself to slowly peel the pages instead of tearing them, I feel stronger when I open up to people. My goals have shifted to help lift my mental health to the top of the bookshelf. Expressing myself to other people when I was younger was easier than it is now. My relationships with others are strained because of my lack of trust in other people. I always feel like the only person I can rely on is myself. I suffered a loss at the age of 10, and even before then I struggled to open my pages without tearing them. I was put in therapy twice, and recently offered a third time. My lack of expression to people who care about me put a strain on our relationship. Why did people care so much about what was going on inside my brain? Nobody was entitled to those chapters besides me. More and more people became determined to open my book, which pushed me to close it tighter. It became harder and harder to hold things in, which pushed me to encourage other people to let me read their stories. I made sure that everyone in my life knew that they could come to me to vent and let their pages flutter. My struggle has allowed more people to confide in me and improve their mental stability, but I still hesitate before expressing my emotions to anyone in my life. Getting sick used to always be either a strong highlight or gloomy lowlight of my life with no gray area between the two. Physical sickness often caused me to not eat, and I’d lose weight. A celebration often came after because I felt like thin meant healthy. This resulted in a new chapter of my book: false physical health disguising itself as mental illness. I thought physical sickness was the only type there was. I never could have guessed that I was sick mentally, even when I was physically without illnesses. I never heard of mental health issues or knew they existed, until several school shootings later. The cloudy energy around the idea of mental illnesses often has people assume that they’re not real, with excuses piling on. Admitting that these are real and can affect people allowed me to come to terms with my own mental health struggles. Throughout the years, my story has changed. Reaching goals, keeping friends, and observing the world have changed me as a person. My pages flutter to create new stories.