My favorite piece of art is a painting called "Au lit: Le Baiser" or "In Bed: The Kiss" made by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. This painting is of two lovers in bed together under some covers, their faces slightly obscured, sharing a kiss. Everything from the colors, techniques, and execution of this painting draws me to it. The people in the painting themselves are what make this piece for me. The emotion and tenderness captured with such little skin and face shown are remarkable and invoke a longing feeling within me. The pillows and sheets are large and fluffy, nearing the dramatic side. But in this piece, it is used smartly and purposefully to bring a sense of comfort and belonging to the couple. They were swaddled to give the observer a visible sense of comfort. The actual colors of the painting are stunning. Toulouse-Lautrec uses unique colors for the artwork, leaving it unblended for a more rustic, homey look. This is a brilliant choice due to the piece's feeling, utilizing warm tones and soft colors to bring a stage of comfort to the canvas. I love this painting for emotional reasons. The way these two lovers have been captured in their safest space, only the other being important then, is enough to make me stay up at night thinking about it. What these people have is something I've dreamed about since I was young--another person to hold and to hold me. This piece brings to life my deepest desire and puts it in a consumable format for the public. Everyone to who I have shown this piece to has fallen head over heels for it, just like me.

As a military child, my life entailed moving to new countries every few years or so for a long while. When I was young, this change was both scary and confusing. I had to make new friends and adjust to a new house as well as endure a culture shock, of course. All perfectly fine things for a 6-year-old to handle. And then a 9-year-old. And then a 12-year-old. This was particularly hard for me when I was 12, the time when I was beginning to form real core memories. The fact I had to leave my friends that I had grown so attached to and grown so much with was devastating for me. It left me in a type of slump, dreading the upcoming days, knowing they would be some of my last with my friends. Once I was thrust into a new space, I met a friendly group of people. And that was when I began to understand the importance of hope and optimism. I was still in contact with my previous friends, though I had new ones as well. And this new class of people was really a great opportunity for me to continue outside of my comfort zone. I won't say it was perfect and that I was settled all fine and well because that wouldn't be true. But, I will say that seeing the brightness in the dark--making lemonade from the lemons--helped me more than it hurt me. An optimistic outlook will only ever help you in life and it will remind you that it never hurts to try and, of course, there's always light at the end of the tunnel.

In 7th grade, I was diagnosed with chronic depression and anxiety. The signs had been prevalent: I had expressed thoughts of suicide and self-harmed in more ways than one. I was interrupted in a suicide attempt and by chance the next day, I spoke with a counselor after a concerned suggestion from my teacher. I was brought to the psychiatric hospital shortly after. The process was tedious and stressful, though I felt relief. I finally thought I was going to be taken seriously and would be getting help. This was not the case. My stay was more of an outside stay from my daily life. The promised medical treatment and therapy appointments were scarce and the hospital itself was overbooked, making it impossible for me to receive the one-on-one time I desperately needed. And then the insurance ran out. Even when I had attempted to take my own life in the hospital, I was released three days later. Medication wasn't pressed after my parents denied it, though it was strongly recommended. Part of me wished I had been given a longer stay at that hospital, though the other understands that it was a poor hospital and wouldn't have helped me even if giving me a long time in a safe haven I wasn't ready to go back to my regular life. I cried. I thought about trying again once my insurance was refilled just so I could go back, but the feeling of guilt was overwhelming. No one spared letting me know how hard that was for them. No one asked about me. No one asked about my time in the hospital or if I felt better or if I got the answers I needed. I didn't if you might have been wondering. The rest of my time in middle school was confusing. My grades for the year were perfect because everyone walked around on eggshells around me, the only way they knew how to handle my issues. Once COVID-19 hit, my mental health grew worse. Being inside in the midst of a global pandemic took a great toll on my mental health. I began missing assignments and sleeping in more, and I no longer had my friends to speak to about any of it. Things that interested me soon became dull. I began isolating myself from family because I felt myself best in this empty space while I was on my own in my room. My physical art improved over quarantine. My drawings became clearer and more dynamic, but this was because I wouldn't go anywhere. My art is a stationary hobby and when I was in a depressive slump, just desperately wishing to express my inner thoughts but just fighting to simply get out of bed. Art was an easy outlet and the longer I spent with it, the better it became. It was during my lowest that I understood how important art was--to me and to everyone else. I got back into theatre as fast as I could. After a two-year gap, I was back in my element. Before 7th grade, I had been in three productions off-and-on and those were the happiest times of my life. I was happy. I was proud of my art and my creation and my act. I know that going to school for anything else wouldn't be what I wanted deep down. And after my rollercoaster of life that I'm still on, what makes me happy should be what I put first, knowing that it will affect me positively mentally. Like most, I still struggle. But being able to express myself through art and with the comfort of a positive path in the future brings me a peace I haven't known since I was young and innocent. These past years have shapen up to reintroduce the importance of self-love and help, even if it seems unrealistic or selfish. It is important, and this makes me happy. And that is what important because your happiness is what your life is about. What brings you joy is how you should spend your alotted time on earth and I am lucky enough to have these opportunities to bring back some of this joy into my life.

As an upperclassman, I take mentoring as a job very seriously. When younger students and classmen come to me for help and advice, I take it personally to help them through any potential issues as well as help them become comfortable enough to ask about more. I do this because I want to be able to give people younger than me the best possible opportunity for the future. I take it seriously, whether it's something small like directions to class or something grand like course paths through school. The joy I receive from this work is unmatched. The biggest reward is being able to be that sanction for younger students and knowing that I improved their path for the future. Being that resource is thrilling and makes me feel like I have made a difference. This may be because I have younger siblings, but it brings me an almost paternal feeling to be able to mentor kids who may otherwise have been just as lost as I was. I'm hyper-aware of my mood and tone while speaking and listening to them, knowing that it has a big effect on their trust in me. The bond between me as a mentor and the mentee is just as important as the actual content and help I give them. I want to be that safe haven as well as that trusted resource they're comfortable going to for help. The bond between mentor and mentee is a kind thing and will hopefully leave a lasting impact on the mentee.