Ever since elementary school, I've always found myself drawn to issues concerning the community and the human experience as a whole. During history class, my teacher would be rattling off dates and facts, but I just wanted to learn about how the individuals and their communities were affected mentally, emotionally, and physically. Whenever we were given the opportunity to write essays about a topic of our choice, I always wrote about an aspect of public health: mental health, air pollution, gun violence, racial equity - the list goes on. Once I entered high school, the pressure to find the “right” major intensified, but I'd no idea what I wanted to study. I knew I wanted my career to focus on communities - I have always been a people-oriented individual - but there were so many directions that could take me in: Doctor? Therapist? Teacher? None of those options interested me enough to dedicate myself to it. My mother was the first to bring up public health as an optional major for me. She and I have always been interested in the same topics, and the work she has done within her lifetime, such as HIV prevention in South Africa and working in the Peace Corps in Niger, is something I aspire to do. She received her bachelor’s degree in peace and conflict studies and her master’s in international development, and I have considered following in her footsteps. However, there are so many more options for majors, public health being one of them, that are available now than there were for her decades ago. The more I researched what the major entailed, the more excited I felt. The many aspects of public health - epidemiology, social and behavioral sciences, health equity - piqued my interest, and I began reading articles and books on public health, my favorites being “A Good Time To Be Born” by Perri Klass, as well as Dawn Turner’s “Three Girls from Bronzeville”. Genuine interest and curiosity drew my attention, and since learning about public health, I have been unable to think of majoring in anything else. After completing my high school and college education, I anticipate that my future career will involve working with children, because I have always enjoyed interacting closely with kids and facilitating their growth. As an individual, I am hardworking and motivated; my curiosity and desire to learn new things fuels my growth as a student and as a person. I strive to help other people, which is why I'd like to major in public health because I'm passionate about promoting the physical, mental, and emotional health of our communities. As a biracial South African-American teenager living in a predominantly white neighborhood and attending a predominantly white school, I have had the privilege of having endless opportunities and resources readily available to help me succeed as a student and as an individual. With the money from these scholarships, I am determined to further my education so that I may help to better the lives of others by advocating for the same opportunities and resources that helped me. On a more personal level, studying public health correlates with my core values as an individual. I want to help people - no matter who they are, what they look like, or what they believe in. There are innumerable problems in the world that need to be addressed, but I firmly believe that, from a local to a global level, we need to prioritize the health of each individual and their community; in addressing those public health problems, I want to be part of the solution.

Ever since elementary school, I have always found myself drawn to issues concerning the community and the human experience as a whole. During history class, my teacher would be rattling off dates and facts, but I just wanted to learn about how the individuals and their communities were affected mentally, emotionally, and physically. Whenever we were given the opportunity to write essays about a topic of our choice, I always wrote about an aspect of public health: mental health, air pollution, gun violence, racial equity - the list goes on. Once I entered high school, the pressure to find the “right” major intensified, but I had no idea what I wanted to study. I knew that I wanted my career to focus on communities - I have always been a people-oriented individual - but there were so many directions that could take me in: Doctor? Therapist? Teacher? None of those options interested me enough to dedicate myself to it. My mother was the first to bring up public health as an optional major for me. She and I have always been interested in the same topics, and the work she has done within her lifetime, such as HIV prevention in South Africa and working in the Peace Corps in Niger, is something I aspire to do. She received her bachelor’s degree in peace and conflict studies and her master’s in international development, and I have considered following in her footsteps. However, there are so many more options for majors, public health being one of them, that are available now than there were for her decades ago. The more I researched what the major entailed, the more excited I felt. The many aspects of public health - epidemiology, social and behavioral sciences, health equity - piqued my interest, and I began reading articles and books on public health, my favorites being “A Good Time To Be Born” by Perri Klass, as well as Dawn Turner’s “Three Girls from Bronzeville”. Genuine interest and curiosity drew my attention, and since learning about public health, I have been unable to think of majoring in anything else. After completing my high school and college education, I anticipate that my future career will involve working with children, because I have always enjoyed interacting closely with kids and facilitating their growth. As an individual, I'm hardworking and motivated; my curiosity and desire to learn new things fuels my growth as a student and as a person. I strive to help other people, which is why I'd like to major in public health because I'm passionate about promoting the physical, mental, and emotional health of our communities. As a biracial South African-American teenager living in a predominantly white neighborhood and attending a predominantly white school, I've had the privilege of having endless opportunities and resources readily available to help me succeed as a student and as an individual. With the money from these scholarships, I am determined to further my education so that I may help to better the lives of others by advocating for the same opportunities and resources that helped me. On a more personal level, studying public health correlates with my core values as an individual. I want to help people - no matter who they are, what they look like, or what they believe in. There're innumerable problems in the world that need to be addressed, but I firmly believe that, from a local to a global level, we need to prioritize the health of each individual and their community; in addressing those public health problems, I want to be part of the solution.

For as long as I could remember, my father and I have always butted heads. My mother says it’s because we are so similar. We’ve had disagreements and fights, just like any parent with their child, but the strain on our relationship came to a head my sophomore year. That was the year I began learning how to drive, and my father insisted he teach me. But each car ride became more traumatizing than the last. My father would yell and scream, smashing the dashboard with his fists and threatening to hit me if I didn’t listen to him. As if learning to drive wasn’t stressful enough, my father’s behavior escalated at home, too. I vividly remember one night my brother and I forgot to feed our dog, and my father flew into a fit of rage, fists banging against the walls, objects flying across the room, all the while he cursed and berated his children. Sometimes I could tune out the verbal attacks; it was when he and his rage came closer to me - yelling and threatening to strike me - that I felt a sense of fear I had never felt before. I was traumatized by my father. Not long after the incidents where he had threatened to hit me, my father left the house, and he didn’t return for weeks. “Our family needs time to breathe,” my mother explained. Even after my father was gone, I felt emotionally numb and shut down. I remember receiving a text from him - a text I still have today - about how sorry he was: “It pains me every day to realize that, being your father, I’m probably the one person that’s bringing you misery in your life right now. To realize that I’m the one actually causing someone’s misery, and that someone being my only daughter, that eats at my soul on a daily basis.” I did not respond. I was too heartbroken. If I let my father into my life again, would he hurt me like he did before? The stress of our broken relationship wreaked havoc on me; I would stay up, stricken by panic and nerves, until five, maybe six in the morning, replaying my father’s words over and over again. Eventually, months of replaying the traumatic incidents left me without the motivation to wake up. I began to miss school. When I did show up, it was in a dazed state, confused and agitated with dark circles under my eyes. My grades were slipping, my attendance was a mess, and I shut out all the people who wanted to help me - especially my father. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to forgive him. With certainty, I can say that was the worst year of my life. But there was so much that I learned. I learned that my parents are not perfect, they’re human too. My father had his trauma, his own problems that caused his behavior. It’s a reason, it’s not an excuse. Above all, my relationship with my father taught me there’s a balance between letting someone in and keeping yourself emotionally safe. The people I love most are also the ones who'll hurt me the most, but I can learn to let them into my heart without sacrificing too much of myself. My father is crucial to who I am and the woman I am becoming. I am grateful for the difficult times he and I faced together; because of the strength of my father’s support, I have confidence in myself as I make my way in the world.

For as long as I could remember, my father and I have always butted heads. My mother says it’s because we are so similar. We’ve had disagreements and fights, just like any parent with their child, but the strain on our relationship came to a head my sophomore year. That was the year I began learning how to drive, and my father insisted he teach me. But each car ride became more traumatizing than the last. My father would yell and scream, smashing the dashboard with his fists and threatening to hit me if I didn’t listen to him. As if learning to drive wasn’t stressful enough, my father’s behavior escalated at home, too. I vividly remember one night my brother and I forgot to feed our dog, and my father flew into a fit of rage, fists banging against the walls, objects flying across the room, all the while he cursed and berated his children. Sometimes I could tune out the verbal attacks; it was when he and his rage came closer to me - yelling and threatening to strike me - that I felt a sense of fear I had never felt before. I was traumatized by my father. Not long after the incidents where he had threatened to hit me, my father left the house, and he didn’t return for weeks. “Our family needs time to breathe,” my mother explained. Even after my father was gone, I felt emotionally numb and shut down. I remember receiving a text from him - a text I still have today - about how sorry he was: “It pains me every day to realize that, being your father, I’m probably the one person that’s bringing you misery in your life right now. To realize that I’m the one actually causing someone’s misery, and that someone being my only daughter, that eats at my soul on a daily basis.” I did not respond. I was too heartbroken. If I let my father into my life again, would he hurt me like he did before? The stress of our broken relationship wreaked havoc on me; I would stay up, stricken by panic and nerves, until five, maybe six in the morning, replaying my father’s words over and over again. Eventually, months of replaying the traumatic incidents left me without the motivation to wake up. I began to miss school. When I did show up, it was in a dazed state, confused and agitated with dark circles under my eyes. My grades were slipping, my attendance was a mess, and I shut out all the people who wanted to help me - especially my father. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to forgive him. With certainty, I can say that was the worst year of my life. But there was so much that I learned. I learned that my parents are not perfect, they’re human too. My father had his trauma, his own problems that caused his behavior. It’s a reason, it’s not an excuse. Above all, my relationship with my father taught me there’s a balance between letting someone in and keeping yourself emotionally safe. The people I love most are also the ones who'll hurt me the most, but I can learn to let them into my heart without sacrificing too much of myself. My father is crucial to who I am and the woman I am becoming. I am grateful for the difficult times he and I faced together; because of the strength of my father’s support, I have confidence in myself as I make my way in the world.

For most of my life, my difficulty sleeping was just a tiresome inconvenience, but the older I got, the more that inconvenience became a hindrance. Instead of my body succumbing to sleep, I was consumed by anxiety. Sleepless nights dragged on, and the school year dragged just as slowly. Each month felt harder and more exhausting. I'd stay up, stricken by nerves, until five, maybe six in the morning. But I was determined to go to school, so I'd drag myself out of bed running on two hours of sleep. Eventually months without a decent night's sleep left me without the motivation to wake up at all. When I did show up, it was in a dazed state, confused and agitated with dark circles under my eyes. I met with a Cognitive Behavioral Therapist and a Sleep Therapist, both of whom diagnosed me with severe insomnia, generalized anxiety disorder and clinical depression. I wish there'd be a point in my life where I say, I used to have severe insomnia, or I used to be depressed. But that point may never come. This is a part of who I am; it’s a part of my brain and my body. My sophomore year is difficult to reflect on because my grades and attendance were the lowest they’d ever been. But they accurately reflect what I went through, and I own that. However, they don't reflect my value and worth as a person. They don't diminish my hard work, nor do they diminish my love of school and desire to learn. That won't be the last time I go through a difficult time, but it's the last time I do it without knowing how to handle it. I needed to face the difficulties in my life so that I'd grow and have confidence in knowing when I face a time like that again, I am equipped to deal with it. As I’ve continued on my journey through high school, my underclassmen peers have approached me about the struggle of balancing their mental health with their academics. They have the same intensity and fierce perfectionism that I had as an underclassmen, the mindset that “I simply cannot fail”. But if my experiences taught me anything, it’s that your definition of success is entirely relative. Many of my peers, including myself, defined success as straight A’s and perfect attendance. I understand now that my success as a student - and as an individual - is more than that. It's my ability to balance my schoolwork and my personal life; my ability to recognize when I need to take a step back to protect my mental state; my ability to acknowledge that challenges and obstacles may slow me down, but they don't stop me from achieving my goals. I hope to use my experiences to promote the importance of learning from one’s mental battles. It's inevitable that one faces a mental health obstacle in life, but it's important that we don't characterize that as a failure. So when my underclassman friend seeks my advice, I'm vulnerable and open about my journey - the insomnia, the depression, all of it. I tell them whatever it is they face, they're stronger for having faced it. By simply having that conversation, it opens the door for more conversations about mental health in the future. If that friend can learn from their experiences, they can share all they’ve learned in a vulnerable conversation to someone younger than them. If we communicate with one another about our mental struggles, we can derive strength from one another and battle it together.

For as long as I could remember, my father and I have always butted heads. My mother says it’s because we are so similar. We’ve had disagreements and fights, just like any parent with their child, but the strain on our relationship came to a head my sophomore year. That was the year I began learning how to drive, and my father insisted he teach me. But each car ride became more traumatizing than the last. My father would yell and scream, smashing the dashboard with his fists and threatening to hit me if I didn’t listen to him. As if learning to drive wasn’t stressful enough, my father’s behavior escalated at home, too. I vividly remember one night my brother and I forgot to feed our dog, and my father flew into a fit of rage, fists banging against the walls, objects flying across the room, all the while he cursed and berated his children. Sometimes I could tune out the verbal attacks; it was when he and his rage came closer to me - yelling and threatening to strike me - that I felt a sense of fear I had never felt before. I was traumatized by my father. Not long after the incidents where he had threatened to hit me, my father left the house, and he didn’t return for weeks. “Our family needs time to breathe,” my mother explained. Even after my father was gone, I felt emotionally numb and shut down. I remember receiving a text from him - a text I still have today - about how sorry he was: “It pains me every day to realize that, being your father, I’m probably the one person that’s bringing you misery in your life right now. To realize that I’m the one actually causing someone’s misery, and that someone being my only daughter, that eats at my soul on a daily basis.” I did not respond. I was too heartbroken. If I let my father into my life again, would he hurt me like he did before? The stress of our broken relationship wreaked havoc on me; I would stay up, stricken by panic and nerves, until five, maybe six in the morning, replaying my father’s words over and over again. Eventually, months of replaying the traumatic incidents left me without the motivation to wake up. I began to miss school. When I did show up, it was in a dazed state, confused and agitated with dark circles under my eyes. My grades were slipping, my attendance was a mess, and I shut out all the people who wanted to help me - especially my father. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to forgive him. With certainty, I can say that was the worst year of my life. But there was so much that I learned. I learned that my parents are not perfect, they’re human too. My father had his trauma, his own problems that caused his behavior. It’s a reason, it’s not an excuse. Above all, my relationship with my father taught me there’s a balance between letting someone in and keeping yourself emotionally safe. The people I love most are also the ones who'll hurt me the most, but I can learn to let them into my heart without sacrificing too much of myself. My father is crucial to who I am and the woman I am becoming. I am grateful for the difficult times he and I faced together; because of the strength of my father’s support, I have confidence in myself as I make my way in the world.

Ever since elementary school, I have always found myself drawn to issues concerning the community and the human experience as a whole. During history class, my teacher would be rattling off dates and facts, but I just wanted to learn about how the individuals and their communities were affected mentally, emotionally, and physically. Whenever we were given the opportunity to write essays about a topic of our choice, I always wrote about an aspect of public health: mental health, air pollution, gun violence, racial equity - the list goes on. Once I entered high school, the pressure to find the “right” major intensified, but I had no idea what I wanted to study. I knew that I wanted my career to focus on communities - I have always been a people-oriented individual - but there were so many directions that could take me in: Doctor? Therapist? Teacher? None of those options interested me enough to dedicate myself to it. My mother was the first to bring up public health as an optional major for me. She and I have always been interested in the same topics, and the work she has done within her lifetime, such as HIV prevention in South Africa and working in the Peace Corps in Niger, is something I aspire to do. She received her bachelor’s degree in peace and conflict studies and her master’s in international development, and I have considered following in her footsteps. However, there are so many more options for majors, public health being one of them, that are available now than there were for her decades ago. The more I researched what the major entailed, the more excited I felt. The many aspects of public health - epidemiology, social and behavioral sciences, health equity - piqued my interest, and I began reading articles and books on public health, my favorites being “A Good Time To Be Born” by Perri Klass, as well as Dawn Turner’s “Three Girls from Bronzeville”. Genuine interest and curiosity drew my attention, and since learning about public health, I have been unable to think of majoring in anything else. As a biracial South African-American teenager living in a predominantly white neighborhood and attending a predominantly white school, I have had the privilege of having endless opportunities and resources readily available to help me succeed as a student and as an individual. I am determined to further my education so that I may help to better the lives of others by advocating for the same opportunities and resources that helped me. On a more personal level, studying public health correlates with my core values as an individual. I want to help people - no matter who they are, what they look like, or what they believe in. There are innumerable problems in the world that need to be addressed, but I firmly believe that, from a local to a global level, we need to prioritize the health of each individual and their community; in addressing those public health problems, I want to be a part of the solution.

Ever since elementary school, I have always found myself drawn to issues concerning the community and the human experience as a whole. During history class, my teacher would be rattling off dates and facts, but I just wanted to learn about how the individuals and their communities were affected mentally, emotionally, and physically. Whenever we were given the opportunity to write essays about a topic of our choice, I always wrote about an aspect of public health: mental health, air pollution, gun violence, racial equity - the list goes on. Once I entered high school, the pressure to find the “right” major intensified, but I had no idea what I wanted to study. I knew that I wanted my career to focus on communities - I have always been a people-oriented individual - but there were so many directions that could take me in: Doctor? Therapist? Teacher? None of those options interested me enough to dedicate myself to it. My mother was the first to bring up public health as an optional major for me. She and I have always been interested in the same topics, and the work she has done within her lifetime, such as HIV prevention in South Africa and working in the Peace Corps in Niger, is something I aspire to do. She received her bachelor’s degree in peace and conflict studies and her master’s in international development, and I have considered following in her footsteps. However, there are so many more options for majors, public health being one of them, that are available now than there were for her decades ago. The more I researched what the major entailed, the more excited I felt. The many aspects of public health - epidemiology, social and behavioral sciences, health equity - piqued my interest, and I began reading articles and books on public health, my favorites being “A Good Time To Be Born” by Perri Klass, as well as Dawn Turner’s “Three Girls from Bronzeville”. Genuine interest and curiosity drew my attention, and since learning about public health, I have been unable to think of majoring in anything else. On a more personal level, studying public health correlates with my core values as an individual. I want to help people - no matter who they are, what they look like, or what they believe in. There are innumerable problems in the world that need to be addressed, but I firmly believe that, from a local to a global level, we need to prioritize the health of each individual and their community; in addressing those public health problems, I want to be a part of the solution.

Ever since elementary school, I have always found myself drawn to issues concerning the community and the human experience as a whole. During my history class, my teacher would be rattling off specific dates and facts, but I just wanted to learn about how the individuals and their communities were affected mentally, emotionally, and physically. Whenever we were given the opportunity to write essays about a topic of our choice, I always wrote about an aspect of public health: mental health, air pollution, gun violence, racial equity - the list goes on and on. Once I entered high school, the pressure to find the “right” major intensified, but I had no idea what I wanted to study. I knew that I wanted my career to focus on communities and people - I have always been a people-oriented individual - but there were so many directions that interest could take me in: Doctor? Therapist? Teacher? None of those career path options interested me enough to dedicate my life to it. My mother was the first one to bring up public health as an optional major for me. She and I have always been interested in the same topics, and the work she has done within her lifetime, such as HIV prevention in South Africa and working in the Peace Corps in Niger, is something I truly aspire to do. She received her bachelor’s degree in peace and conflict studies and her master’s in international development, and I have considered following in her footsteps. However, there are so many more options for majors, public health being one of them, that are available now than there were for her decades ago. The more I researched what the major entailed, the more excited I felt. The many aspects of public health - epidemiology, social and behavioral sciences, and health equity in particular - piqued my interest, and I began reading articles and books on public health, my favorites being “A Good Time To Be Born” by Perri Klass, as well as Dawn Turner’s “Three Girls from Bronzeville”. Genuine interest and earnest curiosity drew my attention, and since learning about public health, I have been unable to think of majoring in anything else. I have established the goal for myself that I will graduate from college with my Master's in public health, and I hope that while pursuing this degree, I will come to be even more passionate about public health than I am now. On a more personal level, studying public health correlates with my core values as an individual. I am passionate about helping people - no matter who they are, what they look like, or what they believe in. There are innumerable problems in the world that need to be addressed, but I firmly and passionately believe that, from a local to a global level, we need to prioritize the health of each individual and their community; in addressing those public health problems, I want to be a part of the solution.

My father and I have always butted heads. We’ve had disagreements and fights, just like any parent and child, but the strain on our relationship came to a head my sophomore year. That was the year I learned to drive; my father insisted on teaching me. But each car ride became more traumatizing than the last. My father would scream, smashing the dashboard with his fists, threatening to hit me if I didn’t listen. As if learning to drive wasn’t stressful enough, my father’s behavior escalated at home. I remember once my brother and I forgot to feed our dog, and my father flew into a rage, fists banging against the walls, objects flying across the room, all while he cursed and berated us. Sometimes I'd tune out the verbal attacks; it was when his rage came closer - yelling and threatening to strike me - that I felt a fear I'd never felt. Not long after the incidents where he had threatened to hit me, my father left the house, and he didn’t return for weeks. Even after he was gone, I felt emotionally numb. I remember receiving a text from him - a text I still have - about how sorry he was: “It pains me everyday to realize that I’m the one person bringing you misery in your life. To realize that I’m the one actually causing someone’s misery, and that someone being my only daughter, that eats at my soul.” I didn't respond. I was too heartbroken. If I let my father into my life again, would he hurt me like he did before? The stress of our broken relationship wreaked havoc on me; I'd stay up, stricken by panic and nerves, until five, maybe six in the morning, replaying my father’s words over again. Months of replaying the traumatic incidents left me without the motivation to wake up. I began to miss school. When I did show up, I was in a dazed state, agitated with dark circles under my eyes. My grades were slipping, my attendance was a mess, and I shut out all the people who wanted to help me - especially my father. With certainty, that was the worst year of my life. But there's so much that I learned: my parents aren't perfect, they’re human too. My father had his trauma, and his own problems that caused his behavior. It’s a reason, it’s not an excuse. My relationship with my father taught me there’s a balance between letting someone in and keeping yourself emotionally safe. The people I love most are also the ones who'll hurt me the most, but I can learn to let them into my heart without sacrificing too much of myself. My father's crucial to who I am and the woman I am becoming. I'm grateful for the difficult times he and I faced together; because of the strength of my father’s support, I have confidence in myself as I make my way in the world.

Ever since elementary school, I have always found myself drawn to issues concerning the community and the human experience as a whole. During history class, my teacher would be rattling off dates and facts, but I just wanted to learn about how the individuals and their communities were affected mentally, emotionally, and physically. Whenever we were given the opportunity to write essays about a topic of our choice, I always wrote about an aspect of public health: mental health, air pollution, gun violence, racial equity - the list goes on. Once I entered high school, the pressure to find the “right” major intensified, but I had no idea what I wanted to study. I knew that I wanted my career to focus on communities - I have always been a people-oriented individual - but there were so many directions that could take me in: Doctor? Therapist? Teacher? None of those options interested me enough to dedicate myself to it. My mother was the first to bring up public health as an optional major for me. She and I have always been interested in the same topics, and the work she has done within her lifetime, such as HIV prevention in South Africa and working in the Peace Corps in Niger, is something I aspire to do. She received her bachelor’s degree in peace and conflict studies and her master’s in international development, and I have considered following in her footsteps. However, there are so many more options for majors, public health being one of them, that are available now than there were for her decades ago. The more I researched what the major entailed, the more excited I felt. The many aspects of public health - epidemiology, social and behavioral sciences, health equity - piqued my interest, and I began reading articles and books on public health, my favorites being “A Good Time To Be Born” by Perri Klass, as well as Dawn Turner’s “Three Girls from Bronzeville”. Genuine interest and curiosity drew my attention, and since learning about public health, I have been unable to think of majoring in anything else. On a more personal level, studying public health correlates with my core values as an individual. I want to help people - no matter who they are, what they look like, or what they believe in. There are innumerable problems in the world that need to be addressed, but I firmly believe that, from a local to a global level, we need to prioritize the health of each individual and their community; in addressing those public health problems, I want to be a part of the solution.

Ever since elementary school, I have always found myself drawn to issues concerning the community and the human experience as a whole. During history class, my teacher would be rattling off dates and facts, but I just wanted to learn about how the individuals and their communities were affected mentally, emotionally, and physically. Whenever we were given the opportunity to write essays about a topic of our choice, I always wrote about an aspect of public health: mental health, air pollution, gun violence, racial equity - the list goes on. Once I entered high school, the pressure to find the “right” major intensified, but I had no idea what I wanted to study. I knew that I wanted my career to focus on communities - I have always been a people-oriented individual - but there were so many directions that could take me in: Doctor? Therapist? Teacher? None of those options interested me enough to dedicate myself to it. My mother was the first to bring up public health as an optional major for me. She and I have always been interested in the same topics, and the work she has done within her lifetime, such as HIV prevention in South Africa and working in the Peace Corps in Niger, is something I aspire to do. She received her bachelor’s degree in peace and conflict studies and her master’s in international development, and I have considered following in her footsteps. However, there are so many more options for majors, public health being one of them, that are available now than there were for her decades ago. The more I researched what the major entailed, the more excited I felt. The many aspects of public health - epidemiology, social and behavioral sciences, health equity - piqued my interest, and I began reading articles and books on public health, my favorites being “A Good Time To Be Born” by Perri Klass, as well as Dawn Turner’s “Three Girls from Bronzeville”. Genuine interest and curiosity drew my attention, and since learning about public health, I have been unable to think of majoring in anything else. With the money from this scholarship, I am determined to further my education so that I may help to better the lives of others by advocating for the same opportunities and resources that helped me. On a more personal level, studying public health correlates with my core values as an individual. I want to help people - no matter who they are, what they look like, or what they believe in. There are innumerable problems in the world that need to be addressed, but I firmly believe that, from a local to a global level, we need to prioritize the health of each individual and their community; in addressing those public health problems, I want to be a part of the solution.

Ever since elementary school, I have always found myself drawn to issues concerning the community and the human experience as a whole. During history class, my teacher would be rattling off dates and facts, but I just wanted to learn about how the individuals and their communities were affected mentally, emotionally, and physically. Whenever we were given the opportunity to write essays about a topic of our choice, I always wrote about an aspect of public health: mental health, air pollution, gun violence, racial equity - the list goes on. Once I entered high school, the pressure to find the “right” major intensified, but I had no idea what I wanted to study. I knew that I wanted my career to focus on communities - I have always been a people-oriented individual - but there were so many directions that could take me in: Doctor? Therapist? Teacher? None of those options interested me enough to dedicate myself to it. My mother was the first to bring up public health as an optional major for me. She and I have always been interested in the same topics, and the work she has done within her lifetime, such as HIV prevention in South Africa and working in the Peace Corps in Niger, is something I aspire to do. She received her bachelor’s degree in peace and conflict studies and her master’s in international development, and I have considered following in her footsteps. However, there are so many more options for majors, public health being one of them, that are available now than there were for her decades ago. The more I researched what the major entailed, the more excited I felt. The many aspects of public health - epidemiology, social and behavioral sciences, health equity - piqued my interest, and I began reading articles and books on public health, my favorites being “A Good Time To Be Born” by Perri Klass, as well as Dawn Turner’s “Three Girls from Bronzeville”. Genuine interest and curiosity drew my attention, and since learning about public health, I have been unable to think of majoring in anything else. On a more personal level, I think studying public health correlates with my core values as an individual. I want to help people - no matter who they are, what they look like, or what they believe in. There are innumerable problems in the world that need to be addressed, but I firmly believe that, from a local to a global level, we need to prioritize the health of each individual and their community; in addressing those public health problems, I want to be a part of the solution.

Life feels empty. I am overwhelmed with feelings of sadness and despair; my life feels devoid of meaning or purpose. All of life’s struggles and toughest moments carve away at that hollow void within me - a void that can only be filled by things that spark joy within me and propel me forward. My spark lies within music, within the smallest details that most people find insignificant and unimportant. My happiness is waiting for me within each resounding chord, within the swells and decrescendos, within the rising and falling of mellifluous notes. I find my heartbeat synchronizing to any and every rhythm. I enjoy the sound of harmonies in all its complexities: major or minor, dissonant or consonant. I often experience music with such an ethereal quality to it that I am overcome with a remarkable feeling that never ceases to amaze me, a wave of chills that shiver throughout me. But those ethereal moments are so fleeting, so finite, so ephemeral. We stop singing. The music ends. And the silent void, one that can only be filled by musical trills and melodies, opens within me yet again. I came to expect that the thrilling sensation I felt through music would happen with every experience, and I would rely on it to be the fix to all of my problems. But I was sorely disappointed when a song would just sound like a cacophonous mixture of sounds. I had found this feeling that filled my void, that sparked my happiness, and I leeched onto it - only to find that the more I tried to recreate that happiness, the more its magic diminished. The rarity and impermanence of that sensation was what made those ethereal musical moments so special. Instead of forcing them to happen, not only am I now more pleasantly surprised, but I am more appreciative of their occurrence. Life is not filled with happiness. We as human beings are not capable of being happy all the time - if we were, we wouldn’t feel happiness at all, for how can you appreciate pure joy if you’ve never been in the trenches of life’s toughest moments? People often punish themselves for not being happy, as if we have total control over all our emotional states to the point where we are to blame for feeling any negative emotions. They embark on quests to find how they can create a permanent state of happiness. But that quest for happiness is futile - happiness is not an eternal flame, but merely a bright recurring flicker.

In recent years, there's been a battle within me. An internal tug-of-war between two countries, both of which I have called home. I was born in South Africa and my family moved to the U.S. when I was eight years old. I left behind a culture, a language, a family, that - unbeknownst to me - I wouldn't return to for nine years. I established a new life in America; new friends, new communities, new roots. But in the back of my mind remained echoes of my childhood in Africa. This may be my house, but that is my home. I may live here, but I belong there. I increasingly resisted life as an American teenager, and it began to limit who I could become. I remember begging my father to teach me more isiXhosa, my first spoken language. He told me, "Xhosa is of no use to you here. You need to learn a language that will help you in this country." He insisted I take Spanish. I resisted. "If I learn Spanish, I'll forget Xhosa,” I responded. Eventually I relented, promising myself that I wouldn’t forget Xhosa. Since my return trip to South Africa, I often think about the singular conversation that embodied the disconnect from my childhood. We visited the township where my father grew up, and where I spent a lot of time as a child. I stood outside, observing the neighborhood that was the backdrop for many childhood memories. A neighbor approached, smiling fondly as she told me she remembers caring for me as a young child who spoke fluent Xhosa. With no memory of this woman, I carried on the conversation politely. Then she spoke to me in Xhosa. She looked at me expectantly, and my heart ached as I searched my brain, hoping the words would register and some part deep inside of me would remember the language I let slip away. But there was nothing. "I'm sorry," I croaked, “I don’t understand.” Disappointment flashed across her face, and she repeated herself in English. At this point, I couldn’t even register the words she said; I was too shocked that, despite how hard I tried, I was unable to connect with her in the language that was my first. It broke my heart to think that I was so disconnected from my roots, and yet I experienced one of the most crucial discoveries of my life. I believed that because I assimilated to midwestern culture, I was disrespecting my roots. Because I moved on, I was “less South African” - and therefore, less me. I limited my growth as a person because I wanted to stay rooted in my past. I struggled to come of age when I couldn’t let go of my childhood. But my perspective has changed: I can move forward, and I can grow into the person I want to be, without limitations from anyone - especially from myself. Being South African has contributed to who I am today; my unique experience living there, then making the leap to the U.S. , has given me a broad perspective of the world, and a sense of the similarities and differences among people, languages and cultures. I can gather everything my past has given me, and grow from it. One day I will return to South Africa. But I won't be returning home. I'll be returning to the place where I made the most important discovery about myself. A discovery that encourages continual growth; there is always room to grow, and there are always discoveries to be made.

My father and I have always butted heads. We’ve had disagreements and fights, just like any parent and child, but the strain on our relationship came to a head my sophomore year. That was the year I learned to drive; my father insisted on teaching me. But each car ride became more traumatizing than the last. My father would scream, smashing the dashboard with his fists, threatening to hit me if I didn’t listen. As if learning to drive wasn’t stressful enough, my father’s behavior escalated at home. I remember once my brother and I forgot to feed our dog, and my father flew into a rage, fists banging against the walls, objects flying across the room, all while he cursed and berated us. Sometimes I'd tune out the verbal attacks; it was when his rage came closer - yelling and threatening to strike me - that I felt a fear I'd never felt. Not long after the incidents where he had threatened to hit me, my father left the house, and he didn’t return for weeks. Even after he was gone, I felt emotionally numb. I remember receiving a text from him - a text I still have - about how sorry he was: “It pains me everyday to realize that I’m the one person bringing you misery in your life. To realize that I’m the one actually causing someone’s misery, and that someone being my only daughter, that eats at my soul.” I didn't respond. I was too heartbroken. If I let my father into my life again, would he hurt me like he did before? The stress of our broken relationship wreaked havoc on me; I'd stay up, stricken by panic and nerves, until five, maybe six in the morning, replaying my father’s words over again. Months of replaying the traumatic incidents left me without the motivation to wake up. I began to miss school. When I did show up, I was in a dazed state, agitated with dark circles under my eyes. My grades were slipping, my attendance was a mess, and I shut out all the people who wanted to help me - especially my father. With certainty, that was the worst year of my life. But there's so much that I learned: my parents aren't perfect, they’re human too. My father had his trauma, and his own problems that caused his behavior. It’s a reason, it’s not an excuse. My relationship with my father taught me there’s a balance between letting someone in and keeping yourself emotionally safe. The people I love most are also the ones who'll hurt me the most, but I can learn to let them into my heart without sacrificing too much of myself. My father's crucial to who I am and the woman I am becoming. I'm grateful for the difficult times he and I faced together; because of the strength of my father’s support, I have confidence in myself as I make my way in the world.

Why on earth would an artist write a song about making a bed? Yet again, Olivia Rodrigo shocks me with her incredible lyrical skills. Most of her sad songs detailed the pain of heartbreak or the unfortunate experiences of a love gone downhill. But “making the bed” was different. Never had I resonated with a song so introspective, so reflective, so painful, that places the blame on oneself. As I grow up, placing the blame on myself has become a balancing act, and a pretty painful one. So when Olivia sings, “i’m playing the victim so well in my head, but it’s me who’s been making the bed”, I listen. I relate. Because I thought I was the only one with the little voice in the back of my head, telling me that everything was my fault, or that I ruined everything. Not only is Olivia’s song proof that I am not the only one, but it is proof that the little voice in one’s head is a lot more complicated than it seems. Oftentimes growing up, I was certain I was right. No matter what situation I was in, what wrong comment I said, what mistake I made, the blame was not on me. I was playing the victim. It took me years to realize that no matter my pure intentions, I make mistakes. When the inevitable mistake is made, it is upon me to own it and fix it. I cannot play the victim in my head; it is a waste of my time and energy, and if I want to be confident in myself, I must be confident in my mistakes. On the other extreme, the little voice in the back of my head haunted me growing up. Ironically, whenever I truly was the victim in a situation, the voice in my head convinced me that I was to blame. I ruined everything. I made this mess. I made that mistake. Yet it is never that simple. Oftentimes I let others off the hook, even though they were in the wrong. Instead of holding people accountable, I blamed myself. However, making a mistake does not make someone an awful person. People are allowed to make mistakes, but what counts is whether or not someone takes responsibility for them. Now I can differentiate between when I am and when I am not the victim. Not everything is my fault; not everything is their fault. No matter what the issue is, I cannot just “pull the sheets over my head.” One incredibly well-written song helped me realize that I am responsible for all my flops and failures. I must deal with life head-on, and I must lie in the bed that I made.

If my 2023 had a soundtrack, there are three songs from 1989 (Taylor’s Version) that would accompany my year perfectly; the three songs must play in the same order as they appear on the album, for it is imperative to tell my year authentically: “I Know Places (Taylor’s Version)”, “Clean (Taylor’s Version)”, and “Wonderland (Taylor’s Version)”. My year had ups and downs, dancing and crying, love and heartbreak, as does Taylor’s album. The album in its entirety has helped me work through the complex roller coaster of teenagehood, but these three songs have struck a chord within me. When I listen to Taylor’s music - or anyone’s music - I have vivid visuals that correspond to the way the song makes me feel. “I Know Places (Taylor’s Version)” sparks a sense of rebellion and adventurism; as Taylor sings, “They take their shots but we’re bulletproof”, I feel as though no matter what external obstacles I face, I am capable of overcoming them as long as I have the support of the people I love. My experience in 2023 has proved to be full of obstacles - having my heart broken and having my parents separate, to name a few - but I know throughout the chaos of my life that I have places - specifically the arms of family and friends - to run to for comfort and support. Following “I Know Places (Taylor’s Version)” is “Clean (Taylor’s Version)”. This song took on a new meaning when I listened to it this year. It inspires feelings of relief, liberation, and self-possession. For my mental state of mind, I had to face the pain of events in my life this year, and it leadened my heart. But as all wounds do, my heart has healed over time. The chorus goes, “Rain came pouring down when I was drowning, that’s when I could finally breathe”; this song brought me the clarity and relief that I needed to realize just how much lighter my heart felt. Last on my soundtrack is “Wonderland (Taylor’s Version)”. Although there is a sense of acceptance and calmness that is inspired by “Clean (Taylor’s Version)”, there are still memories of heartbreak and emotional turmoil that haunt me. When I’m kept up at night, racked with guilt and regret, replaying memories, enter “Wonderland (Taylor’s Version)”. My favorite line rings in my ears: “Life was never worse but never better.” Put simply, this song reminds me that I am alive. When living in the wonderful moments, you have to accept the awful moments too. Taylor reminds her listeners that being alive means feeling all the emotions, not just the pleasant ones, and because of this, one should not live in remorse for past events. They made you who you are. On their own, each song heals a separate part of my heart that 2023 has broken. When I string these three songs together, they tell a story - my story - and each song circles back to the other to continue healing me. I feel unstoppable - holding the hands of the people I love, I can overcome anything. I feel relieved - I can face my pain head-on and conquer it. I feel alive - my experiences remind me that I am living my life. I feel a sense of peace being able to attribute three Taylor Swift songs to my year, and I look forward to seeing not only what 2024 holds for me, but also what 2024 holds for Taylor. She heals in the release of her music; we heal in the experience of it.

My mother says I've never been a good sleeper. For as long as I can remember, I’d wander into my parents’ room at all hours of the night: “Mama, I can’t sleep. Mama? I still can’t sleep. Mama. I haven’t slept yet.” For most of my life, my difficulty sleeping was just a tiresome inconvenience, but the older I got, the more that inconvenience became a hindrance. My mounting frustration came to a head my sophomore year of high school. I embraced the challenge of my first AP class, eager to learn and ready to conquer the year. But as eager as I was to tackle the demanding schooldays, the nights were the hardest. Instead of my tired body succumbing to sleep, I was consumed by anxiety. Sleepless nights dragged on, and with them, the school year dragged just as slowly. Each month felt harder, and more exhausting than the last. I'd stay up, stricken by panic and nerves, until five, maybe six in the morning. But I was determined to go to school, so I would drag myself out of bed running on two hours of sleep. Eventually, months without a decent night's sleep left me without the motivation to wake up at all. I was burnt out. And I began to miss school. When I did show up, it was in a dazed state, confused and agitated with dark circles under my eyes. Teachers’ worried emails received no response; friends’ calls and texts went unanswered. I reached the point of sleep deprivation where I could no longer safely drive myself to and from school. It was as if I were suffocating slowly, night by night; if I could only gain control, perhaps I could breathe. I began meeting with a Cognitive Behavioral Therapist as well as a Sleep Therapist, both of whom diagnosed me with severe insomnia, generalized anxiety disorder and clinical depression. I was still months away from feeling like myself. But although I was exhausted from trying - trying to push through the nights, trying to push toward the future, toward a solution - I kept trying. I wish there could be a point in my life where I say, I used to have severe insomnia, or I used to be anxious, or I used to be depressed. But I realize that point may never come. This is a part of who I am; it’s a part of my brain and my body. I cannot get rid of it, but I can take steps to help myself. My sophomore year is difficult to reflect on because my grades and my attendance were the lowest they’d ever been. The fact is they accurately reflect what I went through, and I must own that. They were the result of a difficult time in my life; however, they don't accurately reflect my value and worth as a person. They don't diminish my hard work, nor do they diminish my love of school and my desire to learn. That won't be the last time I go through a difficult time, but it is the last time I do it without knowing how to handle it. Now I know I’ll make it out stronger than before. I needed the anxiety and depression to get worse before I could get better. I needed to go through those sleepless nights to find a solution. I needed to face the difficulties in my life so I could grow and have confidence in knowing - because life ebbs and flows - when I face a time like that again, I'm equipped to deal with it.

For being a generation that has so much potential for good, Gen-Z has incredible potential for destruction. Unlike previous generations, we have been traumatized at such a young age by the ubiquity of social media and its effects on society - it is a blessing and a curse. We have so much information and resources at our fingertips. With the abundance of knowledge, we as a generation have the power to do so much good for the world. Yet at the same time, we have the power to expedite the pressing issues the world is facing. We are the generation where everything is hanging in the balance, and this can be seen with the numerous tragedies that wreak havoc on people across the globe. Our generation has inherited the wrongs of our ancestors, but there has been so much progress made in efforts to right our wrongs. So as Gen-Z, the question is this: are we going to use the momentum to our advantage? Extreme poverty, health inequities, deforestation, climate change - the list goes on. We have the resources to educate ourselves and future generations about the problems we face, and now we must avail ourselves of our awareness by taking action and inspiring change. It is up to us to go in the right direction and make good of all the progress that has been made by generations before us; only then can we pave the right path for the generations ahead of us.

I was once in a position where I needed professional support to guide me through a difficult time in my life, and many individuals in similar circumstances need mental health care. Unfortunately, what I found hindered me the most from receiving the care I needed was my schedule. As a busy student, my days were full all week, and I had extracurriculars every day after school. When scheduling my visits with mental health specialists, they were only available during the weekdays, before 7:00 pm. I either attended school and my extracurriculars and missed my therapy sessions, or I missed school or my activities to receive the professional help I needed. Neither option worked for me. My anxiety increased and my depression worsened; my busy schedule allowed me no time to work through my problems. To address this issue, my contribution to making mental health care more accessible would be to provide evening and weekend sessions. Students receiving support already struggle with attendance in school due to depression, PTSD, anxiety, etc., and most often, patients require more sessions to be effective, which results in missing more school. Not only students have this problem; adults have limited time off work, and most cannot take time off because, just like students, it compounds stress to miss work for therapy. Providing patients with mental health support in the evenings and weekends can reduce their stress and increase the positive effects of the support they receive.

Every summer since the second grade, I attend a sleepaway camp, Camp Wyandot. Eight years old, my first summer was unbearable. I’d never been so far out of my comfort zone. For a week, there was nothing but hiking and nature, camp food and camp songs, bug spray and mosquito bites; no familiar faces or reminders of home, privacy and personal space were hard to come by. But remarkably, I begged my mother to sign me up for camp the next summer. Upon my return, I had an incredible experience; I’ve been back every summer since. While having fun as a camper, I was unaware of the broad exposure to the outside world I was gaining. One summer, my friend was a girl who had never learned to do anything for herself: she didn’t know how to sweep, tie her shoes, or pack her clothes. I was baffled. I know now it was because her parents did everything for her. Yet the most interesting part was not how spoiled I thought she was, but instead how well she and I got along. We came from such different lives, yet we connected enough to befriend one another. Another summer, my friend was a black girl whose father was shot and killed by the police. I was homesick and missing my parents, and she sat beside me, holding my hand as I cried. She told me she knew I’d be okay because she often cried about missing her parents too. If she made it through okay, so would I. It broke my heart, but it comforted me too. I still had my father to go home to. Eventually, I had the opportunity to become a counselor-in-training, and it was the most challenging, yet rewarding, experience of my life. My first summer as a CIT, I had a cabin of twelve-year-old girls, two of whom were in foster care. I faced a multitude of difficult behaviors from both girls; hurtful comments and upsetting outbursts made it difficult to strive for a positive camp experience for them. The most poignant part wasn’t what they did or said, but instead, the factors that inflicted them enough to act out like they did. I cannot fathom the trauma they faced in foster care, but my week with them opened my eyes not only to how fortunate I am but also to the actions I can take to help those suffering like they were. Because of my experience as a camper and a counselor, I learned to connect with people of different backgrounds, and I’ve learned to resolve conflicts. Camp taught me that no matter who someone is, they deserve an amazing experience. So I teach my campers new skills; I sing them to sleep; I hike them up hills, through forests and ravines; through it all, I help them have fun. I face the world’s effects on children, and I try to give them the best week of their lives.

Every summer since the second grade, I attend a sleepaway camp, Camp Wyandot. Eight years old, my first summer was unbearable. I’d never been so far out of my comfort zone. For a week, there was nothing but hiking and nature, camp food and camp songs, bug spray and mosquito bites; no familiar faces or reminders of home, privacy and personal space were hard to come by. But remarkably, I begged my mother to sign me up for camp the next summer. Upon my return, I had an incredible experience; I’ve been back every summer since. While having fun as a camper, I was unaware of the broad exposure to the outside world I was gaining. One summer, my friend was a girl who had never learned to do anything for herself: she didn’t know how to sweep, tie her shoes, or pack her clothes. I was baffled. I know now it was because her parents did everything for her. Yet the most interesting part was not how spoiled I thought she was, but instead how well she and I got along. We came from such different lives, yet we connected enough to befriend one another. Another summer, my friend was a black girl whose father was shot and killed by the police. I was homesick and missing my parents, and she sat beside me, holding my hand as I cried. She told me she knew I’d be okay because she often cried about missing her parents too. If she made it through okay, so would I. It broke my heart, but it comforted me too. I still had my father to go home to. Eventually, I had the opportunity to become a counselor-in-training, and it was the most challenging, yet rewarding, experience of my life. My first summer as a CIT, I had a cabin of twelve-year-old girls, two of whom were in foster care. I faced a multitude of difficult behaviors from both girls; hurtful comments and upsetting outbursts made it difficult to strive for a positive camp experience for them. The most poignant part wasn’t what they did or said, but instead, the factors that inflicted them enough to act out like they did. I cannot fathom the trauma they faced in foster care, but my week with them opened my eyes not only to how fortunate I am, but also to the actions I can take to help those suffering like they were. Because of my experience as a camper and a counselor, I learned to connect with people of different backgrounds, and I’ve learned to resolve conflicts. Camp taught me that no matter who someone is, they deserve an amazing experience. So I teach my campers new skills; I sing them to sleep; I hike them up hills, through forests and ravines; through it all, I help them have fun. I face the world’s effects on children, and I try to give them the best week of their lives.

My mother says I've never been a good sleeper. For as long as I can remember, I’d wander into my parents’ room at all hours of the night: “Mama, I can’t sleep. Mama? I still can’t sleep. Mama. I haven’t slept yet.” For most of my life, my difficulty sleeping was just a tiresome inconvenience, but the older I got, the more that inconvenience became a hindrance. My mounting frustration came to a head my sophomore year of high school. I embraced the challenge of my first AP class, eager to learn and ready to conquer the year. But as eager as I was to tackle the demanding schooldays, the nights were the hardest. Instead of my tired body succumbing to sleep, I was consumed by anxiety. Sleepless nights dragged on, and with them, the school year dragged just as slowly. Each month felt harder, more exhausting than the last. I would stay up, stricken by panic and nerves, until five, maybe six in the morning. But I was determined to go to school, so I would drag myself out of bed running on two hours of sleep. Eventually, months without a decent night's sleep left me without the motivation to wake up at all. I was burnt out. And I began to miss school. When I did show up, it was in a dazed state, confused and agitated with dark circles under my eyes. Teachers’ worried emails received no response; friends’ calls and texts went unanswered. I reached the point of sleep deprivation where I could no longer safely drive myself to and from school. It was as if I were suffocating slowly, night by night; if I could only gain control, perhaps I could breathe. I began meeting with a Cognitive Behavioral Therapist as well as a Sleep Therapist, both of whom diagnosed me with severe insomnia, generalized anxiety disorder and clinical depression. I was still months away from feeling like myself. But although I was exhausted from trying - trying to push through the nights, trying to push toward the future, toward a solution - I kept trying. I wish there could be a point in my life where I say, I used to have severe insomnia, or I used to be anxious, or I used to be depressed. But I realize that point may never come. This is a part of who I am; it’s a part of my brain and my body. I cannot get rid of it, but I can take steps to help myself. My sophomore year is difficult to reflect on because my grades and my attendance were the lowest they’d ever been. The fact is they accurately reflect what I went through, and I must own that. They were the result of a difficult time in my life; however, they don't accurately reflect my value and worth as a person. They don't diminish my hard work, nor do they diminish my love of school and my desire to learn. That won't be the last time I go through a difficult time, but it's the last time I do it without knowing how to handle it. Now I know I’ll make it out stronger than before. I needed the anxiety and depression to get worse before I could get better. I needed to go through those sleepless nights to find a solution. I needed to face the difficulties in my life so that I could grow and have confidence in knowing - because life ebbs and flows - when I face a time like that again, I'm equipped to deal with it.

Every summer since the second grade, I attend a sleepaway camp, Camp Wyandot. Eight years old, my first summer was unbearable. I’d never been so far out of my comfort zone. For a week, there was nothing but hiking and nature, camp food and camp songs, bug spray and mosquito bites; no familiar faces or reminders of home, privacy and personal space were hard to come by. But remarkably, I begged my mother to sign me up for camp the next summer. Upon my return, I had an incredible experience; I’ve been back every summer since. While having fun as a camper, I was unaware of the broad exposure to the outside world I was gaining. One summer, my friend was a girl who had never learned to do anything for herself: she didn’t know how to sweep, tie her shoes, or pack her clothes. I was baffled. I know now it was because her parents did everything for her. Yet the most interesting part was not how spoiled I thought she was, but instead how well she and I got along. We came from such different lives, yet we connected enough to befriend one another. Another summer, my friend was a black girl whose father was shot and killed by the police. I was homesick and missing my parents, and she sat beside me, holding my hand as I cried. She told me she knew I’d be okay because she often cried about missing her parents too. If she made it through okay, so would I. It broke my heart, but it comforted me too. I still had my father to go home to. Eventually, I had the opportunity to become a counselor-in-training, and it was the most challenging, yet rewarding, experience of my life. My first summer as a CIT, I had a cabin of twelve-year-old girls, two of whom were in foster care. I faced a multitude of difficult behaviors from both girls; hurtful comments and upsetting outbursts made it difficult to strive for a positive camp experience for them. The most poignant part wasn’t what they did or said, but instead, the factors that inflicted them enough to act out like they did. I cannot fathom the trauma they faced in foster care, but my week with them opened my eyes not only to how fortunate I am, but also to the actions I can take to help those suffering like they were. Because of my experience as a camper and a counselor, I learned to connect with people of different backgrounds, and I’ve learned to resolve conflicts. Camp taught me that no matter who someone is, they deserve an amazing experience. So I teach my campers new skills; I sing them to sleep; I hike them up hills, through forests and ravines; through it all, I help them have fun. I face the world’s effects on children, and I try to give them the best week of their lives.

Every summer since the second grade, I attend a sleepaway camp, Camp Wyandot. Eight years old, my first summer was unbearable. I’d never been so far out of my comfort zone. For a week, there was nothing but hiking and nature, camp food and camp songs, bug spray and mosquito bites; no familiar faces or reminders of home, privacy and personal space were hard to come by. But remarkably, I begged my mother to sign me up for camp the next summer. Upon my return, I had an incredible experience; I’ve been back every summer since. While having fun as a camper, I was unaware of the broad exposure to the outside world I was gaining. One summer, my friend was a girl who had never learned to do anything for herself: she didn’t know how to sweep, tie her shoes, or pack her clothes. I was baffled. I know now it was because her parents did everything for her. Yet the most interesting part was not how spoiled I thought she was, but instead how well she and I got along. We came from such different lives, yet we connected enough to befriend one another. Another summer, my friend was a black girl whose father was shot and killed by the police. I was homesick and missing my parents, and she sat beside me, holding my hand as I cried. She told me she knew I’d be okay because she often cried about missing her parents too. If she made it through okay, so would I. It broke my heart, but it comforted me too. I still had my father to go home to. Eventually, I had the opportunity to become a counselor-in-training, and it was the most challenging, yet rewarding, experience of my life. My first summer as a CIT, I had a cabin of twelve-year-old girls, two of whom were in foster care. I faced a multitude of difficult behaviors from both girls; hurtful comments and upsetting outbursts made it difficult to strive for a positive camp experience for them. The most poignant part wasn’t what they did or said, but instead, the factors that inflicted them enough to act out like they did. I cannot fathom the trauma they faced in foster care, but my week with them opened my eyes not only to how fortunate I am but also to the actions I can take to help those suffering like they were. Because of my experience as a camper and a counselor, I learned to connect with people of different backgrounds, and I’ve learned to resolve conflicts. Camp taught me that no matter who someone is, they deserve an amazing experience. So I teach my campers new skills; I sing them to sleep; I hike them up hills, through forests and ravines; through it all, I help them have fun. I face the world’s effects on children, and I try to give them the best week of their lives.

For as long as I could remember, my father and I have always butted heads. My mother says it’s because we are so similar. We’ve had disagreements and fights, just like any parent with their child, but the strain on our relationship came to a head my sophomore year. That was the year I began learning how to drive, and my father insisted he teach me. But each car ride became more traumatizing than the last. My father would yell and scream, smashing the dashboard with his fists and threatening to hit me if I didn’t listen to him. As if learning to drive wasn’t stressful enough, my father’s behavior escalated at home, too. I vividly remember one night my brother and I forgot to feed our dog, and my father flew into a fit of rage, fists banging against the walls, objects flying across the room, all the while he cursed and berated his children. Sometimes I could tune out the verbal attacks; it was when he and his rage came closer to me - yelling and threatening to strike me - that I felt a sense of fear I had never felt before. I was traumatized by my father. Not long after the incidents where he had threatened to hit me, my father left the house, and he didn’t return for weeks. “Our family needs time to breathe,” my mother explained. Even after my father was gone, I felt emotionally numb and shut down. I remember receiving a text from him - a text I still have today - about how sorry he was: “It pains me every day to realize that, being your father, I’m probably the one person that’s bringing you misery in your life right now. To realize that I’m the one actually causing someone’s misery, and that someone being my only daughter, that eats at my soul on a daily basis.” I did not respond. I was too heartbroken. If I let my father into my life again, would he hurt me like he did before? The stress of our broken relationship wreaked havoc on me; I would stay up, stricken by panic and nerves, until five, maybe six in the morning, replaying my father’s words over and over again. Eventually, months of replaying the traumatic incidents left me without the motivation to wake up. I began to miss school. When I did show up, it was in a dazed state, confused and agitated with dark circles under my eyes. My grades were slipping, my attendance was a mess, and I shut out all the people who wanted to help me - especially my father. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to forgive him. With certainty, I can say that was the worst year of my life. But there was so much that I learned. I learned that my parents are not perfect, they’re human too. My father had his trauma, his own problems that caused his behavior. It’s a reason, it’s not an excuse. Above all, my relationship with my father taught me there’s a balance between letting someone in and keeping yourself emotionally safe. The people I love most are also the ones who'll hurt me the most, but I can learn to let them into my heart without sacrificing too much of myself. My father is crucial to who I am and the woman I am becoming. I am grateful for the difficult times he and I faced together; because of the strength of my father’s support, I have confidence in myself as I make my way in the world.

Life feels empty. I am overwhelmed with feelings of sadness and despair; my life feels devoid of meaning or purpose. All of life’s struggles and toughest moments carve away at that hollow void within me - a void that can only be filled by things that spark joy within me and propel me forward. My spark lies within music, within the smallest details that most people find insignificant. My happiness is waiting for me within each resounding chord, within the swells and decrescendos, within the rising and falling of mellifluous notes. I find my heartbeat synchronizing to any and every rhythm. I enjoy the sound of harmonies in all its complexities: major or minor, dissonant or consonant. I often experience music with such an ethereal quality to it that I am overcome with a remarkable feeling that never ceases to amaze me, a wave of chills that shiver throughout me. But those ethereal moments are so fleeting, so finite, so ephemeral. We stop singing. The music ends. And here I am, enveloped in silence once again. And that void, one that can only be filled by musical trills and melodies, opens within me yet again. I came to expect that the thrilling sensation I felt through music would happen with every experience, and I would rely on it to be the fix to all of my problems. But I was sorely disappointed when a song would just sound like a cacophonous mixture of sounds. I had found this feeling that filled my void, that sparked my happiness, and I leeched onto it - only to find that the more I tried to recreate that happiness, the more its magic diminished. The rarity and impermanence of that sensation was what made those ethereal musical moments so special. Instead of forcing them to happen, not only am I now more pleasantly surprised, but I am more appreciative of their occurrence. Life is not filled with happiness. We as human beings are not capable of being happy all the time - if we were, we wouldn’t feel happiness at all, for how can you appreciate pure joy if you’ve never been in the trenches of life’s toughest moments? People often punish themselves for not being happy, as if we have total control over all our emotional states to the point where we are to blame for feeling any negative emotions. They embark on quests to find how they can create a permanent state of happiness. But that quest for happiness is futile - happiness is not an eternal flame, but merely a bright recurring flicker.

My mother says I've never been a good sleeper. For as long as I can remember, I’d wander into my parents’ room at all hours of the night: “Mama, I can’t sleep. Mama? I still can’t sleep. Mama. I haven’t slept yet.” For most of my life, my difficulty sleeping was just a tiresome inconvenience, but the older I got, the more that inconvenience became a hindrance. My mounting frustration came to a head my sophomore year of high school. I embraced the challenge of my first AP class, eager to learn and ready to conquer the year. But as eager as I was to tackle the demanding schooldays, the nights were the hardest. Instead of my tired body succumbing to sleep, I was consumed by anxiety. Sleepless nights dragged on, and with them, the school year dragged just as slowly. Each month felt harder, more exhausting than the last. I would stay up, stricken by panic and nerves, until five, maybe six in the morning. But I was determined to go to school, so I'd drag myself out of bed running on two hours of sleep. Eventually, months without a decent night's sleep left me without the motivation to wake up at all. I was burnt out. And I began to miss school. When I did show up, it was in a dazed state, confused and agitated with dark circles under my eyes. Teachers’ worried emails received no response; friends’ calls and texts went unanswered. I reached the point of sleep deprivation where I could no longer safely drive myself to and from school. It was as if I were suffocating slowly, night by night; if I could only gain control, perhaps I could breathe. I began meeting with a Cognitive Behavioral Therapist as well as a Sleep Therapist, both of whom diagnosed me with severe insomnia, generalized anxiety disorder and clinical depression. I was still months away from feeling like myself. But although I was exhausted from trying - trying to push through the nights, trying to push toward the future, toward a solution - I kept trying. I wish there could be a point in my life where I say, I used to have severe insomnia, or I used to be anxious, or I used to be depressed. But I realize that point may never come. This is a part of who I am; it’s a part of my brain and my body. I cannot get rid of it, but I can take steps to help myself. My sophomore year is difficult to reflect on because my grades and my attendance were the lowest they’d ever been. The fact is they accurately reflect what I went through, and I must own that. They were the result of a difficult time in my life; however, they don't accurately reflect my value and worth as a person. They don't diminish my hard work, nor do they diminish my love of school and my desire to learn. That will not be the last time I go through a difficult time, but it is the last time I do it without knowing how to handle it. Now I know I’ll make it out stronger than before. I needed the anxiety and depression to get worse before I could get better. I needed to go through those sleepless nights to find a solution. I needed to face the difficulties in my life so I could grow and have confidence in knowing - because life ebbs and flows - when I face a time like that again, I'm equipped to deal with it.

My mother says I've never been a good sleeper. For as long as I can remember, I’d wander into my parents’ room at all hours of the night: “Mama, I can’t sleep. Mama? I still can’t sleep. Mama. I haven’t slept yet.” For most of my life, my difficulty sleeping was just a tiresome inconvenience, but the older I got, the more that inconvenience became a hindrance. My mounting frustration came to a head my sophomore year of high school. I embraced the challenge of my first AP class, eager to learn and ready to conquer the year. But as eager as I was to tackle the demanding schooldays, the nights were the hardest. Instead of my tired body succumbing to sleep, I was consumed by anxiety. Sleepless nights dragged on, and with them, the school year dragged just as slowly. Each month felt harder, more exhausting than the last. I would stay up, stricken by panic and nerves, until five, maybe six in the morning. But I was determined to go to school, so I would drag myself out of bed running on two hours of sleep. Eventually, months without a decent night's sleep left me without the motivation to wake up at all. I was burnt out. And I began to miss school. When I did show up, it was in a dazed state, confused and agitated with dark circles under my eyes. Teachers’ worried emails received no response; friends’ calls and texts went unanswered. I reached the point of sleep deprivation where I could no longer safely drive myself to and from school. It was as if I were suffocating slowly, night by night; if I could only gain control, perhaps I could breathe. I began meeting with a Cognitive Behavioral Therapist and a Sleep Therapist and diagnosed me with severe insomnia, generalized anxiety disorder and clinical depression. I was still months away from feeling like myself. But although I was exhausted from trying - trying to push through the nights, trying to push toward the future, toward a solution - I kept trying. I wish there could be a point in my life where I say, I used to have severe insomnia, or I used to be anxious, or I used to be depressed. But I realize that point may never come. This is a part of who I am; it’s a part of my brain and my body. I cannot get rid of it, but I can take steps to help myself. My sophomore year is difficult to reflect on, because my grades and my attendance were the lowest they’d ever been. The fact is they accurately reflect what I went through, and I must own that. They were the result of a difficult time in my life; however, they do not accurately reflect my value and worth as a person. They do not diminish my hard work, nor do they diminish my love of school and my desire to learn. That will not be the last time I go through a difficult time, but it is the last time I do it without knowing how to handle it. Now I know I’ll make it out stronger than before. I needed the anxiety and depression to get worse before I could get better. I needed to go through those sleepless nights to find a solution. I needed to face the difficulties in my life so I could grow and have confidence in knowing - because life ebbs and flows - when I face a time like that again, I am equipped to deal with it.

Every summer since the second grade, I attend a sleepaway camp, Camp Wyandot. Eight years old, my first summer was unbearable. I’d never been so far out of my comfort zone. For a week, there was nothing but hiking and nature, camp food and camp songs, bug spray and mosquito bites; no familiar faces or reminders of home, privacy and personal space were hard to come by. But remarkably, I begged my mother to sign me up for camp the next summer. Upon my return, I had an incredible experience; I’ve been back every summer since. While having fun as a camper, I was unaware of the broad exposure to the outside world I was gaining. One summer, my friend was a girl who had never learned to do anything for herself: she didn’t know how to sweep, tie her shoes, or pack her clothes. I was baffled. I know now it was because her parents did everything for her. Yet the most interesting part was not how spoiled I thought she was, but instead how well she and I got along. We came from such different lives, yet we connected enough to befriend one another. Another summer, my friend was a black girl whose father was shot and killed by the police. I was homesick and missing my parents, and she sat beside me, holding my hand as I cried. She told me she knew I’d be okay, because she often cried about missing her parents too. If she made it through okay, so would I. It broke my heart, but it comforted me too. I still had my father to go home to. Eventually I had the opportunity to become a counselor-in-training, and it was the most challenging, yet rewarding, experience of my life. My first summer as a CIT, I had a cabin of twelve-year-old girls, two of whom were in foster care. I faced a multitude of difficult behaviors from both girls; hurtful comments and upsetting outbursts made it difficult to strive for a positive camp experience for them. The most poignant part wasn’t what they did or said, but instead, the factors that inflicted them enough to act out like they did. I cannot fathom the trauma they faced in foster care, but my week with them opened my eyes not only to how fortunate I am, but also to the actions I can take to help those suffering like they were. Because of my experience as a camper and a counselor, I learned to connect with people of different backgrounds, and I’ve learned to resolve conflicts. Camp taught me that no matter who someone is, they deserve an amazing experience. So I teach my campers new skills; I sing them to sleep; I hike them up hills, through forests and ravines; through it all, I help them have fun. I face the world’s effects on children, and I try to give them the best week of their lives.

I serve as a Peace Ambassador for an organization in my community, Worthington Interfaith Neighbors. One Wednesday each month, my fellow Ambassadors and I visit elementary schools and perform skits for them. The skits detail cultural and religious acceptance and the importance of being kind to people who are different from you. When I first became a Peace Ambassador, it was because I wanted to spread kindness and compassion to the young children of my community. And though my peers and I accomplish that each time we perform at an elementary school, I had no idea how much being an Ambassador would impact me as an individual. After we perform each skit, we pause and interact with the students, asking them what they noticed about the characters’ behaviors, what the characters could do to be more respectful, and what actions were kind and compassionate. It is these interactions with the children that have impacted me the most. The little kids gaze at us with genuine amazement and captivation as we put on our skits. With every interaction with the students, I find my heart melting. Often, the children offer answers that are so simple, yet so overlooked: “Maybe instead of judging, they could ask questions!” or “Even though they have a different religion, they can still be friends!” The most poignant of answers, however, are the ones where children tell us about the discrimination they have faced as a result of their faith or their culture. It breaks my heart to see the pain in their young eyes - they deserve to be treated with respect and kindness - as every person does - and the fact that our fractured beliefs as a society have already impacted them in harmful ways brings tears to my eyes. Despite the pain these children have felt, several students have told us that our presentations have made them feel more accepted and included. It gives me faith in them as children, and as individuals, that they can see the impact of kindness on the world around them. My actions as a Peace Ambassador can make an impact on encouraging more kindness in my community, and that inspires me to continue making a difference in the lives of others. That is what every person deserves. If the messages of acceptance and inclusion can reach the youngest minds, they can reach people of all ages, including myself. Oftentimes the older I get, the more chaos I get caught up in, and kindness and compassion can get lost in the mix of figuring my life out. But being a Peace Ambassador has taught me that kindness matters for every single person, all the time.

Drop everything now. You need to watch The Good Place! Four seasons, a juicy plot, an even juicier plot twist, and satirical yet relatable characters. I had watched The Good Place a few years ago, before the release of the final season, and I enjoyed it enough. But it was only upon my most recent rewatch of it that I was blown away by the show and its contents. Its four main characters, Eleanor, Chidi, Tahani, and Jason, find themselves in the afterlife, but Eleanor and Jason discover that they actually belong in the Bad Place, and the story picks up pace once the four characters decide to help each other become better people so they can remain undetected from the Good Place architect, Michael. Not only does The Good Place combine clever, dry humor with surprisingly interesting philosophical debate, but it also challenges its viewers to examine their lives in a new light. One of the most influential factors of the show is how relatable the characters are, most of all Eleanor. Eleanor repeatedly calls herself a “dirtbag” and a “self-obsessed loser”, and she is a characterization of every viewer’s selfishness and self-centeredness. Upon meeting Eleanor, she is rude, obnoxious, and downright nasty. Every viewer - myself included - judges Eleanor; I cringed at every crude comment Eleanor made, but I realized there were occasions where Eleanor’s behavior resembled my own. It was difficult to face a character so off-putting and distasteful as Eleanor, but the whole point to her crude character was that as the seasons went on, she evolved into a more considerate and compassionate character; she was a representation of every viewer’s worst moments, but also of each viewer’s potential to be a better person. Michael, the Good Place architect, comments on one of the overarching themes of the show: “What matters is not if people are good or bad. What matters is if they are trying to be better today than they were yesterday.” Nobody is born perfect - nobody is perfect, period. But what is crucial to society becoming more sympathetic and kindhearted is that as individuals, we understand that we are capable of positive change, and we are capable of helping others change as well. In addition to its characters, The Good Place also touches on the morality of being human. And like most viewers, the minute the word “philosophy” was mentioned, I was ready to tune out. However, the manner in which the show delves into ethics and philosophy is not only entertaining but thoroughly thought-provoking. As well as the moral dilemmas that the characters face, they also battle existential dilemmas - ones that dare the viewer to question their mortality. The show finds a delicate balance between full-on existential crisis and merely questioning life - Eleanor herself makes an overwhelming yet comforting comment on the complexity of being human: “Find happiness in the unique insanity of being here, now.” By facing these complicated morality questions in comedic form, viewers can contemplate and internalize the messages of the show, they can apply those messages of cherishing the present into their lives, and they can treasure the things that make them happy. I firmly believe that everyone with access to a television should binge-watch The Good Place, not only because of my biased opinion that it is one of the best TV shows ever created, but also because it allows the viewer to face themselves - it allows one to want to be a better person.

For as long as I could remember, my father and I have always butted heads. My mother says it’s because we are so similar. We’ve had disagreements and fights, just like any parent with their child, but the strain on our relationship came to a head my sophomore year. That was the year I began learning how to drive, and my father insisted he teach me. But each car ride became more traumatizing than the last. My father would yell and scream, smashing the dashboard with his fists and threatening to hit me if I didn’t listen to him. As if learning to drive wasn’t stressful enough, my father’s behavior escalated at home, too. I vividly remember one night when my brother and I forgot to feed our dog, and my father flew into a fit of rage, fists banging against the walls, objects flying across the room, all the while he cursed and berated his children. Sometimes I could tune out the verbal attacks; it was when he and his rage came closer to me - yelling and threatening to strike me - that I felt a sense of fear I had never felt before. I was traumatized by my father. Not long after the incidents where he had threatened to hit me, my father left the house, and he didn’t return for weeks. “Our family needs time to breathe,” my mother had explained. Even after my father was gone, I felt emotionally numb and shut down. I remember receiving a text from him - a text I still have today - about how sorry he was: “It pains me every day to realize that, being your father, I’m probably the one person that’s bringing you misery in your life right now. To realize that I’m the one actually causing someone’s misery, and that someone being my only daughter, that eats at my soul.” I did not respond. I was too heartbroken. If I let my father into my life again, would he hurt me like he did before? The stress of our broken relationship wreaked havoc on me; I would stay up, stricken by panic and nerves, until five, maybe six in the morning, replaying my father’s words over and over again. Eventually, months of replaying the traumatic incidents left me without the motivation to wake up. I began to miss school. When I did show up, I was in a dazed state, confused and agitated with dark circles under my eyes. My grades were slipping, my attendance was a mess, and I shut out all the people who wanted to help me - especially my father. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to forgive him. With certainty, I can say that was the worst year of my life. But there was so much that I learned. I learned that my parents are not perfect, they’re human too. My father had his trauma, and his own problems that caused his behavior. It’s a reason, it’s not an excuse. Above all, my relationship with my father taught me there’s a balance between letting someone in and keeping yourself emotionally safe. The people I love most are also the ones who will hurt me the most, but I can learn to let them into my heart without sacrificing too much of myself. My father is crucial to who I am and the woman I am becoming. I am grateful for the difficult times he and I faced together; because of the strength of my father’s support, I have confidence in myself as I make my way in the world.

In the darkest moments of my life, I indulge myself in dreaming about the woman I will become: she is unstoppable; she is a force to be reckoned with; she’s gentle with the things she loves (she loves a lot); she’s mastering the art of balance - she’s not perfect - but she can do it all, as long as she is doing the things she loves; she hopes she can be the reason someone laughs or smiles; she has confidence in herself and others - confidence that she can better her own life and the lives of others.