My earliest memory of experiencing anxiety was when I was about 8 years old. I was at the pool with my friends when overwhelming, confusing sense of fear and panic started to well up inside me. Suddenly, I didn't want to be around anyone anymore. Not wanting to draw any attention to myself, I quietly distanced myself from my friends. They didn't notice and continued laughing and playing. What was, in hindsight, completely innocent laughter reduced me to tears; I was convinced that they knew what I was feeling and were mocking me. I ran to my mom, crying. When my bewildered mother asked what had happened, I told her that my friends were laughing at me. From the look on her face, I knew she didn't understand what I was feeling. It would be several years before I understood what I had experienced, and continued to experience, as a symptom of an anxiety disorder. For several years, I labeled myself as "shy" or "introverted" and said that I preferred to be alone. However, that wasn't true. While I do enjoy some solitary activities, there is a difference between alone time and fear. There is a difference between wanting to read a novel and standing outside of a friend's house, terrified to knock, because of the looming sense of panic that's whispering "you showed up five minutes late; she'll be so mad". One of my first victories over anxiety occurred in high school. A group of my close friends had decided to go out to lunch after church one Sunday and asked me to make the reservation. In front of my friends, I agreed out of a desire to be "normal". Inside, however, the looming sense of panic began to whisper, "You? You're going to call someone you don't know? No, you'll mess it up. Everybody will laugh at you. Everybody will hate you. You can't call a stranger. You don't even answer the phone for friends!" I sat in front of my phone for what felt like hours, struggling with the whispers and the tightness in my chest. Finally, I closed my eyes and pressed the dial button. The two minute conversation made me feel like someone was shredding my nerves with a cheese grater, but the joy I experienced when I hung up shined so brightly that it banished all the negativity that had been so consuming just seconds before. Thrilled, I called my boyfriend to tell him that I did it! I made a reservation! Unfortunately, like my mother all those years before, he didn't understand my joy. I continued to struggle with undiagnosed anxiety until my junior year of college. I majored in neuroscience to understand my own brain, but it wasn't until I began weekly therapy that I gleaned the tools necessary for success in the degree. My therapist helped me identify negative thought patterns and coping skills to deal with them. I am currently pursuing a master's degree in clinical counseling and mental health to help people who struggle with stigmatized, invisible battles. I want others to understand that they are more than their anxiety and can succeed whatever mental health diagnosis they have. This is the only career I can imagine myself having, and education is a crucial component of my dream. I intend to continuously expand my knowledge in this field so that I can provide my future clients with the most updated and informed mental health care. When the voice of anxiety whispers "You can't do this", I want to help my clients be able to whisper back, "Watch me."

The mental health field is one of the most misunderstood but necessary fields in the professional world. In the media, we see two extremes of counselors. They are either a parody, dramatically asking their clients, "How does that make you feel?" or they possess unattainable levels of intuition and perception. These common stereotypes influence both the counselors and their clients. Many potential clients shy away from treatment due to their preconceived notions about the field. Additionally, many counselors struggle under the weight of their expectations for themselves compared to the reality of their careers. Personally, my misconceptions surrounding the counseling field inhibited both my experiences as a client and as a counselor in training. Years ago, I thought those who needed counseling were weak, that they simply needed to get outside, exercise, and eat well. It was not until I realized how fragile my mental health is that I even considered counseling as a healthcare option. My misconceptions also led me to postpone pursuing my master's in clinical counseling and mental health for several years. I didn’t want to have to fix people. I enjoyed holistic health as a field of study, but I was not quite sure how that could be made into a career outside of the medical field. While struggling to find a career that I could honestly call fulfilling, I began studying medicine in my undergraduate program. I was not convinced that I would be a doctor, but I didn't know how else I could help people achieve wellness. Despite my confusion surrounding the counseling profession, I was always interested in peoples’ stories; how they had come to cross my path, what attracted them to their field of work or study, and what made them excited to wake up and start the day. While working as an orthopedic scribe in my local hospital, I realized just how much I enjoyed hearing people tell me about themselves. Moreover, I realized that their outlook on life seemed to correlate to the intensity of their pain. In other words, people with negative outlooks seemed to experience more pain than people with positive outlooks when faced with the same diagnosis. One day, I asked a doctor in the office about this. He told me that he saw some people who had mild cases of arthritis and were barely able to walk, and others with bone-on-bone, advanced arthritis who were joyful and all but skipping. He had no explanation. This made a deep impression on me. If the level of pain experienced by something as scientifically understood as arthritis could be partly determined by an individual’s mental state, what else could be? My curiosity about the field of mental health grew as my mental health declined. From my early elementary years through college, my teachers described me as a perfectionist. My homework was always done on time, I performed well on every exam, and never spoke out of turn; I was a model student. However, my outward self-discipline shrouded a scared young woman whose psyche was riddled with anxiety, self-doubt, and paranoia. In my sophomore year of undergraduate studies, I learned that my boyfriend of four years had cheated on me and wanted to break up with me for another girl. While our relationship had been unsteady and unhealthy from its beginning, I had not anticipated its abrupt and painful end. The breakup, coupled with the stress of university coursework, led me to quickly spiral. I stopped eating, began engaging in risky behavior, and barely slept. My Russian professor in particular was concerned. I had failed her most recent quiz, a basic, twenty-word vocabulary quiz. She pulled me aside, mentioning how unlike me it was to fail, and with a 34% no less. I mumbled something about not having studied enough and promised to do better. That was a lie. I had studied those twenty words for four hours the day before. I had no idea why I couldn’t remember them. These memory lapses increased such that I could no longer recall my daily schedule. Entering the library, a place I used to love, became difficult. I couldn’t focus on anything. Sleeping was impossible because intrusive memories permeated my psyche whenever I was alone. I knew there was something wrong, but I kept trying to push through. I didn’t want to ask anyone for help. In fact, I didn’t realize the severity of my condition until I spent two hours frozen in my bed in the middle of the day, shaking and not knowing why. I was confused and hurt, and the carefully fabricated facade of perfection I had meticulously developed throughout my life was crumbling. The first thought that came to my mind after getting out of bed that day was to call my mom. As long as I live, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that brief but impactful conversation. I called her and shakily said, “Mom, I’m not okay.” She sighed, as though a grave weight had been lifted from her shoulders and replied, “I know. I was just waiting for you to admit it.” That conversation launched the course of my healing. My supportive and loving family came to visit me that weekend and helped me make a plan for healing. I subsequently made an appointment with the wellness center at the college. The triage counselor with whom I met helped me medically underload my courseload while I sought long-term counseling. I was fortunate to find a local counselor whom I felt understood me and my condition. She recommended testing and, after several hours of answering questions and performing exercises on the computer, I was diagnosed with anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder with dissociative episodes. My counselor explained that was why I had difficulty remembering things, why familiar places made my heart race, and why I could no longer focus or sleep. She recommended cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) as our first course of treatment, with eye-movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) as a possible supplementary treatment. My recovery was neither fast nor linear. Over the next several months, I worked once a day each week with my counselor, addressing my triggers and delving deeply into my experiences to understand my anxiety, PTSD, and how I related to others. During this time, I decided to change my major to neuroscience. I wanted to understand my mind from a biological and psychological perspective. For a few years, I seriously considered becoming a psychiatrist. However, after working as a scribe, I realized that I wanted more time with people than was allotted to doctors. I recalled my own experiences; it was my counselor, not my psychiatrist, who had walked with me throughout my recovery. My psychiatrist, while kind and intelligent, spent only two sessions with me; one for testing and the other to explain the results. I don’t remember her name, unfortunately, and I doubt she would remember me. I knew that I wanted more than that out of my career. Years later, I still know that I need more than that. The only career in which I can imagine myself is one in which I am helping to fortify hurting individuals with the tools they need to attain wellness. Years after my diagnosis, I can happily say that I am much healthier. The symptoms of anxiety and PTSD have all but vanished. However, the experience remains forever etched into my memory, as faint whispers of the ghosts that once haunted me. I never want to forget those whispers, because, through them, I will help others to realize that there is a way out of the pain and suffering caused by poor mental health. I distinctly remember my counselor telling me during one of our sessions: “You know what you need to do. You just need to get started.” Those words continue to echo in my mind any time I start to feel anxious or stressed. In those two simple sentences, my counselor armed me with the weapons I need to combat my anxiety when I notice it creep into my mind. I take a deep breath, remember how hard I have worked and continue to work on my wellness, and tell myself to take one step at a time. As I pursue my master's in Clinical Counseling and Mental Health, I am open to many different specialties. I anticipate my practicum and internship with joy, as experiences that will help me to develop my skills as a counselor and to further explore the opportunities within the field. I also anticipate my career with humility, because I know firsthand the misconceptions surrounding it. I also know firsthand how necessary the career is. Without my counselor, I would not have graduated college, much less be currently completing a graduate program. While I do not enter the field intending to single-handedly transform lives, I do study with the intent to learn as much as I can to help my future clients. As my counselor did for me all those years ago, I want to help my clients realize that they can attain wellness. They just need someone to help show them how to take their first steps.

When I was a sophomore in college, "wellness" to me meant doing what felt good. That meant staying awake until two in the morning, eating French fries and spinach for lunch, and drinking a minimum of four espresso shots each day. I knew I wasn't the healthiest individual on campus, but I was thin enough and occasionally went on runs. That had to make me "healthy", right? As it turns out, no, because health and wellness are complicated. My poor sleep and eating habits eventually caught up with me, smacking me with adult-onset acne, anxiety, chronic low energy and brain fog. I struggled to keep up with my classes and was forced to reconsider everything I thought I knew about keeping myself healthy. That year, I began the process of rebuilding my personal wellness from the ground up. I found that the process involved four main facets of health: spiritual, physical, emotional, and mental. The first change I made was to my schedule, quickly improving both my emotional and mental health. With rare exceptions during the academic year, I stop studying by 9:30pm, say my evening prayers, and go to sleep. Also with rare exceptions, I wake up every morning at 6:30am and say my morning prayers while my coffee brews. The next change I made was to my diet. I make sure to incorporate healthy fats, carbohydrates, and proteins in each meal and eat three meals every day. I also implemented a new workout routine, which includes distance running. I set a goal; first, I would run a half marathon and then a full marathon. This decision improved my mental health by allowing me to wake up each morning with a goal in mind. It improved my emotional and physical health by bettering my cardiovascular health and providing an energizing boost of endorphins. Last but certainly not least, I transformed my spiritual life. Instead of forgetting my prayers or not making time for Sunday's church service, I decided that, no matter what, Sunday would be my time with God. Additionally, every morning and evening would be marked by thanking God for the day and asking His guidance. This has been the most important component of my personal wellness in college because I know that, as long as I do my best to be a good student, a good friend, and a good member of my family, God will guide the rest. This mindset replaced anxiety with hope. Instead of waking up every morning and hitting snooze on my alarm, scared about what the day will bring, I wake up with excitement. I cannot wait to pray, to study, to run, to eat good food, and to thrive in life. I am simply excited to exist. By maintaining all of these facets of personal wellness in college, my mind has continued to be clear enough to study, and I am excited to learn. Instead of being clouded by lack of sleep or distracted by brain fog due to poor nutrition or lack of exercise, my mind is sharp. This complete change in my personal wellness has given me the proper mindset with which to succeed as a student. Much like a garden requires a good location, good potting soil, and diligent weeding and care to yield beautiful flowers, an individual requires holistic attention to wellness to be a good student. I look forward to continuing to water my garden as I further my college education in graduate school.