If you saw me walking down the street, you’d likely stare. Not with any malicious intent or judgment, but out of curiosity. What’s that big green thing she’s walking with? Why does she walk like that? What’s that thing on her leg? As someone who’s lived this life of curious stares for the past seven years, I’ve come to understand why people are so intrigued by me without even knowing who I am. I’m disabled, and people don’t know how to interact with individuals like me. On August 28th, 2016, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. I had never been to the hospital before that day, so, I figured this change would be temporary. Little did I know that this assumed “temporary” change would dictate the rest of my life, granting me a new identity as a disabled person. I was now surrounded by people who viewed me as an enigma, which forced insecurities upon me that I didn’t have the words to describe. On top of this, I was a queer teenager desperately trying to put labels to my already confusing identity, making everything feel even heavier in my life. Instead of internalizing this, though, I sought to understand it. I realized that this small bubble I felt stuck in was actually one that such a large, diverse group of people fit into. Knowing this gave me the strength to advocate for them and myself in ways that otherwise, I never would’ve had the courage to. In 2018, I worked with my parents to help connect a network of other disabled people who have similar diagnoses to myself, giving us all a medium to share our struggles with people who understand it best. Though small, it was incredibly impactful, and I met so many amazing people along the way. In 2020, I joined my local hospital’s Teen Advisory Council, where I work alongside other patients of the hospital to ensure our voices and feedback are heard by care teams. I’ve also helped design a “Teen Room,” a comfortable space for patients to relax in the hospital wing I originally stayed on back in 2016. In school, I’ve led my class as student council president all throughout high school, and have always made space in meetings to discuss accessibility in school, eventually aiding in the construction of an elevator in one of the larger buildings on my school campus. These passions I’ve discovered and pursued through my time in high school have opened my eyes to what I see myself doing for the rest of my life. As a venture into college, I plan to pursue my studies in psychology and eventually obtain my doctorate and ABPP Specialty Board Certification in rehabilitation psychology. I’ll lead on behalf of those who don’t have access to healthcare, financial aid, or emotional support, and advocate for proper policy to improve their quality of life. With my own experiences as a disabled person, my voice is especially valuable in this already underserved field, and I’ll devote my life to making the world more accessible, accommodating, and accepting for disabled people. While I may still get those stares, I always smile back, because I know in my time I’ll leave the world better than I found it.

I sat, unable to move my arms or legs, in a plain hospital bed. I had just experienced a spinal cord stroke, and was left with the prognosis that I likely would never be able to walk again. At that point, hearing medical terms thrown around left and right meant nothing to eleven-year-old me. Without any physical control over my body, all I could do was think. With that, I’m not here to tell you all about the hardships of learning how to walk again, or trying to play piano as a music lover who can’t move her hands. I want to tell you about the emotional and mental journey that being paralyzed puts you through, and how that shaped my future goals. Nothing could prepare me for the day that I would grieve the loss of my own body. The anxiety that overwhelmed my life as I tried to make do with the little function I had left took a massive toll on my mental health, and there was nobody to show me how to communicate that with others. The depression that took up most of my headspace as I gradually realized how much of my life I had lost to my stroke pushed me to a deeply sad place, leading me to become stuck in the mental loop of asking, “...why me?” Despite how heavy all of this was for me, it was through these struggles and difficult questions that I understood how lucky I am to be here, and how important it is to broaden the conversation regarding the relationship between mental health and physical disabilities. It’s one that simply isn’t being had enough, and I’m ready to take the lead in having it. The anxiety and depression I’ve endured as a result of my stroke has allowed me to become more open about my experiences than ever before. I’ve learned that taking the mental health issues of disabled teens just as seriously as you do their physical health issues is tremendously important, because these struggles are so deeply intertwined. As I grow older, I plan to take my unique experiences and utilize them as a rehabilitation psychologist, where I’ll have the ability to remove the mystery and stigma behind mental health; particularly for those with physical disabilities. An academic focus in the social sciences will allow me to have a deeper understanding of the social and systemic barriers in place that limit the accessibility of mental health care for physically disabled individuals. Society emphasizes what they can see, whether it be a wheelchair, walker, or cane--yet forgets about mental health. This is such a dangerous pattern that I want to change, speak out against, and as a collective society, grow beyond. Without my own struggles with mental health, I would’ve never recognized this to be a path so perfectly suited for me. I am in a much better place than I was just a couple of years ago, and I believe that everyone deserves to reach their own better place, whatever that may look like for them. I can now say with full confidence that I am happy and proud as a disabled teenager, even if the journey to get here was a difficult one. It’s because of these experiences I’ve had that I truly understand what a beautiful life I live. I’m here, I’m happy, I’m loved, and I’m alive. That’s the most special gift I could’ve ever been granted, and furthering the discussion about mental health is the first step in ensuring that gift can be granted to everyone.

The screeching beeps of my machines fired once again, jolting me awake. A soft-spoken nurse entered my room, sympathetically quieting the beeps with the gentle push of a button. She gathered her medical tools and checked my vitals, simultaneously looking at the many IV poles and monitors that surrounded me. These nightly check-ins had become a part of my daily routine, and felt normal to eleven-year-old me. Though, it took quite some time for me to realize that laying paralyzed in a hospital bed and requiring medical check-ins every night and day -- though normal for me -- wasn’t normal for other kids my age. On August 28th, 2016, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. I was left with the prognosis that I would likely never be able to walk again, and would, at best, be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life. Despite hearing this news, and seeing my parents’ evident despair, I wasn’t able to process it yet. I innocently told the doctor in the room with me, “Actually, I think I’m going to walk out of this hospital soon enough!” Hours passed. A week, a month. Then 75 tedious days, all spent in the same hospital room. It became burdensome to hope that things would improve. I never stopped fighting, but I couldn’t tell if it even mattered. That was a grueling thing to grapple with at such a young age. After months of diagnostic tests, scans, and five-hour long physical therapy sessions every day-- I took my first step. I suddenly didn’t need to grieve the loss of my own body anymore; the Charlotte I once was seemed to be coming back by my own determination, despite all existing doubt. From that point on, I knew that I could take control over my life again. And that I did. It’s been seven LONG years since then. I walk on my own. I work my own job. I excel in school. I lead my class as student council president. All of the things I thought would’ve been impossible are now possible because I believed in taking control over the little control I had, and trusted in myself to keep pushing. Now, at 17 years old, I’ve come to fully understand the complexities of my situation. Despite the many medical issues I still face everyday, going through such massive change at a young age has positively shaped my understanding of the world and my place in it. Instead of dwelling on the things I can’t do, I’ve learned to embrace my identity as a disabled person and involve myself in spaces where people like me aren’t properly represented. I’m incredibly grateful to be alive, and I feel there is no better way for me to celebrate that than by making the world more accessible for everyone. I plan on majoring in psychology and minoring in disability studies; aiming to become a rehabilitation psychologist to use my experiences to aid the physical and emotional recovery of other disabled individuals. Furthering my education will equip me with the skills to better understand and dismantle the discriminatory systems in place against the disabled, shaping the future to be fully accommodating. I’ll lead on behalf of those who don’t have access to healthcare, financial aid, or emotional support, and advocate for proper policy to improve their quality of life. I have no doubts that this is where I’m destined to be, all due to my spinal cord stroke. Though paralysis wasn’t exactly what I had planned for, I wouldn’t change anything about it.

If you saw me walking down the street, you’d likely stare. Not with any malicious intent or judgement, but out of curiosity. What’s that big green crutch she’s walking with? Why does she walk like that? What’s that thing on her leg? As someone who’s lived this life of curious stares for the past six years, I’ve come to understand why people are so intrigued by me without even knowing who I am. I’m disabled, and people don’t know how to interact with individuals like me. I want to support those who’ve struggled with their identities as disabled people through the process of acceptance and skill of self-advocacy. On August 28th, 2016, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. I had never been to the hospital before that day, so, I figured this change would be temporary. Little did I know that this assumed “temporary” change would dictate the rest of my life, granting me a new identity as a disabled person. I was now surrounded by people who viewed me as an enigma, which forced insecurities upon me that I didn’t have the words to describe. Instead of internalizing this, though, I sought to understand it. I realized that this small bubble I felt stuck in was one that such a large, diverse group of people fit into. In fact, disabled people make up the largest minority group in the world. Knowing this gave me the strength to advocate for them and myself in ways that otherwise, I never would’ve had the courage to. In 2018, I worked with my parents to help connect a network of other disabled people who have similar diagnoses to myself, giving us all a medium to share our struggles with people who understand it best. Though small, it was incredibly impactful, and I met so many amazing people along the way. In 2020, I joined my local hospital’s Teen Advisory Council, where I work alongside other patients of the hospital to ensure our voices and feedback are heard. I’ve also helped design a “Teen Room,” a comfortable space for patients to relax in the hospital wing I originally stayed on back in 2016. In school, I’ve led my class as student council president all throughout high school, and have always made space in meetings to discuss accessibility in school; eventually aiding in the construction of an elevator for other disabled students in one of the larger buildings on my school campus. These passions I’ve discovered and pursued through my time in high school have opened my eyes to what I see myself doing for the rest of my life. As a venture into college, I plan on majoring in psychology and completing my master’s in behavioral and community health sciences -- gaining clinical experience as I do so -- in order to eventually become a rehabilitation psychologist and work within an inpatient hospital. I’ll lead on behalf of those who don’t have access to healthcare, financial aid, or emotional support, and advocate for proper policy to improve their quality of life. I’ll take what I’ve learned throughout my own life and grant others the ability to view themselves and their identities with compassion and confidence. With my own experiences as a disabled person, my voice is especially valuable in this already underserved field, and I’ll devote my life to making the world more accessible, accommodating, and accepting for disabled people. While I may still get those stares, I always smile back, because I know in my time I’ll leave the world better than I found it.

On August 28th, 2016, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. I had never been to the hospital before that day, so, innocently, I figured this change would be temporary. I was a perfectly healthy kid, so, why would there be a need for me to stay? This question I initially asked when I had my stroke was the start of paving a much healthier path for my life. I’ve learned there’s always opportunities to be healthier and more forgiving with your body. One of the first and most helpful changes I’ve made to my lifestyle to be healthier -- which is especially important if you’re disabled like me -- is taking the time to understand my body. This stretches far beyond just “knowing your limit,” as most people say. What types of exercise feel most comfortable to you? What medical conditions do you deal with that may change your definition of “healthy”? Are there any medications that may improve your quality of life? Do you feel healthy emotionally as well as physically? Knowing the answers to questions like these is the first step in being able to treat your body in an understanding, but still healthy manner. Throughout my own life, this has allowed me to implement the most effective methods for me to stay active in accessible ways to my disabilities. My balance is below average, so working on exercise machines with handles allows me to strengthen weaker muscles more sustainably and safely. I also deal with severe muscle spasms in my legs, so making sure I take my medication to limit those helps me walk at a smoother, more consistent pace, allowing me to make the most of the time I’m active. Without this deep understanding of my body, I’d likely be doing more harm than good to myself without even knowing it. I’ve instead built a healthy trajectory that’ll benefit me as I venture off to college on my own; outside of the comfort of my local hospital or my home. On top of this personal reflection, another important change I’ve made is focusing on mindful eating and snacking. Before my stroke, I was a snacker as opposed to someone who would eat timed meals throughout the day. When I had my stroke, though, my doctors were on top of my nutrition to ensure I didn’t lose an unhealthy amount of weight whilst I was still immobile. Meals, snacks, and extra fluids were always at my disposal, which felt unnecessarily indulgent at times. Throughout this experience, though, my mindset shifted dramatically. I’ve learned that no food should be considered “good” or “bad”; food simply nourishes your body and provides you energy, which is essential to a healthy lifestyle. Indulging in my favorite foods kept me alive at that time. Now, instead of shunning myself for eating snacks when I feel hungry, I appreciate the fact that I listened to my body’s signals and ate the food I needed. I’ve also learned that I can focus on different kinds of snacks that feel less indulgent, such as fruit. This has created a much healthier emotional and physical relationship with food, one that I try to help others take part in. You’re not “being bad” or being unhealthy for simply eating when your body is telling you to. Practicing this forgiveness with oneself is another vital part in developing a healthy lifestyle. These changes have improved my recovery dramatically, and have changed my life. I hope others can take these strategies and utilize them to benefit themselves; it’s an incredible thing to witness.

If you saw me walking down the street, you’d likely stare. Not with any malicious intent or judgement, but out of curiosity. What’s that big green crutch she’s walking with? Why does she walk like that? What’s that thing on her leg? As someone who’s lived this life of curious stares for the past six years, I’ve come to understand why people are so intrigued by me without even knowing who I am. I’m disabled, and people don’t know how to interact with individuals like me. I want to support those who’ve struggled with their identities as disabled people through the process of acceptance and skill of self-advocacy. On August 28th, 2016, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. I had never been to the hospital before that day, so, I figured this change would be temporary. Little did I know that this assumed “temporary” change would dictate the rest of my life, granting me a new identity as a disabled person. I was now surrounded by people who viewed me as an enigma, which forced insecurities upon me that I didn’t have the words to describe. Instead of internalizing this, though, I sought to understand it. I realized that this small bubble I felt stuck in was actually one that such a large, diverse group of people fit into. In fact, disabled people make up the largest minority group in the world. Knowing this gave me the strength to advocate for them and myself in ways that otherwise, I never would’ve had the courage to. In 2018, I worked with my parents to help connect a network of other disabled people who have similar diagnoses to myself, giving us all a medium to share our struggles with people who understand it best. Though small, it was incredibly impactful, and I met so many amazing people along the way. In 2020, I joined my local hospital’s Teen Advisory Council, where I work alongside other patients of the hospital to ensure our voices and feedback are heard by care teams. I’ve also helped design a “Teen Room,” a comfortable space for patients to relax in the hospital wing I originally stayed on back in 2016. In school, I’ve led my class as student council president all throughout high school, and have always made space in meetings to discuss accessibility in school; eventually aiding in the construction of an elevator for other disabled students in one of the larger buildings on my school campus. These passions I’ve discovered and pursued through my time in high school have opened my eyes to what I see myself doing for the rest of my life. As a venture into college, I plan on majoring in psychology and completing my master’s in behavioral and community health sciences -- gaining clinical experience as I do so -- to eventually become a rehabilitation psychologist and work within an inpatient hospital. I’ll lead on behalf of those who don’t have access to healthcare, financial aid, or emotional support, and advocate for proper policy to improve their quality of life. I’ll take what I’ve learned throughout my own life and grant others the ability to view themselves and their identities with compassion and confidence. With my own experiences as a disabled person, my voice is especially valuable in this already underserved field, and I’ll devote my life to making the world more accessible, accommodating, and accepting for disabled people. While I may still get those stares, I always smile back, because I know in my time I’ll leave the world better than I found it.

If you saw me walking down the street, you’d likely stare. Not with any malicious intent or judgement, but out of curiosity. What’s that big green thing she’s walking with? Why does she walk like that? What’s that thing on her leg? As someone who’s lived this life of curious stares for the past six years, I’ve come to understand why people are so intrigued by me without even knowing who I am. I’m disabled, and people don’t know how to interact with individuals like me. On August 28th, 2016, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. I had never been to the hospital before that day, so, I figured this change would be temporary. Little did I know that this assumed “temporary” change would dictate the rest of my life, granting me a new identity as a disabled person. I was now surrounded by people who viewed me as an enigma, which forced insecurities upon me that I didn’t have the words to describe. On top of this, I was a queer teenager desperately trying to put labels to my already confusing identity, making everything feel even heavier in my life. Instead of internalizing this, though, I sought to understand it. I realized that this small bubble I felt stuck in was actually one that such a large, diverse group of people fit into. Knowing this gave me the strength to advocate for them and myself in ways that otherwise, I never would’ve had the courage to. In 2018, I worked with my parents to help connect a network of other disabled people who have similar diagnoses to myself, giving us all a medium to share our struggles with people who understand it best. Though small, it was incredibly impactful, and I met so many amazing people along the way. In 2020, I joined my local hospital’s Teen Advisory Council, where I work alongside other patients of the hospital to ensure our voices and feedback are heard by care teams. I’ve also helped design a “Teen Room,” a comfortable space for patients to relax in the hospital wing I originally stayed on back in 2016. In school, I’ve led my class as student council president all throughout high school, and have always made space in meetings to discuss accessibility in school, eventually aiding in the construction of an elevator in one of the larger buildings on my school campus. These passions I’ve discovered and pursued through my time in high school have opened my eyes to what I see myself doing for the rest of my life. As a venture into college, I plan on majoring in psychology and completing my master’s in behavioral and community health sciences to eventually become a rehabilitation psychologist. I’ll lead on behalf of those who don’t have access to healthcare, financial aid, or emotional support, and advocate for proper policy to improve their quality of life. With my own experiences as a disabled person, my voice is especially valuable in this already underserved field, and I’ll devote my life to making the world more accessible, accommodating, and accepting for disabled people. While I may still get those stares, I always smile back, because I know in my time I’ll leave the world better than I found it.

I sat, unable to move my arms or legs, in a hospital bed. I had just experienced a spinal cord stroke, and was left with the prognosis that I likely would never be able to walk again. At that point, hearing medical terms thrown around left and right meant nothing to eleven year old me. Without any physical control over my body, all I could do was think. With that, I’m not here to tell you about the hardships of learning how to walk again, or trying to play piano as a music lover who can’t move her hands. I want to tell you about the emotional journey that being paralyzed puts you through, and how that shaped my future goals. Nothing could prepare me for the day that I would grieve the loss of my own body. The anxiety that overwhelmed my life as I tried to make do with the little function I had left took a massive toll on my mental health, and there was nobody to show me how to communicate that with others. According to most, learning to walk again was far more important than my emotions. The depression that took up most of my headspace as I gradually realized how much of my life I had lost to my stroke pushed me to a deeply sad place, leading me to become stuck facing my own mortality in silence, with a forced smile on my face. Despite how heavy this was for me, it was through these struggles that I understood how lucky I am to be here, and how important it is to broaden the conversation regarding the relationship between mental health and physical disabilities. It’s one that isn’t being had enough. The struggles with mental illness I’ve endured as a result of my stroke has allowed me to become more open about my experiences than ever before. I’ve learned that taking the mental health issues of disabled teens just as seriously as you do their physical health issues is tremendously important, because these struggles are so deeply intertwined. As I grow older, I plan to take my experiences and utilize them in a career as a rehabilitation psychologist. Society emphasizes what they can see, whether it be a wheelchair, walker, or cane--yet forgets about mental health. This is such a dangerous pattern that I want to change, speak out against, and as a collective society, grow beyond. As a rehabilitation psychologist, I’ll have a deeper understanding of the social and systemic barriers in place that limit the accessibility of proper mental health care for physically disabled individuals. I’ll advocate for proper policy to improve their quality of life, and provide them with the emotional support that they deserve. Without my own struggles with mental health, I would’ve never recognized this to be a path so perfectly suited for me. I am in a much better place than I was just a couple of years ago, and I believe that everyone deserves to reach their own better place, whatever that may look like for them. I can now say with full confidence that I am happy and proud as a disabled teenager, even if the journey to get here was a difficult one. It’s because of these experiences I’ve had that I truly understand what a beautiful life I live, and what I’m capable of. I’m here, I’m happy, and I’m alive. That’s the most special gift I could’ve ever been granted, and furthering the discussion about mental health is the first step in ensuring that gift will be granted to everyone.

I sat, unable to move my arms or legs, in a plain hospital bed. I had just experienced a spinal cord stroke, and was left with the prognosis that I likely would never be able to walk again. At that point, hearing medical terms thrown around left and right meant nothing to eleven-year-old me. Without any physical control over my body, all I could do was think. With that, I’m not here to tell you all about the hardships of learning how to walk again, or trying to play piano as a music lover who can’t move her hands. I want to tell you about the emotional and mental journey that being paralyzed puts you through, and how that shaped my future goals. Nothing could prepare me for the day that I would grieve the loss of my own body. The anxiety that overwhelmed my life as I tried to make do with the little function I had left took a massive toll on my mental health, and there was nobody to show me how to communicate that with others. The depression that took up most of my headspace as I gradually realized how much of my life I had lost to my stroke pushed me to a deeply sad place, leading me to become stuck in the mental loop of asking, “...why me?” Despite how heavy all of this was for me, it was through these struggles and difficult questions that I understood how lucky I am to be here, and how important it is to broaden the conversation regarding the relationship between mental health and physical disabilities. It’s one that simply isn’t being had enough, and I’m ready to take the lead in having it. The anxiety and depression I’ve endured as a result of my stroke has allowed me to become more open about my experiences than ever before. I’ve learned that taking the mental health issues of disabled teens just as seriously as you do their physical health issues is tremendously important, because these struggles are so deeply intertwined. As I grow older, I plan to take my unique experiences and utilize them as a rehabilitation psychologist, where I’ll have the ability to remove the mystery and stigma behind mental health; particularly for those with physical disabilities. An academic focus in the social sciences will allow me to have a deeper understanding of the social and systemic barriers in place that limit the accessibility of mental health care for physically disabled individuals. Society emphasizes what they can see, whether it be a wheelchair, walker, or cane--yet forgets about mental health. This is such a dangerous pattern that I want to change, speak out against, and as a collective society, grow beyond. Without my own struggles with mental health, I would’ve never recognized this to be a path so perfectly suited for me. I am in a much better place than I was just a couple of years ago, and I believe that everyone deserves to reach their own better place, whatever that may look like for them. I can now say with full confidence that I am happy and proud as a disabled teenager, even if the journey to get here was a difficult one. It’s because of these experiences I’ve had that I truly understand what a beautiful life I live. I’m here, I’m happy, and I’m alive. That’s the most special gift I could’ve ever been granted, and furthering the discussion about mental health is the first step in ensuring that gift can be granted to everyone.

As a disabled teenager, I’ve come to fully understand how little the world understands us. “You don’t need a wheelchair, you can walk.” “Why does it matter if stairs don’t have rails?” “You don’t deserve more sick days than me, just brush it off.” To them, providing disabled people with accommodations that allow them to live their lives comfortably is somehow considered an unfair advantage; despite the fact that, as able-bodied people, they’ve never had to worry about systems adequately supporting their needs. Learning to deal with this form of interpersonal ableism and lack of awareness at my age has shaped my passions and worldview entirely, equipping me with specialized skills to tackle the inaccessibility of today’s society. Instead of dwelling on the things I can’t do, I’ve learned to embrace my identity as a disabled person and involve myself in spaces where people like me aren’t properly represented. I’m incredibly fortunate that I’m able to take action, and I feel there is no better way for me to celebrate that than by making the world more accessible for everyone. That will forever be my biggest passion, because of what I’ve been through. On August 28th, 2016, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. I was sternly told that I would never be able to walk again, and would be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life. 75 tedious days passed, all spent in the same hospital room, without any significant progress. I never stopped fighting, but I couldn’t tell if it even mattered. That was a grueling thing to grapple with at such a young age. But… after months of diagnostic tests, scans, and five-hour long physical therapy sessions every day-- I took my first step. I suddenly didn’t need to grieve the loss of my own body anymore; the Charlotte I once was seemed to be coming back by my own determination, despite all existing doubt. From that point on, I knew that I could take control over my life again. And that I did. It’s been six long years since then. I walk on my own. I work my own job. I excel in school. I lead my class as student council president. All of the things I thought would’ve been impossible are now possible because I trusted in myself to keep pushing. This upward trajectory isn’t slowing down anytime soon, though, as it’s always been a part of me. I plan to carry this same determination and resilience with me throughout the rest of my life; no matter what obstacles I face. To give back, I see no career better fit for me than a rehabilitation psychologist. I’ll provide help to those going through large medical setbacks like I did, using my experience as a tool for success and growth. An education in the social sciences will provide me with the skills to better understand and dismantle the discriminatory systems in place against the disabled, shaping the future to be fully accommodating. I’ll lead on behalf of those who don’t have access to healthcare, financial aid, or emotional support, and advocate for proper policy to improve their quality of life. I have no doubts that this is where I’m destined to be, all due to my spinal cord stroke. Though paralysis wasn’t exactly what I had planned for, I wouldn’t change anything about it. Through these experiences, I have a better understanding than most about how to give back to those who both need and deserve it, and I want nothing more than to do exactly that.

It was my parents’ wedding song. It was the first finger-picking pattern I taught myself on guitar. It was my anthem throughout my recovery from a spinal cord stroke. And now, it’s my senior song for the yearbook. It’s “Here Comes the Sun” by the Beatles, one of the most important songs to me. I hold this song so close to my heart for an abundance of reasons. For one, the title of this song is such an optimistic motivator for me on its own, and has been ever since I was little. It serves as a reminder to me and my family that no matter how dark days may seem-- the sun will always shine through with time. It signifies my parents’ love for each other, as well as for my brother and I; the glue that has held us all close together as we’re each growing and changing. This idea of growth amidst darker days is one that I feel no other song perfects the way this song does. “Here Comes the Sun” tells both sides of the story: the “cold, lonely winters,” but also, the “smiles returning to their faces”. Every time I play this song on guitar, it returns the smile to my own face, reminding me of all of the things I’ve gotten through knowing the sun would come again. As I venture forward into this next chapter of my life as a college-bound senior, knowing that I have the comfort of this song will carry me through it all. It’s a representation of the love my family shares, my excitement for the future, and my gratefulness to be alive all wrapped into three minutes of the happiest guitars and vocals you’ll ever hear-- and it will always be important to me.

On August 28th, 2016, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. I had never been to the hospital before that day, so, innocently, I figured this change would be temporary. I was a perfectly healthy kid, so, why would there be a need for me to stay? This exact question I initially asked when I had my stroke was the start of paving a much healthier path for my life, and it’s helped me ever since then. One of the first, and most helpful ways I’ve focused on maintaining my wellbeing in school-- which is especially important for me as a disabled person-- is taking the time to understand both my mind and my body. This stretches far beyond just “knowing your limit,” as most people say. What types of exercise feel most comfortable to me? What medical conditions do I deal with that may change my definition of “healthy”? Are there any medications that may improve my quality of life? Do I feel healthy emotionally as well as physically? Knowing the answers to questions like these is the first step in being able to treat myself in an understanding, but still healthy manner. Throughout my own life, this has allowed me to implement the most effective methods for me to stay active in accessible ways. My balance is below average, so working on exercise machines with handles allows me to strengthen weaker muscles more sustainably and safely. I also deal with severe muscle spasms in my legs, so ensuring I take my medication to limit those helps me walk at a smoother, more consistent pace, and allows me to make the most of the time I’m up and about at school and in public. When I’m feeling overwhelmed with all of my doctor’s appointments piling up, leaving little time left for my schoolwork, I’ve learned how to utilize the most effective coping strategies to help myself relax and stay productive. Without this close understanding of my mind and my body, I would likely be doing more harm than good to myself without even knowing it. Instead, I’ve built a healthy trajectory that’ll benefit me as I venture off to college on my own; outside of the comfort of my local hospital or my home. On top of this personal reflection, another important way I maintain my health, specifically my nutrition, is through focusing on mindful eating and snacking. Before my stroke, I was always a mindless snacker as opposed to someone who would eat timed meals throughout the day. When I had my stroke, though, my doctors were on top of my nutrition to ensure I didn’t lose an unhealthy amount of weight whilst I was still immobile. Meals, snacks, and extra fluids were always at my disposal, which felt unnecessarily indulgent at times. Throughout this experience, though, my mindset shifted dramatically. I’ve learned that no food can be considered “good” or “bad”; food simply nourishes my body and provides me with energy; which is essential to maintaining a healthy lifestyle. Instead of shunning myself for eating chips or candy when I feel hungry, I appreciate the fact that I listened to my body’s signals and ate the food I needed. This created a much healthier emotional and physical relationship with food, one that I encourage others to take part in. These changes have improved my recovery dramatically, and have made the high school experience far simpler for me as a disabled student. It was what allowed me to excel at the extent I have, and I’m incredibly proud of how far I’ve come.

I sat, unable to move my arms or legs, in a plain hospital bed. I had just experienced a spinal cord stroke, and was left with the prognosis that I likely would never be able to walk again. At that point, hearing medical terms thrown around left and right meant nothing to eleven year old me. Without any physical control over my body, all I could do was think. With that, I’m not here to tell you about the hardships of learning how to walk again, or trying to play piano as a music lover who can’t move her hands. I want to tell you about the mental journey that being paralyzed puts you through, and how that shaped my future goals. Nothing could prepare me for the day that I would grieve the loss of my own body. The anxiety that overwhelmed my life as I tried to make do with the little function I had left took a massive toll on my mental health, and there was nobody to show me how to communicate that with others. According to most, learning to walk again was far more important than my emotions. Who was I, a clueless, paralyzed kid, to disagree? In some ways, agreeing with others pushed me farther away from them. The depression that took up most of my headspace as I gradually realized how much of my life I had lost to my stroke pushed me to a deeply sad place, leading me to become stuck facing my own mortality in silence-- with a forced smile on my face. The sound of ambulance sirens terrified me, but nobody would explain to me what PTSD was or give me context for that newfound fear. No matter how hard I tried to explain myself, nobody could fully understand what I was going through. I had no choice but to let all of this weight stay inside of my head throughout the most important parts of my physical recovery. Pushing all of this pent up emotion all of those years has led me to a rough realization only just recently: I would have to process all of this at some point. Bottling it up would only make it worse. Despite how heavy this was, and still is for me, it was through processing these struggles that I understood how lucky I am to be here, and how important it is to broaden the conversation regarding the relationship between mental health and physical disabilities. It’s one that isn’t being had enough-- and I now feel ready to take the lead in having it. The struggles with mental illness I’ve endured as a result of my stroke has allowed me to become more open about my experiences than ever before. I’ve learned that taking the mental health issues of disabled teens just as seriously as you do their physical health issues is tremendously important, because these struggles are so deeply intertwined. As I grow older, I plan to take my experiences and utilize them in a career as a rehabilitation psychologist. Society emphasizes what they can see, whether it be a wheelchair, walker, or cane--yet forgets about mental health. This is such a dangerous pattern that I want to change, speak out against, and as a collective society, grow beyond. As a rehabilitation psychologist, I’ll have a deeper understanding of the social and systemic barriers in place that limit the accessibility of proper mental health care for physically disabled individuals. I’ll advocate for proper policy to improve their quality of life, and provide them with the emotional support that they deserve. Without my own struggles with mental health in relation to my physical health, I would’ve never recognized this to be a path so perfectly suited for me. I am in a much better place than I was just a couple of years ago, and I believe that everyone deserves to reach their own better place, whatever that may look like for them. I can now say with full confidence that I am happy and proud as a disabled teenager, even if the journey to get here was a difficult one. It’s because of these experiences I’ve had that I truly understand how important mental health is and where taking care of my mind can lead me. I’m here, I’m happy, and I’m alive. That’s the most special gift I could’ve ever been granted, and furthering the discussion about mental health is the first step in ensuring that gift will be granted to everyone.

On August 28th, 2016, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. Nothing could prepare me for the day that I would grieve the loss of my own body. The anxiety that overwhelmed my life as I tried to make do with the little function I had left took a massive toll on my mental health, and there was nobody to show me how to communicate that with others. According to most, learning to walk again was far more important than my emotions; especially ones that I didn’t even know how to describe. I understood I couldn’t walk, but didn’t understand how I felt. The depression that took up most of my headspace as I gradually realized how much of my life I had lost to my stroke pushed me to a deeply sad place, leading me to become stuck facing my own mortality in silence-- with a forced smile on my face. No matter how hard I tried to explain myself, nobody could fully understand what I was going through. Despite how heavy this was for me, it was through these struggles that I understood how important my mental health truly is, and how important it is to broaden the conversation regarding the relationship between mental health and physical disabilities. It’s one that isn’t being had enough-- and I'm ready to have it. The struggles with mental health I’ve endured as a result of my stroke has allowed me to become more open about my experiences than ever before; giving me an avenue to maintain my mental wellness through advocacy and action. I’ve learned that taking the mental health issues of disabled teens just as seriously as you do their physical health issues is tremendously important, because these struggles are so deeply intertwined. Mental health influences your physical health, recovery, and overall well-being, as it did for me. Without proper emotional care, physical care can take far longer to benefit your body. Considering I understand these issues on such a deep level in my own life, as I grow older, I plan to take my experiences and utilize them in a career as a rehabilitation psychologist to help others recognize how important their mental health is. Society emphasizes what they can see, whether it be a wheelchair, walker, or cane--yet forgets about mental health. This is such a dangerous pattern that I want to change, speak out against, and as a collective society, grow beyond. As a rehabilitation psychologist, I’ll have a deeper understanding of the social and systemic barriers in place that limit the accessibility of proper mental health care for physically disabled individuals. I’ll advocate for proper policy to improve their quality of life, and provide them with the emotional support that they deserve. Without my own struggles with mental health, I would’ve never recognized this to be a path so perfectly suited for me. I am in a much better place than I was just a couple of years ago, and I believe that everyone deserves to reach their own better place, whatever that may look like for them. I can now say with full confidence that I am happy and proud as a disabled teenager, even if the journey to get here was a difficult one. Knowing I have the power to make the future safer for people like me has helped my mental wellness dramatically. That’s the most special gift I could’ve ever been granted, and furthering the discussion about mental health is the first step in ensuring that gift will be granted to everyone.

I sat, unable to move my arms or legs, in a plain hospital bed. I had just experienced a spinal cord stroke, and was left with the prognosis that I likely would never be able to walk again. At that point, hearing medical terms thrown around left and right meant nothing to eleven year old me. Without any physical control over my body, all I could do was think. With that, I’m not here to tell you about the hardships of learning how to walk again, or trying to play piano as a music lover who can’t move her hands. I want to tell you about the mental journey that being paralyzed puts you through, and how that shaped my future goals. Nothing could prepare me for the day that I would grieve the loss of my own body. The anxiety that overwhelmed my life as I tried to make do with the little function I had left took a massive toll on my mental health, and there was nobody to show me how to communicate that with others. According to most, learning to walk again was far more important than my emotions. Who was I, a clueless, paralyzed kid, to disagree? In some ways, agreeing with others pushed me farther away from them. The depression that took up most of my headspace as I gradually realized how much of my life I had lost to my stroke pushed me to a deeply sad place, leading me to become stuck facing my own mortality in silence-- with a forced smile on my face. The sound of ambulance sirens terrified me, but nobody would explain to me what PTSD was or give me context for that newfound fear. No matter how hard I tried to explain myself, nobody could fully understand what I was going through. I had no choice but to let all of this weight stay inside of my head throughout the most important parts of my physical recovery. Pushing all of this pent up emotion all of those years has led me to a rough realization only just recently: I would have to process all of this at some point. Bottling it up would only make it worse. Despite how heavy this was, and still is for me, it was through processing these struggles that I understood how lucky I am to be here, and how important it is to broaden the conversation regarding the relationship between mental health and physical disabilities. It’s one that isn’t being had enough-- and I now feel ready to take the lead in having it. The struggles with mental illness I’ve endured as a result of my stroke has allowed me to become more open about my experiences than ever before. I’ve learned that taking the mental health issues of disabled teens just as seriously as you do their physical health issues is tremendously important, because these struggles are so deeply intertwined. As I grow older, I plan to take my experiences and utilize them in a career as a rehabilitation psychologist. Society emphasizes what they can see, whether it be a wheelchair, walker, or cane--yet forgets about mental health. This is such a dangerous pattern that I want to change, speak out against, and as a collective society, grow beyond. As a rehabilitation psychologist, I’ll have a deeper understanding of the social and systemic barriers in place that limit the accessibility of proper mental health care for physically disabled individuals. I’ll advocate for proper policy to improve their quality of life, and provide them with the emotional support that they deserve. Without my own struggles with mental health in relation to my physical health, I would’ve never recognized this to be a path so perfectly suited for me. I am in a much better place than I was just a couple of years ago, and I believe that everyone deserves to reach their own better place, whatever that may look like for them. I can now say with full confidence that I am happy and proud as a disabled teenager, even if the journey to get here was a difficult one. It’s because of these experiences I’ve had that I truly understand how important mental health is and where taking care of my mind can lead me. I’m here, I’m happy, and I’m alive. That’s the most special gift I could’ve ever been granted, and furthering the discussion about mental health is the first step in ensuring that gift will be granted to everyone.

To most, taking a small, wobbly, unsteady step may not be going above and beyond. But for me, that’s the biggest instance of me going above and beyond in my entire life, and it paved an entirely new path for me and my future. On August 28th, 2016, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. I had never been to the hospital before that day, so, I figured this change would be temporary; I go to the hospital, the doctors fix me, and I go home. Whilst this may be the case for some, it was by no means the case for me. I was left with the prognosis that I would likely never be able to walk again, and would, at best, be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life. Despite hearing this news, and seeing my parents’ evident despair, I wasn’t able to process it yet. In fact, I innocently told the doctor in the room with me, “Actually, I think I’m going to walk out of this hospital soon enough!” Hours passed. A week, a month. Then 75 tedious days, all spent in the same hospital room. It became burdensome to hope that things would improve; but I never stopped fighting. I told that doctor I was going to walk out of the hospital, and I ALWAYS hold true to my word. I had every valid excuse in the world to give up, but I went above and beyond. I saw it as my only option. After months of diagnostic tests, scans, and five-hour long physical therapy sessions every day-- I took my first step. This was more than above and beyond; to my doctors, this was the most confusing miracle they had ever witnessed. In a pediatric case such as mine, this prognosis was essentially unheard of. Knowing this, I didn’t stop with that single step. Now that I achieved my initial goal, where could it now take me? I sought to figure that out. It’s been six long years since then that I’ve spent figuring it out. I can walk on my own. I work my own job. I excel in school. I lead my class as student council president. And now, I’m applying to college! All of the things I thought would’ve been impossible are now possible because I believed in defying the limiting expectations placed upon me. Amidst the many medical issues I faced then and still face everyday, persevering well beyond what was expected of me has positively shaped my understanding of the world and my place in it. Instead of dwelling on the things I can’t do, I’ve learned to embrace my identity as a disabled person and involve myself in spaces where people like me aren’t properly represented. I’m incredibly fortunate to even be alive, and I feel there is no better way for me to celebrate that than by making the world more accessible for everyone as a rehabilitation psychologist. I’ll provide help to those going through large medical setbacks like I did, using my experience as a tool for success and growth. I’ll have the skills to better understand and dismantle the discriminatory systems in place against the disabled, allowing everyone to have equal opportunity to go above and beyond at their full potential like me. I have no doubts that this is where I am destined to be, all due to that one step I took back in 2016. Though my stroke wasn’t exactly what I had planned to shape my future around, I wouldn’t change anything about it.

I sat, unable to move my arms or legs, in a hospital bed. I had just experienced a spinal cord stroke, and was left with the prognosis that I likely would never be able to walk again. At that point, hearing medical terms thrown around left and right meant nothing to eleven year old me. Without any physical control over my body, all I could do was think. With that, I’m not here to tell you about the hardships of learning how to walk again, or trying to play piano as a music lover who can’t move her hands. I want to tell you about the emotional journey that being paralyzed puts you through, and how that shaped my future goals. Nothing could prepare me for the day that I would grieve the loss of my own body. The anxiety that overwhelmed my life as I tried to make do with the little function I had left took a massive toll on my mental health, and there was nobody to show me how to communicate that with others. According to most, learning to walk again was far more important than my emotions. The depression that took up most of my headspace as I gradually realized how much of my life I had lost to my stroke pushed me to a deeply sad place, leading me to become stuck facing my own mortality in silence, with a forced smile on my face. Despite how heavy this was for me, it was through these struggles that I understood how lucky I am to be here, and how important it is to broaden the conversation regarding the relationship between mental health and physical disabilities. It’s one that isn’t being had enough. The struggles with mental illness I’ve endured as a result of my stroke has allowed me to become more open about my experiences than ever before. I’ve learned that taking the mental health issues of disabled teens just as seriously as you do their physical health issues is tremendously important, because these struggles are so deeply intertwined. As I grow older, I plan to take my experiences and utilize them in a career as a rehabilitation psychologist. Society emphasizes what they can see, whether it be a wheelchair, walker, or cane--yet forgets about mental health. This is such a dangerous pattern that I want to change, speak out against, and as a collective society, grow beyond. As a rehabilitation psychologist, I’ll have a deeper understanding of the social and systemic barriers in place that limit the accessibility of proper mental health care for physically disabled individuals. I’ll advocate for proper policy to improve their quality of life, and provide them with the emotional support that they deserve. Without my own struggles with mental health, I would’ve never recognized this to be a path so perfectly suited for me. I am in a much better place than I was just a couple of years ago, and I believe that everyone deserves to reach their own better place, whatever that may look like for them. I can now say with full confidence that I am happy and proud as a disabled teenager, even if the journey to get here was a difficult one. It’s because of these experiences I’ve had that I truly understand what a beautiful life I live, and what I’m capable of. I’m here, I’m happy, and I’m alive. That’s the most special gift I could’ve ever been granted, and furthering the discussion about mental health is the first step in ensuring that gift will be granted to everyone.

On August 28th, 2016, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. I had never been to the hospital before that day, so, I figured this change would be temporary. Whilst this may be the case for some, it was by no means the case for me. I was left with the prognosis that I would likely never be able to walk again, and would, at best, be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life. Despite hearing this news, and seeing my parents’ evident despair, I wasn’t able to process it yet. In fact, I innocently told the doctor in the room with me, “Actually, I think I’m going to walk out of this hospital soon enough!” Hours passed. A week, a month. Then 75 tedious days, all spent in the same hospital room. It became burdensome to hope that things would improve. I never stopped fighting, but I couldn’t tell if it even mattered. That was a grueling thing to grapple with at such a young age, and started to influence thoughts concerning my future. My desires of joining the swim team, having a job in a field I love, and above all, going to college one day… now seemed FAR beyond my reach. I was faced with my own mortality, and it was terrifying. Even then, I never stopped fighting. After months of missed school due to diagnostic tests, scans, and five-hour long physical therapy sessions every day-- I took my first step. I suddenly didn’t need to grieve the loss of my own body anymore; the Charlotte I once was seemed to be coming back by my own determination. (Turns out, fighting DID matter.) From that point on, I knew that I could take control over my life again. And that I did. It’s been six years since then. I can walk on my own. I lead my class as student council president. I work my own job. And best yet… I’M APPLYING TO COLLEGE! All of the things I thought would’ve been impossible are now possible because I believed in taking control over the little control I had, and trusted in myself to keep fighting. Now, at 17 years old, I’ve come to fully understand the complexities of my situation. Amidst the many medical issues I still face everyday, going through such massive change at a young age has also positively shaped my understanding of the world and my place in it. Instead of dwelling on the things I can’t do, I’ve learned to embrace my identity as a disabled person and involve myself in spaces where people like me aren’t properly represented. I’m incredibly fortunate to even be alive, and I feel there is no better way for me to celebrate that than by making the world more accessible for everyone. I’ll provide help to those going through large medical setbacks like I did, using my experience as a tool for success and growth. An education in the social sciences (a field I love) will equip me with the skills to better understand and dismantle the discriminatory systems in place against the disabled, further shaping the future to be fully accommodating. I’ll lead on behalf of those who don’t have access to healthcare, financial aid, or emotional support, and advocate for proper policy to improve their quality of life as a rehabilitation psychologist. I have no doubts that this is where I am destined to be, all due to my spinal cord stroke. Though paralysis wasn’t exactly what I had planned for, I wouldn’t change anything about it.

On August 28th, 2016, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. I had never been to the hospital before that day, so, innocently, I figured this change would be temporary. I was a perfectly healthy kid, so, why would there be a need for me to stay? This exact question I initially asked when I had my stroke was the start of paving a much healthier path for my life. Just because you think you’re healthy, doesn’t mean you can’t make changes to be healthier and more forgiving with your body. One of the first, and most helpful changes I’ve made to my lifestyle to be healthier-- which is especially important as a disabled person-- is taking the time to understand my body. This stretches far beyond just “knowing your limit,” as most people say. What types of exercise feel most comfortable to you? What medical conditions do you deal with that may change your definition of “healthy”? Are there any medications that may improve your quality of life? Do you feel healthy emotionally as well as physically? Knowing the answers to questions like these is the first step in being able to treat your body in an understanding, but still healthy manner. Throughout my own life, this has allowed me to implement the most effective methods for me to stay active in accessible ways to my life. My balance is below average, so working on exercise machines with handles allows me to strengthen weaker muscles more sustainably and safely. I also deal with severe muscle spasms in my legs, so making sure I take my medication to limit those helps me walk at a smoother, more consistent pace, and allows me to make the most of the time I’m up and about. Without this close understanding of my body, I would likely be doing more harm than good to myself without even knowing it. I’ve instead built a healthy trajectory that’ll benefit me as I venture off to college on my own; outside of the comfort of my local hospital or my home. On top of this personal reflection, another important change I’ve made is focusing on mindful eating and snacking. Before my stroke, I was always a mindless snacker as opposed to someone who would eat timed meals throughout the day. When I had my stroke, though, my doctors were on top of my nutrition to ensure I didn’t lose an unhealthy amount of weight whilst I was still immobile. Meals, snacks, and extra fluids were always at my disposal, which felt unnecessarily indulgent at times. Throughout this experience, though, my mindset shifted dramatically. I’ve learned that no food can be considered “good” or “bad”; food simply nourishes your body and provides you energy; which is essential to survival and a healthy lifestyle. Indulging in my favorite foods genuinely kept me alive at that time. Now, instead of shunning myself for eating chips or candy when I feel hungry, I appreciate the fact that I listened to my body’s signals and ate the food I needed. This created a much healthier emotional and physical relationship with food, one that I try to help others take part in. You’re not “breaking your diet rules” or being unhealthy for simply eating when you feel the need to. Practicing this forgiveness with oneself is another vital part in developing a healthy lifestyle. These changes have improved my recovery dramatically, and have truly changed my life. I hope others can take these strategies and utilize them to benefit themselves; it’s an incredible thing to witness.

“What’s that on your leg? What happened?” Asks every stranger I’ve walked past on the street staring directly at my right leg, as they slowly figure out that I have a physical disability. It’s never an easy explanation--nothing I could describe would fully satiate the invasive curiosity of these strangers in public. They don’t even know who I am or why I need mobility aids, yet they crave to know all the answers. As a disabled person, I’ve learned to work around these questions without entirely ignoring them. I don’t owe everyone an in-depth description of my disability or medical conditions; instead, I can just tell them, “You know Nemo? He has his bad fin, and I have my bad leg! ♫Just keep swimming… Just keep swimming…♫” Nemo will forever stay my favorite Disney character for this exact reason. He turned dealing with invasive questions into an opportunity for me to make others smile. On August 28th, 2016, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. I was left with the prognosis that I would likely never be able to walk again, and would, at best, be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life. What could anyone possibly do to comfort a kid grieving the loss of their own body? Though I would hear the typical, “You’re such an inspiration!” every now and then, nothing felt more special to me than “Just keep swimming!”. My nurses would sing Dory’s famous tune to me all of the time, making me realize how impactful that simple song truly is; just like Nemo did. It doesn’t alienate me as being inherently “inspirational” because of my newfound disability, something I had nothing to do with, it instead emphasizes the perseverance I had throughout my recovery--which I had everything to do with. Now at 17 years old, after countless hours of physical therapy, I’ve defied all medical expectations and can now walk on my own-- all because I just kept swimming. I wear an AFO (Ankle Foot Orthotic) on my right leg, my weaker leg, which is where most attention typically goes when people approach me. Instead of being embarrassed by my differences, I now can share my “Just keep swimming” story with others and show off my “bad fin” just like Nemo. It’s the best full circle moment I could’ve ever asked for.

I’ve always been a listener. Nodding my head as people talk to me, making sure I keep comfortable eye contact, laughing when people make funny jokes--I have the process down to a tee. But this stretches far more than just being a listener in day-to-day conversation. For me, I also listen to the voices of those who are struggling. I listen to what’s currently going on in the world. I listen to myself when I am navigating new experiences in my life. As a listener, I’ve gotten to take part in so many fantastic opportunities, and I greatly value this about myself. Listening was initially my way of working around the difficulties of “normal” social interaction. Socializing has never come easy to me, but I’ve realized that through “letting other people do the talking,” as it is often described, I can still contribute to social situations in my own ways. I can learn from others, and take what I learn and apply it to my life in ways that allow me to make a meaningful impact in my community. Once I understood this, it allowed my listening skills to blossom. On a broader scale, this applies to the whole of my life spent in the education system. Observable, out-loud class participation is always emphasized as being the so-called “best” pathway to comprehending class material, even though that isn’t the case for every student. Even though teachers would always encourage me to follow this stereotypical path, I naturally participate in class by actively listening, helping me to become more comfortable in the school environment. I figured out that this was my way of being the most productive as a student, and I continue to honor that. It allows me to figure out the most detailed ways to articulate my own thoughts and conclusions about specific class topics. This stretches even further than just academics. As a physically disabled student, I’ve learned that ableism is something I will have to learn how to handle for the rest of my life. The things I’ve heard some of my classmates say, and some of the posts I’ve seen on social media regarding disabilities, are truly awful and fueled by prejudiced mindsets. But through listening to these unfavorable things I have learned that I have the ability to speak out against these behaviors and educate others. I have talked to many of my peers about the problematic infantilization of disabled people in today’s society, the issues that come with derogatorily labeling disabled students as “special,” how asking invasive questions such as “What happened?” to disabled people can be harmful, and countless other topics. Because of situations like these, I plan to pursue a higher education with an academic focus on psychology and sociology in order to better understand these sorts of social and systemic issues, with the hopes of being able to continue to help and educate others. If it weren’t for my active listening, I would’ve never been able to discover these passions of mine. As I step foot into the wide world of furthering my education, I know for a fact that continuing to allow myself to be the listener I’ve always been will guide me towards a meaningful college experience, career, and adult life. This is particularly true in the world of social services, where active empathetic listening is perhaps the most important skill to have. When most would have to tediously develop this skill, it’s already deeply ingrained in my character, and I am proud of myself for allowing this part of me to shine as I’ve grown throughout high school.

I sat, unable to move my arms or legs, in a plain hospital bed. I had just experienced a spinal cord stroke, and was left with the prognosis that I likely would never be able to walk again. At that point, hearing medical terms thrown around left and right meant nothing to eleven year old me. Without any physical control over my body, all I could do was think. With that, I’m not here to tell you all about the hardships of learning how to walk again, or trying to play piano as a music lover who can’t move her hands. I want to tell you about the emotional and mental journey that being paralyzed puts you through, and how that shaped my future goals. Nothing could prepare me for the day that I would grieve the loss of my own body. The anxiety that overwhelmed my life as I tried to make do with the little function I had left took a massive toll on my mental health, and there was nobody to show me how to communicate that with others. The depression that took up most of my headspace as I gradually realized how much of my life I had lost to my stroke pushed me to a deeply sad place, leading me to become stuck in the mental loop of asking, “...why me?” Despite how heavy all of this was for me, it was through these struggles and difficult questions that I understood how lucky I am to be here, and how important it is to broaden the conversation regarding the relationship between mental health and physical disabilities. The anxiety and depression I’ve endured as a result of my stroke has allowed me to become more open about my experiences than ever before. I’ve learned that taking the mental health issues of disabled teens just as seriously as you do their physical health issues is tremendously important, because these struggles are so deeply intertwined. As I grow older, I plan to take my experiences and utilize them in a career where I have the ability to remove the mystery and stigma behind mental health, especially for those with physical disabilities. Society emphasizes what they can see, whether it be a wheelchair, walker, or cane--yet forgets about mental health. This is such a dangerous pattern that I want to change, speak out against, and as a collective society, grow beyond. Because of my experiences, I’ve found the best way I can achieve these goals is by furthering my education through majoring in psychology and minoring in sociology. An academic focus on the social sciences will allow me to have a deeper understanding of the social and systemic barriers in place that limit the accessibility of mental health care for physically disabled individuals. Without my own struggles with mental health, I would’ve never recognized this to be a path suited for me. I am in a much better place than I was just a couple of years ago, and I believe that everyone deserves to reach their own better place, whatever that may look like for them. I can now say with full confidence that I am happy and proud as a disabled teenager, even if the journey to get here was a difficult one. It’s because of these experiences I’ve had that I truly understand what a beautiful life I live. I’m here, I’m happy, and I’m alive. That’s the most special gift I could’ve ever been granted, and furthering the discussion about mental health is the first step in ensuring that gift can be granted to everyone.

The sound of sirens always seems to get to me. The wails of ambulances powering down streets was once a sound that I associated with the courage of healthcare professionals and the concept of saving lives. Whilst I still deeply admire the strength of medical professionals, the sound of sirens no longer reminds me of that strength. For me, the sound of sirens brings me back to August 28th, 2016. I sat, unable to move my arms or legs, in a plain hospital bed. I had just experienced a spinal cord stroke, and was left with the prognosis that I likely would never be able to walk again. At that point, hearing medical terms thrown around left and right meant nothing to eleven year old me. Without any physical control over my body, all I could do was think. With that, I am not here to tell you all about the hardships of learning how to walk again, or trying to play piano as a music lover who cannot move her hands. I want to tell you about the emotional and mental journey that being paralyzed puts you through. Nothing could prepare me for the day that I would grieve the loss of my own body. I miss the chance to spontaneously race my friends on the school fields, simply because I wanted to. I miss the look of fear on my mom’s face when she used to watch me climb high into a pine tree when we were camping. Most of all, though, I miss my freedom. At only eleven years old, I was quickly forced to the realization that I would never be able to do those kinds of things again, which was, and still is, at seventeen years old, incredibly difficult. The anxiety that overwhelmed my life as I tried to make do with the little function I had left took a massive toll on my mental health, and there was nobody to show me how to communicate that with others. The depression that took up most of my headspace as I gradually realized how much of my life I had lost to my stroke pushed me to a deeply sad place, leading me to become stuck in the mental loop of asking, “...why me?” Despite how heavy all of this was for me, it was through these struggles and difficult questions that I understood how lucky I am to be here, and how important it is to broaden the conversation regarding the relationship between mental health and physical disabilities. The anxiety and depression I have endured as a result of my stroke has allowed me to become more open about my experiences than ever before. I did not have anyone my age to relate to, so now I always strive to be the person that someone else can relate to. I have learned that the best thing to do when you are struggling is to simply talk about it, even if you do not know where to start. Regardless of your situation, as rare or as individual it may seem, you are truthfully never alone. As a result of me trying my best to be open and make connections with other teenagers who have been through similar situations that I have, I have finally started to understand this. I have also learned that taking the mental health issues of disabled teens just as seriously as you do their physical health issues is tremendously important, because these struggles are so deeply intertwined. Sure, I cannot change what happened to me, but, over time, I have learned that I can most definitely change how I process and view what happened to me. I hope to help other people understand their mental health in this same way, because it has allowed me to find the happiness and purpose in my life again. As I grow older, I plan to take my experiences and utilize them in a career where I have the ability to remove the mystery and stigma behind mental health, especially for those with physical disabilities. Society emphasizes what they can see, whether it be a wheelchair, walker, or cane--yet forgets about mental health. This is such a dangerous pattern that I want to change, speak out against, and as a collective society, grow beyond. Because of my experiences, I’ve found the best way I can start to achieve these goals is through furthering my education through majoring in psychology and minoring in sociology. An academic focus on the social sciences will allow me to have a deeper understanding of the social and systemic barriers in place that limit the accessibility of mental health care for physically disabled individuals. Without my own struggles with mental health, I would’ve never recognized this to be a path suited for me. I am in a much better place than I was just a couple of years ago, and I believe that everyone deserves to reach their own better place, whatever that may look like for them. I can now say with full confidence that I am happy and proud as a disabled teenager, even if the journey to get here was a difficult one. The sound of sirens always seems to get to me. Though, I now know that it is because of these experiences I have had that I truly understand what a beautiful life I live. I’m here, I’m happy, and I’m alive. That is the most special gift I could have ever been granted, and furthering the discussion about mental health is the first step in ensuring that gift can be granted to everyone.

I had always been a perfectly healthy kid. I loved being outside, racing my friends, and swimming whenever I got the chance to. On August 28th, 2016, though, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. At this point, not only was I physically helpless, emotionally, I didn’t know how to comprehend such a dramatic change in my life. So, I tried to push all of my conflicting emotions down, put on a smile, and focus intently on gaining my strength back. Even though that served me well on my physical recovery journey, now, at seventeen years old, I’m finally processing all of what I’ve been through these past few years. I have a far deeper understanding of the magnitude of my stroke’s impact on my life, and how it’s shaped my goals for the future drastically. Nobody could’ve ever prepared me for grieving the loss of my own body. All of the opportunities that I was excited to get involved in at school, such as track and field and swim team, were now completely out of the picture. Despite this, I didn’t focus on the loss of opportunities. Instead, I searched for more. Through my first year of middle school almost entirely inpatient at the hospital, I was a straight-A student. As soon as I was cleared to go back to school in person, I tried out art classes, started creative writing projects, and met all sorts of new students despite my evident shyness. This deliberate decision I made to make the most of the seemingly little control I had over my life has stuck with me ever since then. Sure, I may not be able to walk as fast as my peers, or be the captain of a high school sports team. But I can be the student council president each year of high school, I can make the distinguished honor roll each year in high school, I can be involved in over seven separate extracurricular activities, and I can further my education in ways that will help other people who have gone through similar experiences that I have. College is another part of my life that now looks much different than it would if I were an able-bodied student. I’ve always dreamed of going to a good college when I was younger, but the process in doing so is now a bit more complicated. I have to make sure the campus is accessible to my physical limitations, and has public transportation options. Having housing that is accessible to my medical needs is an expensive endeavor, but one that is necessary to my quality of life. These sorts of things are vital to my college experience, and they’re all the more important because furthering my education is the way I will be able to carry out my long-term goals. Though I would’ve never had to think about these things before, I’m driven to do so now in order to help my goals come to life. I am planning on majoring in psychology and minoring in sociology, for the precise reason of being able to utilize what I learn from those programs in order to connect with individuals or families who have been impacted by heavy medical changes like I was. I understand more than most how changes like this affect every single aspect of someone’s life, and without a strong support system, it can push people to an extremely dark place. I want to utilize my patient and student experience as a disabled person to make the future a safer place for disabled people.

I’ve always been one to feel guilty about self-care, even when I know deep down that I would benefit from it. This is something I’ve come to understand that a lot of people relate to. Even though we all know it’s essential to our well-being, it’s hard to make ourselves believe we “deserve it,” even though we shouldn’t have to justify taking care of ourselves. One of the most helpful pieces of advice in regards to self-care and mental health, that has helped me keep my mind clear, is to think of self-care as recharging your battery. The things we do in our daily lives, as used to them as we may be, are draining. It’s hard to be active everyday, be aware of what others expect from us, and carry out required tasks all at the same time. This is especially true amidst busy or difficult times. These are situations that I describe as “battery-drainers”. They make us feel fatigued, forgetful, and sometimes self-critical. Once our batteries are depleted, that makes daily tasks even more difficult, and we become unproductive and stressed. Our mind races and tends to get caught up in what we haven’t done or what we need to do, causing negative emotions to take control over our thoughts, emotions, and behaviors. The first step at becoming skilled at charging your own battery is to recognize when you reach this point. Once you do, you can indulge in the incredible world of “battery-chargers,” which allow you to bounce back from hard times feeling refreshed. It’s important to understand why battery-chargers are so important when you reach this high point of stress before you figure out which ones work for you, because at this point, pushing yourself to work beyond your limit will only worsen your ability to function in the future. Long-term, it’s the most sustainable option to take a break, clear your mind, and take care of yourself. This is what can help remove the idea that you need to “earn” taking care of yourself. What works for you may take a bit of experimenting, as it did for me. For me, I’ve found that depending on my mood, I take different approaches to self-care and clearing my mind. If I’m feeling burnt out and exhausted from school or work, playing board games with friends is one of the best cures. It allows me to feel productive and achieve goals through the game, scratching my itch to keep working, but still allows me to detach from the working mindset through spending time with the people I love. If I’m feeling sad or overwhelmed, simply sitting in a room with other people, even if I’m not talking to them, can help recharge my battery by creating a feeling of involvement. If I’m feeling disappointed about something, I turn to my favorite TV shows or movies to cheer me up and remind me of the joys that still surround me. Beyond all, though, the biggest battery-charger I would recommend trying is simply talking to others when you feel drained. You don’t have to say much, and you don’t have to say things you’re not comfortable with. But getting what’s going on inside your head out in the open is one of the best ways to clear your mind, and may help spark ideas for other battery-chargers you could try out in the future. Charging your battery takes practice, but know that you ALWAYS deserve it. This perspective has genuinely changed my life for the better, and is the pathway to a clear mind.

I’ve been on a long, winding journey when it comes to navigating my own mental health. Though, the one piece of advice that has stuck with me for years, is to strive for self-neutrality. Considering the unpredictability of these past few years throughout the COVID-19 pandemic, there’s been a drastic increase in the push for “self-love” and “self-compassion”. Whilst the intent behind movements supporting these causes is ultimately positive, it places unrealistic expectations on people to think, feel, and act positively all of the time. This does more harm than good, as for individuals who are struggling with their mental health, this often isn’t achievable by healthy means. It instead creates feelings of guilt, disappointment, and helplessness, making the mental health healing process far more difficult. Self-neutrality offers a different approach to overcoming mental health struggles. Instead of overemphasizing the vague nature of happiness, it allows for a more objective and forgiving perspective regarding emotion and thought. It dismantles the social rules that an individual has to label their experiences as inherently positive or negative, and allows them to simply… be. Existing is exhausting, and self-neutrality allows the accomplishment of making it through each day to be celebrated, which is imperative in difficult times. As someone who has spent a fair share of my time in therapy, I fully understand the immense privilege this is for me. Not everyone has equal access to mental health services, which is why advocating for self-neutrality is all the more important in today’s society. It allows people to take control of their own lives in a way that’s by their own design, and at their own pace.

When I was eleven years old, I experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. The control I previously had over my life before then was now completely stripped away from me, and it was one of the most difficult periods of my life. When I was cleared to go to school in-person after 75 days of inpatient care, as excited as I was, I was also terrified. At that point, I learned to practice my bravery through humor. For me, I was more than just the “new kid”; I was the “new kid in a wheelchair”. I would get incredibly anxious at the thought of how people would interact with me, fearing I would immediately be labeled an outcast. As I became accustomed to the school environment and the people surrounding me, though, I challenged my anxious thoughts by taking control of them; even if in an unconventional way. When people would ask me the dreaded question of, “Woah, what happened?” I would respond, “I lost a fight with an alligator, no big deal.” When people would complain about how cold it was outside at recess, I would say, “Well, I can’t feel my legs, so it must stink for you guys.” Whenever I caught my friends staring at my wheelchair, I would ask them, “You want to take a ride? These kinds of silly jokes I started making at eleven years old have been my go-to ever since then. Whenever I feel scared of the environment I’m in as a disabled person, I show my intrinsic bravery and take control of my uncertainty through making others laugh. It’s allowed me to put myself out there in ways I would’ve never been able to before, and to be proud as a disabled person.

The sound of sirens always seems to get to me. The wails of ambulances powering down streets was once a sound that I associated with the courage of healthcare professionals and the concept of saving lives. Whilst I still deeply admire the strength of medical professionals, the sound of sirens no longer reminds me of that strength. For me, the sound of sirens brings me back to August 28th, 2016. I sat, unable to move my arms or legs, in a plain hospital bed. I had just experienced a spinal cord stroke, and was left with the prognosis that I likely would never be able to walk again. At that point, hearing medical terms thrown around left and right meant nothing to eleven year old me. Without any physical control over my body, all I could do was think. With that, I am not here to tell you all about the hardships of learning how to walk again, or trying to play piano as a music lover who cannot move her hands. I want to tell you about the emotional and mental journey that being paralyzed puts you through. Nothing could prepare me for the day that I would grieve the loss of my own body. I miss the chance to spontaneously race my friends on the school fields, simply because I wanted to. I miss the look of fear on my mom’s face when she used to watch me climb high into a pine tree when we were camping. Most of all, though, I miss my freedom. At only eleven years old, I was quickly forced to the realization that I would never be able to do those kinds of things again, which was, and still is, at seventeen years old, incredibly difficult. The anxiety that overwhelmed my life as I tried to make do with the little function I had left took a massive toll on my mental health, and there was nobody to show me how to communicate that with others. The depression that took up most of my headspace as I gradually realized how much of my life I had lost to my stroke pushed me to a deeply sad place, leading me to become stuck in the mental loop of asking, “...why me?” Despite how heavy all of this was for me, it was through these struggles and difficult questions that I understood how lucky I am to be here, and how important it is to broaden the conversation regarding the relationship between mental health and physical disabilities. The anxiety and depression I have endured as a result of my stroke has allowed me to become more open about my experiences than ever before. I did not have anyone my age to relate to, so now I always strive to be the person that someone else can relate to. I have learned that the best thing to do when you are struggling is to simply talk about it, even if you do not know where to start. Regardless of your situation, as rare or as individual it may seem, you are truthfully never alone. As a result of me trying my best to be open and make connections with other teenagers who have been through similar situations that I have, I have finally started to understand this. I have also learned that taking the mental health issues of disabled teens just as seriously as you do their physical health issues is tremendously important, because these struggles are so deeply intertwined. Sure, I cannot change what happened to me, but, over time, I have learned that I can most definitely change how I process and view what happened to me. I hope to help other people understand their mental health in this same way, because it has allowed me to find the happiness and purpose in my life again. As I grow older, I plan to take my experiences and utilize them to remove the mystery and stigma behind mental health, especially for those with physical disabilities. Society emphasizes what they can see, whether it be a wheelchair, walker, or cane--yet forgets about mental health. This is such a dangerous pattern that I want to change, speak out against, and as a collective society, grow beyond. I am in a much better place than I was just a couple of years ago, and I believe that everyone deserves to reach their own better place, whatever that may look like for them. I can now say with full confidence that I am happy and proud as a disabled teenager, even if the journey to get here was a difficult one. The sound of sirens always seems to get to me. Though, I now know that it is because of these experiences I have had that I truly understand what a beautiful life I live. I’m here, I’m happy, and I’m alive. That is the most special gift I could have ever been granted, and furthering the discussion about mental health is the first step in ensuring that gift can be granted to everyone.

I was paralyzed due to a spinal cord stroke at eleven years old, meaning, I had to adjust to a new life being a physically disabled teenager. Whilst that physical change was tremendously difficult on its own, I was never prepared for how hard it would take me down mentally. I wasn’t taught how to healthily grieve the loss of my own body. I wasn’t prepared to answer invasive questions from my peers at school. Because of all this, I want to be an advocate to help establish better mental health support for people with physical disabilities. My first step in doing so will be by furthering my education with an academic focus on the social sciences. Through both sociology and psychology specifically, I will be able to have a deeper understanding of the social and systemic barriers in place that limit the accessibility of mental health care for physically disabled individuals. Using my own experiences, as well as what I learn throughout college, I will be better equipped to establish meaningful projects and plans to put my goals into action. Later down the line, when I find myself thinking about career opportunities, I want to be in a space where I have direct connections to individuals and families that are in need of the support I am preparing myself to be able to provide. I hope to be the medium through which these people will be able to navigate their emotional needs (alongside their medical, social, and financial needs) in a truthfully impactful way. Even if I am only one person, the work I have and will continue to put in is the start of making a better future for the disabled community.

If you'd told eleven year old me on August 28th, 2016, that it would be the day that changed my life, I wouldn’t have believed you. It was on that day I had experienced a spinal cord stroke, paralyzing me from the neck down. My home was no longer the beige house on the prettiest flower-filled block in my neighborhood; it was now the hospital. Being stuck inpatient in a children’s hospital for 75 days straight taught me so much about how my body works, but it also taught me about the complexities and confusions of human interaction. At eleven years old, I was only just figuring out my own identity and how to express myself. Instead of being surrounded by a crowd of other awkward pre-teens in a school setting to continue that process, though, I was now surrounded by intelligent medical professionals every second of every day. I have come to realize how much of a dramatic impact that has had on my mannerisms, communication abilities, and overall socialization--in ways that I’ve viewed differently now, six years later. “Oh, you’re so mature for your age!” “You’re such a well-spoken young lady.” “You’re such an old soul, Charlotte.” These are all things I heard on a day to day basis. I’ve finally come to understand that flattery is not the main point of focus here; it’s the fact that I was taking control over the little control I had left in my life through mimicking adult behavior. This perspective has allowed me to have a much more nuanced understanding of the impact that the hospital patient experience has on behavior, and how that relates to social interaction. Through my future academic endeavors, I plan to help other patients my age process and understand this themselves.

August 28th, 2016 was a turning point in my life. It was the day I experienced a spinal cord stroke, leaving me paralyzed from the neck down, and with a doctor telling me that I likely would never be able to walk again. I couldn’t fully comprehend the magnitude of what had happened to me at that point, as I was only eleven years old. Considering that, I had every desire to prove my doctors wrong. As my mom and dad stood still, visibly upset, contemplating why this major life change would be brought up to me in such a blunt manner, I told that doctor, “Actually, I’m going to walk out of this hospital.” As I became more familiar with the hospital setting, I eventually had to get accustomed to the hourly rotation of physical therapy sessions throughout the week. Every day, I spent at least five hours in the therapy gym, relearning how to take control over my body again--which includes relearning how to walk. After two long months of strenuous work, I had miraculously taken my very first step after my stroke. Words cannot describe that feeling. The silly, seemingly unfathomable comment I made months ago, could now become a reality. It was a tremendous surprise to my entire care team. November 11th, 2016 was also a turning point in my life. It was the day I could use my assistive devices, and WALK out of the hospital doors. Because of my persistence, I can finally see an independent future for myself. I have a much deeper understanding of where setting goals by your own conviction can take you, and how much it can change your life for the better if you simply believe in yourself, as I did. My persistence changed the trajectory of my life.