"Ugh, I can’t handle going to another Spanish class.” “Right?! I don’t understand it and I don’t care about the language anyway.” My friends turn to me, waiting for me to join in with their complaints. Unfortunately, I can’t muster more than a halfhearted “Oh, I’m sorry you guys feel that way”. I love Spanish. Not just the class. I love the language, and I thoroughly enjoy the process of learning it. My peers all hate the class and the teacher, so at first I tried to dampen my enthusiasm. I didn’t want to be alienated, but it was impossible to stifle my passion. It became so obvious that a Spanish teacher at my school recommended me as a tutor for her struggling students. As my journey progresses, my hobby of language learning gets more intense. I’ve downloaded an endless number of apps, of which Duolingo, HelloTalk, and Quizlet are my most frequently used. I read Spanish books and immerse myself in Spanish media. I’ve recently worked up the courage to talk with native speakers in Spanish, which is scary but fun! It’s an odd hobby that none of my friends share. Some of them don’t see it as a hobby, they think I’m just beating my mind to a pulp. But for me, it counts! What is a hobby except something you do frequently for fun, something that makes you light up? Hearing someone speak Spanish makes my heart thrum in my chest. Reading a Mexican recipe in the language it was meant to be read in fills me with hope and pride. My goal is to earn enough money to finance college and also an immersive trip to Spain or Latin America. Language-learning thrills me, so I’ve also started learning Korean and I aspire to be a polyglot.

I grew up in the small suburb of Colonial Hills, in Worthington Ohio. At the time, two of my younger brothers and I attended a small school not even two streets away from our house. It was a one-story brick building with a jungle gym and creaking pine trees behind it. Walk past the jungle gym, and you enter a forest, or more accurately: a wonderland of a forest. We were a tight-knit community in Colonial Hills, which is why my parents were okay with it when my brothers and I ran straight into the forest and played by the streams for hours after school every day. We were lucky enough to have that freedom and not have to worry about safety. Picture this: it's 3 o'clock, the bell rings. I stand up, stretch my aching fourth-grade legs, and take my sparkly pink backpack off its hook. I turn and give my teacher a hug, and I'm dismissed for the day. I step into the hallway, which isn't too flooded with students, and book it to my brothers' classroom to pick them up. They hurriedly grab my hands and we're off! We speedwalk (maybe breaking into a run at this point, but we'd never admit it) through the front door of the school only to rush around the back. I spot my best friend, Layla, convincing the boys that she's a princess. I'll have to talk to her about that later - but right now, there's no time. We have a fort to build. We spend what feels like minutes but must have been hours collecting fallen branches, leaves, and bark, and placing them around the base of a tree by a stream. One of my brothers smears mud on top to make it stronger while the other runs back home to pick up snacks and the rest of our supplies. Meanwhile, I am on espionage duty. I creep under vibrant foliage as stealthily as a cat, looking for our opponents. Ah! There they are! A group of four teenage boys who I have never seen before. Unfamiliarity is a rare experience in Colonial Hills... it makes me think that today's match will be an interesting one. They're building a fort, too, only they brought sleds for the walls. Interesting tactic. I can't see their weapons without exposing my location, so I sneak back to my team's hideout and tell my brothers what I found. They're both there, eating snacks and loading up nerf guns. When they finish their goldfish and apples, it's time to strike. A brutal and vicious nerf war ensues, bright orange foam bullets everywhere. But who will be the victor? Alas, we will never know. An earsplitting whistle pierces the air, and my brothers and I instantly stop and look at each other. The sun is going down. That noise was our dad whistling from the front porch, calling us home to dinner. So, we call a truce with the new boys in town, and all work together to pick up the nerf fallout. Memories like these played an essential role in forming who I am. Colonial Hills shaped me into an adventurous, confident spirit who loves to be a part of a team. Although we moved a while later, I will never forget where I came from. I was lucky to grow up in a small, safe town with beautiful green spaces. Eventually, I hope to pay it back by helping preserve forests, as well as cultivating community spaces in nature.

When I was a young child with squishy feet and button toes, I would waddle into the kitchen every morning. The linoleum floors were cold, but not cold enough to stop me. I would rummage through the drawers to find the peanut butter, and then place it on the counter. If it was a Good Day, my mom would open it for me. I remember thinking that her hands seemed huge: they could grasp the entire lid and spin it around and around without getting tired. I’d try to get the waffles out of the toaster with a knife, but my mom would sigh and say, “No, Sweet Lily, do you want the toaster to shock you?” and then carefully pull the waffles out herself. She’d then spread the peanut butter, sometimes letting me drizzle the syrup. When I was a young child, I did almost nothing to help prepare this breakfast, but I loved it because every bite was a reminder that my mom loved me. On Good Days, she would kiss me on my cheek and pour me some orange juice. On Good Days, she would remind me to put my napkin in my lap. But when I was a young child, Good Days weren’t all that common. Sometimes, I’d waddle into the kitchen and rummage through the drawers, and I’d hum as my button toes got cold. I’d sit there and wait, but my mom wouldn’t come. Instead, when the door opened, it was my dad; eyes rimmed with purple bags, wrinkled work clothes hastily thrown on. He would smile and scoop me up in his arms, saying “Morning kiddo! We’re not doing waffles today. How’d you sleep?” and then I’d perform a twenty-minute rendition of my dreams while we walked to the neighborhood taco truck, Tío's Tacos. Tío's Tacos were the best in the world, and Dad would always save two, “For your mommy,” he’d say, “when she’s ready to get up”. Maybe it’s because now I know that my mom was severely depressed, or maybe it’s because I know what comes next, but these early memories I have are sun-bleached and crinkled when they play out in my mind. In the end, my mom cheated on my dad, and they got divorced. My dad, brother, and I moved to Ohio, but my mom stayed in Texas for a year before following us. After that, I saw her on weekends. Every Saturday, we'd wake up to the smell of peanut butter waffles. She had finally made the brave choice to get treatment, and though it didn’t cure her, it helped her manage the symptoms. Although difficult, my childhood gave me perspective. I learned that everybody struggles, and that doesn’t make anyone less deserving of love and respect. It taught me to have an open mind and empathetic heart. At my old school, I was called the “unofficial school counselor” because of this attitude. I wore the name with pride because it meant people trusted me with their problems. Many aren’t as lucky as I am. Somewhere, there is a little kid who needs help, a struggling family seeking answers, a good person whose own brain makes them suffer. I intend to pursue my passion for psychology to help those children, families, and people in pain. I will find answers that are more than a diagnosis: we need to identify and solve the core issues in mental health as a society and species. I will look at psychology and neuroscience from a global perspective to discover how to make a worldwide impact. Good Days can be common.