“And you suddenly realize that for [eleven] years all you’d been doing was fiddling with the wrong combination” -André Aciman At the ripe age of eleven, I found the combination that unlocked everything: horses. Horses became a fascination, a captivation, of mine; they allowed me to understand and connect with the world through a lens uncommon to most. Horses have innate social intelligence, allowing them to sense others' emotions from the minute they are born. Their ears can hear heartbeats up to four feet away, and they have an almost 360-degree view of the world around them. Horses sense, hear, and see everything. I envied their ability to know how people felt or what they were to do next. Unlike horses, my life had revolved around people telling me what they were thinking or feeling in the most literal way possible–and yet, I was still alone, isolated from the social sphere. As I first saddled up on CJ, my feet slid into the stirrups, his muscles tensed, and I felt his breathing quicken. This vexed me. Disheartened after my initial lesson, the cold air dried the sweat on my scowl as I walked into my equine classroom. Why was he so finicky? He didn’t listen to anything I said and wouldn’t sit still! I scanned the room and saw that flashcards littered the table, each with different depictions of horse actions. My fingers glided over their glossy exterior. Ears straight back–mad. Eyes wide–scared. Crest drooped–relaxed. Front legs splayed–ready to bolt. And, of course, muscle tension, darting eyes, and clamped muzzle–anxiety. Click. Since I was still a green rider, CJ needed some time to warm up to me and trust me, and I to him. Before our next lesson, as I was tacking him up, I stroked and talked to him softly: “I don’t quite understand you yet, but I’m trying to learn more every day.” During the lesson, he listened to my every command. The ability to connect with people came soon after. Wide darting eyes, drooping head, balled fists, and tense shoulders were all things I could now pick up on and prepare for. My newfound power took root in my mind. While people’s words and actions had previously perplexed me, I was now fascinated by what I could learn. Picking apart behavior transfixed me, and I grew enamored with the idea of understanding people. CJ was the combination I fiddled with until my mind unlocked; he was my spark, a catalyst into an obsession, a hunger for more information. Understanding him opened the golden doors into this world, where I could finally start to discern the discrepancies between people’s behaviors and words. From then on, every person I met or horse I rode was like solving a puzzle, and the reward was nothing short of mesmerizing. I want the rest of my life to be a kaleidoscope of puzzles to crack. Most importantly, I want to help prevent crime by studying the psychology of the most prolific criminals. By conducting research and interviews, I aim to understand how a person's childhood affects their violent tendencies in adulthood and, with this information, set in motion legislation that helps abolish child abuse by reforming child protective and foster care services. My combination is my newfound ability to read behavior, understand those without a voice, and never give up when faced with a challenge, no matter how daunting it may be. I know charting a course for higher education in a major that hasn’t come easy to me is not typical, but what about my journey so far has been typical?

A hot knife seared through my hip and into my spine. At least, that’s what it felt like as I was sitting down on the couch one night. Tears trickled down my cheeks, and my legs shook. The pain was like nothing I had ever experienced. While sitting, the pain wove itself through my leg and into my knee as I gritted out a harsh moan. My pelvis had always been sore, but it had never gotten this intense. Just one more step. Come on. Lift your leg. The pain hadn’t gotten better, and I was nearing my breaking point two weeks later. “ Mom, I need to go to a doctor.” This was one of the first times I had ever reached out for help regarding my pain. I had always felt like I had to handle it alone, and if someone else assisted me, I let everyone down. One of my mother’s prodigies, Dr. Wolf, examined my spine as I sat on the hospital bed. Poking and prodding my body, she asked, “Does the pain limit your daily activities?” I hesitated. What will happen if I say yes? What if my coach finds out and kicks me off the team for being weak? “Yes. Every day.” My sacroiliac joint had shifted up because the collagen in my joints was extremely weak causing them to slip out of place frequently. This, coupled with my velvety thin skin, gum disease, wide-healing wounds, and premonition for ganglion cysts, meant I had Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. Later that year, I was also diagnosed with postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, which meant my joints would dislocate daily, but also, I was constantly out of breath and experiencing pre-syncope. As my new daily routine formed around taking blood pressure medication, drinking up to 6 liters of water, and taping my joints to hold them together, I felt a sense of shame as I grieved who my body used to belong to. I spent days in bed, scared to show my face in school or at practice for fear that everyone was going to judge me for being weak. Weak. That word slowly became who I was. Weak collagen. Weak heart muscles. And even worse, a weak mindset. I hated myself and who I had become. One day, I decided I had to make at least one part of me strong. So, standing in front of the mirror, I flexed my muscles, took some deep breaths, and repeated the following maxim over and over. “I am disabled, and I love myself for it.” I started seriously powerlifting to help with the blood pooling problem and doing low-impact cardio like swimming to strengthen my heart muscles without dislocating my joints. My mindset changed, and my body slowly followed. Now. I play varsity volleyball, power lift, and rock climb with limited pain because I decided that having a healthy body was worth fighting for. I love weak collagen. I love my weak heart muscles. I love my disabilities because, without them, I wouldn’t be this strong.

A hot knife seared through my hip and into my spine. At least, that’s what it felt like as I was sitting down on the couch one night. Tears trickled down my cheeks, and my legs shook. The pain was like nothing I had ever experienced. While sitting, the pain wove itself through my leg and into my knee as I gritted out a harsh moan. My pelvis had always been sore, but it had never gotten this intense. Just one more step. Come on. Lift your leg. The pain hadn’t gotten better, and I was nearing my breaking point two weeks later. “ Mom, I need to go to a doctor.” This was one of the first times I had ever reached out for help regarding my pain. I had always felt like I had to handle it alone, and if someone else assisted me, I let everyone down. One of my mother’s prodigies, Dr. Wolf, examined my spine as I sat on the hospital bed. Poking and prodding my body, she asked, “Does the pain limit your daily activities?” I hesitated. What will happen if I say yes? What if my coach finds out and kicks me off the team for being weak? “Yes. Every day.” My sacroiliac joint had shifted up because the collagen in my joints was extremely weak causing them to slip out of place frequently. This, coupled with my velvety thin skin, gum disease, wide-healing wounds, and premonition for ganglion cysts, meant I had Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. Later that year, I was also diagnosed with postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, which meant my joints would dislocate daily, but also, I was constantly out of breath and experiencing pre-syncope. As my new daily routine formed around taking blood pressure medication, drinking up to 6 liters of water, and taping my joints to hold them together, I felt a sense of shame as I grieved who my body used to belong to. I spent days in bed, scared to show my face in school or at practice for fear that everyone was going to judge me for being weak. Weak. That word slowly became who I was. Weak collagen. Weak heart muscles. And even worse, a weak mindset. I hated myself and who I had become. One day, I decided I had to make at least one part of me strong. So, standing in front of the mirror, I flexed my muscles, took some deep breaths, and repeated the following maxim over and over. “I am disabled, and I love myself for it.” I started seriously powerlifting to help with the blood pooling problem and doing low-impact cardio like swimming to strengthen my heart muscles without dislocating my joints. My mindset changed, and my body slowly followed. Now. I play varsity volleyball, power lift, and rock climb with limited pain because I decided that having a healthy body was worth fighting for. I love weak collagen. I love my weak heart muscles. I love my disabilities because, without them, I wouldn’t be this strong.

A hot knife seared through my hip and into my spine. At least, that’s what it felt like as I was sitting down on the couch one night. Tears trickled down my cheeks, and my legs shook. The pain was like nothing I had ever experienced. While sitting, the pain wove itself through my leg and into my knee as I gritted out a harsh moan. My pelvis had always been sore, but it had never gotten this intense. Just one more step. Come on. Lift your leg. The pain hadn’t gotten better, and I was nearing my breaking point two weeks later. “ Mom, I need to go to a doctor.” This was one of the first times I had ever reached out for help regarding my pain. I had always felt like I had to handle it alone, and if someone else assisted me, I let everyone down. One of my mother’s prodigies, Dr. Wolf, examined my spine as I sat on the hospital bed. Poking and prodding my body, she asked, “Does the pain limit your daily activities?” I hesitated. What will happen if I say yes? What if my coach finds out and kicks me off the team for being weak? “Yes. Every day.” My sacroiliac joint had shifted up because the collagen in my joints was extremely weak causing them to slip out of place frequently. This, coupled with my velvety thin skin, gum disease, wide-healing wounds, and premonition for ganglion cysts, meant I had Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. Later that year, I was also diagnosed with postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, which meant my joints would dislocate daily, but also, I was constantly out of breath and experiencing pre-syncope. As my new daily routine formed around taking blood pressure medication, drinking up to 6 liters of water, and taping my joints to hold them together, I felt a sense of shame as I grieved who my body used to belong to. I spent days in bed, scared to show my face in school or at practice for fear that everyone was going to judge me for being weak. Weak. That word slowly became who I was. Weak collagen. Weak heart muscles. And even worse, a weak mindset. I hated myself and who I had become. One day, I decided I had to make at least one part of me strong. So, standing in front of the mirror, I flexed my muscles, took some deep breaths, and repeated the following maxim over and over. “I am disabled, and I love myself for it.” I started seriously powerlifting to help with the blood pooling problem and doing low-impact cardio like swimming to strengthen my heart muscles without dislocating my joints. My mindset changed, and my body slowly followed. Now. I play varsity volleyball, power lift, and rock climb with limited pain because I decided that having a healthy body was worth fighting for. I love weak collagen. I love my weak heart muscles. I love my disabilities because, without them, I wouldn’t be this strong.