“Why is this happening to me?” This question, and a myriad of others, invade my brain while I sit in an unfamiliar, dimly-lit doctor’s office. Little did I know, it would be years before I got the answer to my question, and that that office would become too damn familiar. My brain, a fortified bunker; my thoughts are soldiers storming a beach. My own personal D-Day is interrupted only by a nurse yelling, “Woods.” I snap out of it and follow, as a soldier is trained to do. That was the day I began to receive treatment for what would soon be diagnosed as manic-depressive disorder and obsessive-compulsive disorder. You see, I had spent the previous two weeks obsessively worrying that my death was uncomfortably near. I stopped eating, for fear I’d choke. I didn’t leave the house, for fear of an accident. Hell, I didn’t leave the couch, because I knew I was safe there. I weighed 115 pounds and hadn’t showered in over a week the day that I sought treatment. Despite my skeletal appearance, the doctor and nurse treated me with a kindness and respect that my brain had tricked me into thinking no longer existed. I felt at ease for the first time in a long time. The hard part was over. Fast forward five different antidepressants, three different mood stabilizers, two different anti-anxiety medications, and several jobs later, and you will find me here in 2024. It’s been 14 years since my last attempt at school, a miserable attempt by a misguided, confused youth. The silver lining of my mental illness’s sentence of “house arrest,” is that I had plenty of time to reflect on past choices and opportunities that I may have squandered because I didn’t understand myself; education being at the top of that list. I knew I wanted to go back to school, but I just didn't have a passion to pursue, yet. This June, my wife and I welcomed the greatest thing that ever happened to me; my McKennah Leigh Woods, my motivation. My time spent with the various doctors and nurses throughout my wife’s pregnancy, delivery, and postpartum period, awoke that passion I was previously lacking. The empathy, patience, and respect shown by the staff as my wife, fully dilated, pushed for two long hours would become the inspiration I needed. I knew it was time to go back to school, and this time I had, both, motivation and a plan. Today, I finished my last final exam of my first semester back to school, and I’m proud to say that I made straight A’s. In several more years, I hope to be helping other young men and women that may be struggling with their mental health. I feel like I will be able to provide a unique approach, having been exactly where they are before, sitting in an unfamiliar place asking, “Why is this happening to me?”

“Why is this happening to me?” This question, and a myriad of others, invade my brain while I sit in an unfamiliar, dimly-lit doctor’s office. Little did I know, it would be years before I got the answer to my question, and that that office would become too damn familiar. My brain, a fortified bunker; my thoughts are soldiers storming a beach. My own personal D-Day is interrupted only by a nurse yelling, “Woods.” I snap out of it and follow, as a soldier is trained to do. That was the day I began to receive treatment for what would soon be diagnosed as manic-depressive disorder and obsessive-compulsive disorder. You see, I had spent the previous two weeks obsessively worrying that my death was uncomfortably near. I stopped eating, for fear I’d choke. I didn’t leave the house, for fear of an accident. Hell, I didn’t leave the couch, because I knew I was safe there. I weighed 115 pounds and hadn’t showered in over a week the day that I sought treatment. Despite my skeletal appearance, the doctor and nurse treated me with a kindness and respect that my brain had tricked me into thinking no longer existed. I felt at ease for the first time in a long time. The hard part was over. Fast forward five different antidepressants, three different mood stabilizers, two different anti-anxiety medications, and several jobs later, and you will find me here in 2024. It’s been 14 years since my last attempt at school, a miserable attempt by a misguided, confused youth. The silver lining of my mental illness’s sentence of “house arrest,” is that I had plenty of time to reflect on past choices and opportunities that I may have squandered because I didn’t understand myself; education being at the top of that list. I knew I wanted to go back to school, but I just didn't have a passion to pursue, yet. This June, my wife and I welcomed the greatest thing that ever happened to me; my McKennah Leigh Woods, my motivation. My time spent with the various doctors and nurses throughout my wife’s pregnancy, delivery, and postpartum period, awoke that passion I was previously lacking. The empathy, patience, and respect shown by the staff as my wife, fully dilated, pushed for two long hours would become the inspiration I needed. I knew it was time to go back to school, and this time I had, both, motivation and a plan. Today, I finished my last final exam of my first semester back to school, and I’m proud to say that I made straight A’s. In several more years, I hope to be helping other young men and women that may be struggling with their mental health. I feel like I will be able to provide a unique approach, having been exactly where they are before, sitting in an unfamiliar place asking, “Why is this happening to me?”

“Why is this happening to me?” This question, and a myriad of others, invade my brain while I sit in an unfamiliar, dimly-lit doctor’s office. Little did I know, it would be years before I got the answer to my question, and that that office would become too damn familiar. My brain, a fortified bunker; my thoughts are soldiers storming a beach. My own personal D-Day is interrupted only by a nurse yelling, “Woods.” I snap out of it and follow, as a soldier is trained to do. That was the day I began to receive treatment for what would soon be diagnosed as manic-depressive disorder and obsessive-compulsive disorder. You see, I had spent the previous two weeks obsessively worrying that my death was uncomfortably near. I stopped eating, for fear I’d choke. I didn’t leave the house, for fear of an accident. Hell, I didn’t leave the couch, because I knew I was safe there. I weighed 115 pounds and hadn’t showered in over a week the day that I sought treatment. Despite my skeletal appearance, the doctor and nurse treated me with a kindness and respect that my brain had tricked me into thinking no longer existed. I felt at ease for the first time in a long time. The hard part was over. Fast forward five different antidepressants, three different mood stabilizers, two different anti-anxiety medications, and several jobs later, and you will find me here in 2024. It’s been 14 years since my last attempt at school, a miserable attempt by a misguided, confused youth. The silver lining of my mental illness’s sentence of “house arrest,” is that I had plenty of time to reflect on past choices and opportunities that I may have squandered because I didn’t understand myself; education being at the top of that list. I knew I wanted to go back to school, but I just didn't have a passion to pursue, yet. This June, my wife and I welcomed the greatest thing that ever happened to me; my McKennah Leigh Woods, my motivation. My time spent with the various doctors and nurses throughout my wife’s pregnancy, delivery, and postpartum period, awoke that passion I was previously lacking. The empathy, patience, and respect shown by the staff as my wife, fully dilated, pushed for two long hours would become the inspiration I needed. I knew it was time to go back to school, and this time I had, both, motivation and a plan. Today, I finished my last final exam of my first semester back to school, and I’m proud to say that I made straight A’s. In several more years, I hope to be helping other young men and women that may be struggling with their mental health. I feel like I will be able to provide a unique approach, having been exactly where they are before, sitting in an unfamiliar place asking, “Why is this happening to me?”

“Why is this happening to me?” This question, and a myriad of others, invade my brain while I sit in an unfamiliar, dimly-lit doctor’s office. Little did I know, it would be years before I got the answer to my question, and that that office would become too damn familiar. My brain, a fortified bunker; my thoughts are soldiers storming a beach. My own personal D-Day is interrupted only by a nurse yelling, “Woods.” I snap out of it and follow, as a soldier is trained to do. That was the day I began to receive treatment for what would soon be diagnosed as manic-depressive disorder and obsessive-compulsive disorder. You see, I had spent the previous two weeks obsessively worrying that my death was uncomfortably near. I stopped eating, for fear I’d choke. I didn’t leave the house, for fear of an accident. Hell, I didn’t leave the couch, because I knew I was safe there. I weighed 115 pounds and hadn’t showered in over a week the day that I sought treatment. Despite my skeletal appearance, the doctor and nurse treated me with a kindness and respect that my brain had tricked me into thinking no longer existed. I felt at ease for the first time in a long time. The hard part was over. Fast forward five different antidepressants, three different mood stabilizers, two different anti-anxiety medications, and several jobs later, and you will find me here in 2024. It’s been 14 years since my last attempt at school, a miserable attempt by a misguided, confused youth. The silver lining of my mental illness’s sentence of “house arrest,” is that I had plenty of time to reflect on past choices and opportunities that I may have squandered because I didn’t understand myself; education being at the top of that list. I knew I wanted to go back to school, but I just didn't have a passion to pursue, yet. This June, my wife and I welcomed the greatest thing that ever happened to me; my McKennah Leigh Woods, my motivation. My time spent with the various doctors and nurses throughout my wife’s pregnancy, delivery, and postpartum period, awoke that passion I was previously lacking. The empathy, patience, and respect shown by the staff as my wife, fully dilated, pushed for two long hours would become the inspiration I needed. I knew it was time to go back to school, and this time I had, both, motivation and a plan. Today, I finished my last final exam of my first semester back to school, and I’m proud to say that I made straight A’s. In several more years, I hope to be helping other young men and women that may be struggling with their mental health. I feel like I will be able to provide a unique approach, having been exactly where they are before, sitting in an unfamiliar place asking, “Why is this happening to me?”