Growing up, I was a simple, shy child, yet somehow always full of life. With two older sisters, our home was never quiet — laughter, arguments, and endless memories filled every corner. As a family, we loved being outdoors together. Camping trips, hiking trails, four‑wheeling adventures — anything that brought us closer became part of our story. In school, I was quiet, curious, and naturally drawn to learning. For a long time, childhood felt easy and safe… until everything changed.
In 2011, when I was in fourth grade, life took a devastating turn. On November 6, my parents received a phone call that shattered our world. My older cousin Andrel had been in a terrible car crash caused by a drunk driver. He was rushed to the ICU, left half brain‑dead, in a coma, and placed on life support. For 12 agonizing days, he fought. On November 18, he passed away. The very next day, November 19, my grandmother followed him to heaven. Losing them back‑to‑back was unimaginable.
During those days, numbness became my only feeling. I was too young to understand grief, yet I felt it everywhere. At Andrel’s funeral, I experienced a pain so sharp it felt as if my heart cracked inside my chest. I missed over two weeks of school, and when I finally returned, my classmates surrounded me with questions while my teacher announced my family losses in front of everyone. I felt exposed, embarrassed, and deeply uncomfortable with the attention.
Not long after, I decided to honor Andrel in a way that felt meaningful — through basketball. He was incredibly talented and had dreams of playing college ball that he never got to fulfill. My uncle and dad taught me everything they could, and slowly the game became my passion. My cousin and grandmother turned into my motivation, guiding me even when sadness lingered.
But sports also brought pressure. Middle school became a difficult season. I faced typical drama, cruel messages telling me to end my life, and painful experiences of sexual harassment and assault. I stayed silent, carrying the weight alone, and slowly began blaming myself for things that were never my fault. The emotional toll followed me everywhere.
High school didn’t feel any easier. I felt out of place, exhausted, and overwhelmed. I joined the basketball team and eventually became a top shooting guard and team captain. My coach became like a grandfather figure, always knowing when I needed encouragement. When he was diagnosed with stage 4 liver cancer and sent to Arizona for hospice, I never got to say goodbye in person. On our last call, I promised I’d dedicate the rest of my basketball years to him — and I meant it.
Behind the scenes, I was collapsing. I began self‑harming, cutting my wrists, thighs, hands, and shoulders. I hid it well, but eventually my family found out. They didn’t understand mental health and struggled to process why I was hurting myself. Things worsened during junior and senior year. My grades slipped, my emotions felt uncontrollable, and by 2019–2020 I had reached rock bottom. Self‑harm became a routine. I battled suicidal thoughts, anxiety, and constant heaviness in my chest. I cried in parking lots, skipped classes, and isolated from my sisters for months. A toxic relationship only deepened the pain.
Then came the Unspecified Episodes — long breakdowns where I cried, shook uncontrollably, and lost feeling in my legs and fingers for hours. Finally, I told my parents I needed help. After seeing a doctor, I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. Hearing my mom describe how she watched my light fade broke my heart. She wanted to promise everything would be okay, but she wasn’t sure herself.
Slowly, we began learning together. My parents researched mental health, my bond with my sisters grew, I left the toxic relationship, distanced myself from draining friendships, and built a small support system. My friends noticed the change too — the sadness, the exhaustion, and how different I seemed from the happy girl they once knew. I realized I needed to rediscover joy for myself.
When someone mocked my struggles publicly, I created a mental health page to share my truth instead of hiding from it. The support was overwhelming. I also spent three years volunteering at an Equine Therapy facility, helping children with special needs — something that brought unexpected healing and purpose.
Recovery has been anything but linear. I learned to journal, stay busy with meaningful work, unplug when needed, and reflect honestly. Over time, my mom noticed my smile returning. She saw me using my pain to help others, and that made her proud.
At just 19, I’ve faced sexual harassment, assault, suicidal thoughts, and more than four suicide attempts — but today, I stand as a survivor. My story no longer brings me shame. It shaped me into someone stronger, compassionate, and determined. Through my page, I offer encouragement, resources, and a listening ear — all free, because no one should feel alone.
Above everything, I remind people: You Matter Too. Your struggles do not define you — and there is always hope, even on the darkest days.
