What do you do when the person who gave you life is also the one who made you feel like you didn't deserve to be here? That exact question haunted me for a very long time.

I’ve lived with depression and anxiety for years. The rough kind. The kind that affects you even on your best days. I smiled through school, through volleyball, through everything - but I was quietly drowning inside. No one saw it; I barely saw it myself.

October 3rd, 2024. The day that at sixteen years old, I took sixteen extra-strength Tylenol pills. But I didn't do it because I wanted to die—I did it because I didn't know how to keep living anymore.

From that point on, sixteen became my least favorite number. The age my mental health took control of me in the most frightening way.

Part of what led me there was my relationship with my biological father. There was no true dramatic moment where he left. It was quiet—no big scene, no slammed door. One day he was there, and the next, he wasn't. No goodbye. No warning. Just a growing silence that filled up with an even heavier feeling of depression.

He knew me: my laugh, my smile, my love for my sister, how I liked my eggs cooked. He knew how deeply I cared for others. Nevertheless, he drifted away. His absence wasn't just physical—it left emotional gaps that I still struggle to explain. I found myself questioning my worth, wondering what I had done wrong or if there were ways I could fix what had been broken. It made me feel replaceable- completely forgotten like a chapter in his book he chose to skip. For a long time, I carried the weight of his choices as if it were my own burden. But eventually, I came to realize: I couldn't keep carrying someone else's mistakes like it was my duty to fix them.

When I arrived at the ER, the doctors told me I was one pill away from liver failure. Everything that felt fast and urgent stopped in an instant. I was in slow motion. Thinking. One pill. Five hundred milligrams. One choice to take another out of the small plastic bottle. That was the moment that stopped me in my tracks. I had just come so close to something that I couldn’t undo. It wasn’t just scary - it was gutting. I didn’t want my story to end like that. Not in a hospital bed, not because of pain I never spoke aloud. I realized then that I needed to live. Not just for myself, but for something bigger.

The next few days were some of the hardest. I was hooked up to IVs, monitored around the clock, and transported hours away to a mental health facility. I remember the ambulance ride—long and silent, with only the sound of my heartbeat on the monitor and hum of the tires on the road. The walls of the psych ward were beige, halls quiet except for the beep of the blood pressure machines and whispering nurses. I wasn't allowed normal clothes. Things like shoelaces, necklaces, and even detachable waistbands were prohibited. I wasn’t allowed privacy. I felt like I had lost all control. But slowly, through all the group therapy sessions, journaling, and brutally honest conversations with psychiatrists, I began to understand that healing wasn’t about fixing everything in an instant. It was about simply choosing to keep going. The nurses, doctors, and counselors saw me as a person, not just a patient. For the first time in a long time, I felt like someone was really listening. And that's when I started to believe that my healing was possible.

Earlier this year, I stood in front of a panel of judges at the HOSA International Leadership Conference and shared my story. Before that, I had done the same at the Missouri HOSA State Leadership Conference where my partner and I placed second in the Public Health category. Being recognized at both levels wasn’t just about awards. It was about finally using my voice for something that deeply mattered to me.

Since the start of my HOSA journey, I’ve made it my mission to speak openly about mental health. I’ve shared my story with friends, family, and my community. Not to be offered sympathy—but in hopes of reaching even one person. One person is more than enough for me. To feel seen. To feel like they are not alone in their journey, whether their struggles are silent or loud. To inspire someone to seek help before reaching a breaking point like I did.

In fact, a few weeks after sharing my story at school, someone I barely knew came up to me after class and said, “I didn’t know anyone else felt that way. I’ve actually gone through something really similar.” That moment stayed with me. It reminded me that being open and honest about my pain could truly create space for someone else’s healing.

This story isn't just about struggle. It's actually about resilience. It's about turning pain into something beautiful—something that might help someone find a reason to stay.

Sixteen doesn't scare me anymore. It's not just the age that I almost gave up. It's the age I chose to stay. The age I realized I don't have to keep waiting to be chosen- I can choose myself.

Now, sixteen is my favorite number. It's the age I chose to turn my broken pieces into a book I’m proud to write. I don’t know where my story will take me next, but I do know that every chapter from here on out I will intentionally write. I will have a purpose. I want to study and go into the healthcare field and continue to be the person who turns pain into purpose. I want to be someone’s reason to stay, like others were for me.