*Fiction by Danielle Watkins*

The season was wintertime. The night, silent as the snow that fell into shimmering piles on the ground, seemed calm. Standing by the door, Jenna, wearing her mother’s winter coat and gloves, wasn’t planning on going far. Just to the giant tree that felt like Christmas. To sit in the biting cold, the unmerciful wind licking at her dry skin, seemed like a relief.

Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to open the sliding-glass door. Her shaking hand hovered above the doorknob for a long time and hot tears blurred her vision. But then she saw something scampering in the fresh snow, defiling its purity with tiny footprints. Finally looking up at her reflection in the door, Jenna saw the girl once again. The girl stared back with frightened, unblinking eyes, slowly turned around, and trekked into the peaceful snowfall. Her ghostly shadow left loud footprints that eventually faded away into nothing.

Jenna didn’t want to be nothing.

******

The monster came slowly. It crept into the sinews of Jenna’s mind, telling her what seemed like truths, “That doorknob isn’t safe. You shouldn’t touch it.” It was easy to ignore the voice at first, but eventually, the voice materialized into a creature that controlled her every action.

It came when Jenna was in fourth grade. She and her best friend, Samantha, were romping around in the snow during recess. A bunch of boys were playing King of the Hill; one of them ripped off his coat and proclaimed he didn’t need it in the winter, only in the summer, because he was a man now. Everyone just laughed, but not in a mean way. It was funny, especially when the teacher came over and tried to climb the hill after the ‘man’ refused to put his coat back on.
Samantha grew bored and asked, “Want to make a snowman?”

“Oh, sure,” Jenna replied, “but after I show you how many husbands I have!” She whipped out her glove, which was a sickly purple with several painted rings sewn around the fingers.

“Is he one of them?” Samantha giggled and pointed to the boy on the hill.

But Jenna wasn’t listening. Where was her other glove? She was sure she had it. Frantically, her eyes scanned the snowy field; it was too bright and the light hurt her eyes. She shielded her eyes with her naked hand—it only reminded her of what was missing.

“What’s wrong?” Samantha asked concerned.

Jenna couldn’t breathe. She instinctively felt for her scarf wrapped around her neck. Was it too tight? Why couldn’t she breathe?

Gasping, she looked up. When had she fallen? She lifted her hands toward the sky; they became two different shadows. One dark and concealed, with fingers spread wide. The other bright and vulnerable, limp against the powerful star we call the sun.

******

“I want those!”

Grandma was taking Jenna shopping for her sixth birthday at a candy store attached to an antique store. They sold vintage candies, like Razzles and Lipstick Taffy, as well as newer brands, like Reese’s and Skittles. The antique store varied from intricate wooden boxes to Red Sox memorabilia. Jenna had pointed to the neatly stacked Milky Ways; she liked them because they were simple. Just chocolate and caramel. Nothing fancy, just sweet, gooey goodness.

“Okay, honey, but you know you can pick something else out too, right?”

Smiling, Jenna picked up a Milky Way and lead Grandma into the small corridor that connected to the antique store. There were several wooden figurines denoting different seasons and occasions, such as “Christmas,” “Caroling,” “Birthday,” and “springtime.” Jenna especially liked the mother/daughter figurine. The mother clasped hands with the daughter; their patterned wooden skirts flowed in the imaginary wind. Then, a pair of gloves caught Jenna’s eyes. They were a royal purple and they were bejeweled with small faux rubies. The jewels were supposed to represent rings, one on almost every finger. Jenna instantly thought of the Disney movies she watched so often. What Disney princess could claim four princes? Perhaps Snow White, but maybe the dwarves don’t really count.

“I want these gloves, Grandma! Is that okay?”

Grandma smiled and said, “Of course.”

Jenna smiled too.

On the way home, as Jenna happily chewed on her Milky Way, she didn’t hear the missed call from the doctor on Grandma’s flip-phone and she didn’t notice the sadness in Grandma’s eyes.

******

The cluttered dollhouse bothered Jenna, so she began to organize the house by room. Her hand hovered over the bedroom, hesitated, and then moved toward the kitchen. The kitchen was easier to clean. Sure, it could get extremely messy—eggshells broken on the floor, dirty dishes in the sink, empty cereal boxes on the counter—but it could always be fixed. The bedroom, and those who inhabit it, can usually leave. Unless you’re sick and stuck in bed. Unless you fall asleep forever. Unless you’re Grandma.

“Does that bother you?”

Jenna turned around and looked at Dr. Hays. She wondered if he grew up on a farm and if he had cows that mooed at bales of hay.

“I just like to organize the rooms,” she responded, “because my dollhouse at home is neat. Except for the Play-Doh stuck in the mailbox, but that’s because my brother, Cam, made me do it.”

“I see. Well, we’re going to have your mom come in now so we can all talk together.”

“Okay!” Jenna exclaimed as she turned back to the slowly improving dollhouse.

After Dr. Hays talked to Jenna’s mom, he said goodbye and they went on their way. As they were leaving, Jenna saw a boy from her class. His name was Jerry and he always misbehaved during class. One time, he ran out of the classroom all the way to the front entrance of the school. Running past the principal’s office, he broke free and everyone from the classroom could see him sprinting outside. The principal ended up chasing him, heels and all. All of the students became distracted and watched in envious fascination of Jerry’s escape. No one wanted to be like Jerry, they just wanted to be free.

“Hi Jenna!”

Blushing, Jenna waved hesitantly. Why was she in the same doctor’s office as Jerry?

Meanwhile, Dr. Hays’ next patient destroyed the order Jenna worked so hard to instate into the dollhouse, instead leaving it in shambles.

******

When Jenna first stepped into the middle school, she didn’t remember it. She was sure she didn’t want to remember it because she knew she had, in fact, been in the school before.

It was a private tour offered to her and Mom by the principal. Jenna hadn’t gone to the sixth grade orientation because she wasn’t sure if Samantha was going. And if Samantha wasn’t going, well, then there was no point. Although the middle school combined all four elementary schools and there were going to be different kids there, Jenna didn’t want a repeat of fifth grade. There were so many days she would come home crying to Mom, who would try her best to comfort Jenna but didn’t understand; it became easier to count the good days because there were so many bad days—normal days—and out of the ordinary good days were easier to recall sometimes.

The first day of school. Jenna got off the bus and looked up at the stout brick prison they called middle school. Suddenly, she longed to get back on the bus and sit alone in order to look out at the world passing by through the window. Anything could happen there. If it was raining, she could draw smiley faces on the glass. If it was snowing, she could countdown the days until Christmas and imagine making a snowman outside. If it was sunny, the possibilities were endless. Jenna could picture herself frolicking around outside, waving goodbye to the monster as it stayed behind on the bus.

Turning around, Jenna hoped to see the monster. But it wasn’t on the bus. She could suddenly feel a weight in her backpack. At her locker, Jenna neatly put her new Lisa Frank folders on the top shelf, keeping some for the first three classes with her. She noticed that the girl next to her threw all of her books and folders onto the floor of the locker. Jenna desperately wanted to fix what the girl had so carelessly done, but resisted. Focusing on her own locker, Jenna hung her backpack on one of the hooks, making sure the back of the bag faced the right side of the locker. The weight remained, though. Somehow, she had hoped it was just the backpack—that she was just feeling the heaviness of her folders and binders like anyone else would. Like a normal kid.

To get to her first class, Jenna had to go through the stairwell. She saw students pushing doors open, some holding the door for their friends, others rushing through and bounding up the stairs like wild horses. It was a tunnel that lead upstairs where Jenna would be further away from the main entrance.
“I can always come down. I have classes downstairs too.” Jenna reminded herself, “Even if I am just going to the bathroom, I can always come down.
Taking a deep breath, Jenna approached the ominous tunnel, thinking only of her descent later that afternoon. But when she got to the top, to the door, two girls had just entered and were coming downstairs.

“Oh no.” Jenna thought. The girls were gleefully gossiping and did not—no, could not—know Jenna’s predicament. As she slowly approached the doors, wondering how long she would be standing there waiting for someone to open them, someone came through and held the door for her; Jenna thanked her and headed upstairs.

The weight she had felt earlier bothered her most of the morning. When her section went to library class, Jenna froze before she could enter the library. There in the library were the dull pastel chairs they had in her elementary school’s library.

“Don’t sit there. Those chairs have germs.” The monster hissed at her.

“There’s no other option. There’s no other option!” Jenna grew wild. The only way to calm her down was a trip downstairs to the guidance office. The counselor soothed Jenna and said it was no big deal to use a different chair. The librarian helped drag out an old-looking rickety chair for Jenna to use when she finally returned to library class.

“Why does she get a different chair?” One of the students asked, a bit envious that he wasn’t special enough to receive similar treatment.

“Don’t worry about it, Mike.” The librarian said gently.

Jenna smiled. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

*****

The last time Jenna saw Grandma, she feared kissing her. Although Mom reassured her that Grandma didn’t have a contagious sickness like a cold, Jenna hesitated. This was no cold.

Grandma reassured her, “It’s okay, Jenna.”

Jenna gave her a quick peck and her family left. Deep down, Jenna knew this was goodbye, yet she still feared Grandma’s touch—what kind of granddaughter does that?

*****

Later that week, when they had library again, Jenna dragged out the special chair because she was allowed to do it on her own.
“Why can’t you sit in these chairs like the rest of us?” Richard, a classmate, asked bluntly, but innocently enough.
Jenna hesitated.

“Because she’s a weirdo!” declared Mike.

Everyone laughed. But it wasn’t like the time the boy on the snow hill ripped off his coat. He was trying to be funny then and it worked. Jenna, on the other hand, wasn’t trying to be funny. She was obeying the monster and because of her compliance, she was ostracized.

Just before lunch, after the usual rush, Jenna made her descent. Some boys held the door for her, but when they saw her they screamed, “Weirdo chair girl!” and proceeded to gallop downstairs. Walking faster, Jenna tried to catch up, even though she hated having to rely on them. But it was too late. They had made it to through the door to the meadows. They were free. The gate was closing. Jenna heard echoes of laughter. Shadows swirled on the dull brick walls. The slam of the door closing kept replaying, but the door remained shut. Doe-eyed, Jenna looked upstairs, but no one was there, only the sounds of spite and the images of distorted figures.
The tears were coming now, flowing now. Just like Alice when she failed to open the door to Wonderland, Jenna cried and created a salty waterfall. Streaming up or down, it didn’t matter. Unlike Alice, she would eventually drown.

******

“Do you shake your leg like that because you’re nervous, because it’s a habit, like you were just talking about when you wash your hands?”

Dr. Gordon had it all wrong. Just because Jenna hated middle school and had strange habits to deal with that hellhole didn’t mean every little thing she did involved the monster.

Looking up defiantly, Jenna responded, “No, I like doing this.”

Dr. Gordon chuckled, subtly, but the attitude was there. Her frizzy hair shook slightly as she denied Jenna’s answer with that laugh. If her hair twisted like vines and formed makeshift horns, Jenna would not be surprised. Yet, she still stopped shaking her leg. As if she had anything to prove to Dr. Gordon. But Jenna liked to please people; when people hated her for no reason other than the monster, it just wasn’t fair.

Behind Dr. Gordon’s comfortable-looking chair, there was a dollhouse. It looked like chaos. The father was on the roof, the daughter’s dress was torn, and the couches were askew. Jenna saw a grandpa doll and her eyes scanned each room for his partner.

“That’s for the younger patients,” Dr. Gordon said casually, “but feel free to look if you want.”

“No thanks.” Jenna knew the grandma doll wasn’t there.

******

One summer, when Cam said he was going to run away as child, Mom knew he wasn’t serious. She even packed a knapsack full of snacks and sounded skeptical when she said, “Okay, but I don’t know where you’re gonna go.” Cam defiantly took the snacks and confidently made his way to the end of the driveway. But then he stopped. Slowly, he looked behind him, saw Mom, who was never far behind, and plopped down on the pavement thinking he was still a rebel. Mom would then sit down with him and they would talk. Jenna remembers watching them from her bedroom window, slightly worried Cam would actually run away. But he never did. At the end of the driveway, Cam and Mom would laugh while sipping apple juice boxes and eventually made their way back into the house.

But now Cam was older and so was Jenna. Not feeling particularly rebellious, Jenna still planned on running away, just into the yard. She had to, but she wished she had some kind of choice, or even an epiphany like Cam had. One that told her running away doesn’t solve anything; it could make things worse. But this wasn’t running away, Jenna tried to convince herself.

She was going to kill the monster. Bring it into the cold and leave it there. Jenna thought of all the delicious tortures she could bring upon it. Immobilize it and make it obey her. Make it stay in the cold because there were “germs” inside. There was no other option, she would tell it. And then she would laugh. She would laugh not because she was trying to be funny, but because she was right.

Yet, she still hesitated. She did not even hear her mother approaching.

“Jenna?” Her voice sounded strained. “What are you doing?”

The hot, salty tears were coming, “I wasn’t gonna go far, just to the tree, and then—”

Enveloped in her mother’s arms, Jenna sobbed. She sobbed for Samantha, for Cam, for Mom, for Mike, for all of the doctors and for all of the counselors, and for herself.
But most of all, she sobbed for the monster. She pitied its need to take over her mind, its need to belittle and bully her. Her tears began to cleanse the monster. She could feel weights lifting from her toes and traveling up to her head. Jenna feared her head would explode, just like a watermelon smashing on the ground. But the weight subsided until she could barely even feel it. The monster was still there, but the world seemed as quiet as the snow drifting outside.

Daring to look up into the sliding-glass door, Jenna almost screamed. No longer the ghost of a girl she was before, Jenna saw herself. Amazed, she recognized her own reflection as something familiar, not foreign. With Mom still holding her, Jenna realized she would never understand but she was there. In this moment, Mom was there and she had been there all along.

Then, Jenna vowed to never nourish the monster’s appetite again, a vow she found difficult to keep sometimes. It begged her for food constantly. Most times she couldn’t even hear it. Other times she ignored it. And then sometimes she acquiesced to it.

Determined and refreshed by this new covenant, Jenna continued to gaze at her reflection as she felt the warmth of Mom’s hug. Yet, wrapped up in bed later on, the sadness took over again. But not feeling isn’t human. Jenna wasn’t the monster.

Since the summer before my freshman year of college, I have worked in football recruiting for an SEC school. When I first started I was somewhat awkward, extremely uncomfortable with public speaking, and was somewhat content with just being involved enough to have a full resume. Never all in. 

As I became more involved and committed to my job, I developed a passion for what I was doing and why I was doing it. Through having to talk to so many types people over my time spent at UGA I began to develop a love for people in general.

I now love to get to know all types of people and really try to see life from their point of view. I also learned how to carry myself in a professional manner and demand respect no matter the situation, especially within a male dominated field. I value the opportunity to mentor younger women who have a goal to work in sports and train by example as to what they can do. I may sound like I know it all, but that’s definitely not the case.

I have a love of learning and using poor experiences and criticism to make myself a better person overall. I love learning from other people the most though. Other people’s lives just bring a perspective into my life that I would have never had any other way. Getting to know someone else opens your mind in an unexpected way and think about everyday situations in a new and inventive manner.

Other people are the best way to improve yourself.

I was about to start high school when my dad was diagnosed with a grade three brain tumor. Even at that age, I did not fully understand the severity of his cancer or what the next steps entailed. Luckily—with one of the best brain surgeons from Duke Medical Center and the right treatment—my dad survived and has never relapsed. Life completely changed for him at the age of 50, and he was never able to return back to work, but we thank God every day for His miracle.

As I started high school, I noticed there was a football game held every September for Pediatric Cancer Awareness Month honoring a student I never had the chance to meet. Matt Hobby passed away from Ewing’s Sarcoma at the age of 18. Ewing’s Sarcoma is found mainly in the bones or tissue of children—which can’t always be operated on.

I remember feeling confused about how doctors were able to save my dad’s life but not Matt’s.

Facing this fact at a young age showed me how each cancer and every person is unique. My dad might have survived through chemotherapy and radiation, but he was fully-grown and had a strong immune system. The fact that no new drugs have been developed for children’s cancer in the last 30 years made my stomach churn.

These kids need treatments specifically designed for their smaller bodies. Only 4% of government funding is dedicated toward childhood cancer research, with the other 96% percent only funding research for adult cancers.

I knew I wanted to make a difference for the better.

Growing up, we see pink ribbons for breast cancer awareness everywhere we go, and simple awareness can go a long way. As a freshman coming into the University of Georgia, I decided to start the first Rally Foundation non-profit college chapter to start spreading cancer awareness to a younger generation—normally childhood cancer does not attract advocates until it directly affects someone’s child. Many parents thanked our club for putting their children first; they know that it’s hard for college students to picture themselves in their shoes.

I am very grateful for the opportunity to make a difference in these parents’ lives and happy that my club will be continuing next year, even when I am no longer a student. My club members are passionate about this cause, and I hope more colleges will be inspired to start their own chapters.

Now, as I walk away from my four years and countless hours of maintaining the club at UGA, I know that these kids will always be my top priority. Advocating for this cause has changed my outlook on life itself.

I have always talked about why I fight for these children, but I never told anyone how these kids are the ones changing MY life.

I had a major surgery in college that gave me a reality check about my health. I remember feeling depressed during the recovery, but then I thought about the kids beating cancer. They are technically “in recovery” their whole lives due to side effects from their harsh treatments. If they can handle it, so can I.

Just when I thought I could live a normal life again, last year I woke up with an excruciating pain in my arm. I couldn’t use it for a month, and the pain soon spread to my neck. Doctors found in my MRI that I have Type One Chiari Malformation, which is unfamiliar to many people because of a lack of awareness.

To put Chiari in my own words, my brain is too big for my skull and my cerebellum is pushing on my spinal cord. Thankfully, Type One means I have enough space right now where my spinal fluid can still flow freely and I will not need brain surgery. Neck pain, headaches, weakness/numbness of muscles, and balance problems are the main symptoms I live with.

I am in the process of changing my life around to live more comfortably and continue to monitor my Chiari. I have endured months of physical therapy and spend more hours in doctors’ offices than people twice my age. Daily activities like driving, sitting, sleeping, and typing this article bring me horrible pain. But even though I physically cannot give these kids my signature piggy-back ride anymore, I will always think of them.

Any kind of head injury worsens my Chiari. For the people who don’t know me, I am a very high energy—and often clumsy—person. However, I hate living life in fear. I hate being terrified to ride a bike or play sports. I thrive for adventure, but anything that puts my body at risk is a big “no no.”

In the past, I have thought “why me?” I hated being jealous and comparing my life to others. I learned to turn away from those negative thoughts because that was not the way God wanted me to handle my pain.

I thank God for using my pain to help me become a stronger person. I thank Him for showing me how to use my passion to help others. The quote I live by and will continue to as I monitor my Chiari is: “Use your pain to work purpose in your life.”

Without having fought for these kids, I know I would not have the positive approach to live life that I do now. It is so important to always be thankful, no matter how bad my situation may seem. I enjoyed a normal childhood and so many kids cannot even say that. These “superheroes” fight hard, never give up, and of course change the world.

The following composition represents the culmination of around three years of reflections and writings. In 2012, I faced a tragedy that took a great emotional toll on my heart, leaving a scar that would take many months to heal. This article is the story of that tragedy and of the woman that helped me get through it. I have always wanted to thank her for the role she played in my life, and thanks to the encouragement from the Wish Dish program, I am finally seizing the opportunity to put my gratitude into words.

“Now,” Mrs. Taylor said, sliding her copy of Tim O’Brien’s book, The Things They Carried, onto her cluttered podium, “I want all of you to take out your purses and wallets and empty them onto the table in front of you. That’s right – everything: cards, receipts, licenses, everything! Now it’s time to take a look at the things you carry.” Scattering the contents of my authentic Ecuadorian-leather wallet onto my group’s table, I began to examine all of my possessions.

The exercise was intended to help us identify ourselves from merely our current pocket fillings; little did I know that this woman would soon become an integral piece of my identity herself.

Jo Taylor is the ringleader of the circus known as George Walton Academy’s English department. This prestigious menagerie produces an eclectic collaboration of (arguably) the finest writers, poets, and performers that the Atlanta area has to offer. Mrs. Taylor’s proficiency lies with the instruction of Advanced Placement English courses and the production of professional writers and enthusiastic lovers of the drafted arts.

I first encountered Mrs. Taylor at the end of my tenth-grade year at George Walton Academy at the annual awards ceremony.

I had been summoned to the front of the gymnasium that evening to receive a certificate for an accomplishment acknowledged by the English department. As I walked across the stage to accept my paper prize, Mrs. Taylor extended a hand in congratulations. Behind a wide smile, she whispered, “I look forward to teaching you next year.” The chill from her cold hands crept over my skin, driving fear into my entire being. For reasons I could not pinpoint, this woman paralyzed me with intimidation.

This dread lingered into Mrs. Taylor’s classroom when I began attending her Advanced Placement English Language and Composition course the next scholastic year. My first impression of Mrs. Taylor as a teacher struck another chord of horror on the first day of class. Most of my teachers from over the years should attest to the claim that I am often quiet during class discussion, as I prefer to listen and find the value in both sides of a debate rather than contribute to the bickering or pick a side.

Naturally, Mrs. Taylor stepped off the wrong foot when she announced that, on the seemingly simple “syllabus day,” our class would immediately play host to a group discussion with a single rule: “If you do not talk, then you fail.”

Thus I survived. The first few months of eleventh grade proved an effective albeit brief period of growth and development, both in and out of the classroom. Yet my true transformation was still underway. “Well,” Mrs. Taylor conceded, peering at us over the rims of her leopard-print glasses, “The first round of descriptive essays was a relative success. Now, let’s move on to describing people.”

In late November, 2012, my fellow AP Language students and I had just completed a descriptive assignment in which we were to describe a location that held sentimental value for us. I had scarcely stapled the pages of my “Savannah Sunrise” essay when Mrs. Taylor had issued the order for a new descriptive assignment, this time calling for the characterization of an influential person in each of our lives.

At first, I considered a revision of a recently submitted narrative in which I would nominate an esteemed track coach as my honorable idol. However, I then recalled a recent visit to Great Oaks Assisted Living Home and my decision came clear.

I would focus my next essay on my deeply revered great grandmother, Thelma Lawrence Towler.

In my youth, I had often found visiting Grandma Towler more of a dull obligation rather than an exciting opportunity. My brother and cousins would sooner run around the tall grass outside the home, playing Power Rangers or Jedi Knights and leaving the adults to their boring conversations.

But, as I grew into my teenage years, I found myself finding every excuse to swing by Great Oaks, popping in on holidays to trick-or-treat with all of the residents or sneaking into polka concerts in the dining hall (which my grandmother described as “turr-a-bull,” but she was always too polite and social to miss such a function).

As my visits grew more frequent, I began to realize just how fascinating and inspirational Grandma Towler was. We would often settle on the patio behind Great Oaks, relax in the refreshing sun on a chilly autumn afternoon, and watch the koi fish in the small pond. We shared stories about our lives, mine taking place over the previous weeks, hers spanning decades.

One of her favorite tales was of her teaching career a Pleasant Valley School. She taught for thirteen years in the small schoolhouse and she loved her job. The school requested that she teach Algebra, but she knew little to nothing of the subject. So, instead of giving up or forcing her students to teach themselves, she stayed up late every night before class and taught herself the necessary materials for conducting a reasonable class. Studying with her students, she was a remarkable teacher as well as a lifelong learner.

She would listen to all of my stories with the same excitement with which she told her own.

She always wanted to know where I traveled that summer or what race I had run in cross country. She would brag about all of my accomplishments to all of her friends and soon enough, she had built a bit of a reputation for me within the halls of Great Oaks (as one of the most popular residents, she certainly possessed that authority). She was truly interested in my life and all I had to say.

She was biggest supporter, my number-one fan, my motivation, and my beloved great grandmother.

When Mrs. Taylor presented me the opportunity to immortalize my great grandmother, I was more than eager to commence construction on my penned portrait. Mrs. Towler was the woman in my family with whom I held in the utmost regard. She was undoubtedly the kindest, wisest, most selfless, and most influential person I could imagine (not to mention the prettiest – having just celebrated her 99^th birthday the previous September, she did not look a day over 80).

The matriarch of my paternal grandmother’s family, she was my oldest living relative, and I could not imagine a better subject for my descriptive assignment.

My paper seemed to write itself; poetic portrayals flowed from my racing mind and onto the page like paint to a canvas, molding a near tangible image of Mrs. Towler behind lines of letters. In a jovial tone, I recreated my ever-optimistic grandmother’s attitude with my words, pouring not only my memories but also my emotions into my work.

The assignment’s due date arrived, and I sauntered cheerily into Mrs. Taylor’s classroom, requesting to read my creation aloud to share with my classmates. After conjuring chuckles and grins from my peers with my amusing article, Mrs. Taylor rose. “Well done,” she smiled, “Clean it up a little, put a pretty bow on it, and you’ve got yourself a perfect Christmas gift for your great grandmother!”

While I did not necessarily roll the essay up into a scroll as my English teacher had explicitly suggested, I took Mrs. Taylor’s advice and prepared a revised draft of the paper to present to my beloved great grandmother on Christmas morning. I typed up a refurbished essay, slipped each page into a clear sheet-protector, and organized the article in a purple folder with Mrs. Towler’s name on the cover.

December 25 blew in as cold as the winter winds it accompanied, and my family began our pilgrimage to Aunt Connie’s house for the annual Towler Family Christmas luncheon.

When Aunt Susan pulled into the driveway with Mrs. Towler riding shotgun, a handful of uncles and I stepped outside to assist with our grandmother’s final stages of transportation. Facing her toward the driveway, we lifted her wheelchair and carried her down the small set of wide stone steps leading to the front door. No matter how many times we engaged in this well-rehearsed maneuver, I always feared a slip of a grip or a tilt too far backwards.

Quite contrarily, Mrs. Towler seemed to enjoy each ride as she exhibited a small fit of giggles, as giddy as the schoolgirls she had taught in the schoolhouse so many decades ago. Turning her wheelchair to face me, she greeted me with her catchphrase in the classic southern drawl, slow and sweet as molasses. “Lord, have mercy! Look who I see.”

I gave Mrs. Towler a hug and wished her a Merry Christmas, all the while eagerly awaiting the gift exchange and thus the revelation of my praiseful essay. However, before we could get down to business with the presents, the congregation had to uphold the sacred tradition of a honey-baked feast.

The events that followed occurred in an instance, but played through in slow-motion. The adults were all lined up in the kitchen, preparing plates for themselves and each other.

As my grandfather prepared a plate for Mrs. Towler, my great grandmother attempted to excuse herself from the kitchen so as not to serve as an obstacle for the rest of the family. A plate shattered. I heard a tumbling commotion coming from the large flight of hardwood steps leading to the basement. A shout, “Mrs. Towler!” A collective gasp. The room grew silent as we all shifted our gaze to the top of the stairwell.

My father was the first to react, already finding himself halfway down the stairs before I had even processed exactly what had occurred. In her attempt to evacuate the crowded kitchen, Mrs. Towler had neglected to check over her shoulder. In a horrifying matter of seconds, she had fallen down the entire flight of wooden stairs, onto the tile floor several meters below, her wheelchair crashing down on top of her.

Call 911! Grab ice from the freezer! Here, take this towel! My mind stood still as my body raced into action. I was trying to prevent myself from perceiving what my eyes were sensing. A shallow pool of blood began to fill the spaces between the tiles on the landing. I heard a weak groan; my great grandmother had remained conscious during the entire fall. My father propped her upright against the wall, and I could feel myself trembling as I laid eyes upon her battered face, a stream of crimson streaking from her nose.

The ambulance arrived in a prolonged matter of minutes, and the paramedics immediately jumped into action. As the respondents lifted her swollen hand, Mrs. Towler refused to let them remove her wedding ring. Together, the two EMTs lifted her onto a stretcher. As they carted her into the ambulance, she held onto my father’s hand.

“I didn’t break Connie’s plate, did I?” she inquired as the doors shut behind her.

Thelma Lawrence Towler died on December 28 at 99 years old. Holding my great uncle Ralph’s hand from her hospital bed, she stirred from a restless sleep late on the night of December 27. She looked into her son’s eyes and whispered faintly, “Why are you prolonging this?” The next morning, following a frantic call from my grandfather, I raced to hospital with my brother and cousin, but we arrived moments too late.

Rushing through the doors to the ICU, I came across a scene in which my grandmother was passing an inquisitive nurse. “My mother died today.” When our family crowded together in the small hospital room for one last look at our beloved matriarch, Uncle Ralph turned to my grandmother – his sister and the oldest of Mrs. Towler’s children – and said, “Well, here’s to the dawning of a new era; a new matriarch.”

The purple folder under the tree was picked up one last time. Mrs. Towler was never permitted the opportunity to read the essay I had written for her. Instead, I read the paper aloud as a contribution to her eulogy at her funeral service.

But I am not writing this piece to mourn the loss of my beloved great grandmother. I have said what I have needed to say, again and again. I have learned to cope with the loss largely though my writings about the woman and the event. Rather, this is the story of how I learned to cope with this loss, and how help came from where I did not expect it.

When classes resumed in January, 2013, I tried to mask the feelings of anguish towards my loss by donning a façade of feigned happiness. A week passed and the pain was still fresh on my mind. I was out at dinner with some friends at a local Japanese restaurant when I ran into Mrs. Taylor on my way out of the eatery. I greeted her with a weak smile.

She pulled me aside, concerned: “Why didn’t you tell me? I had no idea… If there’s anything you ever need, let me know. I’m always here for you.” My eyes filled with tears as I looked into my English teacher’s eyes, and she pulled me in for a much needed embrace. At that moment, I felt as if a hole in my heart had become somewhat filled.

While my great grandmother Towler could never be replaced, I wholeheartedly believe that Mrs. Taylor managed to take over Mrs. Towler’s role. After she took a personal interest my life, I knew that Mrs. Taylor had become so much more than a teacher to me. Perhaps she would even become my very own Mama Jo.

That year, my life seemed to take an unexpected turn. With Mrs. Taylor’s now evident attention, I subconsciously redirected my own attention. I began to take AP Language more seriously as I significantly developed my skills as a writer. For years, I had thought myself determined to pursue a career in medicine, but I took on a completely new interest in the field of writing, turning to narratives and descriptions of my own life and experiences as a creative outlet.

Moreover, the experience transformed the way I viewed other people.

Mrs. Taylor’s concern for my personal life inspired me to take my friends’ lives into greater consideration. I developed a proclivity to become emotionally invested in my peers as I grew closer to my current friends than ever before, cherishing each memory with a good pal and taking no moment for granted.

With arms stretched wider, I began reaching out to new friends more openly and warmly, eager to seek out new ;relationships to treasure. My relationships with teachers were affected as well; I have found new respect and appreciation for the quasi-parental figures of my life.

Most of all, I attribute my maturation in eleventh grade to Mrs. Taylor’s intervention. I had now experienced the real world, and I have prepared myself to tackle whatever life throws my way. Because of my year with Mrs. Taylor as my mentor, my personality had transformed in ways that were once unimaginable. I owe that transformation, along with my utmost gratitude, to Jo Taylor.

Without her, there is no telling how I would have coped with my great grandmother’s passing, how I would have grown academically, or how I would function socially. My Mother Jo has taken an everlasting stand as a cornerstone of my identity, and I have no doubt that she will continue to inspire me through the progression of my college career and adult life. Furthermore, I am certain that I will be able to count on Mama Jo for anything and everything. I know she will always be there for me.

So, finally, I offer to my audience this parting advice: never for one moment let yourself believe that you are alone in this world. There is and always will be somebody to look after you, to talk with you, to make sure that you are happy. In addition, always try to be that person for somebody else. Show them kindness and compassion, and they will come back to return the favor.

Lastly, do not take a single life for granted; you never know where you will find your Mama Jo.

Challenges arise in everyone’s life. Knowing how to face them and how to learn from them separates those who overcome a challenge from those who do not.

I proudly swim for the University of Georgia, which happens to be one of the foremost dominant programs in the nation, winning two NCAA championships in the past three years. Being a student-athlete at UGA, I know that challenges are present every day, whether in the form of a practice that appears insurmountable or studying for a dreaded exam.

Facing certain challenges can cause stress and frustration, which I have recent experience in. This past December I underwent surgery on my right shoulder and nothing has been more frustrating than coping with the injury before surgery and with the recovery process that ensued. Despite the irritating frustration and incredible challenge, this experience has been the most rewarding in my life thus far.

I have always been involved in many sports, but I chose to continue with swimming in order to pursue a collegiate career.

Throughout the many sports that I’ve participated in, including track and tennis, I had only ever been injured once with stress fractures. That changed during the summer of 2014 over Fourth of July weekend. I rarely go to lakes or do things that could potentially harm my being an athlete, but that weekend I decided to have some fun and go to my friend’s lake house.

Though I only went inner-tubing twice over the three days of being there, that second time was enough to cause an injury. Though I didn’t want to admit it, I remember feeling a jerking within my shoulder when I tried to hang onto the inner-tube while the speedboat flung me into the air off a wave.

I didn’t fall off, but my shoulder sure wanted to.

The rest of the weekend I just “relaxed” on the boat while trying to shake off the dull throbbing pain in my shoulder. If you don’t know anything about the sport of swimming, just know that having any shoulder injury is very bad.

Swimmers complete miles in the pool every day with a constant repetitive rotation of our shoulders, which puts a lot of stress on the joint and surrounding muscles. Any injury, however minor, is a threat to a swimmer’s career.

After that weekend, I spent about a month modifying my training in order to tolerate practices. Unbeknownst to me, my bicep tried compensating for the lack of strength in my shoulder; so when I went to see a doctor, I was diagnosed with having bicep tendonitis, which was true, but not the main problem.

I had two weeks before I moved to Athens.

During those weeks I took time out of the pool solely to rehab my bicep tendon. By the time I arrived to UGA, the tendonitis was much better, but not gone. Furthermore, right when I started practicing with the team my shoulder immediately flared back up, and my tendon was still a bit inflamed. No amount of rehabilitation was able to improve my shoulder, so in early September I went in for an MRI.

Turns out I had distal clavicular osteolysis from separating my AC joint. The only logical response to this was to say that I did it on that inner-tube on July 4th. I knew that because the pain started from that day forward.

From the separation and osteolysis, I had bone spurs that took up the majority of my joint space, causing a bone-on-bone grinding action every time I moved my arm in the pool. This explained why my shoulder hurt every time I took a stroke at practice.

Knowing my true injury, I spent my entire first semester at UGA in limbo and in constant frustration, trying to avoid the inevitable decision to say yes to shoulder surgery.

With this injury, surgery was the only way it could be fixed. This fact frustrated me more than anything. Coming into UGA, I had the mindset of training harder than ever in order to improve in my sport and in my overall health. However, my shoulder inhibited me from doing that. I couldn’t give 100% because my shoulder wouldn’t allow it.

Since my shoulder restrained me, I was held back from competition throughout the fall. To me, nothing is more frustrating than being restricted. Seeing my team train and compete without me was defeating. As a temporary solution, I received a cortisone injection into my AC joint. After that didn’t help, I faced the inevitable and decided to schedule shoulder surgery, knowing my first season would be a flop.

Luckily, my coaches graciously allowed me to take a medical redshirt, which would save my first year of eligibility, giving me the opportunity to start anew as a freshman in the fall of 2015. Knowing this gave me some of my inner peace back while trying to cope with the recovery process. After having surgery in December 2014, I came to discover many things about myself and about my sport, which I would have only known through this injury.

Swimming is not my life. Though many athletes come to college just for their sport, we are first and foremost students.

One’s sport should be a stepping-stone into learning and preparing for later things in life. Being an athlete requires one to overcome difficult practices, recover from a failure, manage success with humility, and understand time management. I’ve always had good time management, but with my injury I had more free time than ever, and I realized how easily I could take my free time for granted.

Instead of using time to study, it could casually be thrown away by watching TV, partying, or just simply procrastinating. I wasted some of this time by doing those things, discovering later that the new extra time that I had was an opportunity to improve.

Having this extra time, I dedicated much of it to my studies and improved my grades as the semester went on. My injury, therefore, taught me how to manage my time more efficiently and delegate more of it to studying.

I realized what my actual goals were in life (at least for now). Being injured is awful, but it made me realize how badly I wanted to improve as an athlete. From December to March, I couldn’t swim. Before my injury, the longest time I had been out of the water from training was two weeks, so this lapse in my training was extremely tough to adjust to.

Each day I did cardio in the gym that overlooks the pool that my team practices in. Seeing my team practice every day was frustrating because I was not with them, but seeing them practice made me want to do everything in my power to get my shoulder healthy and get back in the pool as quickly as possible.

Not being able to swim gave me the hunger I needed to drive my passion to improve.

This passion didn’t only apply to the pool however—my desire to improve carried over into my academics and future goals as well. I had a lot of time to think while doing cardio every day, and my thoughts turned into the goals, both long-term and short-term, that I am striving to reach.

Most important to me, I realized the importance of adjusting to and overcoming adversity. I have faced many failures, as well as successes, throughout the sport of swimming. Even when I thought a certain failure was the end of the world, it wasn’t.

From having numerous conversations with my family, my dad in particular, and my coach, I learned that what matters most is how one addresses the failure or setback and works to overcome and learn from it.

Recovering from surgery has not been easy, but all of the challenges that I’ve faced along the way this past half year have been worthwhile and eye opening. Though the first couple of days after my surgery were painful and it seemed that it would take a lifetime to recover, here I am six months later about to compete for the first time in almost eight months.

No matter how daunting a challenge or task may seem, there is always a way to complete and overcome it—it just takes patience and determination.

My injury, and the long recovery process, changed the way I think about my college experience, my goals, and most importantly, myself. Though it was extremely frustrating and taxing, the experience has been a blessing in disguise.

Now, I am willing to work harder than before because I know what I want to accomplish in my collegiate career as an athlete and in my lifetime. Every challenge has its obstacles and doubts, but I now look past those and seek the positives within each test, because I know that I have the strength and determination to overcome any challenge and trial that I put my mind to.

“Why not”. Two syllables, one question, and a myriad of possibilities. To some, hearing these words may seem insignificant. For me, this simple question is incredibly powerful. It opens our minds to new ideas and cannot be asked enough. I believe that our words hold a tremendous amount of value. If they are thought-provoking, that value is immeasurable.

When our thoughts are challenged and our mind is tested, we are forced to think creatively. It’s in these moments that the magic truly happens. This is when ideas are formed, when problems are solved, when inventions are created, when revolutions are started, and when progress is realized. Asking this question helps us accesses our full capabilities.

Growing up, my parents made a point to engage in educational discussions with my brother and myself.

They encouraged us to participate in their debates and ask them questions whenever we needed clarification. Apart from discussing the day’s affairs, dinner was often a time to present us with short lessons or teach us about whatever life had in store for us.

Any chance they got they would find a way to translate the issues they were dealing with into a version that we could relate to. While math and science were handled at school, I learned more about taxes, investments, philosophy, and life in general at the kitchen table than I did in any classroom.

One of the most influential lessons I learned during these talks was the importance of the phrase “why not.” A graduate of Cornell, MIT, and North Carolina State University, my father has received some of the best education this country has to offer. He first presented the wonder behind the phrase “why not” to me about ten years ago. After discussing one of my older brother’s psychology projects, my dad digressed a bit to recall one of the more memorable lessons he learned as an undergrad.

He began to tell us about one of the philosophy tests he took while attending Cornell. Like most of the tests he took in this class, this one was a short answer format. It had a series of essay questions, of which only one had to be answered. Among the possible problems was the shortest test question I’ve ever heard of, “Why?”

When I heard this question I was stunned.

I couldn’t understand how a teacher could grade students on their response to such a vague question that seemingly had no definite answer (college has helped me grow a little more accustomed to such practices by professors). Sensing my confusion, my father continued the lesson by leaning towards me to ask, “What would you have written?” Determined to come up with the correct answer, my mind began racing through every possible answer.

After a few frantic moments, I accepted that my efforts were to no avail. I couldn’t wrap my head around what the question was asking. The question “Why what?” kept popping into my head. My only explanation was that it needed more clarification.

Defeated, I admitted that I was stumped and asked my dad what he had written. My father laughed and said that he had left it blank too. Out of thirty some odd students, only one had attempted to answer that question, and they did so in less than a minute. As you may have guessed, this student simply wrote down “Why not?”

Again I was shocked. But this time I was happy about it. At first it was only because I loved how bold the idea of walking out of a test after writing two words sounded. But as I thought more about it, I began to realize how incredible the response was and why my dad had told us that story. Although I didn’t fully understand the magnitude behind “why not” at the time, there were two aspects of the answer that really stood out to me.

The first was how profound it was. It’s not that it was particularly hard to grasp, it was just something I’d never given much thought to. Responding with “why not?” can be both a question and a challenge to authority. This becomes incredibly powerful when it is used to reject a conventional thought to explore new ideas.

The Wright Brothers said “why not?” when people told them it wasn’t possible to fly, Roger Bannister thought “why not?” when everyone said humans couldn’t run a four minute mile, and Steve Jobs didn’t hesitate to ask “why not?” when he was told he wouldn’t be able to compete with Microsoft. At some point, every great innovator starts with the simple question “why not?”

The second aspect that stood out was its simplicity. After I realized the depth behind the response, I was immediately impressed by how effortless it was to get there. But the more I thought about it, the more it just made sense. Why should we always accept what is presented to us? Why shouldn’t we ask for more? Why not?

At that point in my life, this was probably the greatest philosophical understanding I’d experienced. The fact that it had only taken an exchange of three words to get there was remarkable to me. My whole academic career, the value in the answers had progressed linearly with the complexity of the problems and the methods to get there. But this disregarded that rule. “Simple is beautiful”. I’d heard it before, but I hadn’t truly appreciated it until then.

It’s incredibly empowering when you come to the realization that two words can enable you to experience life at a greater capacity. While I’ve tried to let this idea be a major influence in my life, it’s recently become more relevant to my current situation.

The end of my fall semester marked a major transitional period in my life. Despite my performance in my classes, I was no longer interested in pursuing an engineering career. At the same time, I decided to step away from an Internet marketing business that I had spent well over a year building. On top of all this, my soccer career came to an end, a moment almost 18 years in the making. Seemingly overnight, my schedule changed drastically. At one point I was actually confused by the amount of free time I had. There was a massive void in my life to say the least.

After a few weeks of growing restless and not knowing what to do with myself, the remedy to my situation presented itself to me. While working on a problem set, one of my good friends Nick told me there was a small MMA club at our school and that he’d recently attended one of their training sessions. Thinking I might be interested in joining, he asked me if I wanted to go with him the next time he went. At the time I didn’t know much about MMA, but I knew it was a great way to stay in shape, so I said, “sure, why not.” Flash-forward to the following weekend.

I was standing in a basement on a wrestling mat strapped into some headgear and sparring gloves. I’d just watched Nick’s nose get cracked open and now it was my turn to fight Sean.

The leader of the group, Sean had about 40 pounds on me and grew up learning Maui Thai. He takes personal ownership in not only training the club, but also in breaking in each new member to gauge their skillset. Needless to say I was a little concerned going into this fight. Fortunately I didn’t have much time to think about what might happen before the stopwatch started counting down.

Sean obviously held back and I actually landed a few good punches, but I got absolutely worked for three minutes. If I had to guess, watching that fight was probably similar to watching a dog chase a laser pointer, a good mix of comical and hopeless.

The next day I was in a world of hurt, but a beautiful thing had happened the day before. For those of you that have never fought, the first time you take a good strong punch is an eye-opening experience. At first you’re in a state of shock and panic. You can feel your nervous system trying to frantically figure out what’s going on. But the fight’s not over and you have to continue to deal with the next combination. Eventually you get used to it. When this happens, when your body finally adjusts to the concept of getting hit, your fear escapes you.

“Expose yourself to your deepest fear. After that… you are free”- Jim Morrison.

The only way to conquer your fear and to grow as a person is to get out of your comfort zone and to face whatever fears are holding you back.

After Sean’s first two punches, my brain had accepted that I could survive getting hit. It was a surreal feeling and it all stemmed from the question “why not?” That experience was a gentle reminder of just how important that question is to me.

From then on I took it upon myself to embrace those two words again. In doing so, I’ve beyond filled the void that once existed. Over the past few months I’ve done more than I ever imagined. I went snowboarding for the first time, I took up rock climbing, I took a ballroom dancing class, I became a weekday vegetarian, I found an internship outside of my major, I went off-roading at 6,500 ft., met Jay-Z, worked out with a Victoria’s Secret model, and had a cook-off with a world renowned chef.

I beat the house gambling, I explored Lake Tahoe, I played soccer in the U.S. Open Cup, I went bridge jumping, I back-flipped out of an airplane, I gave a speech in front of 400 people, I began teaching myself how to play the guitar, I rode some of the highest, fastest rollercoasters in the world, I began collaborating on a smartphone app, I raised money for a volunteer trip in Kenya, I became a licensed Realtor, and I wrote a published article. In the same time I’ve traveled to seven states and six major U.S. cities. Within the next two months I will travel to two more continents.

While none of these events are anything to marvel at, they are all things that many people, including me, long to experience. Unfortunately, they are also things that the same people often allow themselves not to experience. The only reason I ended up doing them is not because I’m some amazing human being (I can promise you I’m no different than the average Joe on the street), it’s because I made a conscious decision to ask myself “why not?” That’s it. That’s all it takes.

My challenge for you is to remember those two words. Ask yourself “why not?” as much as you can. Ask “why can’t we do this?” and “why shouldn’t I experience that?” This is not a call to spontaneity, or a request to blindly say yes to every opportunity that presents itself. It’s simply a matter of considering all of the options that are in front of you before you make your decision. There’s nothing to lose, and in my experience, there’s an incredible amount to be gained. So why not try it?

“India is the cradle of the human race, the birthplace of human speech, the mother of history, the grandmother of legend, and the great grandmother of tradition. Our most valuable and most instructive materials in the history of man are treasured up in India only.”- Mark Twain

When I read this I wondered how much I am aware of my country. I have for sure read India’s history. I am proud of my country because I am an Indian. But have I ever tried to look beyond just that? There is so much we can take in. We never try to explore those things from different angles.

When I was born I was told I am a Hindu.

I accepted, because I didn’t know what it meant. When I went to school, there were some student in my class whose names were slightly different from mine. I asked them why so? They told me they are Muslims.

One such day I was watching TV, and the some songs were playing and an old man dressed in red. I asked, who is he? They told me he is Santa. I asked again, who is Santa?  They said he is a Christian saint and they are celebrating Christmas. Then I came to know there is another set of people who are called Christians.

Then one day they told me the priest who visits the temple is Brahmin. As I grew up I came to know about a number of different religions and how they are further subdivided.

Here I am talking about tradition and culture of India as well as the caste system. How do we as human beings live or come to understand our society or the people living in it? We are told these things.

The very moment we are old enough to understand words like color, caste, or creed we are provided with a definition to each one of them.

That definition becomes the whole point of how we see our fellow human.  Here I would like to thank my parents and family that they told me to respect each and every human being irrespective of whom they are.

Here is why I think it is difficult to change some traditional flaws in India anytime soon:

1. Indian tradition and culture is 5000 years old.
2. There are some advantages that you have if you belong to a certain category (caste). On this basis there is also a provision by the government for the sole purpose of uplifting people who were/are being suppressed.
3. There is strong sentimental and religious value attached with traditions and culture.

Everything is not perfect like a white paper. With time we will be able to separate the caste system from religion itself or at least not judge, rate, or see people from this point of view. The deeper you go the more intricacies you will encounter.

Talking about culture differs from state to state. If you go from north to south or east to west, you’ll get a cultural shock. The dialect, dress, music, faith, everything is different.

India is a multi-ethnic, multi-cultural, and multi-religious society.

This is one of the reasons why in India we keep celebrating festivals throughout the year. Living in such a society makes me respect other human beings and the religion they follow with the same intensity as I would do for people of my religion.

I believe your faith/religion is there for the soul purpose of helping you when you feel a little lost, and need a divine strength in your life. No religion ever says that you should demean other people.

The message is simple “respect other human being for the simple fact that they are human being and nothing, more nothing less.”

One day I looked in the mirror
To see if what I held most dear
Was clear, or if it was fear
That held me in its snare.
Perhaps I just didn’t care
It didn’t seem fair
I wasn’t aware
Now it seems so clear
As long as the Lord is near
There is no room for fear.

There is only one way
And though you may say nay
There will come a day
We walk together, that lonely pathway

The cold steel of the knife touched my wrist. I took a deep breath and said “This is it.” I was ready to end it. I tried my hardest to cut up my forearm. I tried once. It didn’t leave a mark. I tried twice. I couldn’t. I dropped the knife.

Tears of joy ran down my face as I realized the most important thing ever in my life. I put the knife away, not wanting to ever see it again. I went to sleep and woke up being the happiest I had been in nine months. I wasn’t going to let depression affect me ever again. It was time to change it.

Allow me to present a little background on myself. I graduated high school with high honors and had many achievements in athletics and clubs. I joined the UGA football team as a preferred walk on, essentially an offer which means that the athlete will get recruited but receive no scholarship. So in July of 2013, I enrolled in the University of Georgia and began football workouts. I met some great friends that summer and won’t ever forget it.

I was depressed from about August until the night of May 2nd of freshman year of college.

There was no reason behind it all. Plain and simple. People say “There had to be something behind it.” There wasn’t. I had everything. I have the best family in the world, great friends and teammates, and I was living a great life in college.

I would randomly feel depressed, almost as if I hated life and didn’t want to exist anymore. I didn’t want help from anyone.

It made a massive negative impact on my life. I had a smile on every day during my battle with depression because I didn’t want to talk about it. As soon as I frowned or appeared out of it, someone would ask me what was wrong. Like I said, I had nothing to be depressed about. It was just there, in my head, taking control of me.

I wanted to take my own life because I believed it was the only way out of this misery.

I hadn’t seen an end in sight. With recurring episodes of depression, I felt as if they were never going to end. It would just hit me every two weeks or so and I would just feel like I hate myself. So I finally tried to and I couldn’t. It was an awesome feeling. But as I realized I couldn’t take my own life, I had to learn something from this 9 month struggle.

Since my conquering of depression, my life has been on an upward spiral. Everything is going great for me.

I now see the positive side of every situation and outcome. It’s truly amazing how one can feel if they just find the positives through everything.

I’m in the process of building my own app that should be released in the next few months. I was inspired by my depression to create this so that way anyone could find someone to talk to relating to any interest.

The realization that I could actually own my depression changed my life in the most amazing way possible. I could control my emotions. I controlled my own happiness. I woke up every day ready to see what beautiful thing life would throw at me.

The important thing I’ve learned about suicide and depression is that people do care and want to help, even if you don’t want to talk about it.

Life is the most beautiful thing ever. Not everyone gets to live a full life and it just comes down to living life to the fullest every day. Love everyone, that one person who seems the happiest on earth may be struggling the most on the inside.

(Co-written by Madison Turner and Jessica Bryant)

Between these two young women—from two backgrounds with two amazing bonds—a similar story arose. Jessica Bryant and Madison Turner share their testimonies of friendship, loss, sisterhood, and healing.

Loss

(Jessica)

There are people in your life you think you will know forever – those types of friends that are more like family. I met my best friend Holly in 3rd grade when her family moved into my neighborhood. From then on, we were attached at the hip.

Holly & Jessica

We were two halves of one whole, together for every family vacation, 6th grade heartbreak, the highs and the lows of growing up. Holly was the first sister I ever had. At 9 years old we made a pact that we were going to take on the world together, at 17 we learned what that really meant.

A few days after her 17th birthday Holly was diagnosed with a rare form of Leukemia. She began treatment; and through every needle prick and every round of chemo I learned what it truly meant to be a sister.

Holly’s high spirits never wavered. When she found out she would be losing her hair, we dyed it bright blue. She shopped for shirts that said “does this shirt make my head look bald?” She somehow found so much humor and joy in such a horrible situation. Holly’s outlook on life and her treatment was unbelievably humbling.

For months, I would visit Holly in the hospital. We tried to keep life as normal as possible – pretending the needles, tubes, and ports weren’t there. During my visits we gossiped like 17 year olds. We talked about plans we had for when she would be out of the hospital, we dreamed of the adventures we would go on, and we debated our college decisions.

In the beginning of July, Holly contracted bacterial meningitis and was moved to the intensive care unit of Children’s Hospital of the Kings Daughters. She was then placed into a medically induced coma. For 3 weeks, Holly fought long and hard. On July 27, 2011, Holly lost her battle.

(Madison)

Shelley Goldsmith was my best friend throughout high school. We had been inseparable. She was like a sister to me. She was the biggest role model in my life. She was beautiful, intelligent, noble, and the most generous person I had ever met. She received a full academic scholarship to UVA. She also modeled in New York when she was in high school for huge labels like Calvin Klein. She was the most brilliant person I’ve ever come across. Everyone who met her fell in love with her.

Shelley & Madison

When we decided to go to different colleges, we planned out a schedule to visit each other and stay in touch. In high school we had planned to move to New York together after college. Then real-life set in. The first football game of my freshman year will be a day that I will never forget.

We were playing at Alabama and I watched the game with some friends in our dorm. Halfway through the game I received what became the worst phone call of my life. It was my mom telling me Shelley had died unexpectedly. Shelley passed away the night when she was at a dance club and consumed the drug “Molly.”

She was in Washington D.C. with a bunch of her friends from UVA, and they all took the drug before going into the club. She collapsed while dancing and was rushed to the hospital, where she never woke up. She was on life support and by the time her parents arrived, the doctors said she wasn’t going to ever wake up.

Shelley had experienced a heat stroke while in the club, which caused her organs to fail. The drug she had taken caused her to have a more violent reaction than any of the people she was with.

Shelley was not a drug abuser—she thought the drug was safe because all of her friends had taken it without any issues – but drugs affect people in different ways. Her body was not strong enough to handle that type of substance.

After Shelley’s death I have tried to educate people about her story. Her parents have devoted the rest of their lives to educating people about the dangers of drugs through their loss. They have been guests on the “TODAY Show”, “The Doctors”, and many other major television shows to talk about drugs. Shelley’s story has also appeared in 17 Magazine. Her parent’s have truly honored her legacy by helping prevent other people from consuming this and other harmful drugs.

Because of this, my first semester of college at Virginia Tech was the most difficult time of my life. I was so afraid that I would never be as close with anyone as I was with her.

Memories

(Jessica)

Holly was a better person than I was in every way possible. She was a humble, incredible, beautiful soul and her passing was a total robbery to the world. I struggled with her death every day. I couldn’t understand why I got to walk out of that hospital and she was the one who never got to come back home.

After Holly, I’ve struggled with the idea that everything happens for a reason; I just could not see how this was ever supposed to be the plan for her. It wasn’t until recently that I’ve started having a little more trust in fate.

(Madison)

When I first met Shelley, I was star-struck by her. She carried herself with such elegance and grace, and she instantly intimidated me. But, when she sat down and actually talked to me, she immediately became my best friend. She was supportive of everything I did, and encouraged me to be the best student and person I could possibly be.

I strived to be just like her; she was my biggest role model throughout high school. Shelley accepted me for who I was and encouraged me to chase after my dreams, no matter how extravagant those dreams were.

Sisterhood

(Jessica)

In the spring of my freshman year of college I decided to participate in formal recruitment, and I found my home at Tri Delta. I never imaged an organization would give me so much, so fast, or make me so happy.

After sharing the story of Holly at my pledge class’s fireside meeting, I was floored by the amount of girls I had just met who not only wanted to be there for support, but truly wanted to know what Holly was like and who she was as a person.

They wanted to hear about Holly just as much as I wanted to share her memory with them. When I lost Holly, I never thought I would ever find a friendship so candid, honest, and genuine. But I have. When I think of what Tri Delta has given me, I see so many incredible women, so individually perfect in their own ways, who have each changed my life in ways that I could never repay them. It is hard to think we were ever strangers.

(Madison)

I decided to go through recruitment second semester and everything changed. I joined Tri Delta and felt at home in the house from the beginning. I shared Shelley’s story with my pledge class at our first fireside meeting and the sympathy and compassion I received from them was unreal.

They don’t know how much that meant to me. I’ve become so close with these women and I see characteristics of Shelley in all of them. It has been over a year since her passing, and being a sister of Tri Delta has made the grieving process as easy as it could be.

My big, Shelby, especially helped me recover. Shelby talked with me about Shelley the first night I even met her. We talked till 4 a.m. about Shelley and life in general, and I felt as comfortable with Shelby as I used to feel with Shelley. That night I knew I found my big and a best friend. Shelby is my person.

Healing

(Jessica)

I’m not quite sure how to sum up my experience. I’ll tell you I’ve learned friendship and sisterhood are two different things and it took experiencing a grave loss, along with this absolutely incredible sisterhood to understand that. Tri Delta has helped me heal.

I will never share the same exact friendship that I had with Holly with anyone else. Holly has such a special place in my heart, and I know I will carry that for the rest of my life.

Holly taught me what it meant to be a sister. She was the first sister I ever had, but now I am lucky enough to say I have 150 new sisters.

(Madison)

It was really hard for a while, but now I can share Shelley’s story because of my sisters in Tri Delta. These women have helped me heal and I am forever grateful I have had the opportunity to even meet them. They inspire me everyday and I am forever in debt to Tri Delta for bringing me close to the greatest group of women I’ve ever known.

I don’t know where I would be without them. They push me to be the best student and person I can possibly be. These women are my best friends, bridesmaids, and truly the best individuals I’ve ever known.

I never thought I could have a friendship as strong as the one I shared with Shelley, but I have made so many more friendships being in this sisterhood. I may have lost a sister but I have gained so many new ones.

These stories show that a group of young women, who are seemingly strangers, can make a greater impact on each other’s lives than expected. Although the friendships that were lost can never be replaced, the bonds formed after losing them is something equally as valuable. Many people take this opportunity at “sisterhood” for granted, but for Jessica and Madison, it was the healing force that they needed to get them through.