You’re a warrior—you’ll get through this. Just close your eyes. Slowly breathe in. Breathe out.
Exactly one week before my LSAT, my Thanksgiving family reunion was coming to an end. Despite the anxious pre-LSAT thoughts lurking around in the back of my mind, I felt like I would finally have a relaxing and carefree Friday night. I was playfully running around with my little nephew, but before he could embrace my legs and say “Got you Juju Masi (Aunt Juhi),” we heard a spine-chilling shriek come from the next room.
As I carried my nephew up the stairs away from all of the chaos, a familiar gut-wrenching feeling made its way up my stomach. As I tried to distract him from asking questions, I painfully held in my tears. As we played with his Legos, emotional flashbacks began flooding my mind. I took one more deep breath, wiped away the last tear peeking out from the corner of my eye and glanced down at my wrist for strength.
I closed my eyes and the flashbacks took me back to July 18, 2013. The all-too-familiar and agonizing cries had caused me to jump out of bed that morning and into the embrace of my devastated mother who kept screaming “Bapu (my grandfather) is no more.” Two months before my freshman year of college started, the unknown concept of death made its debut into my life. For a month before moving to a new state for the first time, I was mourning in India; and a week before leaving my home to live on a campus with strangers, my depression and anxiety were slowly creeping up behind me. This rollercoaster of a summer transition paved the path for one of my most life-threatening health conditions. Due to the unfamiliar concept of mental health, I continued to ignore my depression for years, started making decisions to “take the easy way out,” and was ready to give up on everything. Whenever I looked in the mirror, a stranger always stared back. The bloodshot eyes of the lost and broken girl reflected nothing but emptiness and defeat.
For far too long I had been a closed book—a closed book with a bubbly and ambitious cover, but a novel with pages full of bottled-up emotions. For far too long, I had been terrified of what people would think if they found out that I had depression and anxiety. At the same time, for far too long, others had also been suffering to the point that they took their lives as a result of mental illnesses. My own experiences allowed me to understand these struggles on a more personal level. Instead of allowing my adversities to keep pushing me down, I began gaining the resilience to work towards serving the community. Educating myself, comprehending the power of health resources, learning about the impact of support systems, and seeking treatment empowered me to become the best version of myself. I transformed the way I wanted to learn, teach and serve for better lives by becoming a warrior—for myself and for others.
Part of my journey towards achieving self-love and well-being included the decision to create this constant reminder on my wrist that I would always be a part of something that is larger than myself: 
warr;or. This permanent tattoo may still be taboo, but for me it is my permanent guidance. Now a part of me, this simple image pushes me to advocate for other taboo topics in relation to human rights. The word “warrior” symbolizes how my peaks and valleys with my journey through mental health have molded me into who I am today. I replaced the “i” with a semicolon as an internal reflection on how even though at one point I wanted it all to end, I chose to move forward. Underlying the phrase, I have an arrow that points me in the direction of life’s endless possibilities and happiness for whenever a subsequent obstacle drags me down.
There will always be unexpected hurdles in life. Although I needed medical attention in the past, now, sometimes all I need to do is glance down at my wrist to get me out of bed, pursue my passions, become a better person, and serve as a fighter for others. From a very young age, I was exposed to the global reality of social and health disparities. I have watched my cousin grow up as a child with special needs and have experienced the strenuous demands of this lifestyle. In India, I witnessed children who had not even taken their first steps begging for money, individuals with disabilities struggling without proper healthcare, and masses of people lying helplessly without food or shelter. These childhood images became ingrained in my head and initiated my momentum to create change. I always wanted to “save the world” and “cure my cousin.” However, it wasn’t until I personally struggled and failed multiple times that I learned how to fuel my drive towards creating that change. Now, I no longer helplessly watch them struggling from the sidelines. Instead, I become empowered to stand up, research, and do something about the injustices they face.
Rather than letting my anxiety hold me back, I allow my arrow to guide me towards embarking on new adventures. As the arrow led me to our nation’s capital one summer, I began immersing myself in diverse opportunities. Through conversations, debates, and networking events, I finally left the bubble I was accustomed to and became exposed to the larger realities of various human 
rights crises. Engaging in public service taught me new perspectives on how I can learn from, rather than be limited by, my obstacles. In reflecting on my mental health struggles, I determined that stigmas are what made them worse. This inspired me to share my experiences, transform my messages into narratives, and have my stories resonate with others through a blog. The semicolon in my tattoo became more meaningful as it began encouraging me to break barriers by keeping the conversation of mental health, and other human rights, going. Whenever someone misunderstands or is ignorant of issues pertaining to stigmatized topics, I no longer get frustrated. Instead, I try to educate them. Although this blog started as a coping mechanism for myself, it has transformed into a platform that teaches me the importance of helping myself through the fulfillment of guiding others.
Even that Friday night after Thanksgiving, all I needed to do was glance down at my wrist. The spine-chilling shriek came from my aunt who had just found out that two masked men shot and killed her brother at his convenience store. The day after expressing what we were thankful for, we were mourning with a spiral of emotions. My family wanted me to either go back to Chicago so I would be able to focus on my LSAT or try to reschedule so I would not be distracted. We had just lost another loved one and the last thing I wanted to do was take an exam. Yet, as I looked down at my wrist, I turned that “last” into a “first.” I took my time to mourn, went back home, and followed the investigation online. Rather than distracting me, the situation motivated me to study even more. Witnessing an entire community searching for two individuals who shot and killed an innocent family member reinforced my desire to fight for human rights.
In interviews, my cousin spoke through tears about how her father encouraged other family members to move to America because it was so safe; but there she was pleading for justice for his murder in his own city in our “safe” country. Disabilities, sexual assault, reproductive justice, hate crimes, stereotypes, undocumented immigrants, and now gun control—these are all human rights concerns that have hit home for me over the years. However, there is a plethora of other global human rights violations that also need to be addressed. My cousin’s words have added another layer to my motivation for being that individual who raises awareness about unspoken topics in my community, that voice for people who are unable to speak up themselves, and that inspiration for others to accept and express themselves. 
No one deserves to feel unsafe or be stripped of their basic human rights—in America or anywhere else in the world—and the warrior within me will continue to stand by others as they become warriors through their own struggles.
