You’re not broken, you’re becoming by Trinity

You’re not broken, you’re becoming by Trinity - July 2025 Scholarship Essay

“You’re not broken, you’re becoming.”

That’s the one sentence I would whisper into the ear of my younger self, the girl who sat in classrooms with her lips pressed shut, heart racing, afraid to raise her hand or even say “here” during attendance. The girl whose silence was mistaken for defiance, whose quiet nature led others to label her as strange, rude, or invisible. I’d find her in the back row, looking down at her desk to avoid being called on, and I’d let her know that her silence is not a flaw, it’s a seed of something powerful.

Growing up with selective mutism, a severe anxiety disorder that made speaking in certain social situations impossible for me. I thought there was something deeply wrong with me. I didn’t know how to explain the way words froze in my throat when I stepped into a classroom or a store. I couldn’t make others understand that it wasn’t about choice, it was about fear. I lived inside a mind that moved faster than my mouth ever could, and it was exhausting. Every social interaction felt like a performance I hadn’t been trained to give. I would have given anything to be “normal.” I wanted to be like other kids my age who were able to talk and express themselves clearly.

So, to that girl, the version of me who felt broken beyond repair, I would say: “You’re not broken. You’re building something.”

I’d tell her that one day, all the things she hated about herself would become the things she’d value most. That being observant, patient, and deeply empathetic would one day help her tutor a close friend who was too afraid to ask for help. That her ability to notice what others missed, the student who avoided eye contact, the friend who masked sadness with jokes, would become the foundation of a future in psychiatry. I’d tell her that silence isn’t weakness. It’s a different kind of strength.

I’d also let her know that healing doesn’t come all at once. It comes in little moments, like the day she finally volunteers to speak in front of the class, even if her voice shakes. Or the time she applies for college, deciding that maybe her story matters after all. Healing is messy, imperfect, and slow. But it’s real.

If I could give my younger self one piece of advice, it would be to stop waiting for the moment she becomes someone else. The world made her feel like she had to change everything about herself to belong, speak louder, smile more, be braver. But the truth is, she didn’t need to become someone new. She just needed to grow into herself.

I’d remind her that her voice is not a liability. It’s a tool. One that she will use to advocate for people like her, those who were misunderstood, dismissed, or overlooked. I’d tell her that one day, she’ll study psychology not just to understand herself, but to help others find the words they’ve been too afraid to speak.

And most of all, I’d tell her she’s already enough. That her worth isn’t tied to her ability to speak in front of a crowd or blend in. That her uniqueness, the very thing she thought disqualified her, will end up being the reason she stands out.

If I could go back and give just one piece of advice to my past self, it wouldn’t be to change anything about who she was. It would be to hold on. To keep going. To trust that one day, everything she thought made her different would be everything that makes her powerful.

Because I know now what she didn’t:

She wasn’t broken.

She was becoming.