Essay #7
I come from a long line of men named John. When it came time to name me, my parents wanted some variety. My grandpa insisted that I carry the name John to the next generation, but my mom added Henry, the name of her beloved stuffed animal. When my parents put these two names together, I had the same name as the steel-driving legend.
The famous story of John Henry is a tale about a black man who was so strong, so determined, and so incredible that he proved he could drill a hole through rock faster than a drilling machine could. Through hard work and sheer power, John Henry emerged victorious. When my classmates and I read about his story in elementary school, they all looked at me with admiration. I loved this story and wanted to be just like him. In my eyes, my name created an expectation to be a legend in my own right. This mindset, however, ended up being perilous for my mental health. Throughout my childhood, I signed up for activity after activity with no goal in mind other than being legendary like my namesake. Unfortunately, I had no such luck. With only a childlike dream, I recognized I could never meet my own lofty expectations. My body didn’t seem capable of the greatness I’d imagined.
In middle school, I considered giving up on my dream to excel, but this made me feel like a complete failure. I tried to expand my extra-curricular activities to nonathletic pursuits. Still, I felt mediocre. I participated, but I never shined. In 6th grade, I faced reality: there was nothing phenomenal about me. This triggered a downward spiral into depression and a major battle with self-worth. I could never be John Henry, the legendary steel-driving man. A legend couldn’t be eclipsed by his own classmates, so I began to wonder, if I wasn’t the absolute best, who was I?
In 7th grade, my parents told me we were moving from Chicago, Illinois, to a suburb of Washington, D.C. This shocked me, but I tried to convince myself there might be an advantage to a fresh start. In my new school, I introduced myself as John to abandon the burden of the name, but my internal expectations still made me feel inferior to my classmates. I was frustrated by my underachievement and knew that practically nothing had changed.
After my transition to high school, I was fed up with my identity struggle. I confided in my parents about my mental-health issues. When a psychiatrist treated my depression, I wasn’t optimistic that it would help, but I was dead wrong. The medication sparked a huge difference in my mood and behavior. I began to accept the fact that although I wasn’t thriving at academics, sports, and extra-curricular activities as much as I wanted to, I was okay. I acknowledged that I’d set unrealistic goals for myself.
After I allowed myself to accept my imperfections, ironically, I finally began to excel academically and socially. My grades improved dramatically, and after getting vaccinated, I began to enjoy hanging out with my friends a lot more. I realized I didn’t have to be the legendary John Henry, the steel-driving man; I just had to be myself. Throughout high school, my depression has never completely gone away, but I have become much more adept at combating my insecurities. When we returned to in-person instruction in the spring of 2021, I felt much more comfortable answering questions aloud in class and sharing my opinions during discussions. Learning how to manage my depression has given me newfound confidence that has made me a more productive and ambitious student and a more supportive and generous friend. These are traits that have made me not only a more successful high school student but also characteristics that will make me an asset to whatever college I attend.