The end of that Friday marked the beginning of midterm break. This four-day weekend is a time of relaxation, a means for students at Trinity College to catch up on the school work that is only just starting to pile up. Everywhere I looked I would see people discussing their plans. My friends and I are no exception. I would listen as many of them described their plans to return home, see their families again before the long stretch to Thanksgiving break.

"Yeah, I'm definitely taking a nap," I'd say every time I was asked about my own plans.

Being polite as I am, I simply showed my excitement for them and wished them the best of luck. But inside, I noticed hints of envy in my thoughts on the matter. I, like every other student on campus, miss my friends and family deeply. Yet I cannot help but bypass these feelings when I check Expedia for flight information. I type in my destination—Helena, Montana—and wait.

It hurt to read. No matter how much I wanted to see my family, I did not have a thousand dollars to burn. That pain was familiar. So was my reaction. I, for the most recent out of tens, hundreds of times I've done this, shut the lid of my laptop and went to lay down, gazing blankly at the bland, white walls of my dorm. I thought about what I was doing, how I got here, and, more importantly, how I was getting back home.

I hate that I get trapped in this dangerous thought pattern so frequently, but I have gotten used to it. "It's just a part of being low-income," I tell myself for the five hundredth time. I spent years and years in therapy trying to bypass these toxic ideas but something as simple as something I cannot control is my Achilles' heel. I scoff at it now. From a position of emotional neutrality as I write this article, I still cannot perceive why I would drag myself down so far so many times. But again, I know why. I have become acquainted with this feeling over the years. It is solely the feeling of hopelessness that is responsible for my difficulties.

It is at this point in writing these words that I notice the same signs pop up: mental lethargy, a desire for total quiet, a reduction in affectation. Those are just a few that I can label, but I will avoid the gruesome details for now. I feel the same whenever I hear a stranger describe their thousand-dollar clothing haul where they only got two shirts, a pair of pants, and some shoes; I see the signs the moment I see parents at Family Weekend bringing their sons and daughters 64" plasma screen televisions and ungodly amounts of beer; I notice them arise when I look at just how much college really costs. Every single time I feel the same. Those feelings of dissociation from your peers, like something about you just doesn't belong. I am not one of them, and there is a big chance that I never will be. I don't know what the future holds, and the uncertainty scares me.

Yet when it comes to low-income Americans, I am certainly fortunate; I was raised in a house that could fit a family of four and protect us from the elements. I had parents who were capable of feeding us, even if we never got to spend money on stuff we wanted. Sure, we played the money game more than I'd like to admit, but we were not destitute. I feel fortunate for that. But even from that perspective, being low on the hierarchy of economic distribution has served to the detriment of my mental health. It all comes down to guilt. I feel guilty whenever I have to spend money. I shame myself for spending money on things I don't really need, but make life a little easier. I have to fight off a panic attack when I see the $645 balance for textbooks this semester. Yet somehow I get defensive whenever someone offers to pay for something as simple as dinner. I cannot take it. I have the desire to be self-reliant, but I simply cannot. I just do not have the means.

But the hardest part of all is reminding myself that I am good enough.  

Anyone who has dealt with depression in the past can attest to this constant battle of self-support. I have to remind myself of the things that I am capable of on the daily, sometimes. So I want to close this by not only explaining what I mean in more detail, but I am writing this as a letter to my friends from similar backgrounds. I want you all to know that you all are capable of rising out of being "poor". Do not let this label define who you are as a person. Instead, force it to be a symbol of achievement and success. Use it as foundation to show others how far you've come, how much you've struggled to do things others take for granted. If you're anything like me, financial aid marks a period of anxiety and fear for you. Don't let it get to your head. Remember that wherever you end up will be the culmination of days of applications, weeks of anxiety while waiting for acceptance letters, and years of overcoming an obstacle many believe to be insurmountable. So live through it. More importantly, live in the moment. Allow yourself to prioritize experiences and friendships. Misery loves company, after all, and I will say without a shadow of a doubt that the people you meet who come from a similar background will become some of the closest friends you will ever make. Expand your character when you don't have the money to expand your wardrobe. But most importantly, never let your background tear you down. Always fight through it, and always make sure that you know how to help others without the experience to do so. Because when you're in my shoes, I guarantee you will have the same opportunity that I do now to help those who need it.