Crowned to Lead HBCU Scholarship

I lost my innocence when I was nine. Earlier, perhaps. My childhood was grey. Quiet. Just my mom, my brother and I—except when I saw my dad some weekends. My mom came home from work just to lock herself into her office and work through the night. I took care of my little brother and cooked for us in the tiny apartment we shared at the storage unit where she worked. I always asked if she was okay, if she had eaten. Her answers were always yes, and no. I ask today, and the answers are still yes, and no. Eventually, she got a boyfriend—my brother’s father. The largest man I’ve ever seen, always carrying a weapon and stacks of bills in his wallet. But he bought groceries, shoes. He didn’t make her happy—I rarely saw her happy—but he was there. One day, his hand reached for his wallet, and strayed. To places it never should have. It strayed quite often. The world stayed quiet, but my mind got loud. A year passed. I lost my voice, my light. And no one knew. I read to escape—like my mom once read to me, before work consumed her. Books became my lifeline. Then, I picked up a pen. I began to weave my pain into poems. I let myself scream in ink what I couldn’t whisper aloud. Until those screams in my head grew louder, and I couldn’t take it. I told someone. And they gave me permission—to stand up for myself. To not feel guilty for “ruining” their relationship, taking away my brother’s hero, taking up space when I'd always been taught to stay small. I was a terrified child. But I was right—everything fell apart. Everyone’s anger turned on me. I battled PTSD, depression, anxiety, and medication—all before I turned fourteen. But sound started to seep back in, grey started to fade. I saw color again. The grey castle had to fall for me to build my own of gold. I found my voice. I haven’t let myself be silenced since. After writing as an escape for years, learning that my words held weight and power, I knew it was what I wanted to do. I poured my energy into school, craft, and growth. I won spelling bees, worked my way up in a latin dance company, made honor roll every year. I went to all-state choir three times, joined FAME Drama, and starred in an award-winning play by my sophomore year of high school. I idolized authors and wrote relentlessly—poems and stories remained my outlet as I worked toward goals and through trauma in tandem. I finished my first novel at seventeen and plan to publish within the year. I became Treasurer of National Honors Society, and now I am President of NHS and SGA. I mentor students, coordinate service projects with in-school and outside officials, and lead teams of my peers with integrity and positivity. I help care for my baby sister, continue to support and care for my brother, and cheer on my mother as she goes back to college. I faced off against my abuser in court. Gave a personal statement, looked him in the eye as I recounted all he did to me—ensuring he got life in prison. My past defines nothing about me but my strength. I smile, laugh, and walk into every room with confidence. My intelligence precedes me, but it’s my resilience, heart and passion that make me memorable. That passion will carry me through college and put my name onto the shelves of every bookstore I once escaped into.