Earnest Jane Scholarship

When I was four years old, I lost my uncle to suicide. He was only nineteen. No one saw it coming. He was the happiest person in the room, the kind of guy who made everyone laugh. He died during a hike with his brother—my other uncle—right beside him. He said, “I’m going to jump,” and did. It happened in a split second, and it shattered my family. I wasn’t on that hike, but I have vivid memories of him. I remember Christmas mornings with him playing beside me. I remember him at the zoo, telling me red pandas were his favorite animal. I remember a sunny spring day when he showed me his “wicked scar” from a motorcycle crash—pulling down the collar of his white shirt to reveal it. I can still smell the flowers from that day. I remember him tossing Dots candy into his mouth and playing with me, and I haven’t been able to eat Dots since. After he died, my dad started doing that same candy toss with me, maybe as a way to remember his little brother and have fun. These tiny memories are all I have, and they mean everything to me. My uncle wanted to be an architect. He was a talented artist. I still keep his sketchbook with me, and it’s what inspired me to start drawing. His death changed the direction of my life, even though I was too young to fully understand it at the time. After he died, my dad couldn’t cope. He fell into addiction. What started as a way to numb the pain turned into years of drug use, jail time, and disappearing acts. I went from missing my uncle to watching my dad slowly disappear too—but in a different way. He was still here, but not really. He missed birthdays, holidays, and most of my childhood. It’s 2025 now, and he’s finally in rehab. It took two decades to get here. Seeing him struggle for so long made me want to help people—to be someone who listens, understands, and offers support. That’s how I found beauty. At first it was just makeup and drawing, then I started doing nails, making jewelry, and building a business. It became my therapy. I learned that helping people feel good about themselves—through art, style, or even a small accessory—can be healing. I believe in retail therapy, not just in a consumer sense, but as a way of helping people reconnect with themselves. Losing my uncle and growing up in the shadow of addiction taught me resilience, creativity, and compassion. My education isn’t just for a degree—it’s for the future I’ve worked hard to build, despite everything. I want to keep creating, helping, and honoring both my uncle’s memory and my father’s recovery. I think my uncle and my dad would be proud of the person I’m becoming.