Rick Levin Memorial Scholarship

There is so much more to me than people will ever know. To show you the chapters of my life, my story, I’d have to open up my book to you. This is a scary thought for me; I've tried my entire life to keep it closed. However, you have asked for me to be vulnerable; to share the stories that would render my submission incomplete without retelling, so here I go. I’ve had a hard life. What makes it even harder is that from the outside, it doesn’t look that way. I’m not a person that anyone would look at and feel sorry for. I’m not a person that anyone would look at and think to offer help. I’m not a person that anyone would look at and second guess if the smile on my face was fake; it was by the way. Most of this was by design, some of this was by assumption; the assumption that “pretty” girls, from “good” families, living in Jenks, America have it all. I did not have it all. I am a child of abuse. I don’t even like to put this into words. It makes me so uncomfortable to say that I’ve deleted and reinserted this paragraph five times now. My abuse was never physical, nothing anyone could ever see, but it was emotional, and devastating. I thought nothing of myself by grade six. I grew up listening to my father berate my mother, over and over and over again. Eventually, it shifted to me, sadly. I got it from my dad and my mom; she was hurt and I was an outlet. I was never an impressive child, in their eyes. I was just a girl “who would have to spend her life trying really hard to become average.” I put that in quotes because that’s the exact phrase my second grade teacher used to describe me to my mother, as I stood by her side and listened; It’s funny what sticks with you. I felt so stupid. As I grew, I continued to feel stupid. Eventually other kids started to notice, and liked to remind me. Truthly I was never stupid. My brain worked differently and processed more slowly and my lack of focus, combined with my anxiety, depression, and hidden trauma made learning and succeeding hard. My father refused to let me be evaluated or be medicated, so I crawled along as my peers sped by. My junior year I received the coveted designation of being a Mckinney-Vento recipient, a polite way to call me homeless. Sometimes I wonder what an impressive application I would’ve submitted to you if things were different… You can’t wonder and wish life into submission, but you can develop the grit to take it under control. I like the word grit; I think it describes me well. Grit is something that doesn’t come from easy and privileged. Grit isn’t something you can detect from a GPA or test score. Grit becomes a gift to those of us who come from hard places, but have the determination to dream so big that we find our way out. Most of my life, I’ve resented my struggles; today I celebrate them for all that they are. I proudly present to you, dearest reader, a dinged, yet unbroken, girl who knows how to thrive when life is hard; a girl who knows success takes work; a girl who doesn’t give up on her dreams. What are my dreams; I know you’re wondering… I will grow up to become a pediatric nurse, working in a children’s hospital. I will work alongside children and families who are going through the hardest time in their lives. I will hold their hands and give them comfort like only a fellow girl from a hard place can do. Today, I am endlessly proud of myself for refusing to settle for average.