Sunflowers of Hope Scholarship

Anyone who struggles with ADHD, ODD, Anxiety, and Depression knows how hard it is to stay focused and on the right path. Unfortunately, I struggle with all of the ones I named. I've taken so many medications in the past, jumping around from one therapist to another, and continue to take daily pills just to help me function and concentrate in school. When in doubt, no matter the situation, you can always turn to art for guidance. I've been in so many free art classes, starting since kindergarten. Art classes, music classes, choir, theater, dance, etc, I've done it all. All of these keep me from derailing. There is no limit to art. There's no right or wrong with art. In a world where I've been told that I'm not right for being the way that I am and for being different, I found comfort in being able to draw and paint my thoughts, emotions, and stories without having to be judged for being weird. I guess, with what I've said already, maybe it's easy to tell that my favorite form of art is surrealism. My favorite medium to use, though, is black and silver pens. I go all in, no erasing and planning. I like seeing my art in black, white, and gray because you can tell the major contrast of the white being space, and the black being the full areas, making it a symbol of my own life as the black represents the parts of my life that are full of achievements and struggles, and the white symbolizing the emptiness that is waiting to be filled. I usually get my art materials from backpack drives that the school and the other schools in my community hold; getting notebooks and artbooks from teachers who have spares. I was raised by a single hardworking Latino father. My mom passed away when I was 3 years old, triggering the years' worth of depression that my father and I faced all alone. He can't afford his therapy (we're hardly even considered at the lowest level of the middle class), but he was able to cut a few corners in order to help me receive medical treatment for my mental illnesses/disabilities and therapy sessions. He dropped his career of wanting to be a music producer and artist, sacrificing his own dreams to raise me and help me make my own dreams. He pushes me to be successful with my education, not wanting me to follow in his footsteps of barely making ends meet. Although sunflowers are a symbol for people who struggle with hidden disabilities, I like to think that I'd be an orchid. Peculiar, yet full of life and fulfilling. Regardless of my struggles that people may or may not know of, I haven't given up in life. I came close to it once, but I let art guide me out of the depressing trance of helplessness that I had been drowning in for years. I'm so grateful to be alive to this day, watching myself bloom despite what differences are chained to me from others.

Art is not just what I do—it’s who I am. It has been my only constant, my only refuge, my only true friend. When the world grew cold, and even colder within myself, art was the warmth that kept me alive. I didn’t have a typical childhood. While other kids were building friendships and laughing at recess, I was learning how to disappear. Bullies made sure I never forgot I was different, but they weren’t the worst of it. My harshest critic—the one who tore me down the most—lived in my own head. I was angry at myself, filled with a quiet, aching rage I couldn’t explain. I didn’t know how to be kind to myself. I didn’t know how to be myself. I didn’t speak much. Words felt heavy, clumsy, like they weren’t made for me. So I stayed quiet. Alone. But even in that silence, there was something waiting patiently for me to notice it: art. It was always there, like an open door I didn’t have to knock on. I’d pick up a pencil, and suddenly I was somewhere else. Somewhere safe. Somewhere honest. Drawing, writing, creating—it became the only language I trusted. When I couldn’t say “I’m hurting,” my sketchbook could. When I didn’t know how to say “I’m here, I matter,” my characters whispered it for me. Through art, I could finally breathe. I could finally be. I’ve never had a best friend. But if I had to name one, it would be art. It never yelled. It never walked away. It never asked me to be less. It never demanded an explanation. It just listened. And in return, it gave me a way to survive. There were nights I wanted to give up. Nights when the silence in my room felt louder than any voice. Nights when I wondered if anyone would notice if I just disappeared. But then I’d draw. Or I’d write. And somehow, the pain would become something beautiful. Something worth creating. Something worth staying for. Art taught me that my voice didn’t have to be loud to be heard. That I didn’t need to fit in to matter. That even broken stories can be worth telling—and that they’re often the most powerful ones. Now, I don’t create just to escape. I create to reach. I want someone, somewhere, who feels the way I once did—small, voiceless, invisible—to see my art and feel less alone. I want my work to be the hand I never had to hold. The light I never saw when I was stumbling in the dark. If I can make one person feel seen, then every tear I’ve cried will have been worth it. Art didn’t just give me purpose—it gave me life. It took a quiet, hurting child and handed them a pencil instead of a goodbye. And now, I’m here. Still healing. Still learning. But alive. And finally, finally free. That’s why I will never stop creating. Because art saved me. And now, I want to spend the rest of my life passing that gift on.