I give back through direct service, consistency, and presence in spaces where support often feels limited. My current work places me alongside individuals facing acute mental health challenges. I support people during moments of distress, confusion, and vulnerability. This work requires patience, emotional control, and respect. I show up reliably. I listen carefully. I help create safety in environments where stability often feels fragile. In these settings, giving back looks practical. I assist with daily routines. I help regulate crises through de escalation and calm communication. I document accurately to protect client rights and continuity of care. I advocate quietly but firmly when someone feels unheard. These actions may seem small, but they shape outcomes in real time. Trust builds through consistency, not grand gestures. Outside of formal roles, I give back through mentorship and example. I speak openly with peers and students from underrepresented backgrounds about navigating higher education while managing financial pressure, family responsibility, and emotional strain. I share strategies, not platitudes. I normalize struggle without excusing stagnation. This matters because many people exit systems early, not from lack of ability, but from isolation and fatigue. My lived experience also informs how I give back. I grew up witnessing instability and limited access to support. Those conditions sharpened awareness of how systems fail people quietly. They also shaped my commitment to return knowledge and opportunity back into the same communities. I do not view service as charity. I view service as responsibility. Looking forward, my long term goal involves expanding impact beyond individual encounters. I plan to work in roles that influence policy, access, and institutional practice within mental health and advocacy focused systems. I want to contribute to programs and frameworks that reduce harm before crisis occurs. Prevention requires informed design, ethical leadership, and people who understand both data and lived reality. Education plays a central role in this future impact. Through advanced training, I intend to develop expertise that allows me to influence decision making at higher levels. This includes program development, legal advocacy, and systems reform. I want to help shape environments where care feels humane, accessible, and culturally responsive. I also plan to remain engaged in direct service, since distance from lived experience weakens judgment. Giving back in the future also includes mentorship. Representation matters, especially in fields where leadership rarely reflects the communities most affected. I plan to mentor students and early career professionals from underrepresented backgrounds. I want to model stability, discipline, and ethical clarity. I want others to see that complex systems are navigable and that their presence holds value. My approach to impact remains grounded. Change grows through sustained effort, informed action, and accountability. I give back now through service and care. I plan to give back later through leadership, advocacy, and structural change. Both matter. Together, they shape a future rooted in dignity, access, and responsibility.

I am a psychology student and mental health worker shaped by lived experience, responsibility, and service. I balance school, work, and family while preparing for a career centered on ethical, trauma informed care. I chose this path because I have seen what happens when people are misunderstood, mislabeled, or ignored. I believe service begins with presence, consistency, and respect. One moment that reflects how I serve my community occurred while working in a mental health setting with a patient experiencing severe distress related to an eating disorder. During a routine interaction, a staff member used language that unintentionally reinforced shame and fear around food. The patient immediately withdrew and stated they would not eat for the rest of the day. I recognized the shift in affect and risk escalation. Rather than escalating the situation or minimizing the impact, I stayed with the patient, validated their emotional response, and redirected attention using an art based coping activity. Throughout the shift, I maintained calm, nonjudgmental support. I encouraged nourishment without pressure, reframed the incident without blaming, and modeled trauma informed language. By the end of the shift, the patient ate dinner and multiple snacks with prompting. More important, they reengaged socially and expressed feeling understood rather than controlled. I documented the incident accurately and advocated for accountability and education around sensitive communication. This was not about blame. It was about protecting the patient and improving care. That experience reflects how I approach service. I do not see my role as simply following protocol. I see it as protecting dignity. Many people in crisis have been corrected more than they have been heard. Small interventions, when done consistently, change outcomes. Service often looks quiet. It looks like staying present when someone feels exposed. It looks like choosing the right words when they matter most. Outside of formal settings, I serve through education and support. I help peers navigate academic systems, share information about mental health resources, and normalize seeking help early. I am intentional about language. I challenge stigma when I hear it. I model boundaries and self regulation rather than burnout. These actions build trust and set tone in shared spaces. My goal is to continue serving my community through mental health work that centers safety, accuracy, and access. I plan to work with marginalized populations who are often disciplined for symptoms rather than supported through them. I want to create environments where people feel believed and where care responds to context, not assumption. Service is not a single moment. It is a pattern of choices. It is noticing what others miss and responding with integrity. That is how I made an impact, and that is how I intend to continue.

I am a psychology student pursuing my degree with the intention of working in mental health services, specifically with communities that remain underserved, misunderstood, or overlooked. I chose psychology because it sits at the intersection of lived experience and science. It asks why people behave as they do, how systems shape outcomes, and what evidence based care actually looks like when applied in real life. For me, this field is not abstract. It reflects what I grew up observing and what I continue to see in my community. I chose this degree after recognizing how often mental health struggles are misread, minimized, or punished rather than supported, especially for people of color. I saw how stress, trauma, and instability were treated as individual failings instead of predictable responses to environment. Psychology gave me language for what I had lived and tools to respond to it with structure rather than emotion. It offered a way to transform observation into action. Within my program and the broader mental health field, people of color remain significantly underrepresented. While representation varies by specialty, Black and other people of color make up a small percentage of licensed psychologists in the United States, often estimated in the single digits. This gap matters. It affects trust, diagnosis, treatment engagement, and outcomes. Being part of that minority is not symbolic to me. It is responsibility. I plan to make an impact on my community by providing mental health services that are informed by both clinical training and cultural awareness. This means advocating for trauma informed care, challenging biased diagnostic practices, and helping institutions recognize how race and environment influence mental health. I want to work in spaces where people feel understood rather than pathologized, and where care is preventative rather than crisis driven. Beyond direct service, I plan to contribute through education and mentorship. Many students of color never consider careers in psychology because they do not see themselves represented or believe the field is accessible. I want to change that narrative by being visible, honest, and consistent. I believe inspiration comes less from speeches and more from proximity. When people see someone who looks like them navigating higher education, balancing responsibility, and building a sustainable career, possibility becomes concrete. I also aim to inspire the next generation by demystifying the path. Graduate school, licensure, and clinical work can feel opaque and intimidating. I plan to share information, resources, and realistic guidance with students who may not have access to mentorship otherwise. Increasing representation requires more than encouragement. It requires access to knowledge. Ultimately, I chose this degree because it allows me to bridge insight and impact. My presence in this field matters not because it is rare, but because it can help make rarity less true over time. By committing to excellence, equity, and visibility, I hope to contribute to a future where mental health professionals reflect the communities they serve, and where the odds continue to shift.

I identify as a person of color, and that identity has shaped my path in ways both visible and subtle. It has influenced how I understand struggle, how I navigate systems, and how I define success. Growing up as a POC in a low income environment meant learning early that effort alone does not always produce equal outcomes. I watched people work hard and still fall behind. I learned that access, perception, and support often matter as much as ability. From a young age, I became aware of how race shapes expectations. I noticed who was given patience and who was expected to adapt. I learned to overprepare, to anticipate questions before they were asked, and to carry myself in ways that reduced the chance of being misunderstood. These skills helped me survive academic and professional spaces, but they also revealed how uneven the playing field can be. Being competent was not enough. I had to be exceptional to be seen as equal. My upbringing reinforced this awareness. Financial instability and family stress intersected with race in ways that limited access to consistent care, academic enrichment, and mentorship. I learned resilience not because it was inspiring, but because it was necessary. I developed independence early and learned how to function under pressure. These experiences shaped my work ethic and my sense of responsibility, but they also fueled my interest in understanding how systems affect mental and emotional health. As I pursued higher education, my identity as a POC became even more central to my goals. I saw firsthand how mental health disparities disproportionately affect communities of color. I observed how stigma, mistrust of institutions, and lack of culturally responsive care prevent people from seeking help. These patterns were not abstract to me. They reflected what I had lived and what I continue to see in my community. This understanding drives my academic and career path. I am pursuing psychology with the intention of serving marginalized populations through mental health services that are informed, accessible, and respectful. I want to work in spaces where people of color feel understood rather than evaluated through biased frameworks. Representation matters, but so does approach. I aim to bring both lived insight and clinical rigor into the work I do. Looking forward, my identity will continue to guide how I advocate, lead, and serve. I plan to use my education to challenge gaps in care and to support systems that prioritize equity over convenience. I want to contribute to environments where people of color do not have to prove their worth before receiving support. Being a person of color has not limited my path. It has clarified it. My experiences sharpened my awareness, strengthened my resolve, and shaped my commitment to creating change that lasts. I carry my identity with intention, not as a barrier, but as a source of perspective that informs every step forward.

I see Dr. Steve Aldana’s mission as deeply aligned with how real change occurs in both psychology and public health. Sustainable improvement does not begin with dramatic interventions. It begins with small, repeated actions practiced in environments where people spend most of their lives. My education and career path center on carrying this belief into mental health and wellness spaces that often overlook consistency in favor of urgency. I am pursuing a degree in psychology with the intention of working at the intersection of mental health, wellness, and systems that serve people under chronic stress. My lived experience has shown me how burnout, trauma, and untreated mental health concerns do not emerge overnight. They accumulate through disrupted routines, unmanaged stress, and environments that reward endurance over care. Because of this, I believe wellness work must focus on building habits that people can maintain even during hardship. My academic training emphasizes behavior change, stress regulation, and the psychology of habit formation. I study how small shifts in sleep hygiene, emotional regulation, movement, and social connection can meaningfully reduce long term mental and physical health risks. These concepts mirror Dr. Aldana’s belief that sustainable improvements create the greatest impact. I plan to apply this knowledge in workplaces, community programs, and clinical settings where wellness initiatives often fail because they feel unrealistic or inaccessible. In professional spaces, I aim to help organizations move away from performative wellness efforts and toward practical structures that support daily well being. This includes designing mental health informed wellness programs, educating leadership on burnout prevention, and normalizing incremental change rather than perfection. In community settings, I plan to advocate for low barrier wellness strategies that respect time, culture, and financial limitations. Small habits matter most when people feel overwhelmed, not when life feels ideal. My passion for this work comes from personal experience with mental health strain in high pressure environments. I have seen how consistent routines and compassionate systems can stabilize people more effectively than short term interventions. This perspective drives my commitment to evidence based wellness approaches rooted in psychology rather than trend driven solutions. Dr. Aldana’s work reminds me that integrity in wellness means practicing what you teach. I carry this forward by modeling the habits I promote, maintaining balance while pursuing rigorous education, and choosing consistency over intensity. I believe credibility grows when professionals live the principles they encourage in others. Through my education, I plan to continue building the skills needed to translate research into everyday practice. I want to help individuals and organizations understand that health does not require perfection. It requires persistence. By focusing on small, sustainable habits, I aim to contribute to healthier workplaces, stronger communities, and mental health care that honors the long game of well being. This mission feels personal, practical, and necessary. It is how meaningful change lasts.

Online platforms make my education possible. I study psychology while working in mental health and raising children. Structure and flexibility matter as much as content. Online tools give me both. I rely heavily on my university’s digital library and research databases. Peer reviewed journals, ebooks, and clinical manuals allow me to study evidence based practice without physical barriers. I search by diagnosis, symptom clusters, and treatment modality. This teaches me how to move from curiosity to precision. I do not skim. I compare studies. I track patterns across authors. Digital access supports depth rather than speed. Recorded lectures and asynchronous coursework shape how I learn complex material. Topics like trauma, attachment, neurobiology, and dissociation require repetition. Online lectures allow me to pause, replay, and reflect. I take structured notes and return to sections after clinical shifts. This improves integration. I connect theory to real patients rather than memorizing terms for exams. I also use online clinical education platforms and webinars focused on trauma informed care, substance use, and ethical decision making. These resources bridge classroom learning and practice. Case based discussions help me recognize nuance in presentation, language, and behavior. I learn how symptoms shift across context. This strengthens clinical judgment and reduces overgeneralization. Productivity tools support consistency. Digital calendars, task management systems, and cloud based notes keep coursework, work schedules, and family responsibilities aligned. Without these tools, cognitive load would overwhelm progress. With them, I maintain rhythm and accountability. Organization protects mental bandwidth for learning. Online discussion boards matter more than expected. Reading peer responses challenges my assumptions. Writing responses forces clarity and restraint. Psychology requires careful language. Online forums train me to articulate insight without excess emotion or defensiveness. This skill translates directly to clinical settings. Technology also supports reflective practice. I use secure digital journaling to process clinical experiences and link them to theory. Reflection helps prevent burnout and sharpens self awareness. It strengthens ethical boundaries. Online tools support this process consistently. These platforms changed how I apply knowledge. I recognize patterns faster. I ask focused questions. I separate behavior from intent. I integrate context before interpretation. Online learning required self direction. It demanded discipline without external structure. That demand strengthened my confidence as a learner and clinician in training. Online education did not reduce rigor. It increased responsibility. I manage my learning actively rather than passively receiving information. Technology did not replace human learning. It supported access, repetition, and application. I use online platforms because my life requires adaptability. These tools allow me to pursue psychology with seriousness and integrity while living real responsibility.

I am a fan of Sabrina Carpenter because her career reflects psychological growth in real time. She shows what identity development looks like when it happens under observation. Sabrina began her career young, in a system that rewards compliance and likability. Early roles framed her as harmless and agreeable. As she matured, she reclaimed authorship over her voice. That shift matters. From a psychological perspective, her evolution reflects individuation. She moved from externally defined identity to internally directed self expression. Her music now shows emotional differentiation. Songs like “because i liked a boy” and “Feather” demonstrate insight without self erasure. She names shame, projection, and public misinterpretation without collapsing into them. That is emotional regulation. She holds humor and pain at the same time. Many people never learn how to do that. What impacts me most is her refusal to perform innocence or apology for growth. Women are often punished for asserting boundaries or sexuality after being perceived as safe. Sabrina did not retreat. She integrated past versions of herself into a more grounded identity. Psychology recognizes this integration as resilience, not rebellion. As someone studying psychology, her career reinforces my interest in how young women navigate power, perception, and autonomy. She models how self trust develops when approval becomes unreliable. She shows how reclaiming narrative protects mental health. Sabrina Carpenter’s impact on me is not aesthetic. It is structural. She demonstrates that growth does not require permission. Identity strengthens when it stops asking to be understood and starts being accurate.

The performance that moves me most is Taylor Swift singing “my tears ricochet” during the Eras Tour. There is no spectacle driving that moment. No bright pop choreography. No playful crowd work. It is restraint, grief, and control held in tension. She stands on stage and delivers a song about betrayal, loss, and being wounded by people who once claimed love. The power comes from how little she explains. She lets the silence do the work. That performance resonates with me because it reflects what unresolved grief looks like in real life. The song is not about one person. It is about the psychological aftermath of loss, especially loss tied to trust and power. Watching her perform it feels like witnessing someone process pain without asking for permission or validation. She does not soften the message. She does not rush the feeling. She lets it land. What makes the performance especially moving is the contrast between the scale of the stadium and the intimacy of the emotion. Tens of thousands of people watch her relive something deeply personal, yet she remains composed. That balance mirrors survival for many people who carry grief quietly. You learn how to function, how to show up, how to keep moving forward while something unresolved lives inside you. As someone shaped by loss, instability, and long term emotional responsibility, that performance feels honest. It reflects how pain does not always erupt. Sometimes it settles. Sometimes it sharpens awareness. Sometimes it becomes clarity. Taylor Swift’s strength in that moment is not volume. It is presence. She does not perform healing. She performs truth. That is why it stays with me.

Coming from a single parent, low income household taught me perseverance before I had language for it. Stability was inconsistent. Support was limited. I learned early that waiting for ideal conditions was not an option. If I wanted something different, I had to build it myself. Growing up, resources were scarce. Money dictated choices. Education felt fragile, something that could be interrupted at any moment by crisis. I learned to adapt quickly. I worked early. I planned carefully. I learned how to push forward even when exhaustion was constant. Perseverance was not motivational. It was required. These experiences shaped how I move through challenges now. I do not panic when systems feel overwhelming. I problem solve. I ask questions. I figure things out without assuming help will arrive. Being low income taught me discipline and accountability. Being raised without consistent parental support taught me self trust. I plan to use my life experience to create impact through mental health work. I am actively pursuing a degree in psychology and working in clinical settings to gain hands on experience. I want to serve individuals and families who grow up without stability, guidance, or access to care. I understand how systems overlook people who appear functional but carry unresolved trauma. I am not driven by status or recognition. I am driven by responsibility. I want to become a psychologist who understands survival shaped behavior without judgment. Someone who recognizes resilience without romanticizing struggle. Every step I take toward my education is intentional. I study while working. I build experience while managing family responsibilities. I persist because I know what happens when people are left unsupported. My background did not limit my goals. It defined my purpose.

My grandfather helped raise me and my siblings. He was not a background figure in my life. He was a constant. When adults disappeared or became unreliable, he stayed. His presence created stability in a childhood shaped by instability. He had heart disease for as long as I can remember. It shaped daily life in quiet ways. Medications on the counter. Fatigue that slowed his steps. Appointments that interrupted routines. We learned to read his energy the way some kids read weather. We adjusted without being asked. Love looked like adaptation. Heart disease introduced fear early. I understood mortality before I understood safety. I learned that strong people can still be fragile. I learned that care often means vigilance. Those lessons did not leave when he passed. They followed me into adolescence and adulthood. When my grandfather died, the loss felt structural. He was not only family. He was protection. His death created emotional and practical gaps. Grief arrived alongside responsibility. I stepped into roles that did not match my age. I focused on holding things together while learning to survive loss. That experience created obstacles I did not name until later. I struggled with concentration during periods of grief. I carried anxiety rooted in anticipatory loss. I learned to stay productive while emotionally disconnected. Education became both refuge and pressure. I used school to create forward motion when emotional processing felt unsafe. Heart disease shaped my understanding of caregiving. I watched how chronic illness affects families long before crisis moments. The stress does not wait for emergencies. It lives in routines. It shapes choices. It alters childhoods quietly. That awareness stayed with me and informs how I see patients and families today. The loss of my grandfather also shaped my relationship to time. I do not take presence lightly. I do not postpone meaning. I learned that care matters more than intention. Showing up consistently matters more than promises. Those beliefs guide my relationships and my work ethic. As a student pursuing psychology, I carry his influence daily. His illness exposed me to the intersection of physical health, mental health, and family systems. I saw how stress, grief, and responsibility accumulate when illness persists. I saw how children adapt without support. Those observations shaped my career direction. I work toward becoming a psychologist because I understand the cost of untreated grief and chronic stress. I want to support families navigating illness without losing children to silence or self neglect. I want to practice with awareness of how medical conditions ripple outward. This scholarship matters because heart disease did not only take someone I loved. It altered my foundation. Financial strain, emotional responsibility, and loss shaped my academic path. Support reduces pressure. It allows focus. It honors the reality that illness leaves long shadows. My grandfather taught me endurance through presence. His death taught me purpose through loss. I continue my education with both lessons intact.

Being a first generation student means I walk into higher education without a map. No safety net. No family blueprint. I carry my history with me into every classroom. My mother never finished tenth grade. School stopped early for her. Trauma took over. She lives with dissociative identity disorder and addiction. My childhood did not include homework help or college tours. It included instability, silence, and survival. I learned how to read adults before I learned how to trust them. I learned responsibility before childhood ended. Education was never modeled as an option. It became my escape. School felt stable when home did not. Learning gave structure when my environment felt unpredictable. I became self directed out of necessity. I taught myself deadlines. I taught myself discipline. I taught myself how to stay standing while everything around me shifted. Being first generation also means carrying grief alongside ambition. I grieve what support could have looked like. I grieve guidance I never received. At the same time, I hold pride. I broke a cycle. I chose a path no one before me walked. I did not inherit opportunity. I built access piece by piece. Challenges followed me into adulthood. I became a parent young. I balanced work, school, and caregiving without backup. I navigated financial strain, emotional labor, and academic pressure at once. Many students study full time. I survive full time while studying. Persistence became my skill set. My drive comes from lived exposure to mental illness and addiction. I saw systems fail my family. I saw misunderstanding replace care. Those experiences shaped my dream. I pursue psychology with intent to serve people shaped by trauma, substance use, and neglect. I want to practice with accuracy, ethics, and compassion. I want to become the professional I needed growing up. This scholarship matters because first generation students carry invisible weight. Financial stress limits time, focus, and flexibility. Support reduces strain. Support creates space to study deeply, work less hours, and remain present as a student and parent. This scholarship would allow me to continue without constant crisis management. My journey did not start with privilege. It started with chaos. I turned pain into purpose through education. I stand as proof growth does not require ideal conditions. Growth requires resolve. I am not chasing perfection. I am building stability for my children and integrity for my future work. Higher education changed my trajectory. This scholarship would protect momentum I fought hard to earn.

My experience with substance abuse shaped how I understand safety, attachment, and responsibility. It did not begin with my own use. It began in childhood, inside relationships where addiction and emotional instability set the tone of daily life. I learned early how unpredictability alters development. Substance abuse taught me how quickly roles reverse in families. Children adapt. They monitor mood. They anticipate conflict. They learn emotional regulation before they learn safety. Psychology later gave language to what I lived. Hypervigilance. Parentification. Insecure attachment. These were not abstract concepts. They were survival skills. Those experiences shaped my beliefs. I do not view addiction as a moral failure. I view it as a maladaptive response to pain, shame, and unmet needs. Substance use often functions as emotional regulation when healthier tools were never modeled or reinforced. This belief guides how I treat others. Judgment blocks recovery. Understanding opens space for accountability and change. My relationships were shaped by this exposure. I learned how addiction distorts trust and communication. Promises lose meaning. Consistency becomes rare. I became skilled at reading nonverbal cues and emotional shifts, often at the expense of my own needs. As an adult, I work actively to build relationships grounded in boundaries rather than over functioning. Substance abuse taught me that love without limits is not healing. These experiences also influenced how I show up for others. I notice patterns others miss. I recognize when someone is masking distress with humor, avoidance, or control. I understand relapse as part of a process rather than a failure of will. This perspective allows me to remain present without rescuing or enabling. My career aspirations grew directly from this foundation. I am pursuing psychology because I want to work with individuals and families affected by substance use and trauma. I am especially drawn to diagnostic clarity and trauma informed treatment. Many people struggling with addiction are mischaracterized rather than understood. Labels replace curiosity. Systems respond with punishment rather than care. Working in mental health settings reinforced this path. I have seen how substance use intersects with anxiety, depression, and unresolved trauma. I have also seen how respectful care changes outcomes. When people feel seen rather than managed, engagement increases. Recovery becomes possible. Substance abuse influenced my life trajectory by forcing early awareness of human fragility and resilience. It shaped my values around compassion, structure, and ethical care. It pushed me toward a career rooted in understanding rather than control. I do not seek to fix people. I seek to create conditions where change feels possible and dignity remains intact.

I am a fan of Wicked because it captures core psychological truths about identity formation, moral development, and the long term impact of social rejection. The story mirrors concepts I study in psychology, not in theory, but in lived experience. Elphaba represents what happens when a person develops a strong internal moral compass in an environment that rewards conformity. From a psychological lens, she shows high self awareness, empathy, and moral reasoning. Those traits place her at odds with social norms. Research on social exclusion shows that individuals who challenge group values often become targets of labeling and scapegoating. Wicked illustrates this process clearly. Elphaba is not rejected because she is harmful. She is rejected because she disrupts comfort. Her journey reflects identity versus role confusion. She is pressured to redefine herself to gain acceptance. She refuses. That refusal carries consequences, yet preserves psychological integrity. Defying Gravity captures a moment of individuation. She separates her sense of self from external validation. In psychology, this moment marks a shift from externally defined worth to internally anchored identity. That shift protects long term mental health, even when it increases short term distress. Glinda’s arc adds another psychological layer. She represents social learning and reinforcement. She is rewarded for compliance and punished for dissent. Over time, cognitive dissonance builds. For Good reflects post relational growth. Attachment research shows that meaningful relationships alter internal working models permanently. Wicked respects that truth. Growth does not require permanence. Impact does not require proximity. As someone studying psychology and preparing for doctoral training, Wicked reinforces why I care about diagnostic humility and trauma informed care. Elphaba is labeled dangerous long before anyone seeks understanding. This mirrors how real people with strong emotions, neurodivergence, or trauma histories become mischaracterized instead of supported. Wicked shows how power shapes narrative, diagnosis, and reputation. I am also drawn to Wicked because it refuses emotional simplification. Characters hold competing truths. Moral clarity does not guarantee social reward. Psychological health does not equal social ease. The musical validates complexity, grief, anger, and resilience without forcing resolution. Wicked resonates with me because it aligns with how I view human behavior. People are shaped by context, reinforcement, and fear of exclusion. Healing begins when identity stops bending to survive approval. Wicked does not celebrate rebellion for spectacle. It honors self trust, ethical consistency, and the psychological cost of being misunderstood. That message informs how I study, how I parent, and how I hope to practice psychology. Wicked gave me language for experiences I felt long before I could explain them. It did not teach me to seek belonging. It taught me to protect my sense of self.

One of the most pressing social issues today is the growing mental health crisis among adolescents. As someone currently pursuing a degree in psychology, I’m working hard to be part of the solution. I’m not just preparing to become a clinical psychologist—I’m building a foundation to actively change the lives of young people who are struggling with emotional pain, trauma, and the effects of broken support systems. I’ve chosen to specialize in working with adolescents because I know firsthand how difficult those years can be. I grew up surrounded by people who didn’t have access to therapy or mental health resources. I’ve seen how untreated depression, anxiety, and trauma can shape a person’s entire future. That’s what drives me every single day to keep learning and pushing forward in this challenging field. In addition to my studies, I work in a psychiatric hospital where I lead group therapy sessions for teens. I work under psychiatrists and nurse practitioners, helping adolescents learn coping skills and preparing them for life after discharge. These experiences have helped me understand how important early intervention and education are. Many of these teens have never had anyone teach them how to manage their emotions or even explain what’s happening in their minds. Being able to guide them—sometimes just by sitting down with crayons and paper and helping them process their feelings—is one of the most meaningful parts of my journey so far. Beyond clinical work, I’m in the early stages of developing a community-based prevention program called Youth Defense Project. This voluntary program will focus on helping adolescents understand the biological and environmental causes behind risky behaviors, such as substance use and unsafe sexual activity. The program will offer individual and group counseling, family therapy, and parental education to strengthen the support system around each teen. My goal is to start this program in schools—especially underserved ones—because I believe that when mental health education is made accessible, it can change everything. I’m still in school, and I have a long way to go. But every course I take, every research article I read, and every patient I work with gets me one step closer to being the psychologist I needed growing up. I’m working to address a social issue that affects an entire generation. And I’m doing it by listening, learning, and committing myself fully to creating spaces where young people feel seen, supported, and safe.

Mental health has always been a central part of my life, both personally and professionally. Growing up, I witnessed firsthand how untreated mental illness affects not just the individual, but the entire family. My mother lives with Dissociative Identity Disorder, and during my teenage years, she also battled addiction. Those experiences taught me the importance of compassion, patience, and support lessons I carry with me today as a Mental Health Technician at a psychiatric hospital for adolescents. In my current role, I lead therapeutic groups focused on coping skills, healthy habits, emotional awareness, and self-care. I work with teens who struggle with depression, anxiety, trauma, and more. Many of them feel misunderstood or ignored by the world, and it’s my job to help them feel seen and supported. I guide them through exercises, help them build emotional regulation skills, and offer a safe, nonjudgmental presence during some of their hardest days. These moments have only deepened my commitment to this field. I also understand what it feels like to live with anxiety and depression myself, which makes me more empathetic and grounded in my approach. I know the importance of accessible, compassionate care. and that’s exactly what I want to provide on a larger scale in the future. I’m currently studying psychology with the goal of becoming a licensed clinical psychologist. I plan to specialize in adolescent mental health, focusing on trauma, mood disorders, and early intervention. I want to work in underserved communities and eventually help design educational and prevention programs for youth and families. My goal is to not only treat symptoms but also give people the tools to understand themselves better, rebuild confidence, and move forward. Helping others with their mental health isn’t just my job it’s my calling. Every day, I see how much of a difference it makes to have someone who listens, who truly cares. With continued education, training, and support, I plan to be that person for many more in the years to come.

I didn’t grow up thinking I’d be a psychologist. I just wanted peace. I spent most of my childhood in survival mode, navigating my mom’s Dissociative Identity Disorder, her addiction, and a father who was physically around but emotionally checked out. My grandparents stepped in to raise me, and I took on adult responsibilities early. I cooked, worked multiple jobs as a teenager, and helped support my family. I was the oldest of five, and that came with pressure but also strength. When I first started college in 2014, I wasn’t in a place to focus. Life happened fast. I got married, had kids, and put my education on pause to take care of my family. Coming back to school wasn’t easy, but I did it anyway because I knew I was meant for more. I wanted to give my children a better life and prove to myself that I could still do this. I chose psychology because I’ve lived through the kind of pain that many people carry silently. I understand trauma, not from textbooks, but from real life. That’s what led me to become a Mental Health Technician at a psychiatric hospital for teens. I work under psychiatrists, nurses, and therapists, helping adolescents who struggle with depression, anxiety, trauma, and more. I lead groups on coping skills, self-care, and emotional regulation. I’ve seen how much it means for these teens to be heard, to feel safe, and to have someone who doesn’t judge them. That’s the kind of psychologist I want to be, one who listens, really listens, and helps people feel seen. My goal is to earn my PsyD and specialize in adolescent mental health. I want to focus on mood disorders, anxiety, and trauma, especially in underserved communities where access to good care is limited. Long term, I also want to develop prevention programs that educate teens and their families on how mental health works and how early intervention can change lives. This isn’t just a career path for me. It’s personal. I’ve been the kid who needed help and didn’t know how to ask. I’ve been the adult holding everything together while falling apart inside. And now I get to be the person who shows up for others, especially young people, in a way I wish someone had done for me. This scholarship would help me keep going without burning out. I’m balancing school, work, and raising two kids. It’s not easy, but I’m doing it, and I’m not stopping. With support, I can keep pushing toward the finish line and build the future I’ve worked so hard for.