Vincent Van Gogh's words, "What is done in love is well done," have become a guiding principle in my life. My love for art began in childhood, shuttling between my mother and grandmother with, sketchbooks and colored pencils as my only constants. Amidst the chaos, art became my anchor. It was my cousin who first taught me that art was something worth chasing. Most days, he gave in to my childish requests to draw a picture of Spider-Man. But as I watched his hand move across the page, something clicked for me. Soon after, I was practicing constantly, filling sketchbooks with what those around me dismissed as "delusions of grandeur. " Truly, I was an ambitious kid, dreaming big on a small island like Jamaica. In high school, my passion solidified under Mr. Baile, who prodded me to take art seriously. During art class, he had us paint one of Vincent's works, introducing me to Van Gogh through his post-impressionist masterpiece, The Starry Night. When I faced a similar canvas, I saw not just paint, but Van Gogh's desperation to find himself. Plastering thick, heavy strokes of paint, it was a cry to be seen—a desperate plea for his inner self to make sense of the chaoticness of his life. In a way, I was drawn to the idea of self-discovery within my art. Van Gogh became my favorite artist for confidently painting his raw emotions with bold brushstrokes. That tormented dedication in his work mirrored the kind of artist I wanted to be. An artist who painted not for the world but for the love of creating. What I find admirable is that he kept painting through severe poverty, mental health struggles, and a lack of recognition from the art world. Yet, neither of these things stopped him. Like Van Gogh, I too struggled mentally from my turbulent childhood and that shared pain is apart of why he is my favorite. In fact, it was painting within the asylum that kept him sane and drawing that helped me express myself when there was no room to. Although Van Gogh's journey ended tragically in 1890, mine is just beginning. I intend to carry that same dedication as I become a professional artist, competing in art contests, building a diverse portfolio, and continue to push my creative limits. Above all, the most impactful step has been finding mentors and advocates who believe in my creative vision and recognize the power of art to leave an impression on the world. I believe this opportunity will do just that. I'm ready to step into my dreams and turn childhood aspirations into reality - no longer a delusion, but real grandeur.

"Do well in school and become one of the big four - a teacher, lawyer, doctor, or police officer," a phrase I often heard growing up in the Caribbean. The safe paths to success were in those careers, but even as a child, my heart was somewhere else. My passion for art had been there for as long as I could remember. I had admired my cousin's talent for it, so much that my curiosity grew into wanting to create and become a professional artist. Like most dreams, it was not easy to pursue art. In 2019, I was attending a STEM high school. While I understood the importance of science in everyday life, it strayed from the career I had envisioned. By tenth grade, I felt overwhelmed and disconnected from life itself. At its peak, my family moved to the US, and I found myself adapting to a new culture and leaving behind the familiarity I had always known. Nevertheless, throughout that entire time, art had remained one of the few places of refuge and expression in a world filled with AI. I believe that art made with a soul carries something more than any machine could replicate: the heart of its creator. Every canvas reflects the time, emotion, and morality of the artist behind it. My goal is to become a professional artist who, regardless of whether someone shares my beliefs, wants my work to make people stop, think, laugh, and feel something genuine while still honoring God. This scholarship won't simply be paying for my education; it would be an investment in someone determined to use their talent to make an impact on art and the people observing it.

For me, art was never something surface level. It always had depth and was filled with meaning poured out by the artist—or at least that’s my interpretation of it. In the same way, through subliminal, figurative, and abstract messages, I would like my art to inspire and invoke critical thinking. I believe that composition, carefully created symbolism, and color can evoke strong emotion. Symbolism, for me, is like verbs—the action—and color is the noun, though sometimes it can be the other way around. The composition is the idea or the sentence structure that brings everything together. For example, if someone is placed in the corner of a room surrounded by dark, muted colors, you might feel the isolation or sorrow that the figure is experiencing. Seeing the figure appear so small makes you wonder what they are going through. It’s things like that that I try to put into my art—elements that make people feel something. Art has been a huge part of my life. It was almost my escape, my safe space. I already struggle to express myself with words, so art, for me, is like a cry for help—not in a negative way, but in a way that allows me to place my raw emotions onto a piece of canvas. Doing that makes me feel seen, and through that vulnerability, others may also feel inspired by my work. Art has always been a huge part of history. Whether it is used for propaganda or to inspire hope in others, it has always been a catalyst for change. Key examples include Picasso’s anti-war *Guernica*, the Code of Hammurabi establishing early ideas of justice, and Dorothea Lange’s photography revealing the suffering of the Great Depression. Other examples include Leonardo da Vinci’s anatomical studies, which expanded understanding of the human body, and Marcel Duchamp’s *Fountain*, which challenged society’s definition of art itself (IPaintMyMind). It has changed the world before, and it will continue to do so. Because of that, I believe that my art can, in some way, change the world through the messages I place into the canvas. I want people to know about the gospel in a way that isn’t invasive—something so captivating that they don’t even realize they are being shown a different kind of light. It is the light that we, as creatures made to desire a higher being, naturally long for. My hope is that through my art, people might feel that connection again—the connection many of us have severed because of sin and the brokenness of this world. In conclusion , being true to self expression is how I believe I can change the world with my art: by doing His will, not my own. I want my art to be a type of solace for others, a place where people can feel understood without needing words. I hope the message within my work stays with them long after they see it and slowly inspires reflection and change.

It was during the summer of 2025 when I realized that staying home and doing virtually nothing with my time was not a viable option. I wanted to do something meaningful. I wanted to put my hands to use and step outside of my comfort zone. That was when I heard that my church’s prison ministry was giving food to the needy every Wednesday and needed extra volunteers. Without overthinking it, I signed up. I did not fully understand what I was stepping into at the time, but that experience became one of the most humbling and eye-opening moments of my life. Every Wednesday, we would prepare and distribute food to people who had very little. I expected to feel sympathy. What I did not expect was to feel inspired. Many of the individuals we served had almost nothing, yet they carried so much joy. Their faith in God was strong and unwavering. They spoke about gratitude in ways that challenged me. Watching them bow their heads in prayer over a simple meal made me reflect deeply on the things I had complained about in my own life. I began to think about the times I had been ungrateful — the small inconveniences I treated as major problems, the blessings I overlooked because I was focused on what I did not have. Meanwhile, the people standing in front of me were thankful for a warm plate of food and a few minutes of conversation. That contrast changed me. From the very beginning, I made sure I did everything with a heart of love. I did not want to simply hand someone a plate and move on. I wanted them to feel seen. I wanted them to feel respected. Having a new, fresh face there seemed to brighten their spirits as well. Over time, I began making small connections. I learned names. I heard stories. Some shared how they once had steady jobs, homes, families, good health — stable lives. Then life shifted. Some lost employment. Others faced medical crises. A few made choices that led them down difficult paths. Listening to them reminded me that homelessness does not always start with laziness or lack of ambition. Sometimes it starts with one unexpected hardship. Where I am from in Jamaica, homelessness often looks different. Many people experiencing homelessness struggle visibly with mental illness, and growing up, we were taught to avoid them for safety. Because of that background, I struggled internally at first. I kept my distance. I was polite, but guarded. There was a quiet fear in me that I had to confront. But as the weeks passed, something shifted. I began to see them not as “the homeless,” but as people. People going through hard seasons. People who were once where I am now. People who laughed at jokes, who worried about their families, who believed God still had a plan for them. Once I recognized that, the fear I carried started to fade. Compassion replaced it. That summer taught me that service is not about feeling superior or “helping the less fortunate.” It is about shared humanity. It is about recognizing that circumstances can change quickly and that any of us could find ourselves needing help one day. Volunteering every Wednesday did more than fill my time. It reshaped my perspective. It strengthened my gratitude. It deepened my faith. Most importantly, it softened my heart. I went there thinking I was going to serve others. In reality, they served me too — by teaching me humility, empathy, and the power of seeing people for who they truly are.

The first time I understood how fragile life could be, I had not even taken my first breath. My older sister was stillborn, and what should have been one of the happiest days in my family’s life became one filled with grief and fear. My mother nearly lost her life due to severe blood loss and medical negligence. That night in March, my mother lay in a hospital bed after giving birth to my stillborn sister, Omeika. She didn’t cry. My mother said she looked almost at peace before the doctors took her away. After some time, my mother began bleeding heavily, but the nurse on call did not think it was anything serious. My mother lost nearly a liter of blood before a doctor finally stepped in to prevent her from going into hypovolemic shock. The saddest part of it all is that there were no ultrasound photos or keepsakes to remember her by. No pictures, no footprints — just memories and a name. A year later, I was born. Although I never met my sister, her absence has shaped me in ways I am still discovering. Growing up as the middle child — with an older sister I never got to meet and a younger brother who looks up to me — has been both heavy and humbling. I often wonder what it would have been like to have her here. Would she have guided me? Would we have leaned on each other during difficult times? Sometimes I imagine how different our family dynamic would feel if she were present. Her absence created a quiet space in our home, one that I became aware of even at a young age. Watching my parents carry their grief while still finding the strength to raise my brother and me taught me resilience. I saw firsthand how pain and love can exist in the same space. Knowing my mother almost lost her life that day created a deep sense of gratitude in me. It made me more protective of my family and more aware of how quickly life can change. Being the older sibling to my brother has also felt different because of her. I carry a stronger sense of responsibility, as if I am honoring the role she never had the chance to fulfill. Her death has made me more empathetic, more mature, and more intentional about the way I show up for others. Although my sister was never physically present in my life, she has always been part of my story. Her absence taught me to value time, family, and the people I love. In many ways, losing her before I was born has shaped the person I am today — someone who understands both the weight of loss and the strength that can grow from it.