I played basketball since third grade. From the beginning, girls’ basketball has been overshadowed by the boys’, overlooked as slower and less exciting. I felt that shadow in eighth grade, when my teacher, who was also the boys’ basketball coach, constantly drilled me with questions about basketball. His goal seemed to be proving that girls didn’t understand the game as well as boys. I was frustrated to be underestimated simply because of my gender. It wasn’t until my freshman year, when I joined the JV team, that I experienced a shift. For the first time, I saw my classmates rally behind girls’ basketball. Our school’s varsity girls team had made it to the state finals multiple years in a row, earning recognition in our community. On game nights, students would come at halftime of the boys’ game, then pack the stands for the following girls’ game. Seeing this level of support gave me hope that one day I would be on that team, representing my school and community with pride. Junior year, that dream became a reality when I made the varsity team. I was thrilled to join a program with a recognized coach and teammates heading toward collegiate careers. But the season demanded a grueling schedule: practice at 6:00 a.m., school, lifting weights at 3:30 p.m., and practice again until 7:00 p.m. My priorities shifted naturally, with schoolwork filling whatever time was left. I was ready for a season filled with the support I had seen as a freshman. However, something had changed. That year, hardly any students showed up to our games. The enthusiasm of previous years had vanished, even for rivalry matchups. Meanwhile, the boys’ team, despite a losing record, still had a crowd cheering for them. I found myself asking, ‘what more do we have to do?’ We were undefeated in conference, while the boys won just one conference game. Yet, they received all the fan support. As someone who had looked up to the girls’ team with overwhelming community backing, I was confused and disappointed by the absence of fans. Even when the boys’ season ended, students didn’t come to our games. We won a regional trophy in near silence. It wasn’t until the state semifinals that students showed up. The same happened in my senior year: classmates traveled far to watch the boys lose, but skipped our home games. We didn’t get much support until making another deep tournament run, reaching the state championship and falling just short of victory. Despite the inconsistent fan presence, I have nothing but amazing memories from playing with my teammates. I am grateful for the unwavering support from our families and those closest to us, because in the end, that’s what truly matters. I would take that dedicated support any day over a half-hearted crowd. I don’t dwell on who showed up to cheer or who didn’t. Instead, I focus on the medals, awards, and trophies my teammates and I earned through hard work and sacrifice. I cherish the moments of joy after winning tight games or witnessing teammates’ incredible plays. I never envied the boys’ team, who weren’t close friends and didn’t share team meals. While they had crowds rallying behind them, my team had something stronger: each other. The bonds we built are unbeatable. Over my career, those bonds helped us win four conference championships, four district & regional, four trips to the final four, and two state finals appearances. We may not have had the fans, but we had what mattered most: trust, grit, and a shared passion that made us stronger than any crowd.

Golf has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. My dad introduced me to the sport when I was little, and we spent countless hours on the course together, bonding over early tee times and many tears of frustration as I learned the game. What began as a fun way to spend time with my dad gradually grew into a passion, and eventually, a place where I’ve faced some of my greatest personal growth. Competing in golf has taught me more than how to swing a club, it has shaped who I am. One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned through golf is how to confront difficult situations with courage and composure. When I joined the varsity team as a first-year, I was shy and timid. I felt the pressure of playing with older, more experienced athletes, and I was nervous to speak up, especially around people I didn’t know. But competitive golf forced me into situations where I had to face those fears. Every tournament, I’d be paired with strangers, people I had to compete against, communicate with, and stay composed around. Over time, I found my voice. I learned how to advocate for myself and my teammates and handle uncomfortable moments respectfully. One match stands out. I noticed a coach giving a player what seemed to be an unfair advantage. It would have been easy to ignore it, but I knew the sport's integrity depended on players speaking up. So I calmly called attention to the situation. It was nerve-wracking, but it taught me that doing the right thing often means stepping outside of your comfort zone. I didn’t fully feel the weight of being a young woman in golf until I started working at a course. Most of the customers were men, and many assumed I didn’t know how to even hold a club, despite playing competitively for years. As a female golfer, I’m often asked about my stats, as if numbers define my worth. Some older men even said my job wasn’t to play, but to be a pretty face waiting at the clubhouse after their round. These comments infuriated me. At first, I felt forced to smile and brush them off. But eventually, I realized their opinions didn’t deserve my energy. Real people value others for their character, not their appearance or gender. That realization empowered me to carry myself with quiet confidence, even when others underestimated me. Golf has also taught me how to manage frustration and failure. I’ve had to stay calm after missed shots, disappointing rounds, or unexpected setbacks. I’ve learned to let go of mistakes, reset my mindset, and focus on what I can control. That mental discipline has helped me approach all kinds of challenges with patience and maturity. Just as important as facing my own struggles has been learning how to support others through theirs. Golf reveals a lot about a person’s character, especially on tough days. I’ve learned that empathy and humility matter just as much as skill. A simple word of encouragement or small act of kindness can shift someone’s entire outlook. I’ve seen it, and I’ve tried to be that person for others. What golf has given me goes far beyond scorecards or medals. It has shaped my confidence, values, and voice. It’s taught me to face difficult situations with grit, grace, and integrity, and to always stand up for what’s right, even when it’s uncomfortable. Golf isn’t just something I play; it’s something that’s prepared me to lead, to listen, and to grow through whatever life brings next.

My grandpa had a lot of sayings. “Boom boom!” he’d exclaim when my toddler legs would give out beneath me, sending me straight to the ground. “You bet!” was his enthusiastic answer whenever someone asked him for a favor. When I was seven, Grandpa lost his voice. He has a frog in his throat, my mom would tell me, explaining his slurred and hoarse sentences. Plausibly, his ALS (Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis) diagnosis became prominent. Each time I visited him, he had a new tool. First came a walker, then a feeding tube, then a power wheelchair; soon enough, his room resembled a hospital's. However, none of this mattered to me; I still had my grandpa. I spent time beside him in his home-hospital room, enjoying his presence. I was eight when Grandpa’s words turned into buttons. Do you like my art? I’d ask, holding up my creation. His frail hand would slowly reach to push his green button, which played an ever-so-familiar: You bet! My last visit with Grandpa was on Christmas Eve. At that point, his ALS was at its worst, and his hands were too weak to use his buttons. No more ‘you bets’- just the constant hum of machinery doing his body’s work for him. He lay there, unable to move, breathe, or even blink. “I love you Grandpa”, I said before leaving. I knew he couldn’t say it back, but I didn’t need him to. My grandpa taught me that love goes beyond words. Over the years, I channeled my love for him into a passion for helping others with ALS. At ten years old, I began volunteering for an ALS foundation in my community. As a young volunteer, my roles were limited, but as I grew older, so did my involvement. I have learned the touching stories of patients and their families, reminding me of when ALS became part of my life. Although my role within the ALS community is primarily focused on supporting others, I have realized that the impact of their strength on my own life far surpasses anything I could offer in return. In the face of the harrowing and relentless challenges posed by their illness, ALS patients have consistently demonstrated an extraordinary reservoir of faith, love, and courage that deeply inspires me. Their ability to confront such debilitating adversity with grace and resilience is nothing short of awe-inspiring. In witnessing their journeys, I have learned invaluable lessons about the human spirit’s capacity to endure and find meaning even in the darkest times. Each individual’s story is a testament to the importance of community, reminding me that while I may aim to offer support, it is their unwavering strength and hope that truly uplift and enrich my life. Through their trials, I have found a profound sense of purpose, recognizing the bonds we create in the face of suffering can illuminate the path toward understanding, compassion, and a shared humanity. In my future, I want to use my able voice for those affected by ALS through advocacy and research. I aim to engage with policymakers to drive change in ALS funding and support, ensuring families have access to necessary resources. My grandpa’s life inspires me to be a catalyst for progress, pushing for advancements in treatment and raising awareness about this devastating disease. I hope to honor his legacy by fostering a community that fights for change and brings hope to those facing ALS.

My grandpa had a lot of sayings. ‘Boom boom!’ he’d exclaim when my toddler legs would give out beneath me, sending me straight to the ground. I would even fall on purpose just to hear his cheerful voice acknowledge my tumble. ‘You bet!’ was his enthusiastic answer whenever someone asked him for a favor. During summers at the beach house, I’d eagerly ask Grandpa if we could go swimming. You bet! he'd respond, and we’d head to the lake. When I was seven, Grandpa lost his voice. ‘He has a frog in his throat’, my mom told me, explaining his slurred and hoarse sentences. Plausibly, his ALS diagnosis became prominent. Whenever I visited him, he had a new tool. First came a walker, then a feeding tube, then a power wheelchair; soon enough, his room resembled a hospital's. However, none of this mattered to me; I still had my grandpa. I spent time beside him in his home-hospital room, enjoying his presence. I was eight when Grandpa’s words turned into buttons. ‘Do you like my art?’ I’d ask, holding up my creation. His frail hand would slowly reach to push his green button, which played an ever-so-familiar: ‘You bet!’ My last visit with Grandpa was on Christmas Eve. At that point, his ALS was at its worst, and his hands were too weak to use his buttons. No more ‘boom booms’ or ‘you bets’- just the constant hum of machinery doing his body’s work for him. He lay there, unable to move, breathe, or even blink. ‘I love you Grandpa’, I said before leaving. I knew he couldn’t say it back, but I didn’t need him to. My grandpa taught me that love goes beyond words. Over the years, I channeled my love for him into a passion for helping others with ALS. At ten years old, I began volunteering for an ALS foundation in my community. As a young volunteer, my roles were limited, but as I grew older, so did my involvement. I have learned the touching stories of patients and their families, reminding me of when ALS became part of my life. Although my role within the ALS community is primarily focused on supporting others, I have realized the impact of their strength on my own life far surpasses anything I could offer in return. In the face of harrowing challenges posed by their illness, ALS patients have consistently demonstrated an extraordinary reservoir of faith, love, and courage that deeply inspires me. Their ability to confront such debilitating adversity with grace is nothing short of awe-inspiring. In witnessing their journeys, I have learned invaluable lessons about the human spirit’s capacity to endure and find meaning even in the darkest times. Each individual’s story is a testament to the importance of community, reminding me that while I may aim to offer support, it is their unwavering strength that truly enriches my life. Through their trials, I have found a profound sense of purpose, recognizing the bonds we create in the face of suffering can illuminate the path toward understanding, compassion, and a shared humanity. In the future, I want to use my able voice for those affected by ALS through advocacy and research. I aim to engage with policymakers to drive change in ALS funding and support, ensuring families have access to necessary resources. My grandpa’s life inspires me to be a catalyst for progress, pushing for advancements in treatment and raising awareness about this devastating disease. I hope to honor his legacy by fostering a community that fights for change and brings hope to those facing ALS.

My grandpa had a lot of sayings. ‘Boom boom!’ he’d exclaim when my toddler legs would give out beneath me, sending me straight to the ground. I would even fall on purpose just to hear his cheerful voice acknowledge my tumble. ‘You bet!’ was his enthusiastic answer whenever someone asked him for a favor. During summers at the beach house, I’d eagerly ask Grandpa if we could go swimming. You bet! he'd respond, and we’d head to the lake. When I was seven, Grandpa lost his voice. ‘He has a frog in his throat’, my mom told me, explaining his slurred and hoarse sentences. Plausibly, his ALS diagnosis became prominent. Whenever I visited him, he had a new tool. First came a walker, then a feeding tube, then a power wheelchair; soon enough, his room resembled a hospital's. However, none of this mattered to me; I still had my grandpa. I spent time beside him in his home-hospital room, enjoying his presence. I was eight when Grandpa’s words turned into buttons. ‘Do you like my art?’ I’d ask, holding up my creation. His frail hand would slowly reach to push his green button, which played an ever-so-familiar: ‘You bet!’ My last visit with Grandpa was on Christmas Eve. At that point, his ALS was at its worst, and his hands were too weak to use his buttons. No more ‘boom booms’ or ‘you bets’- just the constant hum of machinery doing his body’s work for him. He lay there, unable to move, breathe, or even blink. ‘I love you Grandpa’, I said before leaving. I knew he couldn’t say it back, but I didn’t need him to. My grandpa taught me that love goes beyond words. Over the years, I channeled my love for him into a passion for helping others with ALS. At ten years old, I began volunteering for an ALS foundation in my community. As a young volunteer, my roles were limited, but as I grew older, so did my involvement. I have learned the touching stories of patients and their families, reminding me of when ALS became part of my life. Although my role within the ALS community is primarily focused on supporting others, I have realized the impact of their strength on my own life far surpasses anything I could offer in return. In the face of harrowing challenges posed by their illness, ALS patients have consistently demonstrated an extraordinary reservoir of faith, love, and courage that deeply inspires me. Their ability to confront such debilitating adversity with grace is nothing short of awe-inspiring. In witnessing their journeys, I have learned invaluable lessons about the human spirit’s capacity to endure and find meaning even in the darkest times. Each individual’s story is a testament to the importance of community, reminding me that while I may aim to offer support, it is their unwavering strength that truly enriches my life. Through their trials, I have found a profound sense of purpose, recognizing the bonds we create in the face of suffering can illuminate the path toward understanding, compassion, and a shared humanity. In the future, I want to use my able voice for those affected by ALS through advocacy and research. I aim to engage with policymakers to drive change in ALS funding and support, ensuring families have access to necessary resources. My grandpa’s life inspires me to be a catalyst for progress, pushing for advancements in treatment and raising awareness about this devastating disease. I hope to honor his legacy by fostering a community that fights for change and brings hope to those facing ALS.