Some movies entertain, some make you think, and some burrow into your soul, leaving you different than you were before. "Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga" did that for me. It wasn’t just a comedy, not just some ridiculous musical movie. It was a reminder. A reminder that dreams, no matter how outlandish, how impossible they seem, are worth chasing. I watched it at a time when I needed it most. When doubt was creeping in, whispering that maybe my passions were too big, too unrealistic. That my art, my love for ASL, my dream of being both a forensic scientist and an advocate, maybe it was all too much. But then there was Lars and Sigrit, singing their hearts out, defying expectations, embracing every misstep along the way. And somehow, through the glitter and the chaos, something clicked. The message was simple but powerful fail, get back up, keep going. Lars and Sigrit weren’t perfect. They were awkward, they messed up, they got laughed at. But they never stopped believing in the music, in themselves. And watching that, it made me realize why should I stop believing in myself? Why should I let fear, or even failure, define me? And then there was "Húsavík." That song. That moment. It wasn’t just about winning. It was about singing the song that mattered, being true to yourself even when the world tells you to be something else. It hit me in a way I wasn’t expecting. The idea that home, that identity, is something you don’t have to compromise, it stayed with me. Beyond the music, beyond the humor, there was something deeply personal in the way the movie embraced both dreams and failure. It reminded me that success isn’t always about being the best or winning first place. Sometimes, success is simply about not giving up. About embracing who you are, no matter how many times people tell you you’re not good enough. That’s something I’ve struggled with, balancing my ambitions with the fear of falling short. But watching this movie, it felt like a sign. A ridiculous, glittery, over-the-top sign that told me to keep going. It also inspired me to travel and explore the world. This summer I'm going to explore Iceland with my family. I am excited and ready to meet new people and have new experiences, I wouldn't be if it wasn't for this amazing film. So, yeah, maybe it’s just a movie to some people. But to me? It was hope, wrapped in music, reminding me to keep chasing my own version of Eurovision, whatever that may be. And no matter what, I’ll keep singing my song.

There are moments in life when you look at yourself and wonder how you ever got through it. The weight of it all, the chaos in your head, the way it felt like you were fighting yourself just to stay afloat. Bipolar 2 disorder has been that fight for me. It’s a storm I carry inside, sometimes quiet, sometimes roaring, but always there. And for a long time, I let it control me. It took things from me, energy, stability, friendships. And for a while, I thought I’d never get those things back. Friendships, especially. I’ve lost people. Not because I wanted to, but because being around me wasn’t always easy. The swings, the unpredictability, the days where I couldn’t be reached no matter how much someone tried. I lashed out, withdrew, made choices that hurt the people I loved. And I didn’t always realize it until it was too late. That’s the hardest part knowing you pushed people away without meaning to, knowing you can’t take back the moments where you weren’t your best self. But I also learned that loss isn’t always permanent. That bridges can be rebuilt, even if it takes time. The first step was understanding myself, really looking at my patterns and behaviors, recognizing what was in my control and what wasn’t. Therapy helped. Medication helped. But what helped the most was accountability. Taking responsibility for the hurt I caused, even when it wasn’t intentional. Apologizing, not just in words, but in actions. Showing up for the people I had let down, proving that I was working to be better. It wasn’t easy. Some friendships couldn’t be saved, and I had to learn to accept that, too. But some could. Some people were willing to give me another chance, to listen, to forgive. And that meant everything. Rebuilding trust takes time, and it takes effort. I had to learn to be a better communicator, to be honest about my struggles instead of shutting people out. I had to recognize when I needed help instead of pretending I was fine. I had to learn patience with others, with myself, with the process of healing. Achieving stability, even a fragile one, has been the greatest victory of my life. Not just for myself, but for the relationships I’ve fought to rebuild. I know now that I’m not defined by my disorder. It’s part of me, but it’s not all of me. I can still love and be loved, still be a good friend, still have people who choose to stay. And that’s something I will never take for granted again. So I keep going. I keep learning, keep growing, keep holding onto the people who stood by me and the ones who gave me a second chance. And on the days when the storm rages, I remind myself I’ve survived it before. And I’ll survive it again.

Allergies are a strange thing. One moment you’re just existing, breathing, living like everyone else. The next, your own body decides something harmless is the enemy, and suddenly, the simplest things become obstacles. Grass. Dust. Pollen. Christmas trees. Things other people don’t even think about, I have to avoid like they could ruin my whole day because sometimes, they do. Two shots a week. That’s my reality. Roll up my sleeve, take a deep breath, feel the sting. Repeat. It’s routine now, something I do without much thought, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t weigh on me. I wish I didn’t have to think about my own immune system like it’s an unpredictable storm, ready to strike whenever I let my guard down. Some people get to just exist. I have to prepare. Christmas used to smell like pine needles, like something fresh and sharp and cold. Now, Christmas smells like artificial plastic and a little bit of regret. My family doesn’t get real trees anymore because they make me sick. It started small, some sneezing, itchy eyes, but it got worse. My throat closed up one year. That was enough. We stopped. It was the right thing to do, and no one ever made me feel bad about it, but I still feel guilty sometimes. Like I took something away from them. From us. I try not to dwell on it. There are worse things. At least I can still breathe when I’m careful. At least I have medicine. At least the shots help, kind of. But that’s the thing about allergies: they remind you that your body is not always yours to control. It reacts how it wants, when it wants, and you just have to deal with the consequences. People don’t always get it. “Oh, it’s just allergies.” Like it’s just a sniffle. Like it’s just a minor inconvenience. But they don’t know what it’s like to sit out of things because the air itself feels hostile. To miss out on traditions because your body won’t cooperate. To carry an EpiPen and hope you never have to use it. It’s frustrating. It’s exhausting. It’s just a part of my life. But it’s not everything. It doesn’t define me, even though sometimes it feels like it does. I still go outside, I still find ways to enjoy things. We still decorate a tree, just a different kind. I still celebrate, still laugh, still make the most of what I have. It’s a reminder, maybe, to appreciate what I can do instead of what I can’t. So yeah, allergies suck. The shots suck. Not having a real Christmas tree sucks. But life is more than what I can’t have. And if nothing else, it’s taught me to adapt. To adjust. To find joy in new ways. Maybe that’s the real lesson. Or maybe I’m just trying to make the best of a body that sometimes works against me. Either way, I’m still here. Still breathing.

There’s something about Chappell Roan that feels like home. Like glitter-covered, neon-drenched, unapologetic home. Her music loud, wild, tender, brash has wrapped itself around me like a second skin. It’s more than just catchy melodies or punchy lyrics. It’s a call to arms, a declaration, a mirror that shows me exactly who I want to be. As a lesbian woman, I grew up craving representation that wasn’t watered down, wasn’t quiet, wasn’t afraid to take up space. And then there’s Chappell, strutting across the stage in head-to-toe camp, singing about girls with the kind of confidence I was told I shouldn’t have. She makes queerness feel electric, larger-than-life, something to celebrate instead of something to shrink. That kind of presence, that kind of raw, electric joy, it's contagious. I’ve poured that inspiration onto canvas more times than I can count. I’ve painted her in pinks and reds, in crowns and flames, in ways that feel both surreal and deeply personal. Because how else do you thank someone for making you feel more yourself than you ever have? Art is how I process, how I reflect, how I honor. And Chappell, she deserves all of it. Supporting her career is not just about liking the music (though, let’s be honest, every song is a bop). It’s about backing an artist who is paving the way for queer joy to be loud and visible. Who makes confidence feel like an act of rebellion. Who reminds me, and so many others, that we are allowed to be exactly who we are, in all our bold, outrageous, glittering glory. So yeah, I’ll keep blasting her music. I’ll keep painting her face. And I’ll keep celebrating everything she stands for, because the world needs more of it.

The relationship between law enforcement and the African American community has been fractured for generations. It’s not just about a few bad cops or isolated incidents. It’s about history, about a system that wasn’t built to protect everyone equally. If we want to fix this, if we want to rebuild trust, law enforcement agencies have to do more than just say they want change. They have to prove it. One of the biggest ways to start is addressing mass incarceration. The numbers don’t lie, Black Americans are disproportionately arrested, sentenced, and locked away for crimes that, in many cases, their white counterparts receive lighter sentences or no punishment for at all. The war on drugs? It wasn’t just about drugs. It was about targeting communities, breaking up families, stripping people of opportunities before they even had a chance. If law enforcement wants to repair its relationship with African Americans, we have to start by reversing the damage. Sentencing reform, ending cash bail, providing real rehabilitation instead of just punishment. People deserve a second chance, not a lifetime of being branded as criminals for non-violent offenses. But it’s not just about policy. It’s about presence. Too many Black communities see police officers only when something bad happens. There’s no trust because there’s no real connection. Community policing can change that. Officers need to actually be part of the communities they serve not just showing up in times of crisis, but engaging, listening, understanding. More programs that bring officers and residents together in real, meaningful ways, mentorships, school programs, neighborhood events could help break down the walls that have been up for so long. Law enforcement shouldn’t feel like an occupying force. It should feel like protection. And then, there’s accountability. People need to see that officers who abuse their power don’t just get a slap on the wrist. There has to be transparency, real consequences for misconduct. Body cameras need to be used properly. Civilian oversight committees should have real power. Without accountability, there can be no trust. Too many innocent people have lost their lives to people in power that they should have been able to trust and rely on. Fixing this won’t happen overnight. Centuries of oppression, decades of over-policing and under-protecting, none of that disappears just because people start talking about change. But action speaks louder than words. We need reform, we need connection, and most importantly, we need justice. Because without justice, trust can never exist.

I am a creator, a fighter, a dreamer. My life has been a constant mix of passion and perseverance, art and science, love and struggle. I don’t fit neatly into one box, I never have. And I don’t want to. What makes me stand out? It’s not just my ambition, but the way I refuse to let anything, or anyone, define me. Art has been my way of understanding the world. Whether I’m painting, crocheting, knitting, or sketching, every piece I make tells a story. Sometimes it’s a story of rage, of triumph, of grief, especially as a woman navigating a world that often tries to quiet us. Other times, it’s a love letter to the past, inspired by the greats, Frida Kahlo, Van Gogh, Basquiat, artists who poured their souls into their work. Art isn’t just something I do. It’s who I am. But my world isn’t just color and canvas. It’s science, logic, and truth-seeking. I want to be a forensic scientist, to uncover evidence, bring justice to those who need it. I want to be the reason a family gets closure, the reason the guilty don’t walk free. And on the other side of that, I want to be an ASL interpreter because justice isn’t just about crime, it’s about communication, about making sure no one is left unheard. ASL has inspired me, changed the way I see language, and opened my eyes to the struggles of the Deaf community. I don’t just want to sign, I want to advocate, to make sure Deaf and hard-of-hearing individuals have the same access, the same opportunities as everyone else. I want to adopt Deaf children, to give them a home where language is never a barrier, where they are fully, completely understood. I also want to be a forensic scientist, I plan on becoming a forensic scientist. I am going to attend a four year university, Western Oregon university. I plan to double major in forensics and ASL. My goal is to bring peace to those who have lost friends or family in the past or in the future. I also want to focus on and reopen the missing and murdered indigenous women's cases. There are far too many that have been swept under the rug and I want to bring peace to their families and justice for the victims. I am an artist, a scientist, an advocate. I want to create, to solve, to fight, to heal. And I will. That’s what makes me stand out.

My passion for women's rights skyrocketed after the overturning of Roe v. Wade in 2022. An activist since I was little, I never, ever let things slide when something didn't feel right; I stood up for a student being treated unfairly by a teacher. All this happened in one day of kindergarten recess: I was playing with my friend, who at that time identified as a male, and wanted to jump rope. Then, out of nowhere, the girls holding the long jump rope wouldn't let my friend play. I, confused, asked them why; to which they responded with, "He's a boy. Boys can't jump rope.". Only girls can." That really enraged my five-year-old self, so I stood on top of the jump rope and didn't get off until recess ended. I was thinking, "If my friend can't play, then no one can." Of course, this wasn't the most productive way of handling it, but I have to give my props to my younger self for risking my kindergarten social status for a friend. It has always seemed rather confusing to me, and I have never felt right by it. When I was younger I used to make Mom buy clothes from the "boys" section of Target, and that made me some sort of vigilante breaking down gender roles within my little world. I never could fathom why anyone cared that people fit neatly into an expectations box based on their supposed gender. Why couldn't boys jump rope? Why can't girls wear superhero shirts? These questions have evolved for me over the years, but one thing has never budged-my belief in equality, fairness, and the dismantling of rigid roles. I want to make a difference in the world. That is my number one goal. Even if that difference is a ripple, I can die satisfied. I want to be that woman who isn't afraid of the challenges that will have to be faced while fighting adversity. I want to be one of those women whom little girls look up to, a person to inspire them to be whatever they want to be. Men should never make laws about women's bodies. Furthermore, anti-abortion laws inordinately impact the most vulnerable among us. In these situations, for women of color, low-income women, and rural women, dealing with an unplanned pregnancy means serious challenges. They do not just punish; they further contribute to existing inequalities and make the most vulnerable among us bear the full brunt of retrogressive policies without any regard whatsoever for their challenges. It means commitment to women's rights, meaning understanding and fighting for equality and being fair. I want to live in a world where no one is ever told what to do with their body. I strive to shatter the glass ceiling and encourage other women and minorities around me that it is not impossible just because a man said it is. It’s not impossible just because a woman has never done it before. YOU can do it, even though it will be challenging and scary. Creating a world where little girls grow up knowing they have the power to choose their path, and where men and women fight side by side for a future that values freedom, dignity, and respect for all. The overturning of Roe v. Wade was a wake-up call, but it also reignited the fight in so many of us. I’m ready to join that fight, no matter the challenges ahead.

Art has always been more than just an interest for me—it is the way I process the world, express emotions, and connect with history and culture. My influences stem from both contemporary and historical figures who have used art as a voice, a rebellion, and a celebration. Artists like Frida Kahlo, Keith Haring, and Basquiat inspire me not just because of their styles, but because of their ability to channel personal and societal struggles into something powerful. I see the same raw honesty in Van Gogh’s brushstrokes and Goya’s haunting imagery, each telling a story deeper than the paint on the canvas. Their works remind me that art is not just about beauty; it is about impact. One thing that sets me apart as an artist is my ability to blend different mediums and influences into something personal. While I love painting and drawing, I also incorporate my passion for fiber arts—knitting and crocheting—into my creative process. There is something special about working with my hands in such different ways, whether it’s the bold strokes of a brush or the delicate weaving of yarn. Both require patience and vision, and both are deeply tied to tradition and storytelling. Being able to bridge these artistic worlds gives my work a unique identity, allowing me to explore themes of comfort, resilience, and nostalgia in unexpected ways. My background has shaped the way I see art and the world in profound ways. Learning about art history has given me an appreciation for those who came before me, especially artists who challenged norms and broke barriers. At the same time, my community and personal experiences have taught me that art is not just found in museums—it’s in the everyday moments, the culture around me, and the hands that create. I find inspiration in the resilience of past generations and in the creative energy of the present. Art is an outlet for me, I suffer from bipolar disorder, depression, and anxiety. Art has been an escape to express my emotions in a healthy way instead of taking out my frustrations on myself or others. I can take inspiration from the hardships of Goya or Frida and put that perseverance into my work. I believe I deserve to be the winner not because my work is perfect, but because it is genuine. I create with passion, intention, and a deep respect for the artists who paved the way. My goal is to continue pushing myself, learning from the past while shaping my own artistic voice. Art is my language, my connection to history, and my way of leaving something meaningful behind.

I am a creator, a fighter, a dreamer. My life has been a constant mix of passion and perseverance, art and science, love and struggle. I don’t fit neatly into one box, I never have. And I don’t want to. What makes me stand out? It’s not just my ambition, but the way I refuse to let anything, or anyone, define me. Art has been my way of understanding the world. Whether I’m painting, crocheting, knitting, or sketching, every piece I make tells a story. Sometimes it’s a story of rage, of triumph, of grief, especially as a woman navigating a world that often tries to quiet us. Other times, it’s a love letter to the past, inspired by the greats, Frida Kahlo, Van Gogh, Basquiat, artists who poured their souls into their work. Art isn’t just something I do. It’s who I am. But my world isn’t just color and canvas. It’s science, logic, and truth-seeking. I want to be a forensic scientist, to uncover evidence, bring justice to those who need it. I want to be the reason a family gets closure, the reason the guilty don’t walk free. And on the other side of that, I want to be an ASL interpreter because justice isn’t just about crime, it’s about communication, about making sure no one is left unheard. ASL has inspired me, changed the way I see language, and opened my eyes to the struggles of the Deaf community. I don’t just want to sign, I want to advocate, to make sure Deaf and hard-of-hearing individuals have the same access, the same opportunities as everyone else. I want to adopt Deaf children, to give them a home where language is never a barrier, where they are fully, completely understood. But standing out isn’t just about what I dream of doing. It’s about what I’ve lived through. I’ve faced challenges that have tested me, shaken me. Some of my family didn’t accept me when I came out. My uncle told me I was going to hell, all because I had short hair. He assumed I was gay. That moment, that judgment, could’ve broken me. But it didn’t. It made me fight harder, for myself, for others, for a world where love isn’t something to fear. I’ve channeled that fight into action into community service, social justice work, volunteering. I’ve helped at food drives, worked with kids in art programs, marched for what’s right. Because change doesn’t happen by waiting. It happens by doing. I am an artist, a scientist, an advocate. I want to create, to solve, to fight, to heal. And I will. That’s what makes me stand out.

Title: "Threads of Time" Opening Scene: The camera opens on a pair of hands—my hands—moving methodically, looping yarn over a crochet hook, the soft clicking of knitting needles in the background. The light is warm, golden, spilling in from an unseen window. Around me, half-finished projects lay scattered—skeins of yarn, a sketchbook flipped open to a messy charcoal drawing, a history book with its pages creased from too much use. The room hums with quiet energy, filled with the weight of unfinished ideas and the endless need to create. A cup of tea sits nearby, forgotten and cold, a testament to time slipping away while I work. As the camera zooms out, the scene changes. I’m at my market booth now, surrounded by colorful handmade pieces, tiny trinkets catching the sunlight. People stop, touch the fabric, admire the delicate jewelry I crafted late into the night. Some buy, some don’t. But that’s not the point. The point is that they see it. They see the hours, the effort, the pieces of me woven into every stitch, every bead. Each creation holds a story—some sparked by frustration, others by joy. A little girl tugs on her mother’s sleeve, pointing at a tiny crocheted flower. I smile, kneeling down to show her how it was made. Her fingers reach out hesitantly, tracing the delicate loops of thread, and in that moment, I see a spark of something I recognize. Inspiration. The cycle continues. Then, the scene shifts again. I’m hunched over a desk, ink staining my fingers as I write, lost in a world where John Price and Abigail Wolverton are as real as the air I breathe. Next to me, a canvas dries, thick with paint—maybe a stormy Frida Kahlo-inspired self-portrait, maybe a wild swirl of colors Monet would have understood. The mess doesn’t bother me. Chaos is part of the process. There is beauty in the imperfections, in the smudges on my palms and the way my sleeves are always rolled up. My laptop sits open beside me, the screen glowing softly with half-written paragraphs, a story waiting to be told. There’s always another story waiting, lingering just at the edge of my mind, demanding to be set free. And then, another flash—a museum. I’m standing in front of a painting, lost in thought, tracing the brushstrokes with my eyes, feeling history press down on me in the best way. Maybe it’s Van Gogh. Maybe it’s Goya. Either way, I can hear their voices in the colors, the way I hope one day someone will hear mine. The sound of distant chatter fades, and for a brief second, it’s just me and the art, speaking a language beyond words. It’s moments like these that remind me why I create—why I need to. The camera lingers for a moment before shifting to the final scene of the opening sequence. I’m somewhere unknown, traveling, a notebook tucked under my arm, a crochet project stuffed in my bag. The future is uncertain, but my hands are steady. There’s so much left to create, to build, to learn. And I’m ready. Fade to black. The story begins.