My sister Chloe has never been able to brush her own hair. When she was born, a doctor’s mishandling during delivery caused a brachial plexus injury that changed the course of her life before it had truly begun. Chloe has endured surgery after surgery, with more likely ahead, and will need physical therapy for the rest of her life. Tasks most people never think twice about, getting dressed, reaching for something on a shelf, are daily challenges for her. My parents fought for her. They took on the doctor, navigated a legal system they did not fully understand, and pushed forward with everything they had. In the end, they lost. I watched all of this as a child and felt something I could not yet name, a deep frustration at how the system had failed someone who deserved so much better. But through all of it, Chloe smiled. She is one of the strongest people I have ever known, and I want to fight for people like her. I did not wait for law school to begin. During my junior year, I secured an internship with the Office of Special Counsel in the Dallas field office, working under Chief Anne Gullick and attorney Julie Yeagle. I sat in on Chief briefs, participated in ethics roundtables on whistleblower protections, and observed attorney-led case interviews. I had the opportunity to brief alongside a Presidential Appointee and the Principal Deputy Special Counsel, Karen Gorman, and drafted the Significant Case Activities Report, a summary of the ten most complex cases in the region’s inventory. That experience showed me what it looks like when the law is practiced with integrity. But I did not want to keep those opportunities to myself. As a homeschooled student, I knew that access to experiences like a mock trial was not always easy to come by, so I built one. I reached out to the law firm Scheef & Stone, secured their facilities, and organized a summer camp for 10 to 15 homeschooled students curious about law. One of those students has since decided he wants to become a patent and engineering lawyer. That moment reminded me that opportunity, once given, has a way of multiplying. That is why this scholarship from the Law Office of Shane Kadlec means so much to me. As a firm dedicated to injury and recovery cases, they understand what it means to fight for someone who has been failed. I have seen that fight up close through my sister and my family. This scholarship does exactly what I hope my career will do: it creates change by believing in people before the world has had the chance to see what they are capable of. I am still deciding which area of law I will ultimately pursue. But I know the kind of lawyer I want to be one who sees the person before the case, who understands that behind every legal matter is a family, a story, and a life that deserves to be taken seriously. Chloe taught me that. And every step I take toward this career is, in some way, for her.

Small Actions, Big Change. On policy, people, and building doors where there are none. I remember standing in front of fifteen kids I had recruited myself; neighbors, friends of friends, students from my community, as well as a student who drove an hour just for camp. Yet I had no words standing in front of the students, even though I had built this camp from top to bottom, I was in disbelief that it was actually happening. I was seventeen, homeschooled, and had just organized my first mock trial camp because I was turned away from joining DECA. Instead of seeing that as a defeat, I chose an opportunity. That morning, looking out at those faces, I understood something my uncle had been showing me my whole life: you don't wait for the world to make room for you. You make room and invite everyone in. My uncle has spent his career as a corporate lawyer, a world of briefs, boardrooms, and billable hours. But his politics were quieter than his profession. Outside of the office, he was simply the person who showed up: to help a neighbor move, to sit with someone going through a hard time, to give without ever keeping a score. He never treated generosity as something that competed with ambition; he understood they could coexist. Watching him taught me that change does not always arrive in loud noises or flashy items. Sometimes it arrives as a phone call, an afternoon given freely, a choice to see the person in front of you. He taught me to never take those moments for granted and to seize the opportunity given. The belief took on a new shape when I walked into Mrs.Bell's government class at my community college. It was the first traditional classroom I had ever sat in, since I was homeschooled my whole life, and I was nervous in a way I did not expect. But Mrs. Bell had a gift. She made policy feel like a living thing, not a textbook chapter. She made me feel capable of understanding power, not just subject to it. She was doing, from a classroom, exactly what my uncle did from his front porch: making people feel seen, and showing them what they could do with that. Studying how laws get made changed how I saw my own story. I began to understand that my exclusion from programs like DECA was not accidental, but structural. The cost of a higher education is not just a financial problem; it is a policy problem, a justice problem, a question of who gets to sit in rooms where ideas are taken seriously. Mrs. Bell's classroom had nearly been out of reach for me. For too many students, it still is. I do not yet know exactly what shape my path will take. I am drawn to law, perhaps even the same law my uncle navigated, but I know I want to use whatever platform I build to fight for education access at the community level. What I have already learned is that the work does not wait for credentials. It starts with the mock trial camp you organize when a door closes, the neighbor you help on a tuesday, a teacher who decides every student deserves to feel capable. My uncle showed me that a career and a conscience are not in competition. I want to spend my life proving he was right one small action at a time.

Why I Love Wicked I never expected a movie to make me feel so deeply seen. When I watched Wicked, I sat in that theater thinking I was in for a fun, magical story about witches and Oz. What I didn't expect was to walk out feeling like someone had finally put words and music to something I'd carried quietly for years. Glinda is not the character people expect you to love most. She enters the story all sparkle and self-assurance, the girl who seems to have everything figured out. But underneath that polished exterior is someone who is performing belonging rather than actually feeling it. And that hit me harder than I anticipated. Because I know what it feels like to be in a room full of people and still feel like you're on the outside of something invisible, some unspoken circle you were never quite invited into. Social situations have always been a space where I've had to work to feel like I fit, smiling and laughing, and wondering quietly whether I was doing it right. What moved me most about Glinda's journey is how it mirrors something I'm still navigating in my own life: the slow, sometimes uncomfortable process of growing into who you really are. Glinda doesn't arrive at self-awareness overnight. She stumbles, she performs, she gets it wrong, and then, gradually, she starts becoming honest. Not just with Elphaba, but with herself. I'm still in that process. Authenticity isn't a destination I've reached; it's something I have to choose, over and over, especially in the moments when it would be easier to just play a role. That's why "For Good" broke me open. When that song plays, it captures something almost too true to sit with comfortably. It's about the people who change us permanently, the ones whose belief in us reshapes how we see ourselves. It's about having the courage to say out loud what you feel before it's too late. It's about accepting that some relationships are fleeting and yet matter completely. And it's about gratitude, the deep, quiet kind you feel for someone who saw you before you fully saw yourself. I've had people like that in my life. People who believed in me during seasons when I wasn't sure I believed in myself. Wicked gave me a language for that gratitude, and a reminder that being changed by someone is not a loss of yourself. It's part of how you become yourself. Wicked taught me that feeling like an outsider isn't something to outgrow or overcome. It's often the beginning of finding out who you really are. And that is worth more than belonging anywhere.

Kindness doesn’t always arrive as a grand gesture; sometimes it’s found in quiet sacrifices that change the course of another person’s life. The greatest gifts I’ve received have come from people who gave not because they had to, but because they wanted to see others grow. Their kindness has shaped who I am and who I hope to become, someone who uses her education, compassion, and voice to make a difference. My story begins with my grandparents’ decision to leave their home country and come to America in search of a better life. They didn’t have much when they arrived, but they worked tirelessly to create opportunities for their children. That courage and selflessness gave my parents the chance to succeed and me the foundation to dream without limits. Their story reminds me that service often starts with sacrifice, and gratitude is best expressed through action. My parents built on that legacy of hard work and generosity. They’ve always believed that giving to others begins at home by teaching empathy, faith, and responsibility. As a homeschooled student, my mom spent countless hours creating lessons and finding ways for me to grow. My dad showed me what perseverance looks like, balancing work and family while encouraging me to chase every goal I set. Their belief in me taught me to believe in others. That desire to give back has guided everything I do. As Chief Marketing Officer for my robotics team, I’ve made it my mission to mentor younger teammates, especially girls who may not always see themselves in STEM. I’ve helped them build confidence by showing that leadership and creativity can exist alongside engineering and design. Beyond competition, I’ve led our team’s community outreach efforts, including organizing the packing and donation of 700 STEM kits to Christian Community Action for children in need. We also visited local churches to teach families about STEM opportunities and inspire kids who might not otherwise have access to these resources. Seeing their excitement reminded me that even small efforts can ignite lifelong curiosity and confidence. Outside robotics, I’ve helped organize a mock trial camp for homeschoolers, giving students a chance to build teamwork and public speaking skills in a setting that didn’t exist before. I’ve also continued to serve through my faith, teaching younger children at church and volunteering on mission trips. Those experiences have shown me that when you give your time and compassion, you not only help others you also grow yourself. In the future, I want to keep building on those lessons. My goal is to study law and become a lawyer who helps those who can’t afford proper legal representation. I’ve learned through internships and conversations with attorneys that law isn’t just about rules, it’s about helping people find justice and hope when they feel lost. I plan to continue mission trips and community outreach through college and beyond, helping underserved areas both locally and internationally. Every generation in my family has paid it forward in their own way. My grandparents did it by seeking a better life. My parents did it by creating opportunities for me. Now, it’s my turn to use what I’ve been given to lift others and continue the legacy of kindness that shaped me.

I’ve always been fascinated by how law shapes the world we live in, from the contracts that keep businesses running to the laws that protect families and defend the innocent. Even though I haven’t chosen one specific field yet, I’m drawn to real estate, corporate, family, and criminal law because each area offers a different way to help people, solve problems, and create lasting change. My curiosity about law became real when I worked with the Office of Special Counsel (OSC). I didn’t just read about legal work; I lived it. I sat in on interviews, joined meetings with attorneys, asked questions, and even had the opportunity to speak with the director of the OSC. Through those experiences, I learned that being a lawyer requires more than intelligence or quick thinking; it takes empathy, patience, and a deep sense of responsibility. Watching attorneys handle complex cases and advocate for people who felt powerless opened my eyes to how much of an impact one person can have when they dedicate themselves to justice. One afternoon, that same curiosity led me to a conversation with my uncle, who is also a lawyer. I remember asking him why he decided to go into law, expecting to hear about achievement or financial success. Instead, he told me something that changed my perspective: “Life is about helping others when you can, because others helped you when you had nothing.” They made me realize that a career in law shouldn’t be about recognition; it should be about purpose and gratitude. He explained that every client carries a story, and it’s his responsibility to help them find justice and hope when they feel lost. That conversation gave me a new sense of direction: I want to become the kind of lawyer who listens, understands, and restores faith in a system that too often feels unreachable. The more I’ve learned about the legal field, the more I’ve realized that my goals extend beyond the courtroom. I want to be someone people can rely on, someone they can trust, and someone who lifts others as I climb. I want to create a career built on meaning, not just success, a job that allows me to give back to my community, advocate for fairness, and open doors for others who don’t have the same opportunities I’ve had. Whether that means helping families through hard times, representing individuals who can’t afford proper legal representation, or guiding businesses to make ethical decisions, I want my work to matter. This scholarship would help me continue my education and move closer to that dream. It would allow me to pursue internships, leadership programs, and mentorship opportunities that strengthen my understanding of the law and prepare me to serve others with integrity. Every step I take in this journey brings me closer to becoming the person I aspire to be: someone who uses knowledge to uplift others, who leads with compassion, and who never forgets where they came from. Wherever my legal career leads, I’ll carry forward the values that inspired me to begin this path: gratitude, purpose, and service. I’ll also carry the memory of Kalia D. Davis, whose joy for life and commitment to others remind me that success means nothing if it isn’t shared. Her legacy motivates me to live with kindness, lead with humility, and find strength in helping others. I hope to honor her spirit by becoming an attorney who stands for both justice and humanity, someone who not only practices law but uses it as a force for good.

Empowering women, one step at a time, is more than a quote; it’s my purpose. Growing up as the oldest of five sisters, I learned early that leadership wasn’t about telling people what to do; it was about showing them what’s possible. When I joined robotics, I stepped into a world where girls were often outnumbered, unheard, or underestimated. I remember the first time I walked into a competition and saw only a handful of girls on the floor. It lit something in me, not frustration, but determination. I wanted to prove that we not only belonged there, but that we could lead. Through robotics, I found my voice. I became the Chief Marketing Officer of my team, led our outreach efforts, and encouraged more girls, including my own sisters, to join. Watching them discover the same confidence robotics gave me has been one of my proudest moments. They learned to lead meetings, present ideas, and take on roles they once thought were only for boys. Those moments made me realize that real change starts small with one person willing to open a door for others. Not every door has been open for me, though. When I called DECA, a business and leadership organization, to start a chapter, I was told I couldn’t join because I was homeschooled. They said I’d have to be in a public or private school to participate. For a moment, I felt defeated. But then I realized that being homeschooled didn’t limit my potential; it gave me the freedom to create my own opportunities. Instead of giving up, I poured my energy into robotics, mock trials, and entrepreneurship. I started my own photo booth business, ran outreach events for younger students, and built programs that welcomed anyone willing to learn. That moment taught me that if the world doesn’t make space for you, you build your own. That mindset shaped my dream for the future. I plan to pursue a career in law, where I can be a voice for those who don’t have one. Too many people, especially women, go through legal battles without proper representation or understanding of their rights. One day, I aspire to establish my own law firm, offering affordable and compassionate legal support to women and families in need. I want every woman who walks through my doors to feel seen, heard, and defended. Every step I’ve taken, whether leading my robotics team, founding a mock trial camp to teach students about justice, or interning in government, has been guided by one purpose: to empower others. I’ve seen how confidence can change lives, and I want to spend mine creating those moments for others. When women lift each other, we change the world. I hope to continue being that source of strength and inspiration, whether it’s guiding my sisters in robotics, mentoring young girls to find their voices, or standing beside women in courtrooms who’ve been silenced for too long. I may be young, but I’ve already seen the power of what happens when one woman dares to make space for others. This scholarship isn’t just an investment in my education; it’s an investment in every woman I’ll help, every voice I’ll amplify, and every barrier I’ll break. Because I don’t just want to succeed; I want to bring others with me.

For a long time, I hated math. It felt like a wall I couldn’t climb, formulas that never made sense, numbers that blurred together, and frustration that made me want to give up. I used to tell myself I just wasn’t a “math person.” But somewhere along the way, that changed. When I joined robotics, I started to see math differently. Our engineering team constantly worked with measurements, calculations, and problem-solving, figuring out torque, weight distribution, and distances to make our robot actually move. I realized that math wasn’t about memorizing formulas; it was about making things work in the real world. Watching our robot come to life because of numbers and logic made something click inside me. For the first time, I saw math as creative, powerful, and essential. Math began to shape how I think. It taught me patience, logic, and the importance of breaking down complex problems one step at a time. Now, instead of running from it, I find comfort in the process of figuring things out, whether it’s a tough equation, a robotics challenge, or a real-world issue. As someone who plans to become a lawyer, I know math will continue to guide me. Law may seem distant from math, but it’s not. Both require structure, reasoning, and precision. Whether analyzing financial records, building logical arguments, or understanding contracts, math sharpens the same analytical skills that make a strong attorney. I don’t just love math because it’s everywhere; it’s because it taught me that struggle leads to understanding. The subject I once dreaded became one of the biggest tools for how I see and solve the world around me.

Some of my earliest memories are of late nights at the kitchen table, my mom helping my younger siblings with homework while my dad came home from work tired but still smiling. As the oldest of five, I learned early on what it means to lead to help, to guide, and to find strength even when things feel uncertain. Growing up in a multicultural household, Mexican, Lebanese, and Assyrian, has given me a deep appreciation for my roots and the values that come with them: faith, family, hard work, and pride in where you come from. Our home was a blend of traditions, languages, and stories that reminded me that identity isn’t one thing; it’s a mosaic. I have seen how people from communities often face barriers when it comes to education and opportunity. I’ve watched families struggle to find legal support or face housing challenges simply because they didn’t have access to resources or didn’t know where to start. That reality lit a fire in me; it made me want to be the person who helps others navigate those challenges, who gives them hope and clarity when systems seem too complex to understand. That’s why I plan to major in Political Science with a minor in Business and eventually attend law school. I want to use my background and education to make the legal world more accessible for families like mine who work hard, love deeply, and just need someone to stand by them to explain their rights in a way that makes sense. I believe law can be more than rules and contracts; it can be a bridge between confusion and confidence, fear and fairness. As someone who is Mexican, Lebanese, and Assyrian, I’ve often found myself as one of the only people in the room with my blend of cultures. Instead of letting that make me feel out of place, I’ve learned to see it as a source of strength. My identity allows me to connect with others from all walks of life. Through my leadership roles running outreach for my robotics team, creating a mock trial camp to mentor younger students, and volunteering at church, I’ve learned that real leadership comes from service and compassion. It means using your voice not to speak over others, but to help them be heard. Still, the path to college isn’t easy. My parents have always worked hard to provide for our family, but with five children, finances can be challenging. This scholarship would not only ease that burden it would also allow me to dedicate myself fully to my studies and future career without constant financial stress. It would allow me to take internships that align with my passion for advocacy and justice, even if they’re unpaid, and to continue giving back to my community in meaningful ways. To me, this scholarship represents more than money represents belief. Belief that someone like me, with roots that stretch across continents, can build a future that honors them all. I want to pass that forward, to my younger siblings, to my community, and to every student who feels like they have to fight to belong. One day, I hope to open a small legal practice that provides affordable services and educational workshops for families who feel lost in the system. I want to be the kind of lawyer who listens first, helps others stand taller, and reminds them that their story matters. For me, college isn’t just the next step; it’s the foundation of a life devoted to opening doors for others, just as this scholarship would open one for me.

The lights dim, the music starts, and suddenly I’m on stage in front of an enormous crowd at the Lebanese Food Festival. The rhythm builds, and I move instinctively, each step connecting me to my roots. Whether it’s the lively footwork of salsa, the proud stomp of Mexican folklórico, or the powerful rhythm of Lebanese dabke, dance lets me express every piece of who I am. In those moments, all my stress fades. It’s where motion becomes prayer, and peace replaces pressure. I’m someone who’s always striving to balance robotics leadership, academics, volunteering, and faith. But with that constant drive comes burnout. Dance reminds me to breathe again, to slow down, and to find joy in the moment instead of chasing perfection. It’s taught me that healing can come from movement just as much as from words. In the future, I hope to use my legal career to advocate for policies that expand access to creative and movement-based therapy in schools and underserved communities. I want to help shape a system where mental health care, whether through art, dance, or counseling, is recognized as a fundamental right, not a privilege. By blending compassion, culture, and advocacy, I hope to make healing more accessible to every person who needs it.

Being the oldest daughter in an immigrant family comes with an invisible weight that’s hard to describe. From a young age, I’ve felt like I had to be perfect not just for myself, but for my family, my culture, and my ancestors who worked so hard to give me the opportunities I have today. That pressure has followed me into everything I do, and while it’s made me ambitious, it’s also made me deeply anxious. My mind tends to move faster than I can keep up with, jumping from one thought to another before I even begin what’s in front of me. It’s exhausting, and sometimes it leaves me feeling paralyzed, stuck between wanting to do everything and not being able to start anything at all. Over time, that constant cycle of overthinking and pressure has led to stress, anxiety, and moments of depression. When I feel overwhelmed, I often fidget or scratch my hands, not because I want to, but because it provides a momentary calm for my mind. It’s like my body is trying to release what my brain is holding in. I’ve learned that I tend to bottle things up until they explode, and when that happens, it feels like everything I’ve worked so hard to control falls apart. But I’ve also found ways to rebuild. I started making lists when I feel lost, writing down everything I need to do and crossing it off one by one. It sounds simple, but that process helps me feel grounded and capable again. I take walks, journal when I can, and remind myself to breathe. Most importantly, I’ve learned to pray and read my Bible when I feel like I’m drowning. My faith gives me peace and perspective, a reminder that I don’t have to carry everything on my own. As I’ve grown, I’ve realized the most important lesson of all: patience with myself. We live in a world of instant answers and rapid results, where we can Google a question and find a solution in mere seconds. But mental health doesn’t work that way. Neither does growth. I’ve had to accept that it’s okay not to be perfect, that learning takes time, and that some of the best lessons come from slowing down. Adjusting to community college has tested that patience even more. In high school, I was used to getting perfect grades. Now, I’ve had to adapt to new teachers, different expectations, and a new pace. It’s been humbling, but it’s also taught me that real success isn’t about perfection; it’s about persistence, grace, and the willingness to keep learning even when it’s hard. Mental illness has shaped me in ways I never expected, but it’s also given me empathy for others and strength I didn’t know I had. I’m still learning, still growing, and still learning to be kind to myself. But I know now that progress is not about being perfect, it’s about having the courage to keep going, one step at a time.

When I think about the power of sports, I don’t think about trophies or final scores; I think about the lessons they’ve taught me about life. I grew up around all kinds of sports, from soccer and basketball to volleyball and dance. I learned early on that no matter how different each game looks, they all share the same foundation: teamwork, perseverance, and joy. I still remember my first soccer game when I was little. I accidentally scored on my own team. I wanted to cry and disappear, but my coach smiled and said, “Everyone does that at least once.” That moment changed the way I looked at sports. I realized that mistakes don’t define you how you respond does. It’s a lesson I’ve carried into everything I do. In high school, I worked at Lifetime, where I helped lead camps and classes for kids. Every week, I rotated between soccer, basketball, dance, and yoga teaching skills, encouraging kids to try again after a missed shot, and making sure everyone felt included. Some of them would come in shy or frustrated, but by the end of camp, they were laughing, running, and cheering each other on. I learned that kids don’t just need coaches who can teach drills, they need people who believe in them. Seeing their confidence grow reminded me that sports are about more than athletic ability; they’re about connection and heart. Sports have also shown me how much mindset matters. I’ve learned that the moment you tell yourself “I can’t,” you’ve already lost. Whether it’s in a game, a classroom, or life, the real challenge is to silence that voice of doubt and give your best effort, even when it’s hard. Volleyball especially taught me that lesson. My coach would always say, “When one of us makes a mistake, it’s on all of us.” That taught me accountability and teamwork. You can’t play scared or selfish; you have to trust your team and keep moving forward together. The more I’ve grown, the more I’ve realized that leadership isn’t about being in charge; it’s about lifting others. That’s something I try to do in every area of my life, from helping at church with my youth group to serving on mission trips where we feed the homeless and visit nursing homes. In robotics, I’ve helped pack meals for Feed My Starving Children and build hundreds of STEM kits for families in need. Those experiences reminded me that the spirit of teamwork in sports also applies to serving your community, everyone doing their part to make something bigger than themselves succeed. Jimmie “DC” Sullivan’s legacy represents everything I believe in: dedication, encouragement, and service through sports. I hope to carry that same legacy by continuing to mentor young athletes and support programs that make sports accessible for everyone, especially kids who might not otherwise get the chance. Sports taught me that even when you lose a game, you can still win by growing stronger, learning something new, or helping someone else shine. Wherever I go, I want to keep spreading that message to play with heart, lead with humility, and make others feel seen and capable. Because that’s what sports are really about: not just competition, but community, courage, and the joy of giving your all.

Coloring inside the lines was what learning meant to my five-year-old self. My kindergarten teacher at St. Monica Catholic School changed that. She was Lebanese, warm, and full of energy, always curious about what I brought for lunch, smiling and saying, “That looks so yummy!” One day, she even came to see me dance at a Lebanese food festival, something that made me feel so proud. Looking back, I realize she was my first lesson that learning isn’t just about doing things perfectly; it’s about connection, curiosity, and finding joy in discovery. After kindergarten, I began homeschooling, and my mom became my teacher. She is the reason I still love learning today. My mom didn’t just assign lessons; she encouraged questions, pushed me to think critically, and always challenged me to find the “why” behind everything. She also taught me that learning went far beyond the conventional classroom. When we baked together, it became math and science; when we went outside, spelling words became an adventure; and when we took trips to museums, every exhibit became a hands-on history lesson. She showed me that learning isn’t limited to a desk; it’s something you live, explore, and experience every day. When I joined our homeschool co-op, I met teachers like Mrs. Amanda, Mrs. Rachel, and Mrs. Kay, who continued to grow that spark in me. They were tough, but in the best way. I used to complain about writing papers every week, but now I’m thankful for it. It taught me how to express ideas clearly and think for myself. Through IEW writing and grammar lessons, I learned how to paraphrase, organize my thoughts, and write with purpose. Ms. Kay’s Greek and Latin classes helped me see language as a puzzle, one that I could actually solve. Those skills now help me every day, whether I’m studying for a test or writing a dual credit essay. Now that I’m taking dual credit classes, I’ve learned to appreciate how every teacher has a different style. My English teacher, Mr. Eubanks, tells us, “You will get out of this class what you put in.” That line resonated with me deeply because it’s something my dad always says. My government teacher, Ms. Bell, also inspires me because she genuinely wants us to succeed and understand the world we’re living in. They both make learning about growth, not grades. Looking back, I realize that my education has never been shaped by just one teacher; it’s been a chain of people who each built on the last. From my Lebanese kindergarten teacher who made me feel seen, to my mom who taught me to think, to my co-op and dual credit teachers who challenged me to grow, every one of them has changed me in some way. They’ve taught me that education isn’t about coloring inside the lines; it’s about having the courage to draw your own.

I’ve learned that sustainability begins not in a classroom, but at the dinner table. Coming from an immigrant family, I grew up learning that everything is a gift. My grandparents came to the United States with very little, and my parents always reminded me not to waste food, time, or opportunities. If there was even a little food left on my plate, I was told to finish it because we were lucky to have it. That lesson of gratitude taught me to see value in everything and to think twice before wasting anything. Looking back, I realize those small moments built the foundation for how I view sustainability today, not just as environmental responsibility, but as respect for what we have. I carried that mindset into robotics, where I serve as the Chief Marketing Officer for my team. At first, I thought marketing would just mean promoting our robot or designing our display, but I quickly learned it was much more than that; it was about leading a group of people to represent our team’s identity and values. One of those values was sustainability. I helped coordinate our marketing booth using recycled PVC, wood, and metal from previous years. We also chose to go almost completely paperless, replacing flyers and posters with digital materials and QR codes to reduce waste. One of our team members is OSHA 10 certified, ensuring that we handle all materials safely and responsibly. These experiences showed me that sustainability doesn’t have to be complicated; it starts with small, thoughtful decisions that reflect respect for both people and resources. Through robotics, I also learned how sustainable thinking applies to leadership. Reusing materials saved us money, but it also challenged us to innovate creatively within limits. I realized that sustainability and business share the same core idea: both are about using resources wisely to achieve long-term success. That lesson is what led me to choose my future majors: business and political science. Business gives me the tools to organize ideas, lead people, and turn creativity into action. Political science helps me understand how policies and laws influence the choices businesses make. Together, they form the foundation I need to pursue a career in corporate law, where I can help companies grow while still making environmentally responsible decisions. I’m especially interested in energy efficiency, partly inspired by my uncle, who works as a lawyer in the energy industry. I’ve seen how energy companies can balance growth and responsibility, and I want to be part of that change. Whether it’s helping businesses reduce their carbon footprint, improve their operations, or advocate for policies that promote renewable energy, I want to use my career to connect business success with environmental stewardship. In the future, I can see myself starting my own company, much like my dad, who runs his own consulting business. I admire how he turned his ideas into something that helps others, and I want to do the same but with a focus on sustainability. For me, sustainability is gratitude in action: taking care of what we have so that future generations can experience the same opportunities we’ve been given.

When Taylor Swift performed “All Too Well (10-Minute Version)” on Saturday Night Live in November 2021, it wasn’t just a song; it was an act of catharsis. Under soft red light, with only her guitar and her voice, she revisited one of the most painful stories of her career and transformed it into art that felt both intimate and monumental. Watching that performance, I felt like she wasn’t just singing about heartbreak; she was teaching us how to take ownership of our own pain and turn it into something meaningful. What struck me most was her composure. For ten uninterrupted minutes, she relived every emotion, anger, grief, and nostalgia, never looking away. There was no elaborate choreography, no flashy set design, just storytelling at its purest. The camera lingered on her face as she smiled through tears, and I realized that strength isn’t about avoiding sadness; it’s about allowing yourself to feel it and still stand in front of the world. That performance reminded me that vulnerability can coexist with confidence. I first heard “All Too Well” years earlier, but seeing Taylor perform the extended version live on SNL hit differently. I was going through my own season of loss, not romantic, but the quiet kind that comes from growing up and realizing certain friendships, dreams, or versions of yourself won’t return. Her words, “Maybe we got lost in translation, maybe I asked for too much,” echoed how I felt about things I couldn’t fix. But by the time she sang, “I’m a crumpled-up piece of paper lying here,” she had already made something beautiful out of something broken. That realization gave me permission to stop running from my own disappointments and instead express them through writing and music. To me, this performance encapsulates the spirit of Taylor’s upcoming album, “The Life of a Showgirl.” It’s about resilience under the spotlight, the courage to tell your truth, even when the world is watching. Taylor showed that growth doesn’t mean pretending the past didn’t hurt; it means revisiting it with grace. That’s what I admire most about her artistry: she invites us to witness her evolution while reminding us we’re allowed to evolve, too. When I think about that night, I see more than a performance. I see someone standing in her power, using her voice to connect millions of people who have felt unseen or misunderstood. Taylor’s music has done that for me countless times, from “Clean” helping me let go to “Evermore” teaching me quiet acceptance, but “All Too Well (10-Minute Version)” remains the moment I’ll never forget. It’s proof that pain can be art, and art can be healing. And that, to me, is the life of a showgirl.

From Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book IV, Paragraph 3 “Men seek retreats for themselves in the country, by the sea, in the hills, and you yourself are particularly disposed to this yearning. But all this is quite unphilosophical when you can at any moment find such a retreat in yourself. For nowhere can man find a quieter or more untroubled retreat than in his own soul; above all, he who possesses resources in himself, which he need only look into to be at once in perfect ease, the ease which is but another word for well-ordered mind.” In this passage, Marcus Aurelius challenges the human instinct to run away from chaos. His words suggest that the peace we search for in the world, whether through travel, distraction, or escape, can never compare to the peace that comes from within. His underlying meaning is simple but life-changing: stillness begins when the mind and soul are aligned with truth. Reading this, I think about the time in my life when I tried to outrun pain through busyness, silence, or pretending I was fine, but discovered that healing came only when I faced my own thoughts and turned to God for peace. Aurelius begins by observing that people “seek retreats for themselves,” and I see myself in that. There was a season when my retreat was shutting down emotionally, convincing myself that if I ignored pain long enough, it would disappear. But like Aurelius points out, “you can at any moment find such a retreat in yourself.” For me, that retreat was not an escape but a return, a turning inward toward faith and reflection. I had to quiet the noise around me to understand that peace was not something the world could hand me; it was something I had to create with God’s help. The Stoic idea of a “well-ordered mind” mirrors what I’ve learned through my own struggles with mental health. Order, for Aurelius, does not mean perfection; it means clarity. It is the strength to tell the truth about what is happening inside you and to respond with discipline rather than despair. I remember realizing that healing was not about suppressing grief but about learning to live with it, to structure my thoughts instead of letting them structure me. That was when I began to understand what he meant by having “resources in himself.” Those resources are faith, resilience, gratitude, and love, things the world cannot take away. Aurelius’s teaching also aligns with my belief that God meets us in stillness. When he writes that “nowhere can man find a quieter or more untroubled retreat than in his own soul,” I think of prayer, not the kind where you talk endlessly, but where you listen. Listening to God, even in silence, is what brings the “ease” Aurelius describes. For me, that ease is not about comfort; it is about trust. It is knowing that even in the middle of loss or confusion, there is an anchor that keeps me steady. The deeper I look at this passage, the more I see how close Stoic philosophy and faith can be. Both call us to self-discipline, reflection, and inner peace that is independent of circumstance. Aurelius is not telling us to isolate ourselves from the world; he is teaching us how to live in it without being consumed by it. That is something I have learned personally, that peace is not the absence of struggle but the presence of perspective. Ultimately, this paragraph reminds me that the world will always be unpredictable, but the soul can be steady. Aurelius’s “well-ordered mind” is not cold or detached; it is alive with self-awareness and humility. My own journey taught me that when I stopped running and started reflecting, I found something sacred, a retreat not in the hills or the sea, but within. And in that retreat, I found not only peace but purpose.

Some moments split your life into “before” and “after.” For me, that moment came when my parents sat us down to tell us my baby brother was gone. I remember the air feeling heavy, like the world had stopped spinning. I ran to my room, buried myself under the covers, and cried until I couldn’t breathe. My mom tried to comfort me, but I pushed her away. I wasn’t mad at her, I was mad at the world. Looking back, I realize she was the one facing the deepest kind of loss, yet she still tried to carry mine too. At first, I didn’t recognize what I was feeling as depression. I thought I was just “sad,” but sadness fades; this didn’t. It was a constant heaviness, a fog that followed me everywhere. I would smile for people and go through the motions of daily life, but inside, I felt like I was falling into a hole I couldn’t climb out of. In the quiet moments, I began turning my pain inward, believing that maybe if I hurt on the outside, it would quiet what I felt inside. It didn’t. It only deepened the emptiness. That was the moment I realized I couldn’t do this on my own, I needed help. It was my dad who unknowingly showed me the first glimpse of that help. One evening, I saw him cry for the first time, not the kind of tears that come from frustration or exhaustion, but real, heavy tears of heartbreak. Seeing that broke something open inside me. I realized I wasn’t the only one carrying pain, and maybe strength didn’t mean pretending everything was fine. Maybe it meant admitting that it wasn’t. My healing really began at my first big retreat. I’ve always been Catholic, but that weekend changed my faith from something I inherited into something I lived. During adoration, as I sat in silence, it began to snow lightly outside just enough to see through the church windows. In that moment, it felt like quiet after chaos, as if God was whispering, “I’m here.” That peace didn’t erase the pain, but it softened it. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone. Since then, I’ve learned that mental health isn’t something you fix once; it’s something you care for every day. I still have bad days, days when the weight feels heavy again. But I’ve learned how to find peace in small ways. I pray. I journal. I go for walks and let the world remind me that there’s still beauty around me. And I talk to people I trust. My mom, especially, has been that steady light. She never expected me to have everything figured out. She didn’t try to “fix” me, she just stayed beside me. That taught me what real love looks like: presence over perfection. Through all of this, my relationships have grown deeper. I’ve learned that connection doesn’t always come from words; it comes from empathy. My dad’s tears showed me that vulnerability can be powerful, and my mom’s quiet love showed me that listening can be healing. These lessons changed how I treat others. I try to notice when someone’s struggling, to ask how they’re really doing, and to sit with them in their pain the same way others sat with me. My experience has also shaped my goals. Losing my brother and facing my own battles taught me the value of compassion. I’ve always been drawn to helping people, but now that purpose feels personal. I want to dedicate my life to being a voice for others to offering hope to those who feel unseen or unheard. Whether that’s through volunteering, mentorship, or my future career in law, my goal is to use what I’ve lived through to remind others that pain doesn’t have to define them. Most of all, my mental health journey has transformed my understanding of the world. I used to believe that strength meant independence, that faith meant certainty, and that love meant fixing what was broken. Now, I see things differently. I’ve learned that not everything can be fixed; some things are meant to be carried. And when we carry them with faith, they can become sources of grace instead of bitterness. I don’t have memories of him, but I feel his presence often, not as sadness, but as a quiet reminder that love never really disappears. He’s a connection to God and a sign that there’s something greater than this life on earth. If I could talk to him, I’d tell him that I love him, that I miss him, and that I’m thankful for him. Because through his short life, I learned to see the glass half full instead of half empty. I learned that faith doesn’t always mean understanding it means trusting even when you can’t see the reason.Grief, I’ve learned, is like carrying rocks in your pockets. They never completely go away, but as you grow stronger, they start to feel lighter. The weight becomes a part of who you are, but so does the strength it took to carry it. My journey with mental health has changed the way I see everything. I no longer measure strength by how much I can hold in, but by how willing I am to reach out for help. I no longer see pain as the end of the story, but as the place where healing begins. I hope that by sharing my story, someone else might realize they don’t have to face their darkness alone. There will always be a light at the end of the tunnel. You might not see it yet, but with God, you can make it through. Don’t lean on your own understanding; you may not understand now, but one day you will. That truth, the quiet after chaos, is what keeps me moving forward every single day.

“But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.” — Matthew 7:14 That verse has become the compass that directs my steps, especially when life feels uncertain. I grew up in a family where prayer wasn’t just a routine; it was a rhythm that shaped everything we did. Whether it was before a big decision, a robotics competition, or a family gathering, my parents reminded us to “start with God first.” That simple truth became the foundation for how I see success: it isn’t measured by titles or money, but by integrity, humility, and purpose. One of the clearest places I’ve experienced God is in robotics. I know that might sound surprising, but our team is Catholic, and prayer is part of our culture. Before every meeting, we gather and pray as a team. Before competitions, we pray the Rosary or the Divine Mercy Chaplet together. When things get stressful or our robot isn’t cooperating, we don’t pray less; we pray more. It’s taught me that when life gets harder, the answer isn’t to push God aside but to invite Him in even closer. Those moments showed me that God belongs in every area of life, not just church on Sundays. I’ve also seen God’s hand in my homeschooling journey. At first, I doubted whether it was the right choice. I missed being part of a bigger crowd and didn’t know if my parents really knew what they were doing. But over time, I realized that homeschooling allowed me to flourish. I could move at my own pace, dive deeper into subjects I loved, and most importantly, keep Jesus at the center of my education. Following a different path hasn’t always been easy, but it’s allowed me to grow in faith and discipline. In our homeschool room, we have a list of simple rules: treat others kindly, never give up, do your best, be helpful, take your time, get creative, and most of all, have fun. I see those rules as more than academic advice; they’re lessons in how to live a Christ-centered life. Faith also carried me through my family’s hardest moment: losing my baby brother, Patrick. At first, I was angry and confused. I didn’t understand why God allowed it to happen. But over time, I saw how He turned that pain into something beautiful. I learned that not everything can be fixed; some things simply have to be carried. As I look toward my future career in law, faith will remain my anchor. I want to be an attorney who doesn’t just win cases, but seeks justice with compassion and fairness. At first, I struggled with the idea of law because parts of it can challenge my faith. But I’ve learned that as long as I stay close to God and keep asking, “Where do You want me to be?” He will guide me to serve others through this calling. What drives me most is the hope of helping others, especially those who don’t have a voice. My uncle once told me, “Our job isn’t to step on others to rise higher; it’s to lift them with us.” I believe that’s what faith calls us to do in our journey to heaven. Faith isn’t something I keep separate from my goals; it’s what gives them meaning. It turns ambition into purpose and work into worship. My prayer is to become a lawyer who leads with integrity, serves with empathy, and helps others see that with God, even the hardest paths can lead to light.

Scrolling through Instagram one night, I saw a clip of Love Island’s Huda Mustafa leaning toward Nic with that iconic smirk: “I have a secret… I’m a mommy.” His puzzled response, “A mom of what? A dog?” followed by her proud, “I have a daughter, like a human child,” made me laugh so hard I had to find out where to stream the show. I hit play expecting nothing more than fun and drama, but what I found was something that resonated with me deeply. As a Middle Eastern woman myself, I saw a reflection of who I am in Huda loud in the best way possible: expressive, passionate, and unapologetically proud of her roots. Watching her own her story so confidently reminded me that strength isn’t about staying quiet, it’s about speaking your truth, even when the world is listening. That boldness inspired my own Love Island challenge: one that blends the show’s humor and chaos with my future career as a lawyer. I call it “Love on Trial: The Case of the Heart.” The Setup: The villa transforms into a glowing courtroom under the stars, think marble columns wrapped in vines, pink neon gavels, and the host presiding as “Chief Justice of Love.” Islanders swap bikinis for courtroom chic, armed with their emotions instead of evidence. Each couple must argue their case for love, proving whether their connection is genuine or just a villa performance. Round One: The Cross-Examination. Each Islander questions their partner like a lawyer under pressure. “When did you realize you liked me?” “If I walked out tomorrow, would you follow?” No short answers allowed, only emotional honesty and supporting “evidence.” This round tests whether couples can communicate with clarity and compassion when the stakes are high. Round Two: Witness Testimony. Their friends in the villa become “character witnesses,” sharing real moments that reveal the truth behind each couple’s relationship. The twist? The couple must sit silently and listen with no interruptions, no defense, just reflection. It’s a test of trust and humility, something every strong bond (and strong case) requires. Round Three: Closing Argument & Verdict. Each couple delivers a 60-second “Case for Us,” pleading their love before the jury, now expanded to include viewers at home. Fans vote live to decide which couple’s argument was the most convincing. The winning pair earns immunity and a romantic date… but no one knows what’s coming next. When the results appear, the host drops a bombshell: the twist hasn’t been revealed until now. The two couples with the lowest audience votes must face one final judgment; their own friends in the villa must vote which pair stays and which couple is eliminated. It’s the ultimate test of integrity, influence, and truth: can love survive both public opinion and peer scrutiny? Why It Matters: This challenge isn’t just for laughter and nerves; it’s about communication, persuasion, and vulnerability. It mirrors what I want to do as a future lawyer: use my voice to advocate for truth and understanding. Watching Huda speak her truth on national TV reminded me that being Middle Eastern and being loud aren’t contradictions; they’re strengths. My challenge celebrates that courage. It gives Islanders (and viewers) a space to prove that honesty isn’t a weakness, it’s a power. Because in the villa, just like in the courtroom, love is always on trial. And the strongest cases aren’t won by perfection; they’re won by passion, honesty, and the courage to be unapologetically yourself.

Some of the best lessons I’ve ever learned didn’t come from a classroom, they came from my parents. My mom, a former teacher who chose to homeschool my siblings and me, taught me that education is more than memorizing facts; it’s about understanding people and the world around you. My dad, who works in consulting, showed me how to think strategically, find solutions, and use your talents to help others. Together, they taught me that real success isn’t measured by what you achieve for yourself, but by how much good you can do for someone else. I’m a homeschooled high school senior and dual-credit student at North Central Texas College, where I’ve taken college-level English, History, and Government courses. Outside of academics, I serve as Chief Marketing Officer for my robotics team, TEACH Robotics. Our team runs like a small business, and I lead presentations, design outreach campaigns, and manage sponsorships with local companies. Robotics has pushed me outside my comfort zone and taught me how to communicate confidently, think creatively, and lead with purpose. Faith and community are also at the center of my life. I’m actively involved in my church, helping with youth nights, retreats, and service projects. Whether it’s organizing food drives, mentoring younger kids, or simply listening when someone needs support, I’ve seen how small acts of kindness can spark something powerful. Those moments have shown me what leadership really looks like it’s not about being the loudest voice in the room; it’s about serving quietly, consistently, and wholeheartedly. After high school, I plan to major in Political Science and Business before going to law school. My goal is to open a law firm that advocates for families and small businesses that often don’t have access to affordable legal help. I want to use what I’ve learned to make complicated systems feel human again to bring fairness and understanding to people who need it most. If I could start my own charity, it would be called The Next Step Foundation. Its mission would be to help teens and young adults from low-income or first-generation families take their next step toward higher education or a skilled career. Many students have the drive to succeed, but they often lack the necessary resources and mentorship to achieve their goals. The foundation would bridge that gap through scholarships, workshops, and one-on-one guidance from volunteers who have walked that same path. Volunteers would help students write essays, complete college or job applications, and share their own stories through “Next Step Nights.” We’d also partner with local businesses to create internship programs that give students both experience and confidence. Aserina Hill’s legacy reminds me of the kind of quiet generosity I grew up around, the belief that lifting others up is the greatest form of success. I want to live that way too: with open hands, steady faith, and a heart for service. To me, continuing her legacy means turning compassion into action and helping others take their next step forward.

Some moments split your life into “before” and “after.” For me, that moment came when my parents sat us down to tell us my baby brother was gone. I remember feeling this wave of anger and sadness hit all at once. As soon as they finished talking, I ran to my room, threw the covers over my head, and cried into my pillow until I couldn’t breathe. My mom tried to comfort me, but I pushed her away. I wasn’t mad at her, I was mad at the world. Looking back, I feel bad about that, because she was the one going through the deepest kind of loss. But I didn’t know what to do with what I was feeling. My little brother, Patrick, was about twelve to fourteen weeks along when he passed. From what I know, he might’ve survived if things had gone differently. I don’t know all the details, and honestly, I’m not sure I want to. All I knew back then was that he was gone, and I couldn’t fix it. For someone like me, someone who always tries to solve problems and make things right, that was the hardest part. A few weeks later, there was a moment I’ll never forget. We were all in my parents’ room, and I saw my dad cry for the first time. Not over a game or something small, but from heartbreak. That’s when it hit me. This pain wasn’t going to go away anytime soon. For a long time, it didn’t. I fell into depression. I felt like I was falling into a hole I couldn’t climb out of. However, everything then began to shift when I attended my first major retreat. I’ve always been Catholic, but that retreat changed something in me. During adoration, it suddenly started snowing just lightly, but enough to see it falling through the church windows. In that quiet moment, I felt peace for the first time in forever, like God was saying, “I’m here.” I still struggle sometimes, but I know God pulled me out of that dark place. My faith isn’t something I take for granted anymore. Strangely, I think losing my brother brought me closer to God. He helped me learn that not everything can be fixed; some things just have to be carried. I’ve learned to see the glass half full instead of half empty, to keep finding light even when everything feels heavy. Patrick’s name makes me think of the color green, St. Patrick’s Day, and the day my parents got married. It’s a color that feels alive, full of hope, like he’s still here somehow. I don’t have memories of him, but I feel close to him most of the time. If I could talk to Patrick, I’d tell him I love him and I can’t wait to see him one day. I wish he could be here with me, and I’ll never understand why he’s not. But his loss has shaped who I am, someone who feels deeply, who has compassion for others, and who knows that even in the darkest moments, there’s still light waiting to be found. Grief is like having rocks in your pockets. They never really go away, but as you grow stronger, they start to feel a little lighter. People will try to help in their own ways, but sometimes what helps most is someone willing to sit in the darkness with you before trying to pull you out. Losing my brother taught me how to keep going, how to love harder, and how to let God turn pain into purpose.

Some moments split your life into “before” and “after.” For me, that moment came when my parents sat us down to tell us my baby brother was gone. I remember feeling this wave of anger and sadness hit all at once. As soon as they finished talking, I ran to my room, threw the covers over my head, and cried into my pillow until I couldn’t breathe. My mom tried to comfort me, but I pushed her away. I wasn’t mad at her, I was mad at the world. Looking back, I feel bad about that, because she was the one going through the deepest kind of loss. But I didn’t know what to do with what I was feeling. My little brother, Patrick, was about twelve to fourteen weeks along when he passed. From what I know, he might’ve survived if things had gone differently. I don’t know all the details, and honestly, I’m not sure I want to. All I knew back then was that he was gone, and I couldn’t fix it. For someone like me, someone who always tries to solve problems and make things right, that was the hardest part. A few weeks later, there was a moment I’ll never forget. We were all in my parents’ room, and I saw my dad cry for the first time. Not over a game or something small, but from heartbreak. That’s when it hit me. This pain wasn’t going to go away anytime soon. For a long time, it didn’t. I fell into depression. I felt like I was falling into a hole I couldn’t climb out of. However, everything then began to shift when I attended my first major retreat. I’ve always been Catholic, but that retreat changed something in me. During adoration, it suddenly started snowing just lightly, but enough to see it falling through the church windows. In that quiet moment, I felt peace for the first time in forever, like God was saying, “I’m here.” I still struggle sometimes, but I know God pulled me out of that dark place. My faith isn’t something I take for granted anymore. Strangely, I think losing my brother brought me closer to God. He helped me learn that not everything can be fixed; some things just have to be carried. I’ve learned to see the glass half full instead of half empty, to keep finding light even when everything feels heavy. Patrick’s name makes me think of the color green, St. Patrick’s Day, and the day my parents got married. It’s a color that feels alive, full of hope, like he’s still here somehow. I don’t have memories of him, but I feel close to him most of the time. If I could talk to Patrick, I’d tell him I love him and I can’t wait to see him one day. I wish he could be here with me, and I’ll never understand why he’s not. But his loss has shaped who I am, someone who feels deeply, who has compassion for others, and who knows that even in the darkest moments, there’s still light waiting to be found. Grief is like having rocks in your pockets. They never really go away, but as you grow stronger, they start to feel a little lighter. People will try to help in their own ways, but sometimes what helps most is someone willing to sit in the darkness with you before trying to pull you out. Losing my brother taught me how to keep going, how to love harder, and how to let God turn pain into purpose.

The smell of Lebanese cooking always brings me back to my Sito’s house. I can still picture her kitchen filled with the smell of tabbouleh and grape leaves, Arabic drama shows playing softly in the background. At first, everything felt safe and familiar, the kind of comfort that only came from being near her. But even as a little kid, I could tell something was different. My Sito had just gone through surgery after being diagnosed with melanoma on her toe. She tried to stay strong, putting on a brave face so no one else would worry. That was who she was: always protecting others, even when she was scared herself. I could see she was more tired, and I remember how carefully she walked when she got up from bed. There was a heaviness in the air, uncertainty. Even then, she never stopped showing love. She would smile when I came in, pat the bed beside her, and let me curl up next to her while the TV played in the background. When my Sito was first diagnosed, I watched my mom handle everything with a calmness that only made sense to me years later. I could tell she was worried, but she never showed it. My mom cooked meals and helped her with anything she needed. She didn’t do it because anyone told her to, but because that’s who she is. She’s the kind of person who always shows up, lifts people when they’re struggling, and never lets love stay quiet. When my Sito finally recovered, her determination to get back to work amazed me. Even after the surgery, when she was still adjusting to walking and standing all day, she couldn’t wait to return to her clients at Salon La Bella. We all told her to rest a little longer, but she wouldn’t hear it. That’s just who she is: strong, stubborn in the best way, and proud of what she does. Her clients missed her while she was gone and couldn’t wait to see her again. Many of them stopped by to check on her or bring food, which said a lot about the kind of person she is. She’s always been the first to help others when they’re struggling, and in return, people wanted to be there for her. I’ve tried to take that same ambition and drive my Sito has and put it into my own life. Seeing how much pride she takes in her work made me want to build something of my own. That’s how my 360 photo booth business started. At first, it was just something I did for fun with friends and family, but I quickly realized how much I loved running it. I handled bookings, set up events, and learned how to make our booth stand out on social media. It taught me that success comes from staying consistent and caring about people. Through all of this, I’ve learned that I don’t stop at the word “no.” When I face a challenge, I find another way forward. That mindset came from watching the women in my family, my mom, my Sito, and everyone who taught me what persistence looks like. I’ve learned that success isn’t just about personal achievement; it’s about helping others rise with you. When I become a lawyer, I want to carry that same mindset with me and build a career that creates opportunity, bringing light to people who need it most. Every time I smell that familiar Lebanese cooking, I’m reminded of where I came from, a little house filled with love and strength.

When you step onto the court, you need a positive attitude. You can’t be thinking, “We’re going to lose,” or “I’m scared.” Negative thoughts make you play worse. I’ve learned that if you really want something, winning a game, completing a project, or helping someone, you need to go after it with everything you’ve got, even if it scares you. Kalia D. Davis lived by this same principle. Her dedication to excellence in track, academics, and everything she did inspires me to push myself in the same way. My Papi told me at twelve that I wasn’t good enough to play soccer. His words stuck with me, but I didn’t let them stop me. This summer, I finally had a chance to show him otherwise when he was asked to help build a TST soccer team. I went to practice, quietly observing drills and noting each player’s strengths. I suggested lineups and strategies and helped my Papi figure out the best way to use each player. By the end of the summer, we had built a team that made it to the semifinals against the U.S. Women’s team. We left the field determined not to take a loss, but leaving next year ready to win. I imagine Kalia cheering from the sidelines, her encouragement lifting the team as we gave our best. Her life shows that hard work, humility, and cheering others on can make all the difference. Volleyball taught me something similar. Our coach said that when one of us makes a mistake, it’s on all of us. You can’t just blame one person; you have to support each other and keep moving forward. That mindset helped me lift my teammates’ morale when we lost a set and stay focused on what we could do better next. Like Kalia, I try to bring positivity and encouragement to the people around me, whether it’s on a team, in a club, or at home. I imagine her dancing with me and my sisters after practice, sharing joy and laughter like she did with her niece, Aubrey. Volunteering has shaped me, too. With my robotics team, I’ve packed meals for Feed My Starving Children and assembled 700 STEM kits for Christian Community Action. With my youth group, I’ve gone on mission trips to Corpus Christi, helping feed the homeless, clean graves, and spend time with nursing home patients. I’ve also mentored middle schoolers at my church, helping them grow in their faith. Kalia’s commitment to service is something I deeply relate to. I think she would have joined me, encouraging others and sharing joy through action. Leadership, I’ve learned, isn’t about being in charge; it is about stepping up when someone needs assistance and helping them shine. I want to be someone people can rely on, someone they can trust, and someone who lifts others as I climb. I want a career that has meaning and passion, not just a paycheck or recognition. I want to create opportunities for people who don’t have the same chances I did, giving them the push or encouragement they need to succeed. This scholarship would help me continue my education, pursue opportunities to lead and mentor others, and give back to my community, carrying forward the values and spirit that Kalia D. Davis lived every day. Wherever I go, I’ll think of her joy for life, her drive, and the laughter she shared, letting her legacy inspire me in everything I do.

I was five and sitting cross-legged on my bed, a small pile of picture books nearby, singing Chicka Chicka Boom Boom at the top of my lungs, but with no audience to hear me sing. I learned every rhyme, every rhythm, as if I could read when I was still years from being able to. My parents would smile and stand in the doorway, but it was magic to me; word became sound, sound became letter. And that's where my journey with learning began. A few years down the line, I was fascinated with Legos. I spent hours creating and destroying small worlds, trying to understand how everything connected. I was the reserved, quiet girl who observed but said nothing. I kept most of my questions in my head, keeping them inside. But as I grew older, that questioning overflowed. It was during high school that I challenged myself to speak up to be the first to ask questions in robotics class, to initiate things at church, and to get others to think about the world differently. One afternoon, that same curiosity led me to a conversation with my uncle, who is a lawyer. I was eager to find out why he studied law, expecting something mentioned about achievement or money. Instead, he explained to me, "Life is about helping others when you can, because others helped you when you had nothing." That was something that resonated with me. It made me understand that what I choose to do should be from purpose and thankfulness, not admiration. He explained to me that every client has a tale, and it is his responsibility to help them get justice and hope where they feel lost. I never forgot that. That same belief in purpose and growth has carried over with me during my time in my robotics club. I didn't start as a leader by any means. At first, I did odd tasks wherever I was able to help: painting sets, proofing scripts, whatever needed to be done. But I listened, learned from each person I was around, and just kept asking questions. I progressed year after year to Chief Marketing Officer, where I now manage the team that deals with our branding, booth setup, and presentations. Perhaps the most memorable experience was at regionals. It was 7 a.m., and I got a call from my coach: a teammate was sick, and we needed someone to do the marketing presentation that day. I had never done it before, only observed. I was scared and unsure if I could do it any justice, but I accepted anyway. I practiced throughout the morning and took to that stage determined to give it my all. We achieved it, not just because the presentation had been so successful, but because I proved to myself that leadership isn't a lack of fear, it's going forward with fear. Which is why I will be majoring in Political Science and minoring in Business, and then attending law school. I want to take what I will have learned and put it towards closing the gaps where walls exist, opening doors of voice for those whose voices are too frequently silenced. For me, learning has been an act of hope, a faith that things can get better, people can change, and I can help make it happen. It started with a picture book on my bed, but it's guided every step of the way. My love of learning first revealed my purpose, and I'm confident that it will continue guiding me to the kind of life I'm meant to build.

I despised the four walls of my bedroom. I had previously yearned for being alone in them, some quiet time to think or escape, but not this time around. With COVID, being alone was not an option; it was like the world had simply disappeared, and I was left alone in a way I never had been before. Middle school ought to have been a period of discovery and new friends, but I was locked in my mind, shut off from all of them and from everything I knew. When my brother died soon after, loneliness only became more profound, and guilt and sorrow overwashed me. I blamed myself for failing to prevent it, and for months, I allowed the darkness to take its grip. Things then reached the point where I started falling into a pool of darkness. At first, instead of trying to climb out, I just sat there, immobile and helpless. There were instances when pain reached such an extent that I absorbed it. Now looking back, I know such moments as not being of weakness, but as signals that I needed help. My dad's love is usually rough and hard, but in this case, it was exactly what I required. He guided me through the initial steps of the light, informing me that I did not have to do everything by myself. I slowly started to rebuild after that, surviving as well as learning to have something worth living for. I discovered that small acts of courage have aftershocks. On a retreat, I resisted when I felt compelled to pray with an unknown woman. Fear held me back, but eventually I listened. Her niece had attempted suicide the previous week, and that one moment of touch, prayer, and presence meant more than I could have ever known. That was a reminder that I could not leave behind the people that I loved; my life mattered, and if I had lost hope, I would have missed everything that followed. Since then, I have been involved in worthwhile activities. I am now a senior at a high school and intend to study Political Science with a minor in Business. My afternoons are filled mostly with robotics, for which I have been Marketing Director and now act as Chief of Marketing. We won third place in regionals last year, the first substantial regional win in 25 years. I organized a mock trial camp during the summer, received sponsorship by Scheef & Stone, and directed students through an educational program from start to finish. I helped my dad construct a team for the TST Soccer Tournament in North Carolina, where the team reached the semifinals for a game against the U.S. Women's team. These encounters have strengthened my leadership, organizational, and mentoring skills as well as entrenched the value of resilience and commitment. Maintaining my mental health and remaining balanced continues to be an everyday requirement. Prayer, meditation, support community, and self-care are everyday grounding mechanisms that keep me stabilized. I understand that it is not a sign of weakness to ask for help; it is a sign of strength. And as I continue to return each day for myself, for my own education, for the things that bring me joy, and for the people around me, I am reminded of how far I've come and what I am capable of doing. I will not be defined by despair or fear. Instead, I let these lessons teach, inspire, and motivate others and show them that even in the darkness, there is light, meaning, and hope.

"My heart is restless until it rests in You." - St. Augustine That sums it all up, the way I live my life: restless always to grow, to learn, to serve, but rooted in faith that peace can only be found with God. Even if I am not the brightest or the strongest in the room, I will do my best and know that I can always try harder and that everything I do will bring me closer to where I am meant to be. It's that type of thinking that has shaped my education and leadership. I am pursuing a degree in Political Science with a minor in Business as a prelude to law school. I believe education is not only a personal achievement, but a goal to use my degree to create access where there is a barrier. On my robotics team, I'm one of the sole Hispanic women, other than my siblings, working in an area in which people like me are rare. Yet, I have risen through the ranks to become Chief Marketing Officer, leading our marketing team. BEST Robotics is unique in that it's not just about building a robot. We're supposed to function as a "company" within each team: we build a robot, but we also build a brand, have a marketing booth, and present to judges as if we're "selling" our company's vision. That makes my role as CMO more than just creative, it's leadership and strategy. In my first year, a member got sick just before regionals, and with fewer than 24 hours left, I was asked to replace them and make the marketing presentation. I was shy and new, but I just did it, worked early morning rehearsing, and succeeded later that day. That experience taught me that leadership isn't always scripted; sometimes it's just about being willing to say "yes" when you're afraid. Part of my job as CMO is to have our "company" perform corporate social responsibility. I helped coordinate the assembly of 700 STEM kits we gave to Christian Community Action this year. I have also been able to share STEM beyond my own community. I was invited as a guest on a radio interview for 910AM Guadalupe Radio, where I represented my team's vision, explained why STEM matters, and showed how my faith influences my leadership. Talking to individuals from varying backgrounds made me realize that representation isn't solely about being present; it's about utilizing your voice to push others toward spaces they may never have known they could occupy. Representation is important in all sectors. Just 5% of lawyers in the United States are Hispanic or Latino, yet Latinos comprise almost 20% of the population. I want to inspire the next generation of BIPOC students, and especially young women, that they do belong in spaces where they don't necessarily see themselves represented. My legacy won't stop at my achievements. I will also be a mentor to students, guide them to college, and instruct them that setbacks such as financial struggles, social inequality, or under-representation do not define their future. I've already begun to do this with robotics, and I want to take that same mindset with me wherever I go. My restless heart will finally find peace the day I know I have opened doors for others by being a mentor who tells the next student, “Yes, you belong here.” Not only success for me, but a path for others to follow.

Any idea what it is like to be the only voice for a person in a room full of decisions that will change their life? I experienced that for the first time when I asked my uncle, a lawyer I really admire, why he chose his career. He told me it was a case of helping people who do not have the same opportunities we might take for granted, that everyone has. He explained to me that law school is challenging and competitive; yet, life is not a matter of outdoing others, but rather about assisting people and offering a helping hand where possible. That idea moved me greatly and made me yearn to study law myself. Since I was homeschooled and could not take part in DECA, I created my own opportunity. I established a mock trial program from the ground up, essentially on my own. I started the program, figured out who would be interested, and involved my mom in spreading the word. For someone like me, who has always performed well when directions rule, I loved LEGO for this reason. However, with my new mock trial program, I did not have someone hovering over my shoulder telling me exactly what to do or how to do it. I struggled with not having a play-by-play on what to do or how to do it. Though it made me stronger, it enabled me to think critically and to think fast on my feet. I will admit that was not a strength of mine until after the mock trial. Something I have learned about myself throughout this process is that I will not stop at the answer "no" because that is what I was told by DECA. Instead of stopping, I kept going and figured out an opportunity where I could shine. "Bring others up with you" is something I will always do, no matter what in life. If I had stopped by the answer "no," then I would not have been able to impact those around me with the mock trial. I will continue to bring others up throughout my legal career. Even when law school is difficult and my classmates are trying to one-up each other in class because they want to be the "best". I will simply try to help anyone I can and be a light for those who are struggling. Living by the lesson that my uncle taught me in bringing up others. Even if I am told "no," i will not let that stop me from achieving my goals. It did not stop me during my mock trial experience, and I do not plan on it stopping anytime soon.

Sitting on my couch with popcorn in hand, TV lights on with Girl Meets World playing, and there was Sabrina Carpenter. She wasn't just another Disney star to me; she was unique. I enjoyed that she was so laid-back and goofy, the way she always appeared so self-assured and confident. It was intimate watching her, as if we were both coming of age together. That sense of familiarity stuck around. As I matured, I watched her move from acting in films to music, and I followed along. When she put out her first tour, I went to see her and then her second. Both performances are memories that I will carry until my dying breath, moments that were brimming with thrill, joy, and sharing with my family and friends. Her performances never go unnoticed because they are not merely music. Sabrina can bring everyone into her world, so the audience resonates with her music as if they had lived it too. My personal highlight was during her Dallas performance. A fan shared a messy story about cheating, and Sabrina's response was full of humor, poise, and understanding. She didn't wave it off; she listened, laughed at the audience, and made it a moment where one could be a part of it. It made me realize that she isn't just an artist; she is a human who understands people and works with them on a real level. Her music itself has taught me things, too, that I bring into my own life. Songs like Tornado Warnings and Because I Liked a Boy taught me the reality of people always having an opinion, no matter what you do. That opinion isn't always constructive or even just, but Sabrina's life has shown me that criticism does not define you as a person. She's taught me how to take negativity with a grain of salt and move on with confidence. Sabrina inspires me in a more personal way: her height. We're both short, and it's something I've been teased and bullied for countless times. But watching Sabrina, I love that she never lets it hold her back or change the way she competes, introduces herself, or goes after her dreams. She shows me that height is just a number and not a limitation, and confidence is larger than the opinion of any other person. Her life teaches me that you may start out one way and become something entirely other. She didn't stay stuck as "just a Disney star." Instead, she forged her own path as a performer, songwriter, and musician. To get to see her do that has changed how I think about my own future. It's inspired me to do what I love, not for approval, but because it matters. She's taught me that living for yourself and being yourself is more powerful than trying to be what somebody else needs you to be. Sabrina Carpenter has impacted me in that she is more than a great artist; I admire that she is an inspiration who has taught me to handle criticism, embrace change, and never let someone else's voice ring louder than mine. That's why I admire her. Her impact isn't only in the music she performs; it's how she touches hearts and tells us that it's okay to write our own book.

I sit in a well-lit room with pencil and computer ready, the clock rewinding and fast-forwarding, my fingers drumming on the table because my head refuses to shut up. Taking tests has always been my greatest struggle. When I sit to take an exam, my brain does not merely read the questions in front of it. Instead, it gallops forward: if I don't pass a grade, I won't get into college; if I don't get into college, I'll never be a lawyer; if I can't be a lawyer, I'll never be able to prove to the people who have been in doubt about me what I can do; and if I can't prove to them, how will I be able to take care of smart, capable kids someday? That cycle of thinking used to spiral out of control until I was stranded. It was learning to do things step by step that enabled me to break free from that terror of anxiety. I started putting down everything I was thinking simultaneously, making lists so the chaos in my head became a clear list of work that I could accomplish. Crossing things off was my way of calming the storm. I even learned that lavender scent eased me, let me breathe, and recharge. Now, whenever my head spins again, I return to my lists and tackle each one step by step. With time, however, I discovered that the same ADHD that made testing such a struggle also gave me a persevering obstinacy. My mind repeats and replays my work until I write it down or complete it. Although sometimes it is exhausting, it also makes me never fall behind in work. It keeps me alert, active, and motivated to complete the tasks before me. Determination has fueled my most successful accomplishments. My Mock Trial Camp was just an idea, but because of my ADHD, I wouldn't drop it until I turned it into reality. I dissected steps in my head, acted on them, and turned the idea into a reality that transformed me, but also the lives of the students who came. What began as a thought became a week-long campaign, even sponsored by a law firm. The same trait that had once overwhelmed me regarding school was the same one that urged me to produce something meaningful. And by faith, a firm anchor, I've kept moving forward. When my brain just gets too bogged down, I pray and give it to God. That quiet time quiets my mind down and reframes me in thinking differently about my ADHD. Instead of a curse, I now view it as a personal part of myself, a difficulty that has helped me become stronger, more innovative, and absolutely devoted to what I'm doing. ADHD never left, but I learned to work with it rather than against it. It pushed me to develop strategies, lean on faith, and just keep going, no matter what the hurdle was. It's because of it that I'm living my life with purpose, passion, and heart. My experience with ADHD has made me a stronger individual, not just in school, but in leadership, business, and ministry. It is still shaping the person I am today.