How many lives could be changed if someone simply took the time to listen? This is a question I have carried since June 2025, when I lost my grandmother, Dana McCloud, to cancer. Before her diagnosis, she experienced persistent pain, difficulty breathing, heart-related concerns, and pelvic discomfort. By the time her cancer was discovered, it had already progressed significantly. Watching someone I loved suffer while searching for answers changed how I understood healthcare. I realized that medicine is not simply about diagnosing illnesses or prescribing treatments. It is about recognizing the humanity of every patient. As a young Black woman pursuing medicine, I understand that my grandmother's experience exists within a larger conversation about racial disparities in healthcare. Black women have historically faced barriers to timely diagnoses, adequate treatment, and compassionate medical attention. Although I cannot know whether an earlier diagnosis would have changed her outcome, I often wonder whether her concerns could have been addressed sooner. That uncertainty has become part of my motivation. I am a first-generation college student at Spelman College, majoring in psychology on a pre-physician assistant pathway. My goal is to become a physician assistant working with children, adolescents, and young adults, particularly in psychiatry or dermatology. Both specialties address conditions that can profoundly affect a person's confidence, emotional well-being, and quality of life. My interest in younger populations developed through years of caring for children and my internship at OakLeaf Counseling Services, where I supported activities focused on executive functioning skills for children with ADHD. These experiences taught me that compassionate care begins with understanding individuals rather than defining them by their diagnoses. I want my future patients to feel comfortable expressing concerns and advocating for themselves without fearing dismissal. Increasing racial diversity in healthcare is essential because representation can build trust, strengthen communication, and introduce different lived experiences into medical decision-making. Communities of color have experienced generations of discrimination and unequal treatment within healthcare systems. Rebuilding trust requires more than promises. It requires meaningful changes in how patients are treated, whose perspectives are valued, and who receives opportunities to enter medicine. I believe Black children deserve to see healthcare professionals who look like them. They deserve to know that careers in medicine are attainable regardless of their background or financial circumstances. Representation is not merely about visibility. It is about creating possibilities for those who may have never imagined themselves belonging in certain spaces. However, diversity alone is insufficient. Healthcare professionals of every background must recognize implicit biases, challenge harmful assumptions, and advocate for equitable treatment. My goal is not simply to become another Black woman wearing a white coat. I want to encourage culturally responsive care, educate underserved communities, and empower patients to participate in decisions about their health. Throughout my education, I hope to gain clinical experience, participate in community health initiatives, and mentor students of color interested in medicine. As a first-generation college student, I understand how overwhelming navigating unfamiliar opportunities can feel. I want to become someone who makes that journey easier for others. My grandmother will never see me graduate from physician assistant school or care for my first patient. Yet her story will remain with me in every examination room I enter. I cannot change what happened to her, but I can choose what I do because of it. I want to practice medicine in a way that ensures patients are not only seen, but heard and valued. Because behind every symptom is a person, and behind every person is a life worth fighting for.

I was never jealous of the clothes other girls wore, the cars their parents drove, or the vacations they posted online. I was jealous of something much simpler: stability. A childhood where both parents were present, where life felt predictable, and where children could simply be children without carrying the weight of circumstances beyond their control. When I first heard Olivia Rodrigo's jealousy, jealousy, I connected with the emotions behind her words. While the song explores comparison and the pressure of watching other people's seemingly perfect lives, I heard something deeper. I heard the voice of a girl who spent years wondering why everyone else's life seemed easier than her own. Growing up, my family looked different from many of the families around me. My father and grandmother worked together to raise me and my siblings while my biological mother struggled to find stability in her own life. My father carried responsibilities that many people never saw, and my grandmother stepped into a maternal role that shaped my understanding of unconditional love. I called her “Mom,” and she called me “mamas.” Together, they gave us what they could, even when life was far from easy. Still, I remember looking at children whose households seemed complete, whose parents attended every event, and whose biggest worries appeared smaller than mine. I wondered what it felt like to grow up without recognizing the sacrifices being made just to keep everything together. I loved my family deeply, but I would be lying if I said I never wished our circumstances were different. That is what jealousy, jealousy represents to me. Not resentment toward people who had more, but the quiet exhaustion of comparing my reality to a childhood I wished I had experienced. In June 2025, I lost my grandmother to cancer. Losing one of the two people who had been my foundation made those feelings even more complicated. Suddenly, I watched other people continue making memories with grandparents they could still call or visit. I still have a voicemail from my sixteenth birthday where she says, “Happy birthday, mamas.” Sometimes, hearing her voice brings comfort. Other times, it reminds me of everything she will never get to witness. Yet, somewhere between grief, comparison, and growing up, I realized that I could spend my life wishing I had been given someone else's foundation, or I could build upon the one my father and grandmother worked so hard to provide. And that is exactly what I have done, brick by brick. I became a student leader, founded a baking club, volunteered in my community, and worked to create opportunities for myself. Today, I am a first-generation college student at Spelman College, pursuing psychology on a pre-physician assistant pathway. Every accomplishment represents not only my determination but also the sacrifices of the people who raised me. I am still learning that someone else's happiness does not diminish my own. Their stable childhood does not make my achievements less meaningful, and my difficult beginnings do not make me less deserving of a beautiful future. Olivia Rodrigo's song reminds me of the girl I used to be, constantly looking through the windows of other people's lives and wondering why mine looked different. But I am no longer standing outside those windows wishing for what I never had. I am building a future filled with the stability and opportunities I once envied. I was not handed the life I dreamed of. With the foundation my father and grandmother gave me, I am building it, brick by brick.

"Mom" was never the woman who gave birth to me. Growing up, I learned that motherhood is not always defined by biology, but by the person who chooses to stay, sacrifice, and love you through life's uncertainties. For much of my childhood, that person was my grandmother, Dana McCloud. Although she was my grandmother by blood, I never called her that. To me, she was simply “Mom.” My relationship with my biological mother was complicated. While she worked to establish stability, my grandmother stepped in to raise my four siblings and me. She became our foundation, providing the love, guidance, and consistency every child deserves. She never made us feel like a burden or that caring for us was an obligation. Instead, she showed us that family is about the people who choose to stand beside us. Being raised by my grandmother shaped my understanding of responsibility. As an older sister, I learned the importance of patience, independence, and the need to look after others. I watched my grandmother put our needs before her own, making sacrifices I was too young to fully appreciate. Looking back, I realize that much of who I am today comes from watching her navigate challenges with strength and compassion. Growing up in a household where stability was something we had to work toward also made me aware of how differently childhood can look for every family. I understood that not everyone has access to the same opportunities, resources, or support systems. Rather than allowing those circumstances to limit my ambitions, I became determined to create opportunities for myself and eventually help others do the same. In June 2025, I lost my grandmother to cancer. Losing the woman who raised me felt like losing a part of my childhood that I could never get back. She used to call me “mamas,” and I still have a voicemail from my sixteenth birthday where she wished me a happy birthday using that nickname. Sometimes, I listen to it just to hear her voice again. It reminds me that although she is no longer here, the love she gave me continues to shape my life. Today, I am a first-generation college student at Spelman College, studying psychology on a pre-physician assistant pathway. My goal is to become a physician assistant working with children, adolescents, and young adults, particularly those who may feel overlooked or underserved. Growing up, I experienced firsthand how much one caring adult can change a child's life. My grandmother was that person for me, and I hope to provide that same sense of safety, understanding, and compassion to others. Her experience with cancer also strengthened my commitment to healthcare advocacy. I want to become a medical professional who listens carefully, takes patients' concerns seriously, and understands that behind every individual is a family who loves and depends on them. Being raised by my grandmother did not make my childhood less meaningful because it looked different from someone else's. It taught me that love can exist in unexpected forms and that our beginnings do not have to determine our endings. My grandmother may never get to see me graduate from college or enter the medical field, but every milestone I reach will carry a piece of her sacrifice. I am not pursuing success solely for myself. I pursue it for the little girl who called her grandmother “Mom,” the siblings who grew up beside her, and the woman who gave us everything she could in such little time she had. My grandmother raised me with love, and I intend to build a life that reflects it.

“Happy birthday, mamas.” Those 3 words are preserved in a voicemail from my sixteenth birthday. They belong to my grandmother, Dana McCloud, although calling her my grandmother never fully captured who she was to me. I called her “Mom” because that was the role she played in my life. Today, I can still listen to her voice whenever I miss her, but knowing I will never hear her say those words again in person is a heartbreak I am still learning to live with. Growing up, my relationship with my biological mother was complicated. While she worked to find stability in her own life, my grandmother stepped in to raise me and my four siblings. She became the person we depended on, the woman who made sure we were cared for when life felt uncertain. She did not have to take on that responsibility, yet she chose to love us through it. To me, motherhood was never simply about who gave birth to you. It was about who stayed, who sacrificed, and who made you feel safe. My grandmother was that person. On June 3rd, 2025, on my mother’s birthday, I lost her to cancer. Before her diagnosis, she had complained about pain, difficulty breathing, heart-related symptoms, and pelvic discomfort. By the time doctors discovered her cancer, it had already progressed significantly. Everything happened so quickly that I barely had time to understand what was happening before she was gone. What hurts most is the uncertainty. I often wonder whether things could have been different if her symptoms had been investigated sooner. As a young Black woman, I am painfully aware of the healthcare disparities that affect women who look like my grandmother. Black women deserve to have their pain acknowledged, their concerns investigated, and their lives treated with urgency. I cannot know whether an earlier diagnosis would have saved her, but I wish she had been given more time. Losing her meant losing someone who had been a constant in my life. It meant realizing that the woman who helped raise me would not be there to witness so many milestones. She would not see me graduate from college, enter my profession, or become the woman she helped shape. Sometimes, I return to her old voicemails just to hear the warmth in her voice. For a few seconds, I get to feel like her “mamas” again. Her death changed how I understand grief, but it also changed how I understand purpose. Today, I am a first-generation college student at Spelman College, studying psychology on a pre-physician assistant pathway. I hope to work with children, adolescents, and young adults, particularly those whose voices are too often overlooked. My grandmother’s experience strengthened my desire to practice medicine with patience and a willingness to listen. I want to become the kind of healthcare professional who remembers that behind every patient is a family hoping for another birthday and another conversation together. Continuing my education while grieving has not been easy. There are days when I wish I could call her and tell her about my accomplishments or simply ask for advice. Yet I continue because the sacrifices she made for me deserve to become something meaningful. My grandmother spent years showing me what unconditional love looked like. Now, I hope to carry that same love into the lives of others. I may never hear another new voicemail from her, but I will spend my life making sure her voice is never forgotten.

Loss has profoundly shaped who I am, how I view the world, and why I am pursuing a career in the mental health field. Experiencing grief at a young age taught me that emotional pain is often invisible and that having support during life's hardest moments can make all the difference. The losses of my friend Liv and my grandmother inspired me to dedicate my future to helping others navigate difficult seasons of life with compassion and hope. During my sophomore year of high school in September 2023, I lost my friend Liv in a tragic car accident. She crashed into a tree, and the vehicle caught fire. Her death was sudden, shocking, and devastating for everyone who knew her. One moment she was here, and the next she was gone. As our school community mourned, I witnessed grief on a scale I had never experienced before. Students, teachers, friends, and family members were all trying to make sense of an unimaginable loss. It was my first experience with losing someone close to me, and it forced me to confront how fragile life can be. In the months that followed, I learned that grief does not follow a timeline. Some days felt normal, while others brought waves of sadness that appeared without warning. Through that experience, I began paying closer attention to the emotional struggles people carry behind closed doors. I realized that many individuals suffer silently, unsure of where to turn or how to ask for help. That realization sparked a deeper interest in mental health and the importance of emotional support systems. Then, in June 2025, I experienced another heartbreaking loss when my grandmother passed away on my mother's birthday. My grandmother was the heart of our family. She offered unconditional love, wisdom, and strength, and her presence brought comfort to everyone around her. Losing her was incredibly difficult, but watching my mother grieve the loss of her own mother on a day that should have been joyful was especially painful. That experience showed me how grief affects entire families and generations. It reinforced my understanding that healing often requires community, support, and compassionate care. Together, these losses strengthened my desire to pursue a career as a Pediatric Psychiatric Mental Health Nurse Practitioner. I want to support children and adolescents who may be struggling with grief, trauma, anxiety, depression, or other mental health challenges. I understand what it feels like to carry difficult emotions and search for ways to process them, and I want to help others feel less alone in those experiences. I believe I can make a difference in suicide prevention by creating safe spaces where young people feel heard, understood, and valued. While not every loss is related to suicide, my experiences have taught me that emotional pain often goes unnoticed until it becomes overwhelming. Prevention begins with listening, building trust, increasing access to mental health resources, and encouraging conversations that reduce stigma. As a future mental health professional, I hope to advocate for early intervention and ensure that young people know they do not have to face their struggles alone. The losses of Liv and my grandmother will always remain part of my story. Although I wish I had never experienced those moments, they have inspired me to turn grief into purpose. By helping others navigate their own challenges, I hope to honor their memories and create a lasting impact through compassion, advocacy, and care.

Some of the most meaningful moments in life happen quietly. They happen in hospital rooms, counseling offices, classrooms, and living rooms where someone is scared, overwhelmed, or struggling and needs another person to care. Those moments are what inspired me to pursue a career in the medical field. For as long as I can remember, I have been drawn to helping others feel seen and supported. As the oldest sibling in a large family, caring for others became second nature to me. Over the years, that instinct grew into something deeper through my experiences working with children. As a high school counseling intern supporting students with ADD and ADHD, I learned that healing is not always physical. Sometimes it looks like patience. Sometimes it sounds like encouragement. Sometimes it is simply being the person who refuses to give up on someone when they are struggling to believe in themselves. Working with children revealed how closely physical health, mental health, and emotional well-being are intertwined. I met young children whose challenges were often misunderstood and whose voices were not always heard. Yet I also witnessed the remarkable transformation that can occur when a child is met with compassion rather than judgment. Those experiences planted a seed within me. I realized I wanted to build a career dedicated not only to treating illness, but to restoring hope. My goal is to become a Pediatric Psychiatric Mental Health Nurse Practitioner. I am inspired by the idea that healthcare professionals can be both healers and advocates. In a world where many young people face anxiety, depression, behavioral disorders, and other mental health challenges, I want to be someone who helps them navigate those struggles with dignity and support. I want to create spaces where children feel safe enough to speak, families feel empowered enough to ask questions, and every patient feels valued beyond their diagnosis. The difference I hope to make extends beyond individual appointments. I want to help reduce the stigma surrounding mental health, particularly in communities where seeking help is often misunderstood or discouraged. I want to educate families, advocate for accessible care, and ensure that children receive the resources they need to thrive. Every child deserves the opportunity to grow into the fullest version of themselves, and I hope to be part of the team that helps make that possible. To me, medicine is more than science. It is the art of meeting people where they are and helping them find their way forward. It is listening when someone feels unheard, offering comfort when circumstances feel uncertain, and carrying hope on behalf of those who have temporarily lost sight of it. That is what inspires me. Through my career, I hope to leave behind more than treatment plans and diagnoses. I hope to leave behind healthier families, stronger communities, and children who know that their stories, struggles, and dreams matter.

Growing up, I learned early that caring for others is one of the most meaningful ways to make a difference. Whether I was helping care for my younger siblings, supporting children through babysitting and nannying, or volunteering in my community, I found myself naturally drawn to roles where I could provide comfort, warmth, encouragement, and support. Those experiences ultimately led me to pursue a career in nursing, a profession that combines my passion for helping others with my interest in healthcare and advocacy. One of the most influential experiences in shaping my career goals was serving as a high school counseling intern working with children who had ADD and ADHD. Through that role, I witnessed how important patience, understanding, and individualized support are in helping children succeed and grow as individuals.. Many of the children I worked with faced challenges that were not always visible to others, and I saw how much their confidence and well-being improved when they felt understood and supported. That experience opened my eyes to the profound impact healthcare professionals can have beyond treating physical symptoms. It inspired me to think about how I could support children not only medically but also emotionally, mentally, and intellectually. My passion for working with children continued to grow through years of babysitting and nannying. Caring for children of different ages taught me responsibility, communication, and adaptability. More importantly, it reinforced how much I enjoy building trusting relationships with families and helping children feel safe and valued. These experiences helped me realize that my future career should center on serving young people and supporting their development. I am particularly interested in becoming a Pediatric Psychiatric Mental Health Nurse Practitioner. As conversations surrounding mental health continue to grow, there remains a significant need for compassionate professionals who can provide quality care to children and adolescents. I hope to help address that need by advocating for young patients, supporting families, and ensuring that children receive the care and resources they deserve to grow. Nursing offers the opportunity to combine science, critical thinking, and compassion in a way that directly improves lives, which is exactly the kind of impact I want to make. I have also developed leadership skills through my involvement in numerous organizations and activities throughout high school. As the founder and president of my school's Baking Club, vice president of several student organizations, and founder of a podcast that highlights student entrepreneurs, I have learned the value of service, teamwork, and creating opportunities for others. These experiences have strengthened my belief that leadership is ultimately about helping people reach their full potential, a principle that aligns closely with the nursing profession. Nursing represents the future I envision for myself: one centered on compassion, advocacy, and meaningful service. I am excited to continue my education, develop the skills necessary to care for others, and dedicate my career to improving the lives of children and families. Through nursing, I hope to make a lasting difference in the lives of those who need support the most. I learned about this scholarship through a fellow Spelman student who shared information about the opportunity and encouraged me to apply.

My financial education did not begin in a classroom. It began the moment I understood what it meant to watch a single parent stretch every dollar across the needs of a family — quietly, without complaint, day after day. My father is the kind of man who carries more than he lets on. As a single dad raising my brother and me, he has given everything he has — his time, his energy, his rest — to keep our home standing. I grew up watching him work, and somewhere along the way, I made a decision: I would not be another weight on his shoulders. I would be a hand helping to hold things up. I started working my freshman year of high school. Today, I hold two jobs — not as a résumé achievement, but as a quiet promise I made to my father and to myself. The money I earn covers my own expenses so that he never has to. His paycheck goes to the house, the bills, the things that keep us sheltered and fed. Mine goes to everything else I need. Between us, we make it work. That arrangement — born not out of ambition but out of love — has taught me more about money than any textbook could. I have learned that financial responsibility is less about wealth and more about intention. It is about knowing where every dollar goes before it leaves your hand. It is about the discipline of choosing needs over wants, about the difference between spending and investing, about understanding that the small decisions made today quietly shape the life you will live tomorrow. I learned to budget not as an exercise but as a necessity. I learned to prioritize not because someone told me to, but because the stakes were real. I have also learned something softer, but equally important — that money, at its core, is about dignity. My father's dignity in providing for us. My own dignity in refusing to be a burden. Financial literacy, I have come to understand, is not just a practical skill. It is a form of self-respect, and a form of love. What I have not yet had is formal financial education — structured knowledge about investing, credit, taxes, and long-term planning. That gap is one I feel acutely, and it is one I am deeply motivated to close. The real-world foundation I have built through years of working gives me something many students don't have when they enter financial coursework: genuine stakes. I am not learning this in the abstract. Every concept I encounter will have a face on it — my father's face, my brother's future, my own. What I plan to do with that knowledge is build something lasting. I want to be the first in my family to understand compound interest not just as a term, but as a tool. I want to learn how to turn two jobs into savings, savings into investments, and investments into a future where my father can finally exhale. Where he can stop worrying and simply rest — knowing that the child he sacrificed for is standing on solid ground. He worked for me. Now I am learning — for him, for my brother, and for every version of myself still becoming.

Some people find themselves in books. I found myself in flour and sugar, in the quiet alchemy of measuring and mixing, in the way a kitchen can hold you together when the rest of the world feels like it's coming apart. I have been baking since I was a child — standing on tiptoe at the counter, watching ingredients become something entirely new. It felt like magic then. It still does. Around the same time, I grew fascinated by people: why they behaved the way they did, what moved them, what wounded them. Psychology wasn't a subject I discovered in a classroom — it was something I lived, turning over questions about the human mind the way a baker turns dough, slowly and with care. Then COVID arrived, and the world went silent. Like so many others, I found myself confined — four walls, a ceiling, and an anxiety that had no outlet. I was losing myself to the stillness. So I baked. I baked bread when I couldn't breathe properly, cookies when I couldn't sleep, cakes for no occasion other than to feel the rhythm of something purposeful beneath my hands. The kitchen became my anchor in a sense actually. Every recipe was a small act of defiance against chaos, proof that I could still create something whole out of scattered parts. Baking didn't just keep me busy — it kept me sane. It reminded me that even in collapse, there is always the possibility of rising. When school reopened, I carried that lesson with me. I founded my school's first-ever baking club — not because I needed another line on a résumé, but because I had felt something real in that kitchen and I wanted to share it. I wanted other students to discover what I already knew: that baking teaches patience, precision, and grace. That it is equal parts science and intuition. That gathering around food strips away the noise and makes space for genuine connection. I built the club from nothing, planned every meeting, sourced ingredients, and mentored students who arrived with no experience and left with quiet confidence. Watching a peer succeed at something they'd never tried before was, to me, its own kind of nourishment. At the same time, my childhood fascination with the mind led me to an internship alongside a high school counselor and psychologist. There, I observed students navigating life with ADHD — brilliant, often frustrated young people who moved through a world not always designed for the way they think. I watched how the right kind of presence — patient, nonjudgmental, consistent — could shift everything for a student. I also saw the gaps: how easily neurodivergent learners are misread, how much potential goes unmet when support arrives too late or not at all. The experience deepened my empathy and sharpened my purpose. These two paths — one dusted in flour, the other rooted in the complexity of the human mind — have taught me the same essential truth: people flourish when they feel seen, supported, and given the space to become. Looking forward, I dream of expanding practical life-skills programming in schools so that every student has access to the kind of grounding I found in baking. I hope to help build peer-support networks for neurodivergent students, reducing stigma one honest conversation at a time. And I hope to keep asking the questions that have followed me since childhood — about people, about resilience, about what it means to rise.

There’s a quiet kind of strength in a single father. It is not always loud or celebrated, but it shows up every day in the small, consistent ways that shape a child’s life. My dad has had to be everything at once: provider, protector, listener, teacher. Watching him carry all of that, often without complaint, has defined what resilience looks like to me. What makes his story even more powerful is that he was still a teenager when he had me. While most people his age were still figuring out who they wanted to be, he was learning how to be responsible for someone else’s life. And not just one. He was navigating raising three kids, growing up at the same time we were. He did not have the luxury of time or ease. He had to mature quickly, make sacrifices early, and step into a role he was still learning how to understand. One of the biggest obstacles my dad faced was learning how to navigate parenthood alone. There is no guidebook for filling two roles at once. He had to figure things out in real time, from emotional support to everyday responsibilities that were unfamiliar to him. There were moments when things were not perfect, when life felt stretched thin, but he never allowed those struggles to become excuses. Instead, they became motivation. He showed me that even when you feel unprepared, you can still rise to meet what is required of you. That shaped our family’s journey in a powerful way. Our home was not built on perfection, but on effort, sacrifice, and love that showed up consistently. I learned early that stability is not about having everything handed to you. It is about someone choosing you, every single day, no matter how hard life gets. Some of my most lasting memories are not big moments, but quiet ones. Conversations after long days. The way he made sure I was okay, even when he was tired himself. The way he tried, even in areas where he felt unsure. Those moments taught me that love is not always about having the right answers. Sometimes it is just about being present. There is a song, “Lullaby” by Lukas Graham, that reminds me of him. It reflects the tenderness of a parent trying to create peace for their child, even when life feels uncertain. In many ways, it mirrors the kind of father he has been to me. From him, I learned responsibility. Not the kind that feels forced, but the kind that grows naturally when you see someone else carrying so much. I learned independence because I had to, but also because he trusted me to be capable. I learned emotional strength, watching him push through challenges without losing his sense of care for me. Being raised by a single dad has shaped my dreams in ways I am still discovering. It has made me want to build a life where stability, support, and love are not fragile things. It has influenced my desire to pursue a path where I can help others navigate their own struggles, especially those who feel like they have to carry everything alone. More than anything, it has shaped my values. I value perseverance, compassion, and effort over perfection, because I have seen how far those things can carry a person. My dad’s journey was not easy, but it built something strong. It built me. I would give him the world to show how I appreciate all his sacrifices he made for me an my siblings.

The most difficult period of my life came in June 2025, when my grandmother, Dana McCloud, passed away from ovarian cancer. She was more than my grandmother, she was my second parent. I called her “Mom” because she helped raise me, guiding me through both everyday moments and major milestones. Losing her felt like losing stability, identity, and the person who understood me most. At the same time, I was navigating one of the most demanding periods of my academic life as a full IB student while also balancing leadership roles, work, and my personal responsibilities. Grief did not pause my obligations. I still had deadlines, meetings, and expectations, but internally, I was struggling to focus, stay motivated, and even process what I had lost. What I achieved during this time was not a single award or title, but something more foundational: I learned how to persist, lead, and succeed even when I felt emotionally overwhelmed. One of the most important strategies I used was structure. I created a strict but realistic schedule that broke my responsibilities into manageable pieces. Instead of focusing on everything at once, I focused on completing one task at a time. This helped me avoid becoming overwhelmed and allowed me to continue performing well academically despite everything I was carrying emotionally. I also learned the importance of self-awareness. I recognized that I could not operate at my usual pace without acknowledging my grief. Rather than ignoring it, I gave myself specific moments to pause and process my emotions, whether that meant journaling, sitting in silence, or stepping away briefly. This balance allowed me to function without suppressing what I was going through. Another key skill I developed was asking for support. As someone in leadership positions, I was used to being the person others relied on. During this time, I had to learn how to communicate my needs to teachers, mentors, and peers. I advocated for myself when necessary, whether that meant requesting clarification, extensions, or simply understanding. This was difficult, but it strengthened both my communication skills and my ability to navigate challenges maturely. I also relied heavily on discipline. Even on days when I did not feel motivated, I showed up for my responsibilities. I continued leading in organizations like the Black Student Union and Speech and Debate, and I remained committed to my work and academic goals. This consistency became a form of resilience. It reminded me that even in difficult moments, I was still capable of moving forward. Through this experience, I developed emotional intelligence, time management, and resilience in a way that no classroom could fully teach. I learned how to navigate pressure, adapt to change, and lead while carrying unseen challenges. Losing my grandmother was a hardship that reshaped me, but it also revealed my strength. What I achieved was the ability to continue growing, achieving, and showing up for my future even in the face of loss. That is something I will carry with me into every challenge I face moving forward.

The reason I am passionate about pursuing a degree in psychology comes from a place that is both deeply personal and quietly persistent. For as long as I can remember, I have been aware of emotions in a way that goes beyond just feeling them. I notice the shifts in people’s tone, the pauses in conversations, and the things left unsaid. I have always been drawn to understanding why people feel the way they do, not just on the surface, but underneath it all. Growing up, I experienced moments where I felt misunderstood or emotionally out of place. There were times when I wished someone could look at me and understand what I was feeling without me having to explain it perfectly. That feeling stayed with me. Instead of pushing it away, it shaped how I began to see others. I became more observant, more patient, and more aware of how much people carry internally without showing it. One of the most significant influences in my life was my grandmother, Dana McCloud, who I called “Mom.” She played a major role in raising me and taught me strength, resilience, and care through her actions. Losing her to ovarian cancer in June 2025 was one of the most painful experiences I have faced. Grief changed the way I understood emotions. It made everything feel heavier, but it also made everything more real. I began to think more deeply about how people process loss, how they cope, and how they continue moving forward even when something important is missing. That experience strengthened my desire to pursue psychology. I realized that I don’t just want to understand emotions for myself. I want to be able to support others through theirs. I want to be the person who creates a space where people feel safe enough to be honest about what they are going through. Psychology gives me the tools to do that in a meaningful and informed way. I am especially interested in how early experiences, relationships, and environments shape who we become. I have seen how much people are influenced by what they go through, even when they don’t realize it themselves. I want to study those patterns and understand how to help people unlearn harmful ones while building healthier ways of thinking and coping. To me, psychology is not just about studying behavior. It is about understanding the human experience in a way that allows for growth, healing, and change. In addition to my academic interests, my involvement in leadership and community spaces has also shaped my passion. Through roles such as Vice President of the Black Student Union and Speech and Debate, I have been able to interact with a wide range of people and perspectives. These experiences have shown me how important it is for people to feel heard and represented. They have also taught me how to communicate effectively, listen actively, and lead with empathy. All of these skills connect directly to the kind of work I hope to do in psychology. I am passionate about this degree because it aligns with who I am at my core. I do not see psychology as just a career path, but as a way to make a lasting impact. I want to help people understand themselves better, navigate their emotions, and feel less alone in their experiences. I believe that everyone deserves to be seen, heard, and supported, and I want to dedicate my life to making that possible. Pursuing a degree in psychology is not just about gaining knowledge. It is about gaining the ability to turn that knowledge into care, understanding, and meaningful change.

I would start a beauty business with my sister, offering services like nails, lashes, and hair. Even though she passed away at just three months old and I never got the chance to meet her, I’ve always felt her absence in a quiet but constant way. Growing up, I often felt like I wasn’t truly the oldest sibling, like there was someone missing from the space I was supposed to fill. I found myself looking up to my older cousin instead, trying to replace a role that never fully made sense without her. Starting this business would be my way of creating the relationship we never got to have. Beauty is something I’ve always been drawn to, and I feel like it’s something we would have shared. Based on how I was raised, I imagine we would have spent time together learning how to do each other’s hair, practicing nails late at night, and figuring out lashes side by side. Those small, everyday moments are what I feel like I missed the most. I’ve always wanted to get deeper into beauty, but I never really had someone to guide me. Watching videos online never felt the same. It’s hard to learn something that feels so hands-on without someone there to teach you, to laugh with you when you mess up, and to grow with you through the process. I think that’s part of why this idea means so much to me. It’s not just about the business itself, but about the shared experience I never had. This business would be more than just a place where people come to get their hair or nails done. It would be built on connection, care, and creativity. It would represent the bond I imagine we would have had, and it would give me a way to carry her with me in something I love. Through it, I would be able to turn something painful into something meaningful, creating a space where people feel seen, confident, and cared for. In a way, starting this business with my sister would give her a presence in my life that I never got to experience. It would allow me to grow alongside her, even if it’s not in the way I once wished for.

Going to college, to me, is more than earning a degree. It is a commitment to growth, a quiet promise to myself and to my family that I will finish what was started but not always possible before me. It represents opportunity, and also responsibility. I carry the understanding that my presence in higher education is part of something larger than just my own success. As a Black woman from Rochester, New York, my story is rooted in movement and sacrifice. My great-grandparent fled the Alabama during the era of Jim Crow and segregation, searching for safety and opportunity, doing what he believed was best for himself and our family. He lived long enough to witness change, to see a world where people like us could finally step into spaces that were once closed off, including higher education. That history is not distant to me. It lives in everything I am working toward. I will be the first in my family to attend college. That reality carries both pride and weight, but more than anything, it carries purpose. I am trying to accomplish what my family was unable to complete, not exactly from a place of pressure, but from positive intention. Their sacrifices and their unfinished goals have shaped the path I now walk with resilience and pride. I want to be someone who follows through, who turns possibility into reality, and who creates stability for the people who poured into me. College also means independence. It is where I will learn how to navigate the world on my own terms, to make decisions that reflect who I am becoming. It is a space where I can explore new ideas, challenge my perspectives, and grow beyond what feels comfortable. That freedom to evolve is just as important to me as the education itself. Pursuing psychology is deeply intentional. I am not just working toward a career, but toward understanding people, behavior, and the ways we heal and connect. I want to master my field so that I can contribute meaningfully, whether that is through helping individuals navigate their experiences or creating spaces where people feel seen and understood. Psychology, to me, is about empathy in action. Ultimately, college is my foundation. It is where ambition meets discipline, and where the life I envision begins to take shape. I am working toward a future where I am not only successful, but impactful and diligently, where I can look back and know that I honored both myself and those who came before me by finishing what they could not.