My name is Asha, and I’m an undergraduate student at George Washington University double majoring in international affairs and political science, with a minor in conflict resolution. As a young woman of color from rural North Carolina, I’ve always known what it means to carve out your own path and why it matters to protect the rights and safety of others along the way. Growing up in Fayetteville, NC, I lived near Fort Bragg. I was constantly surrounded by service, discipline, and sacrifice. From an early age, I understood that public service is more than a job; it’s a commitment to showing up for your country and community, even when it’s hard. That foundation shaped my goals, and today, I’m preparing for a future in federal service, specifically in law, national security, and human rights protection. My dream is to work as an attorney-adviser within the U.S. Department of State or Office of the Secretary of Defense. I want to specialize in national security and international law, helping shape policies that both defend the country and uphold civil liberties at home and abroad. My ultimate goal is to work on legal frameworks that respond to global conflict, protect vulnerable populations, and promote accountability within government systems. I believe deeply in the power of principled leadership, and I want to be part of the next generation of public servants who bring both courage and compassion to the table. What sets my path apart is the balance of academic training and lived experience. I’ve worked on conflict prevention projects, including youth outreach in Uganda and mental health refuge for displaced youth in Syria. My involvement in nonprofits and policy advocacy has given me a grounded, global understanding of justice, and I want to carry that into federal work. This scholarship would help reduce the financial burden that often comes with higher education, especially as I begin preparing for law school and public service exams. Every bit of support brings me closer to my goal: becoming a federal public servant who fights for justice, safety, and dignity not only in moments of crisis but through long-term systems change. Public service is demanding. It requires grit, empathy, and a commitment to acting with integrity under pressure. I’ve spent my life growing those qualities, not only in the classroom, but through personal challenges that have made me resilient, resourceful, and laser-focused on doing meaningful work. I’m not interested in prestige. I’m interested in purpose. And with this scholarship, I’ll continue to chase that purpose, building a career that serves both country and conscience.

I grew up in Hampstead, North Carolina, a small town with a big heart and a deep awareness that real change doesn’t always come from powerful people in big cities. Sometimes it starts in a classroom, in a small club, or even in a Google Doc shared among a few determined students. That’s how my nonprofit journey began, with a vision and a cause that mattered. In high school, I founded a club called S.T.A.N.D.—Students Taking Action Now for Dignity. I’d always cared deeply about justice and human rights, but it wasn’t until I learned about ongoing humanitarian crises that I felt moved to take action. The project that shaped me most was our work supporting youth in Uganda. I organized fundraisers, coordinated letter exchanges between students, and worked closely with club members to raise awareness about displacement and trauma caused by conflict. We partnered with educators in Uganda and provided school supplies, emotional support, and advocacy materials. It started local, but it didn’t stay that way. Working with kids across continents taught me something essential: children don’t just need resources, they need to feel seen, heard, and valued. Whether I was volunteering at home with elementary school literacy programs or coordinating international aid, I kept coming back to one core belief: if we can support children early, we’re not just helping individuals, but we are investing in the future of our communities, our countries, and our world. As an African and Indian American girl from North Carolina, I know the power of having someone believe in you. I also know what it feels like to be underestimated. That’s part of why I pour so much heart into youth-centered nonprofit work—because I’ve seen firsthand what young people can achieve when they’re told, “You matter.” I’m now double majoring in international affairs and political science at George Washington University, with a minor in conflict resolution. My dream is to work in human rights law or global policy, with a focus on protecting children in conflict zones and creating trauma-informed education systems. My past experiences—especially with STAND and the Uganda project—taught me how to organize, how to lead, and how to stay grounded in compassion. My education is giving me the tools to scale that work and take it even further. I plan to use my degree to design policies and programs that make safety and opportunity accessible for children around the world. Whether that’s through international development work, diplomacy, or educational reform, I want my career to center kids because they’re not just the future. They’re the present, too. With your support, I’ll keep working to uplift children, empower communities, and build the kind of future John Walker and Christine Horton believed in—one where every child has a chance to grow, dream, and thrive.

I am a survivor of a relationship that tried to erase my voice, my safety, and my sense of self. Though I rarely speak about what happened, I carry the memory in my bones and in the careful way I choose who gets close to me. At thirteen, I didn’t have words for what was happening; I was too young. I only knew I was being hurt by someone who was older and “cool” and had said he loved me. What I’ve since realized is that education was what helped me begin to heal—and it’s the same tool I now hope to use to help others find safety, strength, and freedom. Education opens doors that abusers try to close. It provides language for what we’ve endured. It gives us the ability to name patterns, recognize warning signs, and break generational cycles of harm. For me, learning about power, consent, mental health, and trauma-informed care has made me feel like I have control over my story again. Knowledge is protective. It gives people the awareness to recognize abuse early and the confidence to know they deserve more. I’m currently double majoring in international affairs and political science at George Washington University, with a minor in conflict resolution. My academic focus isn’t random; it’s a direct response to my own past. I want to work in human rights and national security law, where I can develop policies that protect people like me: survivors, especially women and girls, especially those from communities that often go unheard. I want to create trauma-informed systems that meet people where they are, not where society expects them to be. Beyond my career goals, I also want to be someone other survivors can look to and see proof that the story doesn’t end with what happened to us. I want to go further—into advocacy, legal reform, and direct service for those in crisis. Survivors deserve more than survival. They deserve futures built with care and power and voice. Too often, people assume that speaking about what you’ve gone through means you’re seeking sympathy. But we don’t speak out for pity; we speak out to be heard. We speak to reclaim our narratives, to build safety for the next generation, and to remind others that they’re not alone. Education gave me the vocabulary to do that. Now I want to turn it into action. This scholarship would not only support my academic journey, it would honor the strength it’s taken to get here. I’ve worked hard to heal my 13-year-old self while navigating life and independence, and I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I’m even more proud of where I’m going. With my degree, I plan to be a force for change. Not in spite of my past, but because of it.

When I was thirteen, I entered a relationship with someone older who said he loved me, and I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world. What followed was not love, it was control, fear, and manipulation that I carried in silence. I've never talked about him much, never wanting to give him any power. But my body ached where my bones had healed from his “anger issues,” and my silence carried the bruises my voice was never allowed to name. He isolated me and hurt me in ways no one ever should. For years, I blamed myself, thinking I should have known better, fought harder, or left sooner. But I was a child. And I was being abused. Now, at nineteen, I understand that surviving was not a weakness; it was my strength. Leaving him was the bravest thing I’ve ever done. Healing hasn’t been linear, but over time, I’ve reclaimed ownership of my body, my story, and my future. I’ve learned how to build safety from the inside out—and how to name what happened to me without shame. As a young African American woman, I also carry the weight of our community’s silence around domestic violence. There are layers to it, with distrust of systems that have historically failed us, pressure to “keep it in the family,” and stigma that tells Black women we have to be strong no matter what. But strength isn’t suffering in silence. The strength is in surviving. Strength is telling the truth. Strength is knowing that we deserve better. That’s why I’m double majoring in international affairs and political science at George Washington University, with a minor in conflict resolution. My long-term goal is to work in national security and human rights law, particularly within the U.S. Department of State or Department of Defense. I want to help create policies that prioritize trauma-informed care, survivor-centered justice, and culturally competent outreach, especially for women and girls of color. This scholarship speaks to me because Linda Hicks’s legacy is about more than hardship. It’s about resilience. About rising up and using your story not as an anchor but as a bridge—to help others cross over into safety, hope, and healing. That’s what I want to do. I’ve already begun mentoring peers, raising awareness about healthy relationships, and supporting friends in difficult situations. But I want to do more on a systemic level. I want to ensure that future generations don’t have to search in the dark for help that should have been there all along. Whether it’s through advocacy, policy work, or direct support services, I plan to be a voice for those who haven’t yet found theirs. I think survivors are often shamed for sharing their experiences, as if speaking out means we're seeking pity. But we’re not asking for sympathy; we're asking to be heard. I’m applying because I’ve turned pain into purpose. I know what it feels like to be broken down by someone who said they loved me, and I also know what it means to build myself back up without them. With your support, I will continue to fight for a future where girls like me not only survive but thrive.

I believe that mental health is a human right. And yet, for so many—especially adolescent girls in conflict zones—it remains a privilege they’re never afforded. I’m double majoring in political science and international affairs at George Washington University with a minor in conflict resolution. My academic work focuses on how structural violence and systemic neglect impact young people’s mental health, particularly in humanitarian settings. I’m especially passionate about mental health access for adolescent girls in refugee camps and post-conflict regions, where trauma is both immediate and long-lasting, and care is almost always underfunded or stigmatized. I didn’t arrive at this issue from a distance. I’ve struggled with my own mental health since childhood. I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder at age five. I’ve had panic attacks, depressive episodes, and moments when I didn’t know how I’d make it to the next morning, and I had access to therapy, medication, and support systems. That experience taught me how powerful mental healthcare can be and how cruel it is when systems deny that access to the people who need it most. I’ve worked with youth-focused nonprofit groups to provide peer support, organize mental health awareness campaigns, and facilitate honest conversations around trauma and healing. One of the most important things I’ve learned is that even in spaces with limited resources, connection and understanding go a long way. Sometimes, showing up consistently is revolutionary. I plan to work in public service, ideally in the Department of Defense, USAID, or an international humanitarian organization, focusing on trauma-informed policy, gender equity, and mental health infrastructure. I want to help build programs that support displaced and vulnerable youth, not just with food and shelter, but with tools to process grief, rebuild identity, and feel safe again. My interest isn’t just academic — it’s deeply personal. I know what it means to feel broken and unworthy of care. I also know what it means to fight through that pain and use it as fuel. That’s why I speak openly about therapy. That’s why I check in on friends who seem “fine.” That’s why I write and volunteer and study so hard — because I want to help rewrite what care looks like in the places that need it most. If awarded this scholarship, I would use the funds to continue pursuing nonprofit and policy internships, afford study materials, and stay on track to graduate with minimal debt. I would also use the opportunity to share Jeannie’s legacy with other young women in public service, encouraging them to show up boldly, advocate fiercely, and never stop learning. I believe the world becomes more beautiful when we fight to make it safer. That’s what I want to do — for the girls who don’t yet know they’re worth saving and for the future we all deserve.

Growing up, I used to think my mom had some kind of superpower. I didn’t know how else to explain how one woman could work multiple jobs, raise two kids on her own, study for med school exams, and still remember the exact way I liked my sandwiches. She’s the strongest person I know — not just because of what she’s done, but because of how she did it: with patience, humor, and an unshakable belief that we could all build something better. I was raised by a single mother who put herself through medical school while raising me and my younger brother. That sentence alone says so much, but it still doesn’t capture everything: the nights she stayed up after clinicals to help me with homework, the mornings she packed our lunches while reviewing pharmacology flashcards, the times she let me sit in the back of her lectures because childcare fell through. She never complained. She just kept going. Watching her didn’t just teach me about resilience — it taught me about purpose. She showed me that building a future isn’t just about personal success; it’s about what you can give back. That’s why I’m now pursuing a double major in political science and international affairs at George Washington University, with a minor in conflict resolution. I want to take everything she taught me and scale it — through public service, diplomacy, and policy change that centers real people. I carry her values with me every single day — her work ethic, her kindness, and her refusal to let circumstances dictate what she could become. She didn’t just raise a daughter; she raised a future changemaker. There were times when I could see her exhaustion — when she didn’t have the answers but still found a way to move forward. And now, as a college student balancing my own coursework, financial stress, and long-term goals, I think about her constantly. She is my blueprint for strength. If awarded this scholarship, I would use the funds to reduce my student loan burden and allow me to take on more unpaid opportunities like policy internships and research. My dream is to work in public service — in national security, diplomacy, or defense — and this scholarship would allow me to walk that path with less weight on my shoulders. My mom gave everything to build a future for me. I’m doing everything I can to make sure that future is bold, meaningful, and worthy of her sacrifices.

I think a lot about survival—not just the dramatic kind, but the quiet, daily version. The version that looks like getting out of bed when your chest feels hollow. The version that looks like choosing to stay, even when your brain insists no one would notice if you left. I’ve struggled with depression and anxiety for years. It’s the kind of thing that sometimes sneaks up on me and sometimes smothers me without warning. I’ve learned to live with it, not as a weakness, but as a part of who I am. I take Prozac. I journal. I go to therapy. And I try, every day, to be gentle with myself—even when my thoughts aren’t. Being a queer woman in a rural, conservative part of North Carolina added another layer to that mental health journey. I learned early how to hide parts of myself, how to code-switch emotionally, and how to exist without fully being seen. And when I did come out, I lost friends. I lost safety in some spaces. But I didn’t lose myself. I refused to. I’m now a student at George Washington University, double majoring in political science and international affairs with a minor in conflict resolution. My goal is to work in public service—possibly in national security or diplomacy—where I can help reform broken systems and create more inclusive, trauma-informed spaces. Systems can crush people. But they can also be rebuilt. That’s what I want to do. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re too much for this world. I’ve watched people I love wrestle with suicidal thoughts. I’ve sat with friends in the ER, in dorm rooms, on sidewalks, just trying to keep them tethered to this life. I’ve written letters to myself that start with “If you’re reading this, you stayed,” because sometimes I just needed a reminder that choosing to stay is an act of resistance. Elijah’s story matters. And it’s people like Elijah—people who struggled, people who were brave just by existing—who remind me why I fight so hard to stay open, to speak out, to advocate. I want to live in a world where queer kids don’t feel like silence is their only option. Where they have support, visibility, and hope. I’m applying for this scholarship because I want to honor that fight—mine, Elijah’s, and everyone else who wakes up each day and keeps going despite the storm in their mind. If awarded this scholarship, I’ll use it to reduce the debt I carry into a career focused on healing systems and protecting lives. Some days are still hard. But I’m still here. Still learning. Still dreaming. Still loving. Still building a future that someone like Elijah would be proud of.

Before I ever considered working in national security or studying international affairs, I was just a kid trying to make sense of why my brain felt like a battleground. My relationship with mental health is personal, painful, and political. I’ve watched loved ones spiral under the weight of unacknowledged depression. I’ve held my own breath through panic attacks in silence. And I’ve seen how society chooses to label us — fragile, dramatic, or attention-seeking — instead of actually listening. So I started writing. One of the first personal pieces I ever wrote was called Before I Go. It was part poem, part manifesto, part whispered truth. It was about the tension between leaving and staying—not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. It was about the loneliness that stalks people who seem “high-functioning” and the unbearable weight of feeling like a burden. Writing it didn’t cure anything, but it helped. And sharing it helped even more. That piece — and others I’ve written since — allowed me to say what so many people are afraid to: I’ve struggled. I still do. And I believe talking about it saves lives. There’s power in turning pain into language, into connection, into advocacy. My writing has always been about creating that bridge — between silence and speech, between suffering and solidarity. I’m now a student at George Washington University, double majoring in Political Science and International Affairs with a minor in Conflict Resolution. It sounds big and abstract, but for me, it’s rooted in one very personal truth: systems shape people. Broken systems — in healthcare, in warzones, in education — leave people hurting. And too often, mental health is the casualty no one tracks. I want to change that. Whether I end up working at the Department of Defense or in diplomacy, I want to advocate for trauma-informed policies and community-based solutions. I want to protect people not just from physical harm but from systems that ignore their minds and hearts. I want to help create a world where healing is accessible, where talking about trauma isn’t taboo, and where young people — especially those from underserved communities —don’t feel like they’re broken for needing help. I’ve started by volunteering with peer support groups and by helping friends navigate counseling access at college. I talk openly about being on Prozac. I write about mental health in every major paper and proposal. I advocate for myself and others because if we don’t normalize this conversation, we stay stuck in the dark. And I’ve learned that vulnerability — though terrifying — is one of the most revolutionary tools we have. What inspires me most about this scholarship is that it centers humanity — not just stats or diagnoses, but people. Real people like your mom. Like me. Like so many of us. The story you shared in this prompt moved me deeply. We often speak in numbers, but stories are what break through the noise. They remind us that behind every percentage point is a person with a life, a family, and dreams that matter. Mental health doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It intersects with identity, race, poverty, politics, and policy. It is a human rights issue. And it’s time we treat it like one. I want to live in a world where mental health is seen not as a personal flaw but as a collective responsibility. I want to help build that world — through policy, through writing, through action. My life goal is to be part of a generation that breaks the silence, reforms the system, and refuses to accept that struggling with mental health is a weakness. It’s not. It’s just part of being human — and it deserves compassion, dignity, and serious solutions.