From the moment I realized that strength could no longer mean silence, my story with mental health began to reshape my entire life. I grew up in a world where you kept going no matter what—where exhaustion was usual, where anxiety was a familiar hum in the background, and where trauma wasn’t something you named, just something you carried. I learned early how to function under pressure, how to show up for others even when I felt empty, and how to survive without space to ask myself what it was costing me. My relationship with mental health changed the day I admitted I could no longer outrun myself. Years of suppressed trauma, grief, and emotional labor caught up with me, and instead of breaking me, it broke something open. Therapy became a lifeline. Understanding my nervous system became a revelation. Naming my anxiety, depression, and burnout became the beginning of freedom. Suddenly, I wasn’t “too much” or “overreacting.” I was a human being with a body and mind doing the best they could with what they had. Mental health didn’t just influence my beliefs—it rewired them. I learned that healing is not a luxury reserved for those with time and resources; it is a fundamental human right. I knew that recovery isn’t linear, and neither is growth. I learned that vulnerability is not weakness but evidence that we are still fighting to feel something better. And I knew that every person carries a story you cannot see, which reshaped the way I treat others—with more softness, patience, and curiosity. These lessons changed my relationships, too. I stopped choosing people who required me to disappear to be loved by them. I learned to communicate honestly, set boundaries, and build connections rooted in reciprocity rather than obligation. Healing helped me recognize who showed up for me during the hardest seasons and who disappeared when I needed support the most. Mental health gave me clarity, but it also gave me community—the kind built through truth rather than survival. All of this is what led me toward my career. I didn’t choose the mental health field because it sounded admirable. I decided it because I lived firsthand what happens when support is inaccessible or delayed. I decided it because I’ve been the person trying to hold myself together while holding others, too. And I chose it because I know how many Black and Brown families, especially in Chicago, are navigating trauma with no roadmap, no validation, and no space to breathe. I am currently pursuing my Master of Social Work with plans to become a licensed clinical social worker specializing in trauma-informed care. I want to build programs that address healing the same way my community experiences harm—systemically. My goal is to create trauma-informed childcare centers, community-based therapeutic spaces, and culturally grounded support systems that treat mental health as integral to survival, not an afterthought. I want to help families break cycles that were never theirs to carry in the first place. Mental health gave me language, purpose, and direction. It showed me that my own healing is not separate from my calling—it is the foundation of it. I plan to use everything I’ve learned, everything I’ve fought through, and everything I am becoming to make the world more compassionate, more accessible, and more humane. My story began in survival. My future will be built on intention. And through my work, I hope to give others what I fought so hard to find: a chance to heal and a place to belong.

Living with a learning disability has shaped every part of my academic and personal journey, not as a limitation, but as a unique lens through which I navigate the world. I was often labeled “smart but distracted” or “capable but inconsistent” throughout my early school years. These phrases lingered, not because they defined me, but because they revealed how misunderstood students like me can be when our brains process information differently. I have lived with learning differences that make focus, information retention, and task sequencing challenging. But with every obstacle, I have learned how to self-advocate, adapt, and persist. Growing up, I often felt like I had to work twice as hard to achieve what came easily to others. I struggled with timed exams, long reading assignments, and multi-step instructions. But I also learned how to find new ways in, breaking assignments into smaller goals, using visual aids, leaning on oral learning, and asking for clarity when I needed it. These strategies were not just academic tools; they became survival skills. Over time, they helped me grow in confidence and independence. What drives me to pursue higher education is not just ambition, but purpose. I am currently earning my Master of Social Work because I want to help redesign systems of care that are inclusive and trauma-informed. I want to make sure no student is overlooked because they need more time, more clarity, or more patience. I want to stand in rooms where policies are made and ensure that learning differences are understood, accommodated, and celebrated. I know what it feels like to be underestimated and still rise. I know what it means to walk into a classroom and wonder if your mind will betray you that day, or if your accommodations will be honored. And I know whether it means to keep going anyway, not because it is easy, but because you believe in your future and the people you want to serve. In addition to my academic journey, I give back to my community through housing advocacy, mental health access, and youth development. I have organized community events, supported families facing eviction, and helped caregivers navigate systems that were not built with them in mind. I bring this same heart and determination to my education. I do not see school as a separate space from service. For me, they are connected. Every class I take and every concept I study becomes part of a larger mission to make care and education more accessible for others. I believe I am a strong candidate for Tylan’s Journey Memorial Scholarship because I share Dylan's resilience and purpose. Like him, I think learning differences should not stand in the way of our dreams. I also believe in using my voice to inspire and empower others navigating similar paths. This scholarship would not just support my education, it would allow me to amplify my story, finish my degree strong, and continue the work of breaking barriers for students who deserve to thrive. I honor Dylan’s legacy by moving forward with courage, by sharing what I have learned, and by reminding others that there is power in learning differently, and beauty in dreaming boldly.

From the moment I learned to take responsibility, I began to craft a life shaped by resilience. I grew up in a single-parent household where survival required creativity, patience, and a kind of strength you don’t learn from books. My mother taught me what grit looks like long before I had words for it. When bills piled up or life shifted suddenly, she would say, “Ashley, we’ll figure it out. We always do.” That belief—spoken through exhaustion, love, and determination—became the foundation of who I am. Education didn’t come to me wrapped in ease. I didn’t walk a straight path from high school to college. I walked through years of caregiving, working full-time in social services, navigating trauma, and trying to build stability with limited resources. I learned to write papers after double shifts, to show up for families in crisis even when my own heart was tired, and to return to school with the same determination my mother used to keep our household together. My journey has never been traditional, but it has always been intentional. My identity, experiences, and the communities that shaped me are what make me unique. As a Black woman raised in Chicago, I learned early how systems fail people who look like me. As someone who faced grief, anxiety, and survival-mode living, I understand what it means to keep going when life feels heavy. And as a frontline worker in housing, child welfare, and community support, I experienced the quiet power of helping someone feel seen. Those experiences didn’t just inspire me to pursue my Master of Social Work—they demanded it. The turning point in my journey wasn’t a single moment. It was every time I sat across from a mother facing homelessness, a teenager navigating trauma, or a family overwhelmed by systems designed to exhaust them. It was the moment I realized that my calling wasn’t just to help people survive, but to help transform the structures that kept them in survival mode. That is when my purpose became clear: I want to build trauma-informed childcare programs, provide clinical support to families, and advocate for communities that have carried more than their share. Being a first-generation graduate student means carrying both opportunity and weight. I fund my education while working demanding roles that support others. Financial barriers don’t dim my ambition, but they shape the reality of what I can take on. This scholarship would ease some of that burden and allow me to focus more deeply on my studies, internships, and long-term goals. What distinguishes me from other applicants is that my work is not theoretical. I come from the communities I serve. I understand the urgency because I’ve lived it. My education isn’t just a doorway to personal advancement—it is a vehicle for collective transformation. If I am awarded this scholarship, I will continue the legacy of resilience my mother began. I will take the knowledge I gain and pour it back into the neighborhoods that raised me. And I will use my voice, my training, and my lived experience to help others embrace their own power—one family, one child, one community at a time.

I am a fan of Wicked because it tells a story that feels deeply human, even beneath all the magic and spectacle. What draws me in every time is the way the musical flips the idea of “good” and “wicked” on its head. It shows how easily society labels people without understanding their whole story, their intentions, or the circumstances that shaped them. That message resonates with me both personally and professionally, because so much of my work in social services revolves around seeing people beyond their surface and understanding the complexities of their lives. Elphaba is the character who made me fall in love with Wicked. Her experience of being judged, misunderstood, and underestimated mirrors what many people go through when the world only sees their difference, not their depth. Her resilience, intelligence, and desire to do what is right—even when it costs her relationships or acceptance- reflect the type of courage I aspire to embody. Watching her find her voice, push back against systems, and refuse to shrink herself is empowering. The friendship between Elphaba and Glinda is another reason I’m drawn to the story. It’s messy, honest, and real. It captures the complex nature of relationships, especially when two people come from different worlds yet find connection through growth, conflict, and loyalty. Their arc is a reminder that meaningful relationships don’t require perfection; they require vulnerability and the willingness to evolve. Musically, Wicked is stunning. Songs like “Defying Gravity” and “I’m Not That Girl” capture emotions that are hard to put into words: longing, heartbreak, hope, and the desire to rise above circumstances. The score is powerful not just for its sound, but for the emotional truth embedded in each lyric. Ultimately, I am a fan of Wicked because it celebrates misfits, challenges assumptions, and pushes us to reconsider who we call heroes and who we label as villains. It is a story about identity, justice, and the bravery it takes to be yourself in a world that doesn’t always make room for difference. It stays with you long after the curtain closes, and that’s what makes it unforgettable.

My decision to pursue a career supporting the intellectual disability community grew out of my work in social services and the relationships I’ve formed with individuals and families navigating systems that are often difficult, under-resourced, and overwhelming. Throughout my roles in housing stabilization, child welfare, and community-based case management, I have worked with many clients who have intellectual or developmental disabilities. What inspired me most was seeing their resilience, the barriers they faced, and the way a single advocate could change the entire trajectory of their care. It showed me how powerful it is when people are supported with dignity, patience, and culturally responsive services. Working with individuals with intellectual disabilities taught me quickly that the challenge is not the disability itself; it is the world around them. I witnessed how often their needs were misunderstood, minimized, or dismissed. I saw families struggle to navigate paperwork, eligibility requirements, service gaps, and crises on their own. I also noticed how meaningful it was when someone took the time to communicate clearly, build trust, and create accommodations that allowed individuals to thrive. These experiences pushed me to pursue my Master of Social Work so I can be part of improving the systems that are supposed to support them. I have also served as a caretaker within my own family, and that experience deepened my understanding of what proper support requires. I learned how to balance compassion with structure, how to advocate for someone’s needs when they cannot always articulate them themselves, and how to create routines that promote safety, dignity, and independence. Caregiving taught me patience in a way nothing else could. It also taught me that people with intellectual disabilities do not need to be “fixed.” They need to be seen, respected, and supported with the right tools and environments. These personal and professional experiences shaped my educational goals. As I work toward becoming a licensed clinical social worker, I plan to specialize in trauma-informed support for individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities. Many people with disabilities experience higher rates of trauma, housing instability, and systemic neglect, yet they often receive services not designed with their specific needs in mind. I hope to change this by integrating therapeutic practice with advocacy, program development, and policy work. My long-term goal is to help build community-based programs that provide comprehensive support: mental health services, accessible housing pathways, caregiver training, and environments that include individuals with disabilities in decision-making about their own lives. I want to ensure families do not have to fight so hard for resources and that individuals with disabilities are treated as full participants in their communities. What inspires me most is knowing that the work truly matters. Every barrier removed, every service made accessible, and every moment spent empowering someone to express themselves or gain independence creates real impact. The intellectual disability community deserves care that honors their strengths, protects their dignity, and supports their long-term stability. I hope to be part of that change—one household, one program, and one system at a time.

My journey with mental health and substance use has not been linear, but it has been transformative. For years, I carried trauma without language for what I was experiencing. I lived in survival mode, pushing myself through crisis after crisis without stopping long enough to understand the cost. Depression and anxiety became familiar, not because I welcomed them, but because I didn’t believe I had the space or permission to slow down. As someone who grew up carrying responsibility early, I learned to function well on the outside while quietly falling apart on the inside. Substance use entered my life during a period when I was overwhelmed by grief, burnout, and emotional exhaustion. THC became my nightly escape, a way to mute the nonstop rumination and anxiety that made it difficult to rest or even think clearly. What began as coping eventually became dependence. I wasn’t used to feeling good. I used to feel less. Admitting that to myself was one of the most challenging steps in my recovery, because it meant acknowledging that the strategies that once helped me survive were now limiting my ability to grow. My healing began when I finally chose honesty over endurance. I sought therapy, began EMDR, and committed to understanding how trauma shaped my thoughts, reactions, and behaviors. I started recognizing the moments when I reached for substances not out of desire, but out of avoidance. I also began learning how my nervous system responded to stress and how to regulate myself without numbing. Recovery, for me, has been about reclaiming the parts of myself that were buried under years of unmanaged pain. This process of healing has changed the way I see myself and the world around me. I am more intentional now. I listen to my body instead of ignoring it. I set boundaries to protect my well-being instead of stretching myself past exhaustion. I approach my mental health with responsibility rather than shame. Most importantly, I extend compassion to myself in moments where I once would have reacted with self-criticism. My educational goals are deeply connected to my journey. I am pursuing my Master of Social Work because I know what it feels like to navigate trauma, mental health challenges, and substance use without adequate support. My work in housing stabilization, child welfare, and crisis response has shown me how many people are silently carrying burdens similar to mine. I want to become a licensed clinical social worker who brings empathy, cultural humility, and trauma-informed care to spaces where they are desperately needed. My goal is to build programs that support families holistically and to provide therapeutic services that help people break cycles of pain, avoidance, and survival. My recovery plan is rooted in structure, accountability, and continued emotional work. I remain in therapy, including EMDR and somatic healing practices. I have significantly reduced my substance use and continue working toward complete cessation, replacing old habits with healthier grounding techniques like bilateral music, journaling, movement, and breathwork. I maintain a support system of people who understand my recovery goals and hold me accountable without judgment. I also monitor my mental health closely, recognizing early signs of stress so I can intervene before slipping into old patterns. Recovery is not a single destination; it is an ongoing commitment to choosing myself. It means taking responsibility for my well-being and making decisions that support the life I am building. My experiences with mental health and substance use have shaped me, but they do not define me. Instead, they have given me a more profound sense of purpose, compassion, and resilience—qualities I plan to bring into my education, my profession, and the communities I serve.

The family member whose loss shaped my life most profoundly was my father. He passed away from pancreatic cancer that later became complicated by sepsis. Even now, the experience feels like a before-and-after moment in my life. Watching someone you love move through a serious illness is a kind of education you never ask for, but it changes you in permanent ways. My father was a quiet, steady presence. He wasn’t someone who vocalized every emotion, but he showed his love through consistency and care. When he became ill, that stability we were used to shifted. Our days became organized around doctors’ appointments, medication schedules, and moments of uncertainty that none of us were prepared for. Cancer is already a heavy diagnosis, but when sepsis developed, everything accelerated. His strength, which I had always depended on, began to fade, and I had to learn how to face that reality with courage even though I felt anything but brave. Being with him through his final stages taught me truths about life that have shaped every decision I’ve made since. I learned how fragile the body can be, how quickly circumstances can change, and how important it is to be present with the people you love. I also learned that grief is not something you “get over”; it is something you learn to carry, and over time, it teaches you who you are. His passing forced me to grow in ways I didn’t expect. It made me more intentional about the way I treat others, especially people going through crises they don’t know how to articulate. It made me more patient, more compassionate, and more aware of the emotional realities people carry silently. This understanding guides the work I do in social services and the way I support families navigating trauma, illness, or instability. I know what it feels like to receive difficult news, to feel powerless in a medical setting, and to hold fear in your body while trying to stay strong for someone you love. That empathy came directly from my experience with my father’s illness. His loss also strengthened my sense of purpose. It pushed me to pursue my education, to build a career grounded in healing and advocacy, and to honor the values he lived by: humility, responsibility, and quiet resilience. Even in his absence, he continues to guide the way I show up in the world. Losing my father was painful, but it shaped me into someone more grounded, more compassionate, and more committed to making a meaningful impact in the lives of others. His life—and his loss—remains one of the defining forces in who I am today.

I want to make a change in my life because I’ve reached a point where surviving isn’t enough. I want stability, purpose, and the ability to build a future that reflects who I am becoming, not what I’ve had to overcome. My life has been shaped by hard work, caregiving, and the realities of growing up in a single-parent, low-income household. Those experiences made me resilient, but they also showed me the consequences of staying in survival mode for too long. I am ready for a life built on intention, advancement, and healing. Making a change means breaking cycles that limited previous generations and creating space for possibility in my own. To move toward this goal, I have taken several concrete steps. I returned to graduate school to pursue my Master of Social Work, despite working full-time in demanding social service roles. I’ve completed certifications in trauma-informed practice, mental health assessment, and crisis intervention to strengthen my clinical foundation. I have taken on leadership responsibilities at work, serving families experiencing housing instability and trauma, which has helped me understand the gaps in our systems and the solutions needed to repair them. Beyond academics and employment, I’ve invested in my own healing through therapy and nervous system work so I can lead with clarity instead of burnout. This scholarship would help by reducing the financial pressure that often forces me to choose between school, stability, and rest. With the rising cost of tuition and the responsibilities that come with balancing full-time work and graduate studies, financial support would allow me to focus on building the career I’m working toward rather than worrying about how to afford it. It would bring me closer to clinical licensure, which will open doors to provide therapeutic services, build trauma-informed childcare programs, and expand my impact within my community. When it comes to paying it forward, I plan to do it in the same spirit that shaped me: through service, mentorship, and advocacy. I want to create pathways for other first-generation students and young people from marginalized backgrounds who need guidance navigating education and career decisions. I also plan to invest in community spaces that center healing and stability for families who are often overlooked. As I advance professionally, I will continue opening doors for those who come after me, offering support, knowledge, and opportunities the same way others once did for me. The change I’m working toward is not just for myself. It’s for my family, my community, and the next generation who deserves a world with fewer barriers. This scholarship would help me turn that vision into reality.

A time when I relied on my faith to overcome a significant obstacle was during the period when my father became critically ill. Watching someone you love decline from pancreatic cancer and then develop sepsis is an experience that forces you to confront fear, uncertainty, and grief in ways you are never prepared for. The situation changed quickly, and there were many moments when the outcome felt entirely out of my hands. In that space—where medicine could only do so much, and my family was overwhelmed with worry—my faith became the grounding force that kept me steady. I was raised to believe that faith does not erase hardship, but it gives you the strength to move through it. During my father’s illness, that belief became real for me. I prayed daily, sometimes for healing, other times simply for peace. I prayed for clarity, for courage, and for the ability to be present for my family even when my own heart was breaking. My faith did not change the medical outcome, but it changed me. It gave me the strength to sit beside my father, to support my mother, and to face each day with the understanding that love, even in its most challenging moments, still has purpose. One of the most challenging days was when we learned that his body was no longer responding to treatment. The doctors explained the course of sepsis, and the reality settled heavily in the room. Everything in me wanted to collapse under the weight of it. But instead, I turned inward to the one thing that felt steady—my faith. I reminded myself that even though I could not control the outcome, I could control how I showed up. I could choose compassion over fear, presence over panic, and peace over despair. That was the moment I understood that faith is not about expecting miracles; it is about finding strength when everything around you is fragile. After his passing, my faith continued to guide me through grief. It helped me understand that loss does not mean the absence of love. It helped me find meaning in honoring his life through the way I live mine. And it helped me rebuild myself after an experience that could have easily broken me. This challenge shaped me in profound ways. It strengthened my resilience, deepened my empathy, and grounded my sense of purpose. It also influenced the way I serve others today. Working with families who face crisis, trauma, or uncertainty, I understand firsthand what it means to cling to hope when everything feels unstable. Faith carried me through one of the hardest seasons of my life. It reminded me that even in moments of devastation, I am not alone, and that strength often shows up quietly—through prayer, through endurance, and through the courage to keep moving forward.

I exemplify character, sportsmanship, and work ethic by showing up with integrity, discipline, and respect, whether I am in the water or serving my community. Swimming has taught me lessons that extend far beyond athletic practice. In the water, you learn quickly that progress happens through commitment, repetition, and the willingness to push through discomfort. You are accountable for your own pace, your technique, and your ability to stay focused even when fatigue sets in. Character shows not only in winning races, but also in how you handle setbacks, missed goals, and the days when rain feels harder than expected. It shows in how you support teammates, respect shared space, and bring positivity to practice even when you are tired. That mindset mirrors the way I carry myself in my community. Sportsmanship is not limited to athletics; it is a way of interacting with others. In my work and volunteer roles, I meet people experiencing real challenges, including homelessness, trauma, and instability. These moments require patience, empathy, and fairness. I treat every person with dignity, the same way a good teammate respects everyone in the lane beside them. Sportsmanship means advocating for others, celebrating their victories, and maintaining humility in your own. I bring those values into every relationship and every environment I serve in. My work ethic is rooted in perseverance. Growing up in a single-parent household and overcoming personal obstacles taught me that nothing replaces preparation and consistency. Whether I am balancing academic goals, professional responsibilities, or athletic commitments, I approach everything with determination. I show up early, stay focused, and maintain high standards for myself. When I make mistakes, I review them honestly so I can learn from them. When I succeed, I use that momentum to push further. Swimming reinforces this discipline: every stroke, every lap, every practice is an opportunity to build strength and resilience. Character, to me, is doing the right thing even when it goes unnoticed. It is being someone others can rely on. It is choosing integrity in challenging moments. I try to embody this by being dependable, respectful, and honest in all areas of my life. Sportsmanship is the ability to uplift others while still striving for your personal best. It is understood that how you carry yourself matters as much as what you achieve. I practice this through encouragement, collaboration, and positivity. Work ethic is the bridge between goals and results. I demonstrate it through consistency, discipline, and a commitment to growth. Whether in the water, in the classroom, or in the community, I strive to carry these values with me. They shape how I lead, compete, and serve others.

My desired career path is to become a licensed clinical social worker and, eventually, build trauma-informed childcare and family support programs that address the gaps I have witnessed in my work in housing stabilization, child welfare, and community services. I want to work at the intersection of mental health, generational poverty, and family well-being, creating environments where children and caregivers receive the emotional, structural, and therapeutic support they need to thrive. Both personal experience and years of frontline work have shaped my path. Supporting families experiencing homelessness, domestic violence, and systemic barriers taught me how deeply trauma affects daily functioning, long-term stability, and a person’s sense of possibility. These experiences confirmed that mental health services are not just beneficial; they are foundational. They also highlighted the need for practitioners who understand both clinical practice and the real-world limitations families face. To pursue this career path, I am currently pursuing my Master of Social Work and plan to complete clinical licensure after graduation. I am building a foundation in trauma-informed care, EMDR, nervous system regulation, and family-centered practice. Professionally, I have held roles that have helped me understand systems from multiple angles, including residential care, public benefits, workforce development, and housing stabilization. Each role strengthened my skills in crisis response, assessment, and culturally responsive support. I also invest in ongoing training around trauma, advocacy, and community health. My goal is to integrate clinical expertise with program design, ensuring families have access to both therapeutic support and practical resources, such as childcare, housing, and economic empowerment. I plan to continue building my skills through internships, supervision, and specialized certifications that align with healing-focused, evidence-based practice. My experience aligns with this career because I have learned to work under pressure, manage complex cases, build trust with families, and navigate systems that are often overwhelming. I understand firsthand how structural inequities affect mental health, and I bring empathy, determination, and a strong commitment to dignity in every interaction. My interests naturally align with clinical social work: understanding behavior, breaking cycles of trauma, designing supportive environments, and advocating for long-term stability. I envision positively impacting my profession by helping shift mental health services toward accessible, culturally grounded, community-centered care. I want to build programs that honor tthe fullreality of families’ llives rather thanexpecting them to fit into rigid systems. My vision includes childcare centers that integrate therapeutic support, parent coaching, and trauma-informed practices so families are strengthened rather than judged. My career path is driven by purpose: to create healing, stability, and opportunity for communities that have always had to fight for it. Every step I’ve taken brings me closer to becoming the kind of practitioner who not only provides care but also helps redesign the systems families depend on.

Living with a mast cell–related condition forces you to slow down in ways you never planned. It rearranges your routines, your relationships, and sometimes your sense of safety in your own body. But in that disruption, I found something I never would have encountered otherwise: a deeper understanding of how precious presence is. What I’m most grateful for is the way this condition pushed me toward a different kind of awareness. Before symptoms took over my life, I moved fast. I ignored exhaustion, dismissed pain, and treated rest like something you earned only after everything else was done. Mast cell disease put that mindset to rest. It taught me that ignoring my body is not strength. Listening to it is. Because of this illness, I met people I never would have crossed paths with. One person in particular stands out. She was a fellow patient who became a sort of guide when everything felt confusing and overwhelming. She’d already been living with the condition for years and understood the fear, the isolation, and the trial-and-error lifestyle we fall into. She didn’t try to fix me. She just talked to me like someone who deserved gentleness. Her presence taught me that community doesn’t always come from the places you expect. Sometimes strangers become anchors. I am also grateful for the experience of learning my own limits without shame. Before this, I equated productivity with worth. Now I value clarity, pacing, and the small victories that others overlook. I notice when my body gives subtle cues. I honor days when rest is the only option. That shift has made me more compassionate toward myself and others. It’s changed how I approach my work, my relationships, and my healing. There’s also a kind of gratitude that comes from understanding who truly shows up when life gets complicated. Some relationships fell away, but the ones that stayed became stronger. I learned who can handle the unpredictability of flare-ups, who doesn’t get frustrated by accommodations, and who sees me as a whole person rather than an inconvenience. That clarity is a gift, even if it came through a challenging route. Most of all, this condition taught me to value moments of calm in a way I never did before. A symptom-free morning, a stable day, a quiet evening without fear of a reaction—those moments feel rich in a way I wouldn’t have recognized before illness forced me to slow down. Mast cell disease brought struggles I never asked for, but it also opened doors to resilience, connection, and self-understanding that I might have spent a lifetime overlooking. And for that, I’m genuinely grateful.

Legacy is one of those words people like to dress up, but to me, it’s simple. Legacy is the imprint you leave on the people who come after you, whether you meant to or not. It’s the patterns, the choices, the survival strategies, and the wounds that get passed down unless someone decides to stop and do the more complex work of changing the script. Legacy is not about perfection. It’s about impact, intention, and accountability to whatever comes next. My upbringing shaped my path in ways I’m still untangling. Growing up in a single-parent household, in a family that carried both strength and struggle, taught me resilience early. I learned stability by watching my mother create it out of thin air. I learned compassion by watching my family show up for each other, even when life was hard. I also learned what stress, scarcity, and generational pressure can do to a person. Those experiences made me hyper-aware, determined, and committed to building something different for myself and those I love. My upbringing gave me grit, but it also showed me the cycles I refuse to repeat. I learned how easily emotional wounds can spread across generations if no one stops to name them. I saw how unaddressed trauma becomes normalized, how silence becomes coping, how survival becomes the only goal instead of stability or joy. Those lessons are why I’m so intentional about healing, education, and community work. I don’t want to inherit patterns unconsciously, nor do I want to pass them along. To continue the best parts of my family’s legacy, I carry forward our work ethic, our generosity, and the instinct to protect others. To break the cycles that caused harm, I focus on therapy, boundaries, education, and building a life rooted in emotional wellness instead of constant crisis management. I pursue my graduate degree, advocate for marginalized families, and build toward a future where stability is the norm, not the exception. Continuing or breaking a legacy is a choice you make every day. I honor the people who raised me by choosing growth, by refusing to shrink under pressure, and by creating a path that offers the next generation something better than what we had. My legacy, I hope, will be a life built with intention, compassion, and courage; a life that shows it is possible to acknowledge where you come from without letting it limit where you are going.

As a graduate student in social work, online platforms, tools, and digital learning resources have become essential to my study, information organization, and application of knowledge to real-world practice. Because I balance school, full-time work in social services, and caregiving responsibilities, I rely heavily on digital tools that make learning accessible, flexible, and immediately applicable to the communities I serve. One of the primary platforms I use is Google Scholar. It allows me to search for peer-reviewed articles, quickly filter research by date, and track evolving conversations on housing policy, trauma-informed care, racial wealth disparities, and social service systems. I use Scholar alerts to stay updated on new research, which helps me bridge academic knowledge with the realities I see every day in Chicago’s housing and child welfare landscape. When I read something relevant, I download it into a digital archive so I can revisit it when writing papers or developing program strategies at work. I also rely heavily on my university’s online library databases. Tools like JSTOR, EBSCOhost, and ProQuest allow me to access full-text research that isn’t available for free. These databases have helped me strengthen my skills in evaluating methodologies, understanding the limits of specific studies, and grounding my arguments in evidence rather than assumptions. Learning to navigate and interpret academic research has sharpened my thinking and made me more confident in policy discussions, grant writing, and client advocacy. For staying organized, I use Google Drive and Notion. Google Drive lets me create structured folders for each course, share documents for group projects, and use Sheets to track assignments and deadlines. Notion helps me break down large research papers into manageable steps, organize references, and map out study plans. These tools have taught me how to manage complex workloads and think strategically before executing tasks, skills that translate directly into case management and program coordination. I also use YouTube and Coursera for supplemental learning. YouTube offers free lectures on topics such as motivational interviewing, trauma-informed practices, public policy history, and social service system analysis. Coursera allows me to take short courses on data analysis, community engagement, and organizational leadership. These platforms help me deepen my understanding beyond course readings and expose me to practitioners and scholars worldwide. Another tool I rely on is NotebookLM, which I use to clarify theories, outline assignments, summarize research articles, and translate dense academic language into accessible explanations that clients and community partners can understand. Having a digital space where I can upload materials and receive structured insights has strengthened my ability to take knowledge from the classroom and apply it immediately to frontline work. These platforms have made me a more adaptive learner. They taught me how to gather information, analyze it critically, and apply it with intention. They help me turn academic theories into action, strengthen my advocacy, and build the skills I need to serve communities ethically and effectively. In a field where the quality of our knowledge impacts lives, these tools have helped me stay prepared, informed, and grounded in both research and humanity.

I’m a fan of Sabrina Carpenter because she’s an artist who built her career through persistence rather than shortcuts. Nothing about her trajectory was handed to her. She grew from a child performer into a fully realized artist in front of the world, navigating criticism, reinvention, and pressure with a kind of confidence that comes from doing the work, not skipping the steps. Her career reminds me that growth isn’t supposed to look perfect. It’s supposed to look real. What I connect to most is her ability to turn her own experiences into something playful, sharp, and emotionally honest. She writes with humor and self-awareness, but there is depth underneath it. Even when she’s being light, she never hides the fact that she had to fight her way into adulthood, into the industry, and into her own voice. There’s something powerful about a young woman refusing to shrink herself to fit expectations. Her confidence didn’t show up overnight; it was built. That’s what impacts me. Watching someone evolve publicly reminds me that I’m allowed to evolve privately and professionally. Her career reinforces that reinvention is not failure, it’s maturity. It also taught me that being multidimensional is a strength. You can be funny, serious, emotional, ambitious, and a little chaotic, and still be taken seriously. I also appreciate how she uses joy as a form of resistance. A lot of artists lean into heaviness; Sabrina leans into freedom. She shows that resilience doesn’t always have to sound like struggle. Sometimes it sounds like dancing through the storm and refusing to apologize for your own brilliance. Sabrina’s career pushes me to pursue my goals without softening myself to make other people comfortable. She’s a reminder that you can grow, shift, and take up space, and that building something meaningful requires patience, authenticity, and a little audacity.

Being a first-generation student means carrying both the weight and the hope of my family’s dreams. It means stepping into spaces no one before me had access to, learning to navigate institutions without a blueprint, and believing that I could build a future that looked different from the one I was born into. For me, being first-gen is not just about earning a degree. It is about changing the trajectory of my family and creating possibilities for the next generation that I never had. My path has not been straightforward. I grew up in a single-parent household where survival came before everything else. Stability was inconsistent, and resources were stretched thin. College was not a guaranteed expectation; it was something I had to figure out on my own while balancing full-time work, caregiving responsibilities, and the emotional weight of experiences that forced me to grow up early. Every step required persistence: filling out financial aid forms without guidance, balancing shifts with classes, taking breaks when life demanded it, then returning because I refused to let go of my goals. I faced barriers that aren’t written in textbooks. There were moments when the cost of tuition felt impossible, when working long hours left little energy for assignments, and when self-doubt crept in because I didn’t see people like me represented in these academic spaces. What kept me going was the understanding that my education is not only for me. It is for my family, my community, and every person who was told that their circumstances disqualified them from dreaming. Despite the challenges, I have built a life grounded in service. My work in social services, housing stabilization, child welfare, and community advocacy has shown me the importance of trauma-informed systems and the need for compassionate, culturally responsive practitioners. My dream is to become a licensed clinical social worker and ultimately build trauma-informed childcare centers that support families holistically. I want to dismantle barriers, not just navigate them. I want to create spaces where Black and Brown families feel seen, supported, and safe. What drives me is knowing that my education has the power to shift not only my life, but the lives of the families I serve. Every class, every certification, every late-night paper is an investment in the world I want to help build. This scholarship would remove a significant financial burden that often forces first-generation students like me to choose between school and stability. It would allow me to focus more on my studies and community work, and less on stretching my resources to cover tuition, books, and living costs. It would be a bridge between where I am now and the future I am determined to create. Being a first-generation student is hard, but it has made me resilient, resourceful, and deeply committed to my purpose. My journey is not perfect, but it is driven by heart, honesty, and a determination to turn every obstacle into momentum.

The Taylor Swift performance I find most moving is her acoustic set during the Eras Tour, specifically when she performs “champagne problems” on piano. It’s not the fireworks, the staging, or the sheer size of the tour that makes it powerful. It’s the moment when she strips everything down and lets the songwriting carry the weight. She sits alone at the piano, thousands of people silent except for the first few notes. After a career spent navigating an industry that scrutinizes her every move, that quiet is striking. You can feel how much resilience it takes for any artist to stay grounded after years in the spotlight, and that song captures the emotional cost of that kind of visibility. It’s raw, steady, and completely present. What moves me most is the way the performance bridges her public persona with her inner life. She isn’t chasing spectacle in that moment. She’s holding space for vulnerability, reminding her audience that success doesn’t erase heartbreak or insecurity. It’s a rare look at an artist who has spent her entire adulthood performing, yet still finds ways to be genuinely expressive onstage. The emotional swell of the crowd singing with her shows why her career has lasted: she gives people language for feelings they haven’t been able to name. And the way she stays composed while thousands of voices echo her own lyrics demonstrates a kind of strength that goes beyond entertainment. It’s endurance, generosity, and longevity all in one. That performance stands out because it reveals what The Life of A Showgirl represents at its core. Not glitter. Not fame. But the discipline to turn personal stories into something communal, night after night, with honesty and heart.

Growing up in a single-parent, low-income household shaped my ability to persevere more than any other experience. Stability was never guaranteed, so I learned early how to adapt, plan, and keep moving even when the path wasn’t clear. Watching my mother stretch every dollar, advocate for us, and carry responsibilities that should have been shared taught me resilience and self-reliance. It also taught me to work under pressure, to solve problems quickly, and to navigate systems that were never designed with families like mine in mind. Those experiences pushed me to develop a level of discipline and determination that continues to guide me. I became someone who doesn’t fold when things get difficult, because difficulty is something I've grown up navigating. Instead, I learned to use challenges as fuel. Coming from limited resources made me committed to creating abundance, not only for myself but for the community I serve. My life experience drives my purpose: to make systems more humane for families who face the same barriers I did. I work in housing stabilization and social services because I know how much it matters to have someone who understands the realities of poverty, not from theory but from lived experience. I plan to use my MSW training to build trauma-informed childcare centers, expand access to stabilizing resources, and advocate for policies that protect vulnerable families rather than punish them. I am actively pursuing these goals through my graduate studies, my work with families facing homelessness, and my commitment to becoming a trauma-informed practitioner. Every class, every client interaction, and every leadership role is part of a larger mission: to transform my personal history into structural impact. Coming from a single-parent, low-income household didn’t limit me.

One of the most significant obstacles I’ve had to overcome connected to cardiac disease came through my family, particularly on my mother’s side, where heart disease was almost expected, like a shadow we learned to live around. My grandparents both faced significant cardiac issues, and their health struggles became part of the landscape of my childhood. It meant growing up in a home where medical emergencies weren’t rare, where hospital rooms felt familiar, and where the stability of any given week could change with a single phone call. As a child, I didn’t always understand the medical terminology, but I understood the emotional weight. I knew how the room shifted when someone said they were having chest pain. I recognized the look on my mother’s face when my grandparents’ heart conditions worsened. These experiences taught me early what many people don’t learn until adulthood: health can be unpredictable, and families often carry the fear quietly so the person who is sick doesn’t have to. As I got older, the emotional burden expanded into practical responsibilities. I helped with transportation, medication reminders, and navigating conversations with providers. Cardiac disease doesn’t just affect one person; it rearranges everyone around them. I watched how my mother balanced caregiving with work and how every hospitalization required our entire family to reorganize our schedules, our finances, and our emotional energy. There were sacrifices, missed events, canceled plans, and moments where exhaustion became a regular part of daily life. The financial strain was its own challenge. Cardiac medications, procedures, and follow-up care can add up quickly, and the ripple effect often means shifting household priorities. I learned to be resourceful and responsible because the family budget had to be prepared for the unexpected. Those experiences taught me self-discipline and the importance of planning, traits that now help me navigate my own life with intention. But the emotional obstacles were the hardest. Watching people you love decline, stabilize, then decline again teaches you a complex relationship with hope. You learn to celebrate minor improvements without ignoring the reality of a chronic condition. You learn to sit with uncertainty. You know that strength is not pretending you are unaffected, but continuing to show up even when you’re scared. These experiences shaped my empathy and my approach to supporting others facing medical hardship. They also influenced my professional path, grounding my work in compassion and a deep respect for the unseen burdens families carry. Witnessing the impact of cardiac disease made me more intentional about my own health, more patient with others, and more committed to advocacy in medical settings. Cardiac disease forced me to grow emotionally and practically, but it also gave me resilience. It taught me to stay steady under challenging moments and to support others with the same compassion my family needed during our most difficult times.

I did not grow up around EDM, but the first time I attended an EDM concert, something in me shifted. It was less about the performance and more about the atmosphere, the way thousands of people could move together without judgment or self-consciousness. My favorite experience was seeing Illenium perform live. His music blends emotion with intensity, making the entire space feel like a release. The visuals, the bass, and the collective energy all created a moment where I felt suspended between my past and my future. Being there reminded me that joy can be communal, and that healing does not always happen in quiet spaces. Sometimes it happens in the middle of a crowd, when the music finally drowns out everything else you’ve been carrying. That experience strengthened my outlook on what it means to pursue a life that includes both responsibility and joy. I work in social services, and much of my daily environment is high-stress, heavy, and urgent. EDM taught me that I need places where my spirit can breathe if I’m going to continue showing up for others. It also pushed me to think about creative expression and emotional release as legitimate tools for wellness, not distractions from it. The festival reminded me that building a meaningful future requires nurturing the parts of yourself that make you feel alive. My relationship with EDM is tied to the moments where the music met me exactly where I was. I remember speaking with a stranger at a show who told me they attend festivals to reclaim joy after surviving a difficult period in their life. It struck me how quickly people open up in these spaces, how the music creates a kind of temporary family where vulnerability feels easier. EDM has influenced my work by reminding me that people connect through emotional honesty. It has also encouraged me to explore sound and rhythm as grounding tools in my own healing and self-regulation. The EDM community models how transformative it can be when people create space for each other without pretense. Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect—PLUR—is not just a slogan to me. It reflects the values I try to practice in my daily life and in the communities I serve. Peace means cultivating inner stability, especially in environments shaped by crisis. Love means choosing empathy even when people are at their lowest. Unity means understanding that we move further when we move together. And respect means honoring people’s dignity, choices, and cultural identities without assuming I know what they need better than they do. I embody PLUR through the work I do with families experiencing homelessness, youth in crisis, and individuals navigating trauma. I meet people with compassion instead of judgment, collaboration instead of control. In many ways, the EDM community’s ethic mirrors the approach I try to live by: show up with openness, protect the energy of the space around you, and remember that everyone is carrying something you cannot see. EDM gave me joy, connection, and perspective. PLUR helped me translate that joy into values I practice every day.

My experience with sepsis is shaped by one of the most painful losses of my life. My father passed away from pancreatic cancer, and in the final stages of his illness, sepsis became the complication that his body could no longer fight. Watching someone you love decline is devastating on its own. Watching sepsis take hold, as the infection overwhelms a body already exhausted by cancer, is a level of helplessness that changes you forever. Before my father became ill, I did not fully understand how quickly sepsis can develop or how aggressively it can spread. I did not know that even when you expect “the worst,” there is still a difference between preparing for the progression of cancer and watching an infection accelerate that progression in a matter of hours. My father had been fighting quietly and with dignity. He carried pain that most people could not see. When sepsis entered the picture, everything sped up. His breathing changed. His responsiveness faded. The room felt different, heavier, as if time was collapsing around us. Losing him this way forced me to confront the reality that sepsis is not rare and not always caught in time, especially for patients already battling life-threatening conditions. The experience made me more aware of the importance of early detection, clear communication, and caregiver education. My family did not lack love or commitment. We lacked information. We did not have the language for what we were witnessing until it was too late to intervene and change the outcome. This loss has shaped the way I move through the world, both personally and professionally. It has strengthened my empathy for families navigating medical crises, especially those who feel powerless inside systems that do not always explain things fully or clearly. As a social service professional, I encounter people facing medical trauma regularly. My father’s experience taught me to slow down, ask better questions, and advocate more fiercely when something seems off. It taught me that families often need someone to translate the clinical language around them into something human and understandable. It also gave me a more profound respect for the fragility of life. Grief shifts everything. It forces you to think about what matters, what energizes you, and how you want to show up for others. Losing my father to cancer complicated by sepsis pushed me to become more intentional, more compassionate, and more present. I honor him by carrying those qualities forward. Talking about sepsis is not easy for me, but it feels important. My father’s story is one of countless stories where sepsis became the final chapter of an already difficult battle. Sharing his experience is a way of acknowledging the families who have endured similar losses and the loved ones who deserved more time. His life still guides me. His loss still shapes me. And his strength continues to be my reminder of why awareness, advocacy, and early recognition of sepsis matter.

“Who is allowed to rest while we fight oppression, and who is being sacrificed to keep the movement alive?” This question exposes the internal contradictions that quietly undermine liberation work. We talk about justice, equity, and structural change, yet we rarely interrogate the replication of hierarchy, burnout, and disposability inside our own organizing spaces. We say we believe in collective freedom, but the labor of that freedom is not distributed collectively. It falls on the same backs it always has. In every movement space, formal or informal, people are doing the visible work, and others are doing the invisible work. The visible work gets praised. The invisible work gets extracted. Black women, working class mothers, disabled people, queer and trans people, trauma survivors, and those navigating chronic illness are often told—directly or indirectly—that liberation will happen someday, but only if they continue to hold the emotional, logistical, and care-based labor today. Their rest becomes optional. Their needs become “barriers.” Their burnout becomes the cost of progress. We rarely ask why liberation must demand so much from the people who already carry the worst impacts of oppression. We assume urgency is inevitable. We treat exhaustion as righteous. We mistake constant motion for transformation. When we fail to question these patterns, we build movements that mirror the very systems we claim to resist: systems that function through extraction, martyrdom, and the quiet belief that somebody’s body, time, or emotional stability is worth sacrificing. If we took the question of rest seriously, our strategies would look completely different. We would design liberation work that does not require people to abandon themselves to the cause. We would build infrastructures of care that honor the reality that some people cannot work at the same pace, not because they lack commitment, but because the world has placed heavier demands on their survival. We would recognize rest as political work, not an afterthought. Rest is not retreat. Rest is restoration. It is a redistribution of humanity inside movements that claim to fight for humanity. When we ignore who gets to rest and who doesn’t, we lose sight of the fact that liberation is supposed to heal, not replicate harm. Asking this question also forces us to look beyond the adrenaline of crisis response and into the long-term sustainability of our communities. Generational liberation requires longevity. People cannot fight for generations if they are breaking in the process. The belief that liberation is achieved through self-sacrifice is a myth inherited from systems designed to exploit. Actual liberation work should expand life, not diminish it. So when we strategize, we must begin by naming the human cost of our plans. We must center the people whose well-being has been least protected. We must build models where pacing is respected, care is shared, and burnout is treated as a structural failure, not a personal weakness. If our path to liberation depends on the quiet suffering of the most burdened, then it is not liberation. It is a new version of the same old problem. Liberation begins when everyone, especially those most impacted, has the right to rest without punishment. Only then will our movements be able to sustain the freedom they seek to build.

My journey with Sickle Cell Disease has shaped my life in ways that are demanding yet deeply defining. Living with a chronic illness that can move from stable to crisis in minutes forced me to become disciplined and self-aware long before adulthood. I learned to read my body with precision, to anticipate what might trigger pain, and to prepare for emergencies even on the days when I looked completely healthy. These skills came from necessity, but they also became part of how I navigate the world: with focus, intention, and a refusal to ignore what my body is telling me. Managing Sickle Cell means building a life around proactive care. Hydration, rest, medication, stress management, and routine monitoring are not suggestions for me; they are survival. I have learned to structure my commitments realistically, to pace myself, and to communicate clearly when my limits shift. I’ve also had to advocate for myself in medical settings where my pain was questioned or minimized, something far too familiar for Black patients. These experiences strengthened my voice. They taught me that self-advocacy is not optional and that my health is non-negotiable, even in environments that expect silence. The disease has also shaped my emotional resilience. Sickle Cell brings unpredictable pain, but it also brings perspective. It pushed me to appreciate periods of stability, to prioritize relationships that support my health, and to build routines that sustain my life. While the illness is complex, it has never dimmed my ambition. Instead, it sharpened my desire to pursue goals with intention because I understand the value of time, energy, and well-being in a way many people do not. My inspiration comes from my family and from the broader Sickle Cell community. I am moved by people who live with the same condition yet continue to build careers, raise families, and fight for equity in a healthcare system that underfunds this disease. Their resilience fuels my own. They remind me that strength is not defined by being unaffected, but by continuing to progress even when the circumstances are unfair. Sickle Cell has shaped my objectives by grounding me in purpose. I want to contribute to work that matters, advocate for better access to care, and use my experiences to uplift others managing chronic illnesses. My journey has taught me to endure, plan, and remain hopeful without denying reality. I move toward my goals with clarity because this illness has shown me that my life must reflect what is meaningful, not what is easy. Despite the challenges, I carry forward with determination. Sickle Cell does not define me; it sharpens my focus, strengthens my resolve, and pushes me to build a future guided by intention and resilience.

1. How have your lived experiences shaped your decision to pursue a career in mental health, and how do they influence the kind of therapist or provider you hope to become? My decision to pursue a career in mental health comes from navigating trauma, depression, and anxiety in environments that rarely named what was happening. I grew up watching people carry emotional injuries without language, support, or safety. I later experienced firsthand how hard it is to seek help when the system is built on barriers rather than bridges. Working in housing stabilization, child welfare, and crisis response showed me how trauma shows up in behavior long before it shows up in documentation. My own healing pushed me to understand the nervous system, attachment wounds, and how survival mode shapes decision-making. These experiences influence the kind of therapist I want to become. I hope to offer care that is deeply attuned, trauma-responsive, and culturally grounded. I want clients to feel understood without having to overexplain the realities of racism, poverty, or institutional harm. I plan to integrate EMDR, somatic work, and practical stabilization tools because most marginalized clients don’t have the privilege of unraveling slowly. They need support that respects urgency, honors dignity, and strengthens their capacity to navigate the systems they’re forced to rely on. 2. If you could make one significant change to today’s mental healthcare system to create greater access, equity, and inclusion, what would it be and why? If I could change one thing, I would embed mental health care into essential community services rather than treating it as a separate, specialized silo. In Chicago, people come for housing help, childcare, medical coverage, or crisis support long before they seek therapy. If high-quality clinicians were embedded in these everyday access points, people would access mental health care the same way they access any other survival resource. This shift would reduce stigma, increase early intervention, and remove the transportation, cost, and scheduling barriers that prevent marginalized families from following through with referrals. Most importantly, it would ground mental health care in the contexts that shape people’s lives rather than isolate it behind private practice doors. 3. What do you see as the most significant benefits and challenges of teletherapy, and how can we continue to innovate so that it better serves diverse communities? Teletherapy has opened doors for people who could never consistently attend in-person sessions. Caregivers, shift workers, people with mobility challenges, and clients living far from providers can now receive support without sacrificing wages or childcare. It has also reduced the intimidation of walking into a clinic and allowed many clients to seek help privately. But teletherapy is not a perfect fix. Many low-income households lack stable Wi-Fi, a quiet space, or devices that can handle video platforms. Some clients need the grounding of in-person work, especially when processing trauma that overwhelms the nervous system. And some communities still distrust digital platforms because surveillance and data exploitation are real concerns. To better serve diverse communities, innovation has to focus on practical access. This includes funding tech support for clients, offering hybrid care models, partnering with libraries or community centers for confidential telehealth rooms, and designing platforms that are simple, low-bandwidth, and mobile-friendly. Teletherapy should expand options, not replace the need for in-person, culturally responsive care.

I am a Chicago-based social worker shaped by the realities of systems that routinely fail the very people they claim to serve. My work has always been anchored in Black and Brown communities, navigating homelessness, violence, poverty, and institutional neglect. I come from these communities. My commitment to service is not theoretical. It is rooted in years of advocating in housing programs, child welfare, public assistance offices, and crisis spaces where people are expected to survive conditions that would break anyone. My own mental health journey has sharpened this commitment, pushing me to build a practice that is not only clinically informed but structurally honest. My experience with depression, anxiety, and trauma did not arrive politely. It forced me to confront how stigma, underdiagnosis, and dismissal shape the lives of marginalized people. I learned early that mental health is never just about symptoms. It is about housing, safety, income, racial stress, and the slow exhaustion of carrying too much for too long. These experiences have influenced every part of my activism. I advocate for trauma-informed workplaces, fight for humane housing policies, and speak openly about how untreated trauma impacts decision making, attachment, and the ability to plan for the future. My own healing has taught me that recovery is not a personality trait. It is an accessible right. As a future mental health provider, I plan to offer care that acknowledges both the psychology and the conditions people are forced to navigate. My approach centers on nervous system healing, trauma-responsive care, EMDR, and culturally grounded interventions that affirm the realities of Black families, working-class households, immigrants, and people surviving state violence. I want my clients to experience therapy as a place where their intelligence, pain, and resilience are recognized without judgment. My goal is not to turn people into versions of themselves that fit neatly into systems. It is to help them develop internal stability, agency, and the clarity to challenge the structures harming them. My career aspiration is to merge clinical practice with policy and community work. I want to develop trauma-informed childcare centers, expand access to housing stabilization, and build programs that address generational harm with the same seriousness this country applies to policing and punishment. Mental health treatment should not be a luxury. It should be a tool communities use to interrupt patterns that were never theirs to carry. My personal experiences taught me that healing improves a person’s capacity to fight for their life. My professional work shows me that communities thrive when mental health is treated as essential rather than optional. My goal is to stand at that intersection and build something that makes healing possible for people who are too often overlooked.

Recovery, to me, is not a single moment of transformation. It is an extended, uneven return to myself, shaped by honesty, discipline, and compassion. It means recognizing the places where trauma has altered my reactions, my relationships, and my sense of safety, then choosing, over and over again, to build a life that is not defined by those wounds. Recovery is the slow work of teaching my nervous system that it no longer has to be in survival mode. It is the relief of unlearning patterns that once kept me alive but now keep me stuck. Recovery is also a connection. It means allowing people to meet me where I am, rather than where I think I should be. It requires trusting that support is not a burden but a resource. In this process, I have learned that healing is not linear. Some days I move forward with clarity and strength, and other days I circle back to familiar pain. Both are part of the journey. Most importantly, recovery means reclaiming power. It is the practice of choosing behaviors, relationships, and environments that honor my dignity. It means allowing joy, rest, and stability to replace shame, chaos, and self-blame. Recovery is not about erasing the past. It is about creating a future that reflects the person I am becoming rather than the harm I have endured.

Balancing Healing and Hustle, Honoring My Mind in the Midst of It All My mental health is not something I manage on the side, it is central to how I show up as a student, professional, caregiver, and future social worker. Living with anxiety and the residual impact of trauma means I move through the world constantly calculating how much capacity I have and where I need to replenish. These internal calculations deeply shape both my academic performance and personal life. Academically, my mind is sharp, but it often needs more structure and rest than traditional learning environments assume. I can read dense material and participate in complex conversations, but when anxiety flares, my focus becomes fragmented, and my working memory can feel compromised. I sometimes reread the same sentence five times before it makes sense, not because I do not understand, but because my nervous system is overloaded. During those moments, I rely on scaffolding tools like planners, color-coded assignments, and voice memos to stay grounded in my tasks. I also advocate for flexibility and clarity from instructors when needed. I have learned that asking for support is not a weakness, it is a skill. In my personal life, mental health challenges can make it hard to be consistently present for loved ones, especially when I am in a state of exhaustion or emotional flooding. I love deeply, but I often need solitude to reset. I communicate openly with my support system about my needs and boundaries, because being emotionally available to others requires protecting my own peace first. I have come to understand that I cannot pour from an empty cup, and rest is not optional, it is essential. To prioritize my mental health while in school, I take a trauma-informed approach to my own life. I integrate small but powerful practices, like bilateral music for emotional regulation, body scans to check in with my internal state, and journaling to process spiraling thoughts. I block off intentional time between classes and work so I am not constantly rushing from one high-stress environment to another. I also maintain a “mental health check-in” log to track my moods, triggers, and what self-care actually worked that day. These are not just habits, they are lifelines. I also access therapy and engage in mutual aid healing circles when possible. These spaces provide the emotional processing that school does not always allow. Being in graduate school while managing mental health challenges can feel like running uphill with weights on my ankles. But I do it, because I believe in the work I am being trained to do. And I know that part of being an effective social worker is doing my own healing work along the way. My mental health has forced me to become intentional, reflective, and resilient. It reminds me that success is not just about academic achievement, it is also about staying well enough to sustain my purpose. I make my mental health a priority not just for myself, but because the communities I serve deserve a practitioner who leads from a place of wholeness, not burnout. In caring for my own mental health, I am practicing the same values I hope to bring into the field: compassion, boundaries, accountability, and care that does not come at the expense of the caregiver. That is what makes this journey meaningful. That is what makes it sustainable.

From Survival to Strategy, Reimagining Care Through My Family’s Mental Health Journey My name is Ashley Rogers, and I am a Master of Social Work student committed to reimagining how families impacted by mental illness receive care, dignity, and support. My relationship with mental health is not theoretical or distant, it is personal, generational, and deeply formative. I have navigated both direct and indirect experiences of mental illness, carrying not only the weight of my own emotional struggles but also the invisible labor of caregiving, advocacy, and emotional survival. Growing up, I witnessed how untreated and misunderstood mental illness can ripple through a household. My aunt Gurtha was once the light of every room, sharp, funny, and independent. After losing her vision due to diabetic complications, her mental health sharply declined. She battled depression and disorientation, yet the resources available to her were fragmented, uncoordinated, and culturally out of touch. I watched her slip into isolation, not because she lacked family support, but because systems lacked compassion and cultural competence. Her deterioration was not inevitable, it was systemic. I have also battled with my own mental health challenges, navigating anxiety, burnout, and the emotional toll of being a high-functioning caregiver and professional. As a Black woman in social services, I often carry the burdens of others while quietly managing my own. There were seasons when I pushed through panic attacks to lead meetings, organized community events while struggling to sleep, and coached clients through trauma while silently tending to my own. Mental illness, when left unsupported, becomes a private battlefield, even for those trained to help others. These experiences have not broken me. They have shaped my mission. I am pursuing my MSW to build trauma-informed care systems that are both healing and preventative. My long-term goal is to launch childcare centers that serve as mental wellness hubs for children and caregivers alike. These centers will offer therapy, peer support groups, wellness coaching, and family education, with an emphasis on cultural grounding and accessibility. I want to ensure that no one else in my community watches a loved one fade away due to lack of connection or care. Mental illness has taught me that survival is not enough. Healing, community, and infrastructure must come together if we are to interrupt the cycles that leave families unsupported. I advocate for housing stability because I know mental health deteriorates without safety. I fight for parent coaching and caregiver relief because I know what burnout does to a household. I engage with policy and program design because I believe healing should not depend on luck, privilege, or silence. This scholarship would allow me to continue serving others while completing my education. More than that, it would honor my aunt’s memory and every client I have walked alongside who needed someone to believe their pain was real. I am not just studying mental health, I am living it, challenging it, and working to transform it every day.

Advocacy Rooted in Care, Carried Forward in Practice Supporting others through mental health challenges has never been separate from my work, it is the heart of it. As a housing case manager, I work closely with individuals and families facing trauma, depression, chronic stress, and systemic abandonment. Many of my clients are mothers juggling survival with no support. Others are young adults trying to navigate mental illness while experiencing housing instability. I do more than provide referrals. I listen, I affirm, and I advocate for dignity when systems dismiss them. I have helped clients access trauma-informed therapy, write appeals when services were denied, and identify culturally relevant providers who could meet them without judgment. I have created safety plans, held space through panic attacks, and worked with families to rebuild trust with care systems that have failed them. My role is part navigator, part witness, and part lifeline, and I take each part seriously. My own experience with mental health challenges has given me deep empathy. I know what it means to face anxiety while managing daily responsibilities, and to mask pain for the sake of productivity. It is why I approach my work with patience and respect. I do not treat clients as broken, I treat them as whole people worthy of care. Pursuing my Master of Social Work is part of my long-term commitment to mental health equity. I plan to open trauma-informed childcare centers that offer mental health services to both children and caregivers. These will be spaces that normalize therapy, healing, and emotional support, not just for crises but for everyday resilience. In my future career, I will continue to advocate at the clinical, community, and policy levels to ensure that mental health is prioritized, resourced, and de-stigmatized. I will mentor others in trauma-informed care and build models of service that center compassion and sustainability. I am not just entering this field to help, I am here to change how help is given.

Building Systems of Care, Centered in Justice My name is Ashley Rogers, and I am a Master of Social Work student at Dominican University. I am a caregiver, advocate, and builder. I have dedicated my life to creating systems of care that affirm the dignity, brilliance, and survival of Black and Brown families. As someone raised in a working-class community with limited access to consistent educational and mental health support, I understand firsthand how the right guidance can change someone’s life. That is why I show up daily with compassion, consistency, and commitment—not just as a professional, but as someone who has lived the gaps I now work to close. Currently, I serve as a housing case manager, supporting families experiencing homelessness, eviction, and complex trauma. I manage a full caseload, conduct home visits, facilitate crisis response plans, and advocate with landlords and public housing agencies to protect my clients’ housing stability. My approach blends systems thinking with relational care. I do not just help families complete paperwork. I help them regain a sense of stability, dignity, and trust in themselves. Outside of my direct service role, I lead community events, including an annual Juneteenth celebration that uplifts Black joy, healing, and access to local resources. I organize donation drives, mentor young adults entering human services fields, and help caregivers navigate public aid systems. I see this work as an extension of Charlene Howard’s legacy. She believed in the power of education not just to change one person’s life, but to shift whole communities. I carry that same conviction. I am pursuing my graduate degree so I can move into leadership roles where I can design programs, influence policy, and create institutional accountability. My long-term goal is to open trauma-informed childcare centers that double as healing hubs for families. These centers will provide culturally responsive childcare, wraparound support for caregivers, free parenting classes, and access to on-site mental health services. They will be grounded in mutual aid, restorative practices, and community wisdom. I want to build spaces where children thrive, caregivers feel affirmed, and healing is generational—not transactional. To lead this work with integrity, I know I must be equipped not only with passion, but with knowledge, research, and clinical insight. That is why I am committed to my MSW program and to continued professional development beyond graduation. The Charlene K. Howard Memorial Scholarship would support me in completing my education while continuing to serve others. It would also connect me to a legacy of leadership and mentorship that I hope to carry forward in my own career. I believe I am a strong candidate for this scholarship because I live the values Charlene modeled—education as service, leadership as care, and mentorship as legacy. I have faced challenges, from learning differences to workplace adversity, but I have never stopped showing up for others. I have turned pain into purpose and survival into strategy. Every family I support, every student I mentor, and every system I challenge is part of the impact I intend to make through my career. I do not want to simply succeed. I want to build a world where more people have the chance to heal, learn, and lead. That is how I plan to make a difference—not just through what I do, but through what I leave behind.

Service as Legacy, Leadership as Care Giving back is not something I do out of obligation. It is how I honor those who came before me, those who raised me in love and survival, and those who continue to struggle in systems that were never designed to serve them well. Like Priscilla Shireen Luke, I believe that service is not about recognition, but about responsibility. I give back because I know what it means to be overlooked, unheard, and in need of someone who sees you fully. Currently, I give back through both my professional work and my community-based organizing. As a housing case manager, I serve families who are navigating poverty, displacement, domestic violence, and systemic neglect. My role is not just to complete assessments or file paperwork. I advocate, mediate, and strategize alongside my clients, ensuring they feel seen, respected, and supported. I help families prevent eviction, access emergency resources, and stabilize after trauma. I also provide emotional support, especially for single mothers, who often carry the emotional labor of everyone around them. Outside of my job, I lead community events that center joy, visibility, and collective care. For the past several years, I have organized annual Juneteenth celebrations that uplift Black resilience and connect families with free mental health services, youth programming, local food vendors, and nonprofit resources. I have coordinated winter donation drives, back-to-school supply events, and mutual aid projects to support caregivers and elders in my neighborhood. These are not large-scale operations, but they are deeply intentional. Every item distributed and every resource shared is done with love, dignity, and the belief that people deserve support without shame. My commitment to service also extends to how I mentor others. I offer guidance to younger professionals in social services, review resumes, share grant opportunities, and create spaces for emotional check-ins. I believe that healing is not a solo pursuit. It is communal, ongoing, and sacred. When I lend a hand to someone else, I am also reinforcing the collective strength we all need to thrive. In the future, I plan to expand my impact by opening trauma-informed childcare centers rooted in cultural healing, intergenerational support, and economic empowerment. These centers will offer more than childcare. They will provide wraparound services for caregivers, including therapy, workforce development, parenting workshops, and access to housing and legal resources. They will be built with community members, not for them, and grounded in the principles of dignity, mutual aid, and restorative care. I am currently earning my Master of Social Work to strengthen the clinical, policy, and administrative skills I need to bring this vision to life. I want to lead with integrity, design programs that last, and advocate at the policy level to shift how we fund and structure care systems. My goal is not just to provide temporary relief. It is to transform the conditions that make help necessary in the first place. Service is not an extracurricular activity for me. It is my calling, my compass, and the legacy I want to leave behind. Like Priscilla Shireen Luke, I believe that a better world is possible and that it begins with how we show up for one another. I am committed to that vision, now and always.

Grace Under Pressure: Thriving Through Adversity and Serving with Intention Resilience is not something I read about in books. It is something I live every day. I have faced trauma, financial hardship, job instability, and the emotional demands of caregiving, yet I continue to show up for others with purpose and heart. I do not just survive adversity. I transform it into momentum for myself and for the people around me. My life has taught me that when faced with challenges, the most powerful response is to rise with clarity, consistency, and care. One of my greatest accomplishments has been managing a full-time caseload of housing clients while pursuing my Master of Social Work, raising a child, and supporting relatives with chronic health conditions. There were days I was balancing trauma assessments, eviction notices, and documentation deadlines while reviewing academic readings late into the night. I completed home visits, de-escalated family conflicts, and advocated for clients in crisis, all while holding space for my own grief, healing, and growth. Through it all, I remained consistent, grounded, and committed to excellence. That is success. During times of personal challenge, I have leaned into my faith, my ancestors, and my long-term vision. I knew I was not working just for survival. I was breaking cycles, building bridges, and modeling perseverance for my child and my community. When I lost employment under unjust circumstances, I used that moment to seek accountability, pursue legal advocacy, and deepen my healing work. I did not fall apart. I focused forward. I do not only show up for myself. I show up for others. I have organized annual Juneteenth celebrations that center Black joy, collective healing, and community resource-sharing. I have coordinated winter drives for single mothers and created care packages for families living in transitional housing. I have stayed up late helping clients draft grievance letters and secure emergency shelter. I have coached community members through job applications and shared my network to connect people with opportunities. No one assigned me to do these things. I chose to do them because I believe no one should have to struggle alone. I am proud to be someone people call when they need help. I am proud that I can turn pain into strategy and isolation into connection. My accomplishments are not just degrees, job titles, or awards. They are the lives I have helped stabilize, the hope I have restored, and the systems I am working to change from the inside out. To be successful in adversity is not about having an easy path. It is about refusing to give up on yourself or your community. Every challenge I have faced has sharpened my voice, expanded my compassion, and strengthened my mission to lead and serve with intention.

Leading with Heart: Embodying Selflessness through Everyday Acts of Care Selflessness, to me, is not about neglecting my own needs. It is about choosing to act with intention, empathy, and service when others are vulnerable or in crisis. It is about showing up, not only when it is convenient, but especially when it is not. I embody selflessness by remaining deeply present for others, even when I am carrying my own challenges. Whether through personal caregiving or professional advocacy, I try to create space for people to feel supported, seen, and safe. One of the most personal ways I have embodied selflessness is through caring for my Aunt Gurtha. After losing her eyesight due to diabetes, she struggled to maintain independence and emotional balance. Although I was managing work, school, and parenting, I made time to help with errands, describe her surroundings, and sit with her during difficult moments. I was not just her eyes, I was her emotional anchor. I listened when she needed to talk, supported her through frustration, and remained patient during her transition. I learned that sometimes the most powerful form of care is simply being consistent. In my professional life, I have served families who are housing insecure, survivors of violence, and those navigating severe mental health challenges. I recall one client, a single mother, who was at risk of eviction and had lost her job after a health crisis. I stayed late after work to help her complete emergency housing paperwork, contacted multiple agencies to expedite resources, and drove to deliver hygiene items and a bus pass so she could attend a job interview. No one asked me to go that far, but I knew she needed more than a checklist—she needed an advocate. I also embody selflessness in quieter, everyday ways. I have offered emotional support to overwhelmed coworkers, mentored younger staff without being assigned, and supported classmates through grief and burnout. I show up with meals, listen without judgment, and step in when I know someone is struggling silently. These acts are not about recognition. They are about living out my values. Selflessness, to me, is rooted in love and accountability. It is not performative, it is consistent. It is not about being a martyr, it is about building mutual care. Whether helping a family navigate systems or holding space for a friend in need, I choose service because I believe healing happens in community, not isolation.

Holding Space, Building Strength: Mental Health as a Student and Community Advocate Mental health is not just important to me as a student, it is foundational. As someone who balances graduate-level coursework, full-time case management responsibilities, and caregiving within my own family, I understand how mental health directly impacts my ability to show up, focus, and grow. My mental wellness is not a luxury, it is a requirement for sustainability, learning, and leadership. Mental health is especially important for students like me who carry more than just books into the classroom. Many of us are navigating trauma histories, systemic barriers, and financial pressures while trying to remain academically engaged. I have learned that when mental health is neglected, everything suffers—relationships, time management, academic performance, and physical health. When it is protected and prioritized, I am more focused, grounded, and able to contribute meaningfully to discussions, group projects, and long-term goals. My commitment to mental health is deeply personal. I have lived through seasons of burnout and emotional fatigue that were dismissed as overreaction or weakness. I have experienced panic attacks before class, periods of numbness during high-stress deadlines, and the quiet isolation that can come from being “high-functioning” while struggling internally. These experiences taught me that academic excellence does not equal mental wellness. They also taught me the power of naming what I need, seeking support, and modeling vulnerability for others. In my community, I advocate for mental health through both formal and informal pathways. As a case manager, I routinely refer clients to culturally competent therapists, coordinate access to Medicaid-funded mental health services, and incorporate trauma-informed practices into every conversation. I normalize mental health discussions during check-ins, helping clients understand that their anxiety, grief, or frustration is valid and worth attention. In my school community, I have spoken with peers about setting emotional boundaries, shared resources related to mindfulness and reflective practice, and encouraged classmates to take breaks without guilt. I believe that simple shifts in language and tone, such as asking “How are you really doing?” or sharing my own experiences, help create safer environments where honesty and care can grow. Outside of school and work, I organize community events that center joy and collective healing. During Juneteenth celebrations, I include wellness booths with local therapists, yoga instructors, and grief counselors. I use my platforms to connect families with support, not only in moments of crisis but as part of a larger conversation about resilience, grief, and recovery. Mental health matters to me because I have seen what happens when it is ignored and when it is protected. As a student and advocate, I am committed to building a future where care is integrated, stigma is dismantled, and mental wellness is recognized as a shared responsibility. My education, lived experience, and daily work all serve that mission.

My relationship with mental health has never been theoretical. It has been lived, navigated, and at times, survived. Like many Black women raised in working-class environments shaped by systemic inequities, I learned early on how to function under stress, compartmentalize pain, and assume responsibility beyond my years. These patterns were not isolated to my personal life; they were cultural, generational, and deeply embedded in the socio-environmental contexts I inhabited. Over time, what once looked like “resilience” revealed itself to be complex trauma, masked by productivity and emotional suppression. My personal experience with mental health challenges has profoundly influenced the way I build relationships, set goals, and interpret the world around me. More than that, it has informed the way I show up in service to others. It is what grounds my decision to pursue a Master of Social Work, not simply as a professional advancement, but as a necessary step in evolving my practice from intuitive to intentional, from trauma-aware to trauma-responsive, from individual care to systemic advocacy. In my early twenties, I began to recognize the limits of my coping mechanisms. I had spent years pushing through anxiety, hypervigilance, and cycles of burnout without naming them as such. Like many in my community, I was taught to equate strength with silence and competence with endurance. It wasn’t until my body began showing signs of dysregulation, panic attacks, exhaustion, and emotional detachment, that I realized something had to shift. Seeking mental health treatment was not an easy decision. It required me to challenge internalized beliefs about self-reliance, as well as external barriers such as cost, cultural mismatch with providers, and fear of judgment. Therapy became my first exposure to clinical frameworks that mirrored my lived reality. Concepts like trauma bonding, somatic regulation, and inner child work were not abstract; they were liberating. I began to understand myself not as broken, but as someone shaped by environments that demanded survival without safety. I also began to reframe “symptoms” as adaptive responses to conditions I didn’t choose. This shift in self-awareness laid the foundation for the practitioner I was becoming. As I continued to heal, I found myself drawn to work that made space for others to do the same. My career in social services has spanned housing stability, youth development, family support, and trauma-informed care. Whether I’m conducting a home visit for a mother navigating intimate partner violence or helping a client access mental health resources after a psychiatric hospitalization, I am guided by more than policy. I am guided by empathy anchored in experience. I do not approach clients as problems to be solved, but as full human beings negotiating systems that were not designed for their thriving. Many of the individuals I serve experience the same psychological fragmentation I once did: high-functioning depression, hyperarousal masked as ambition, or emotional numbing that presents as “non-compliance.” Because I’ve sat on both sides of the crisis, both as a client and as a professional, I recognize when to slow down, when to hold space, and when to gently challenge. I am attuned to the subtext in silence, the story beneath the intake form, and the trauma beneath the behavior. My own experience with mental health has made me fluent in what often goes unspoken. My long-term vision is to open trauma-informed childcare centers rooted in cultural healing, intergenerational support, and economic empowerment. I believe early childhood spaces can be the frontlines of mental health prevention and family restoration. But to realize this vision, I need to deepen my clinical knowledge, expand my understanding of behavioral health systems, and strengthen my policy advocacy skills. This is where the Master of Social Work becomes essential—not as a credential, but as a toolbox. I am particularly interested in coursework related to clinical theory, developmental trauma, family systems, and program evaluation. I want to be fluent in diagnostic language not for the sake of labeling, but for the sake of advocacy: ensuring that clients can access appropriate services without stigma. I want to engage with evidence-based models while also questioning what counts as evidence and who defines best practice. Most importantly, I want to stay rooted in humility, understanding that no degree can replace the wisdom of lived experience or the knowledge embedded in communities themselves. Pursuing this degree is not about distancing myself from the realities I come from. It’s about being better equipped to transform them. My goal is not to fix people, but to co-create systems where people no longer have to break to be seen. I want to be the kind of social worker who can sit with complexity, who can bridge the clinical and the cultural, and who can make space for both data and dignity in decision-making. My experience with mental health has made me a better advocate, a more ethical practitioner, and a more compassionate human being. It has sharpened my boundaries while expanding my capacity for presence. It has taught me that healing is not linear, that grief can coexist with growth, and that change is possible, not just for individuals, but for institutions. As I step into graduate study, I bring with me not only academic readiness but a deep sense of purpose. I am not entering the field of social work; I am continuing the work I’ve already begun, now with greater tools, stronger language, and a wider lens. Mental health shaped who I am, but it also revealed who I’m becoming: a systems thinker, a relational leader, and a practitioner who holds space for both personal truth and collective transformation.

Seeing Through Her Eyes I am a caregiver, a future social worker, and a product of women who taught me to lead with love and show up in hard moments. One of the most transformative relationships in my life has been with my Aunt Gurtha. Before her diagnosis, she was the firebird of our family, witty, outgoing, strong-willed, and always quick with a story or a joke. She was the type of person who lit up a room, full of warmth and sharp wisdom. When complications from diabetes took her vision, everything changed. Watching her navigate life after losing her eyesight altered how I see strength and reshaped how I understand disability. It was not just about what she lost physically. It was about how she had to reconstruct her identity in a world that no longer responded to her the same way. The world, once vibrant and familiar, became a place filled with barriers. Her independence was challenged. Her confidence was shaken. Still, her spirit remained remarkably intact. As one of her informal caregivers, I helped with daily tasks, errands, and emotional support. I learned how to adapt our routines, how to describe surroundings in vivid detail, and how to advocate for her needs in spaces that were not designed to include her. But the most important lessons were not logistical. I learned that caregiving requires patience, humility, and a deep respect for the person you are serving. It is not about fixing, it is about being present. Caring for Aunt Gurtha deepened my empathy and exposed me to the systemic gaps that people with disabilities, especially aging Black women, often face. From inaccessible transportation to limited community-based supports, I saw firsthand how much of our society is not built with equity in mind. That realization sparked my commitment to build systems of care that are relational, holistic, and rooted in justice. My decision to pursue a Master of Social Work is directly tied to this experience. I want to help reimagine care through a trauma-informed, culturally responsive lens. I want to make sure people like Aunt Gurtha are never invisible, and that caregivers have the resources, tools, and support they need. Aunt Gurtha’s story lives in every step I take toward becoming a social worker. Her resilience taught me how to serve others with dignity. Her voice reminds me that care, when done right, is sacred work. Thank You.

I want to build a trauma-informed childcare center that reimagines what early childhood and family support can look like in Black and Brown communities. This center will not just provide child care, it will offer wraparound services for caregivers, embedded mental health care, culturally grounded learning environments, and pathways toward long-term stability. I want to build a space where healing, economic mobility, and community connection are not only possible, but expected. This vision was born from my own lived experience. I have worked with families navigating poverty, housing instability, and child welfare involvement, and I have been a mother managing my own trauma while trying to maintain stability. I have seen how hard it is to find support that is consistent, culturally respectful, and affordable. I also understand how damaging it can be when people are forced to navigate multiple systems that do not communicate with one another, all while trying to care for their children and themselves. To build this center, I am pursuing my Master of Social Work and deepening my knowledge in clinical theory, policy, and systems design. I am pairing this education with my direct service experience in housing, family support, and youth development. I want to ensure that what I build is both rooted in compassion and backed by strategy. The center will include on-site therapists, parenting workshops, community events, and staffing practices that reflect the cultural identities of the families served. It will be a space where children feel affirmed, where caregivers are not judged, and where healing becomes part of the daily routine rather than something people only seek in moments of crisis. For my community, this center represents a reclaiming of care, a restoration of trust, and a foundation for generational healing. For me, it is the fulfillment of purpose. I am not just building a program. I am building a future we deserve.

My unique contribution to mental health care is grounded in lived experience, frontline practice, and a vision for system design that centers accessibility, dignity, and cultural relevance. I am building toward a care model that embeds mental health support into everyday spaces, particularly in early childhood centers, housing programs, and community-based organizations. Rather than relying solely on traditional therapy models, I believe mental health care should be woven into environments where people already seek help. This includes training non-clinical staff in trauma-informed communication, offering onsite peer support and reflective spaces, and embedding culturally grounded wellness practices into daily programming. I plan to open trauma-informed childcare centers that serve both children and caregivers, offering wraparound supports such as parenting groups, embedded clinicians, and case management informed by social determinants of health. This model reduces stigma, eliminates transportation and financial barriers, and normalizes mental wellness from an early age. My contribution is rooted in systems thinking, informed by policy and practice, and guided by the wisdom of those most impacted. By grounding healing in community, honoring cultural context, and reshaping how care is delivered, I intend to make mental health support not only affordable and accessible, but also a normalized and respected part of daily life. This vision is not about expanding access alone. It is about transforming the foundation of mental health care so it becomes something people trust, deserve, and can rely on.

I do not believe I deserve this scholarship simply because I have faced adversity. I believe I deserve it because I have taken every hardship I have endured and turned it into a framework for healing, service, and systems change. What sets me apart is not just what I have survived, but how I have translated my lived experience into leadership, my insight into impact, and my challenges into an unwavering commitment to build structures that work for people who are often ignored. I have been the client sitting on the other side of the intake desk, navigating housing instability, mental health struggles, and community systems that often offered more judgment than support. I have also been the case manager, the advocate, and the program coordinator, helping families like mine navigate systems that are too often rigid, punitive, and under-resourced. This dual perspective gives me an advantage. I understand what it feels like to need support, and I know how to design systems that offer that support with dignity, flexibility, and respect. While others may bring academic excellence, I bring applied wisdom. I know how trauma lives in the body. I know how poverty shapes choices. I know what happens when a single missed appointment can mean losing your housing, your childcare, or your chance at stability. I have not just studied these patterns. I have lived them and disrupted them. That lived knowledge informs how I communicate with clients, how I advocate inside institutions, and how I plan to lead systemic change in the future. My advantage lies in my ability to hold both micro and macro perspectives. I can sit with a parent who feels hopeless and co-create a survival plan grounded in empathy and realism. I can also speak in policy rooms about the structural reforms needed to reduce recidivism in housing, increase trauma-informed training, or build interagency collaboration. My work is not just compassionate, it is strategic. And I intend to continue building toward care systems that center justice and sustainability. I am currently earning my Master of Social Work while managing a full-time caseload and serving my community through public events and resource coordination. I have organized annual Juneteenth celebrations that uplift Black joy, family resilience, and intergenerational healing. I am developing a blueprint for a trauma-informed childcare center that integrates early learning, caregiver support, and culturally grounded mental health services. I am not waiting for someone to create change for me. I am actively creating it, with every resource and lesson I gain. This scholarship would allow me to pursue my education without financial strain, while continuing to serve and build within my community. More importantly, it would be an investment in someone who is not only committed to social work in theory, but in daily practice. I bring vision, humility, and the courage to question systems that do not serve us. I am not competing to be the most perfect candidate. I am showing up as someone who has already started doing the work and who will continue to do it, no matter how hard the path may be. What gives me an advantage is that I am not just prepared for this journey. I am already walking it.

My experience with mental health has been both deeply personal and profoundly transformative. For much of my early life, I moved through the world carrying wounds I did not have the language to name. Growing up in communities where survival was prioritized over self-reflection, mental health was rarely discussed, let alone supported. Like many Black women, I learned to mask anxiety with overachievement and to suppress grief in order to stay functional. It was not until I began to unravel under the weight of compounded stress that I realized what I was experiencing was not weakness, but unacknowledged trauma. For years, I lived in what I now understand as a chronic state of dysregulation. I functioned, but only because I had to. I carried others while neglecting myself. I performed strength while quietly unraveling. Panic attacks, emotional numbness, and cycles of burnout became my norm. Still, I told myself I was fine. In the absence of validation or language, I internalized my distress as a character flaw rather than a signal of deeper harm. It was not until I entered therapy in adulthood that I began to rewrite this narrative. Through clinical support, I learned how trauma lives in the body. I learned to identify the difference between survival instincts and authentic needs. I began to understand that healing is not linear and that emotional regulation, boundaries, and rest are not luxuries, but necessities. Most importantly, I began to see myself not as broken, but as someone who had endured environments that lacked the tools to hold me with care. This journey toward mental wellness did not just change how I saw myself; it reshaped how I view others. I began to understand that many of the behaviors I once judged in others, such as disengagement, irritability, or inconsistency, were often signs of untreated trauma or unmet needs. As a case manager and family support specialist, this insight became my compass. I was no longer just serving clients from a place of policy compliance. I was meeting them with genuine empathy, attunement, and trauma-informed presence. Many of the individuals I work with have walked similar paths. Parents navigate depression without support. Youth mask anxiety through defiance. Families break down under systemic pressure. My lived experience allows me to see them clearly, to hold space for complexity, and to challenge deficit-based thinking. I do not ask, “What is wrong with you?” I ask, “What has happened to you?” and “What do you need in order to feel safe again?” My experience with mental health has also sharpened my leadership. It taught me how to ask for help, how to sit with discomfort, and how to hold boundaries without guilt. It has made me a more ethical professional, someone who understands the weight of representation, the need for reflective supervision, and the importance of culturally grounded care. This is why I am pursuing my Master of Social Work. I want to expand the reach of care beyond crisis intervention. I want to design systems where people can access healing without shame, where providers are trauma-responsive, and where mental health is embedded in every layer of service, not just siloed into therapy referrals. Mental health has impacted every part of my life—my purpose, my relationships, my leadership, and my vision for justice. It is not something I overcame and left behind. It is something I live with, learn from, and integrate into every part of how I serve. That, to me, is what healing truly looks like.

Each day, I strive to live by five core traits that define both my character and my calling: strong leadership and communication skills, resilience, selflessness, determination, and work ethic. These values guide not only how I engage with my community but also how I navigate the challenges of higher education, caregiving, and service-oriented work. They are not traits I learned in a textbook; they were modeled for me through life experience, family legacy, and trial by fire. My father, a Vietnam veteran, instilled many of these values in me from a young age. He showed me what it meant to serve with discipline, to lead by example, and to keep moving forward even when recognition is absent. Watching him persevere through physical and emotional wounds, while remaining grounded in purpose, taught me early on that resilience is not just about survival, it is about integrity in the face of adversity. His example became my blueprint. As a case manager and program coordinator, I lead with empathy and clarity. Whether I am advocating for housing for a single mother or mediating conflict between systems and clients, my communication is direct, respectful, and solutions-focused. I believe strong leadership is about creating space for others to feel heard while keeping the bigger picture in view. I model this by organizing weekly team check-ins, elevating client voices in interdisciplinary meetings, and ensuring everyone has a role in decision-making. Leadership, to me, is not about control, it is about cultivating trust, vision, and momentum. Resilience is a muscle I exercise daily. Balancing work, graduate studies, and parenthood while supporting others through crisis has required emotional flexibility and strategic problem-solving. I have faced moments of exhaustion and uncertainty, but I continue to push forward, not because the path is easy, but because the mission is clear. I believe in creating systems of care that reflect the dignity of the people they serve. That belief is what keeps me focused. Being unselfish does not mean putting myself last, it means choosing collective wellbeing over individual convenience. In my professional work, this looks like staying late to prepare for a client’s court hearing or pausing my own schedule to mentor a colleague through burnout. I understand that when one of us rises, we all benefit. My approach to service is community-rooted and relational. I am committed to building systems where care is abundant and reciprocal. Focus and determination show up in how I set and pursue goals. I am currently earning my Master of Social Work while maintaining a full-time caseload, managing a household, and building the blueprint for a trauma-informed childcare center I plan to open. Every day, I commit to small actions that align with my long-term vision, including researching funding strategies, refining policies, and learning from seasoned leaders in the field. I do not believe in shortcuts, only steady progress. A strong work ethic grounds it all. I show up early, meet deadlines, and go above expectations not for praise but because I take pride in what I do. My work is a reflection of my values. I treat every interaction, whether with a supervisor, a client, or a community partner, as an opportunity to build trust and leave things better than I found them. I am pursuing this degree not only to deepen my knowledge but to sharpen my ability to lead systems-level change. Leadership means using my platform to uplift others, move resources toward justice, and ensure the communities I serve are not merely surviving but thriving.

A global issue that matters deeply to me is the erosion of care systems for Black families. Though often underreported, its impact is visible in schools, housing programs, welfare offices, and healthcare systems. At its core, this is a structural problem rooted in generational disinvestment, surveillance, and fragmented support. The systems meant to help often punish, pathologize, or retraumatize. I have experienced this personally and professionally, and it is the reason I am committed to building better. Raised by Black women who carried entire families on their backs with limited structural support, I intimately understand the pressures of survival. I have been the child in the caseworker’s office, and I have also been the caseworker, supporting clients navigating impossible choices in underfunded systems. These dual experiences shaped my understanding that care should not be a privilege for a few, but a right for all. For the last decade, I have worked in housing stability, youth development, and family support. In these roles, I saw how systems often focused more on compliance than connection. I supported mothers navigating DCFS involvement and survivors rebuilding their lives. I used trauma-informed practices long before they were policy. I slowed down intake sessions, centered clients' voices in care planning, and advocated against punitive responses to poverty. I wrote grievances, challenged gatekeeping, and tracked not just risks, but strengths. Beyond my job titles, I’ve organized annual Juneteenth celebrations that center joy, resistance, and intergenerational healing. These events are not just cultural, they are restorative acts. They offer families a chance to gather, celebrate, and feel seen in spaces not shaped by surveillance or scarcity. Whether through community events or clinical case management, I have consistently used my platform to restore dignity where it has been denied. These efforts are not enough on their own. I want to move from direct service to systems design. My long-term goal is to open trauma-informed childcare centers that provide wraparound services for both children and caregivers. These centers would offer employment pathways, parenting support, mental health services, and culturally grounded healing practices. My vision is not just to create a program, but to prototype a model that can be replicated in disinvested communities. To do this well, I need formal training in clinical theory, policy development, and evaluation. I want to strengthen my understanding of behavioral health systems and sharpen my ability to advocate at legislative and funding levels. The Master of Social Work will give me the tools to build sustainable institutions rooted in community, equity, and care. I care deeply about how we care for Black families. This is not just a local issue. Globally, Black communities have faced similar legacies of disconnection, criminalization, and dispossession. Yet we also carry a legacy of resistance, collective healing, and innovation. I believe that building programs locally, grounded in cultural context and lived experience, contributes to a larger movement for justice. This scholarship would not just support my education. It would allow me to continue serving my community while gaining the tools to build long-term, structural solutions. I am not asking to be equipped to care, I have already been doing that. I am asking to be equipped to scale that care strategically, ethically, and sustainably. The work has already begun. This degree is a bridge to do it more powerfully.

I was raised in a Black Catholic household, where faith was not just something we practiced on Sundays—it was a daily rhythm. My mother taught me that leadership meant service, that prayer wasn’t just personal but political, and that we are called to care for one another, especially when systems fail. That early exposure to a faith rooted in justice and community shaped how I see the world—and how I lead in it. My leadership style is deeply influenced by my faith. I lead with compassion, discernment, and the belief that everyone has dignity, regardless of their circumstances. Faith has taught me to see beyond what’s visible, to listen closely for what’s unsaid, and to move with integrity even when no one is watching. I don’t believe in leading through fear or control—I believe in building trust, honoring people’s humanity, and creating space for healing and growth. One of the most meaningful examples of this came during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, when I was organizing a Juneteenth event in my city. It was a time of grief, isolation, and uncertainty—especially for Black families navigating health disparities, financial instability, and racial violence. I felt a deep spiritual conviction that we needed more than protest or policy at that moment. We needed connection. We needed joy. We needed space to remember who we were outside of crisis. I brought together a small team of volunteers—many of whom were also dealing with personal loss, parenting stress, and burnout—and led with both vision and gentleness. We opened each meeting with a reflection or prayer. I reminded everyone that this wasn’t just an event; it was a ministry of presence, of visibility, of resistance through celebration. When we disagreed, we leaned into grace. When we hit roadblocks, I encouraged us to pray or pause instead of pushing through on empty. The result wasn’t just a successful event—it was a moment of community healing. Elders cried. Children danced. Families showed up, masked and hopeful, reminded that they still mattered. That experience clarified my future vision: to build spaces rooted in faith-informed care and justice, especially for Black and Brown families. I am currently pursuing my Master of Social Work with the long-term goal of launching a network of trauma-informed childcare centers that honor cultural heritage, emotional resilience, and intergenerational healing. These centers won’t just be about education—they’ll be spiritual sanctuaries, economic lifelines, and leadership incubators. And my leadership in these spaces will continue to be guided by faith: patient, principled, and rooted in love. My faith reminds me that leadership is not about titles—it’s about impact. It’s about how we treat the most vulnerable, how we repair harm, and how we uplift those around us. That is the kind of leader I strive to be. Not just effective, but faithful. Not just inspiring, but accountable. This scholarship would support me in continuing that journey, academically and spiritually, as I prepare to lead the kind of work that reflects the values I was raised with—service, justice, and unwavering love.

I was raised Catholic, the kind of Black Catholic upbringing where faith wasn’t just talked about—it was embodied. My mother was the quiet center of our household, the kind of woman who prayed while washing dishes, who made the sign of the cross before every meal, who whispered Hail Marys during storms, both literal and emotional. She raised me to believe that God wasn’t just in the church building—He was in our home, in our community, in the struggle, and in the small everyday moments of care. That foundation is what gave me my first sense of security, purpose, and dignity in a world that often denied all three. But as I grew older, especially as a Black woman navigating systemic violence, economic hardship, and loss, my relationship with God had to evolve. I experienced things no child of faith is ever truly prepared for—the death of my brother at the hands of police in a tragic case of mistaken identity, racial injustice in educational and workplace spaces, and the quiet trauma of being strong for everyone but myself. I found myself questioning the fairness of it all. I never stopped believing in God, but I did wrestle with Him. I asked why faith didn’t shield us from suffering, why good people were left unsupported, why caregiving often felt invisible and unrewarded. In that season, I learned that faith is not immunity. Faith is what gives us the language and strength to keep going when the world doesn’t make sense. It’s what helped my ancestors survive enslavement, sharecropping, war, and poverty. It’s what helped my mother keep our family afloat. And now, it’s what grounds my own vision as a woman, mother, and future social worker: to build systems of care that are radical in their compassion and transformative in their impact. Today, I am pursuing my Master of Social Work not just to earn a degree but to answer a calling. I want to create a trauma-informed, culturally-rooted childcare network that serves Black and Brown families with the dignity and care they’ve long been denied. These centers won’t just provide daycare—they’ll be community hubs, with wraparound services like therapy, parenting workshops, legal aid clinics, and youth enrichment programs. I want to bring healing to the same kinds of spaces where trauma has long been concentrated: housing shelters, schools, clinics, and court systems. I carry lived experience with me into every space I serve. I’ve been a case manager, a child care facility director, and a community advocate. I’ve sat with mothers escaping domestic violence, with fathers reuniting with their children after incarceration, and with teens who don’t believe they’ll make it to 21. I’ve helped families navigate impossible systems—Medicaid applications, housing waitlists, school expulsions—all while managing my own chronic stress, impaired vision, and the deep grief of losing a sibling. That’s why this scholarship matters. Because the work I do isn’t just a job—it’s personal. And because caregiving, though essential, is often unpaid, unsupported, and unsustainable. I’m doing this as a graduate student, a single mother, a trauma survivor, and a builder of something new. This scholarship would relieve financial pressure, allowing me to focus more fully on school, internships, and the strategic development of my future business. It would help pay for books, transportation, and the necessary certifications I need to make this dream real. But more than that, it would send a message that caregiving and healing work—especially when done by Black women—is worth investing in. My long-term goal is to create a nonprofit-business hybrid that includes multiple childcare facilities across the Midwest. Each location will center cultural healing practices, with staff trained in trauma-informed care, early childhood development, and restorative practices. These centers will not just help children—they will help families stabilize, organize, and begin to dream again. I also plan to create a fellowship program for young women of color who want to pursue social work, education, or community healing careers. I want to pass on the tools I’ve learned and create a pipeline of support so that no one else has to learn how to lead while drowning. My faith informs all of this. Catholicism taught me early on that service to others is holy. That feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, and caring for the sick is not just charity—it’s sacred duty. But as I’ve grown in my spirituality, I’ve added layers to that foundation. I’ve leaned into Black liberation theology, womanist theology, and the spiritual practices of my ancestors. I believe in a God who shows up in protest, in mutual aid, in healing circles, in play, and in joy. I believe that justice and love are not opposites—they are companions. And I believe that God has entrusted me with a mission that requires both fierce commitment and tender care. One of the most profound lessons I’ve learned through my healing journey is that I am allowed to be soft and strategic, grieving and grounded, sacred and human. My mental health recovery journey—through therapy, somatic work, and spiritual practice—has helped me move out of survival mode and into vision mode. And that vision is expansive. I’m not just preparing to enter the field of social work. I’m preparing to reshape it. I’m preparing to offer what my younger self needed. I’m preparing to honor my brother’s memory through justice work that makes room for our wholeness, not just our pain. This is what Christianity looks like to me now: not just worship on Sunday, but justice in action every day. Not just scripture in my mouth, but service in my hands. I don’t always get it right. I’m still growing, still healing, still asking hard questions. But I know that God is walking with me every step of the way. I know my ancestors are cheering me on. And I know that the work I’m building is not just for this moment—but for generations to come. This scholarship would not just support my academic goals. It would help plant a seed in the future of caregiving, healing, and justice—rooted in faith, watered by grief, and reaching always toward liberation.

For a long time, I thought prioritizing my mental and emotional health meant weakness. I had learned how to endure, how to push through, how to “get it done” no matter what. I was the caregiver, the case manager, the advocate, the strong friend. But it wasn’t until I reached a breaking point—personally and professionally—that I realized survival is not the same thing as healing. Last year, I found myself navigating a toxic work environment that left me emotionally depleted and questioning my worth. As a social worker and caregiver, I had always prided myself on showing up for others, even when I was barely hanging on myself. But after being wrongfully terminated shortly after requesting ADA accommodations for trauma-related mental health needs, something shifted in me. I realized I couldn’t continue giving from an empty cup—not to my clients, not to my child, and not to myself. That moment forced me to prioritize my mental and emotional well-being in a way I never had before. I began therapy, not just to process the injustice I had experienced at work, but to understand how years of chronic stress, intergenerational trauma, and caregiving without boundaries had taken a toll on my nervous system. I started incorporating somatic practices into my daily routine, including rebounding, bilateral music, and breathwork. I leaned into community, asking for help when I normally would’ve suffered in silence. I also created a six-month healing plan rooted in nervous system regulation and psychological integration because I didn’t just want to feel better—I wanted to rebuild myself from the inside out. One of the most powerful things I learned was that rest is resistance. Saying no became a form of self-trust. I came to understand that joy isn’t a reward after the work is done—it’s part of the work itself. For the first time in my life, I allowed myself to slow down without guilt. I let myself feel the full weight of my emotions without trying to package them into productivity. And I learned that healing is not linear, but it is possible. This experience completely reshaped how I move through school, work, and life. As I continue my Master of Social Work program, I no longer approach my studies as just a means to an end. I study with intention, making space for reflection, creativity, and balance. In my work, I no longer see overextension as noble. I recognize it as a warning sign. I create trauma-informed systems not just for my clients, but also for myself. In my everyday life, I have become more attuned to joy as a compass rather than relying only on survival as a strategy. Prioritizing my mental and emotional health wasn’t just an act of personal healing—it was a radical choice to rewrite the story I inherited. I come from a lineage of Black caregivers who were never given permission to rest. Women who held families together with little recognition or support. I carry them with me, and I am building a future where our brilliance is protected, not exploited. Where the systems we create actually honor the people within them. This choice—to make my healing a priority—changed everything. It reminded me that I am not just here to help others survive. I am here to help us all live, fully and unapologetically.

Caregiving, for me, has never been a side role. It has been the central heartbeat of my life. From a young age, I became someone who paid close attention—to the moods in the room, to the needs people didn’t voice, and to the cracks in systems that expected us to survive without support. Right now, I care for both my child and a broader community of families through my work in social services and case management. I support parents navigating housing instability, children with behavioral and developmental diagnoses, and families who’ve been impacted by trauma, poverty, and systemic neglect. In my personal life, I’m raising a child while also helping my own mother navigate aging, health needs, and household stability. Some days, caregiving looks like managing meals, transportation, and bedtime routines. Other days, it’s helping a client fill out a Medicaid application, advocating for emergency home repairs, or comforting a parent who's just received a diagnosis for their child and doesn’t know what comes next. It’s emotional labor, physical effort, and deep spiritual presence—every single day. And I don’t separate any of that from my education or career. I’m pursuing my Master of Social Work because caregiving isn’t just something I do—it’s the future I want to transform. I don’t just want to “help people”; I want to build systems that don’t break them in the first place. I want to create trauma-informed, culturally rooted childcare centers that serve Black and Brown families with dignity. I want to hire caregivers and pay them what they’re worth. I want to shift how we understand healing, especially for mothers, disabled families, and those navigating cycles of violence and poverty. Being a caregiver has shaped everything about me. It’s made me more disciplined, more grounded, and more visionary. I don’t take time for granted because I never have enough of it. I don’t romanticize resilience because I’ve lived what it costs. I know how to move through crisis and still make space for joy. And most importantly, I’ve learned that care is not a burden—it’s a form of leadership. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. There have been days when I’ve had to choose between paying a bill and buying school supplies. Days when I’ve left work emotionally exhausted, only to come home to the needs of my own family. But those experiences have also given me an edge in this field. I’m not disconnected from the people I serve. I am one of them. And that proximity gives me a kind of integrity and empathy that no textbook could teach. Receiving this scholarship would matter deeply—not just because of financial relief, but because it would affirm that the work I’m doing counts. That caregiving, though often invisible and undervalued, is a form of labor worth investing in. Scholarships like this recognize that caregivers are not liabilities or side stories—we are the backbone of our communities. This support would allow me to continue my studies with less stress and more focus. It would mean being able to afford books and course materials without pulling from my child’s needs. It would mean carving out time for internships and fieldwork placements without sacrificing our home stability. Most of all, it would bring me one step closer to launching my long-term vision: a network of childcare facilities that centers healing, empowerment, and justice. Spaces that support caregivers as whole people—not just as workers or parents, but as culture bearers, educators, and protectors. I see this scholarship not just as a personal opportunity, but as a seed. A chance to plant something real, lasting, and rooted in care. I’m not asking for help because I’m stuck—I’m asking because I’m building. And I know that with support, I can multiply the impact of my caregiving into systems, services, and spaces that will support generations to come. Thank you for considering me not just as a student, but as a caregiver with vision, lived experience, and a lifelong commitment to creating the world our families deserve.

If I could start a business with my brother, it would be a healing and empowerment center for Black youth and families—especially those impacted by violence, injustice, and grief. It would be called “The Second Son Center”—because he was taken too soon, because our community deserves second chances, and because I will always carry the weight and light of being someone’s sister. My brother was a victim of police violence. A case of mistaken identity—just another “error” in a long line of systems that have never been built to protect us. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. But still, he never made it home. And in that moment, my life split in two: the life before his death, and the one I’ve been building ever since. Starting a business together may not be possible in the physical sense, but I carry his spirit in every dream I hold. Our center would be a space where Black boys don’t have to prove their innocence to feel safe. Where kids can play, learn, and breathe without the shadow of surveillance. Where caregivers, especially single mothers and fathers like ours, can get the support they need without shame. The Second Son Center would offer trauma-informed childcare rooted in love and cultural pride. We’d have afterschool programs where young people could write, cook, build, dance, and lead. We’d provide grief circles, art therapy, mentorship, and community dinners where no one eats alone. We’d hire from the neighborhood, prioritize youth impacted by incarceration or violence, and give stipends for healing—not just labor. My brother was funny, protective, and fiercely loyal. He had a soft heart in a hard world. He deserved a future. He deserved to grow old. And every day that I wake up and pursue my education in social work, or build toward my dream of a trauma-informed childcare franchise, I do it with his name in my heart and justice on my mind. We never got to start a business together. But if we had, it would have been revolutionary in its tenderness. It would have been a space that says: You are not what happened to you. You are not disposable. You are not invisible here. That’s why I’m building what I’m building. Not just for me. Not just for the children. But for my brother—for all the second sons and daughters who never got to live their full lives because of racism, fear, and state-sanctioned violence. His life wasn’t a mistake. And his legacy will not be one of silence. So yes, if I could start anything with him, it would be a space that helps break the cycle. A space that holds grief and joy, rage and rest, mourning and momentum. A space where we can finally exhale—and begin again. That would be our business. And every step I take toward it is a step I take for both of us.

I am worth the dreams I aspire to achieve because I carry the weight—and the will—of generations who weren’t given the chance to dream this big. My grandmother grew up on a sharecropping farm in the Jim Crow South, where her labor was taken for granted and her brilliance was never nurtured. My father was a veteran, a Black man who served his country and came home to a system that still treated him like he was disposable. I come from a lineage of people who gave everything—without ever being offered a blueprint for liberation. And yet, here I am. Not only surviving, but building something they never got to see. I’ve beat odds that were stacked generations before me. I’ve navigated underfunded schools, medical systems that overlooked my needs, and workplaces that tried to shrink my voice. I’ve faced the silent toll of racism—not always loud or overt, but baked into the very systems I was expected to move through with grace. Even now, as I pursue my graduate degree, I carry the emotional labor of being “the only one,” of translating pain into paperwork, advocacy, and care. I am also someone who lives with a physical disability—impaired vision—which means I have to approach the world with both strategy and softness. I’ve learned how to adapt, advocate, and assert my needs in spaces that were never designed for someone like me to thrive. That resilience isn’t a buzzword—it’s lived. And it’s the foundation of the dreams I’m building. My dream is to create a network of trauma-informed childcare centers that don’t just “watch” children, but pour into them. Places where Black and Brown families are affirmed, where culture is honored, and where healing is built into the structure. I want to create systems of care that meet people where they are—whether they’re navigating housing instability, domestic violence, or just trying to breathe in a world that rarely pauses for them. But I’m not just dreaming about programs—I’m thinking about policy. About power. About how to shift funding models, build leadership pipelines, and equip communities with tools for collective survival. My dreams aren’t about personal success. They’re about liberation—starting with our children and rippling out to their caregivers, neighborhoods, and futures. I am worth these dreams because I didn’t inherit ease—I inherited grit. I didn’t inherit wealth—I inherited wisdom. And with every application I fill out, every child I advocate for, every space I try to make safer, I am honoring the ancestors who could only imagine what I am now living. I am proof that we are not bound by the barriers we were born into. I am proof that healing is possible. That justice can be strategic. That joy is a form of resistance. And that yes, I am worth it—not just because of what I’ve overcome, but because of what I’m committed to building next.

If I could create a brand-new challenge for Love Island, it wouldn’t just be about flirtation, speed dates, or who can snog who the fastest. We’ve seen the whipped cream. We’ve watched the lap dances. But what we need—especially with a cast as emotionally layered as this one—is a challenge that exposes what’s real beneath the surface. And with Olandria in the villa right now—enigmatic, observant, and low-key pulling strings without ever raising her voice—we need a challenge that gets the Islanders to finally say the things they’re thinking but too scared to name. That’s why I’d introduce a challenge called “Truth or Triggered.” Picture this: the Islanders are gathered in the garden, the mood is tense but playful, and at the center is a glowing neon seat—the “Hot Seat.” One by one, each Islander takes a turn sitting in it, while the others are armed with anonymous buzzers. The twist? Each round spins a wheel that lands on emotionally loaded categories like “First Impressions,” “Red Flags,” or “Still Thinking About...”—and the Islanders have to answer questions related to their relationships, crushes, regrets, and silent beefs. But here’s the kicker: when Olandria, for instance, sits in that seat, you know people will want to know more. She’s poised, diplomatic, and always composed, but you know she’s clocked every bit of mess in the villa. Watching her navigate questions like “Who in the villa is emotionally unavailable but pretending they’re ready for love?” or “Would you recouple if you knew no one would get hurt?” would be iconic. It’s not about being messy for mess’s sake—it’s about making space for honesty in a show built on illusion. Each question is either answered truthfully by the person in the Hot Seat—or, if no one wants to speak up, a wildcard “Trigger Card” is pulled. These cards are no joke: “Have you ever faked attraction to someone in this villa?” or “Who do you think will leave here single, and why?” It’s the kind of challenge that pushes Islanders to show emotional maturity—or reveal their game-playing instincts. Of course, we’d add some villa-friendly drama with a “Veto” twist—once per game, an Islander can challenge someone else's answer if it feels fake or evasive. So if Sean says something slick and Ella’s not buying it? She can veto, and Sean has to come clean again. It’s accountability meets entertainment. The challenge wouldn’t end in a vote. It would end with a “Truth Score”—each Islander gets rated on authenticity, spice, and vulnerability. The highest scorer wins a private date—anyone in the villa, no questions asked. The lowest scorer gets iced out with a solo cold plunge and 24 hours on kitchen duty. Why this challenge, and why now? Because in this season’s villa, emotions are bubbling under the surface. We’ve got situationships forming, silent crushes lingering, and people like Olandria playing chess while others are still learning checkers. “Truth or Triggered” would be the perfect mirror—not just for the audience, but for the Islanders themselves. And let’s be real: we’d all tune in for that.

My favorite athlete to cheer for on Team USA is Simone Biles. Watching Simone compete is more than witnessing greatness—it's watching a Black woman take up space in a world that wasn’t built to honor her excellence, and doing it with grace, power, and boundaries intact. Every time she steps onto the mat, she isn’t just competing—she’s rewriting the standard. As a Black woman myself, I see so much of our collective story in Simone: the pressure to be perfect, the expectation to push through pain, the silence we’re often forced into when advocating for our own well-being. That’s why it meant so much when she withdrew from competition in Tokyo to protect her mental health. That moment, to me, was as powerful as any gold medal. It was a declaration: “I am enough, even when I choose rest.” She reminds me that strength isn’t just about how much we can carry—but also about knowing when to set it down. That lesson is one I’m still learning in my own life. Simone doesn’t just defy gravity—she defies limits placed on Black women everywhere. And cheering for her means cheering for a future where we all get to define success on our own terms. That’s why she’ll always be my favorite.

One lyric from Olivia Rodrigo’s GUTS that unexpectedly cracked something open in me was from “teenage dream”: “They all say that it gets better / it gets better the more you grow / yeah, they all say that it gets better / it gets better, but what if I don’t?” At 34, as a Black woman looking back, I hear that line and immediately feel that younger version of myself—the one who was quietly carrying too much, too early. That lyric hits not because I’m still stuck there, but because at one point, I wasn’t sure I’d ever find my way out. And truthfully? Some days, I still revisit that space. As a Black girl coming of age, I didn’t get to ask “what if I don’t get better?” out loud. I was expected to endure. To mature fast. To be strong. To carry the weight of expectations without showing cracks. That lyric reminds me how invisible our internal battles can feel when we’re praised for being resilient but never asked if we’re okay. I remember smiling through things I hadn’t processed, excelling because failure wasn’t an option, and wondering in the quiet: what if this anxiety, this loneliness, this need to be perfect—never leaves? That question is the heart of adolescence for so many of us—especially Black girls. We learn early that softness is risky and vulnerability isn’t always safe. So we silence the questions. We push through. We try to outgrow our pain without naming it. Olivia’s lyric gave voice to that scared, unseen part of my teen self. And hearing it now, as a grown woman who’s been through therapy, heartbreak, spiritual transformation, and systems that tried to break me—I don’t hear that lyric with fear anymore. I hear it as a truth I once held, and a reminder of how many young girls still hold it now. Adolescence isn’t just hard because of hormones or breakups. It’s hard because it’s the first time many of us realize the world might not protect us. For Black girls, especially, it’s when we learn to hold our tears in public, to armor up, to read the room before we speak. That’s a heavy education. And Olivia, even if unintentionally, captured that feeling with one haunting, unresolved line. So while I wouldn’t trade the healing I’ve done to be a teenager again, I’m grateful for artists like Olivia who give voice to that liminal space—the fear, the pressure, the unspoken ache. It reminds me to be gentler with myself now… and to keep creating space for the next generation of girls who are just trying to believe in “better.” And maybe, for them, the better will come a little sooner.

I’m a fan of LeBron James because he represents excellence, evolution, and endurance—not just in basketball, but in life. His longevity, leadership, and the way he’s navigated pressure since he was a teenager are remarkable. He’s one of the few athletes who consistently shows up, reinvents himself, and still uplifts others while doing it. On and off the court, he’s built a legacy that’s as much about impact as it is about championships. That said, as a '90s baby and a Chicagoan, Michael Jordan will always be the greatest of all time to me. His presence in Chicago wasn’t just about sports—it was cultural. Monumental. Jordan didn’t just dominate the game—he transformed it. For me personally, his confidence, clutch mentality, and legacy of winning shaped how I understood greatness from a young age. But if Jordan built the blueprint, LeBron has been expanding it ever since. I don’t think it’s disrespectful to say LeBron isn’t the GOAT—it’s actually a compliment to how close he’s gotten. He’s right behind. His all-around game, career longevity, and off-court advocacy—especially with initiatives like the I PROMISE School—put him in a class of his own. He’s made his case, and whether or not people agree, you can’t deny his influence. So no—he’s not my GOAT. Jordan holds that for me. But LeBron is the defining player of this generation, and one of the greatest athletes we’ll ever witness. And I’ll always respect him for the way he’s carried the weight of expectations and still found ways to elevate.

As someone with a bachelor’s degree in cinematography, The Bear speaks to me on a level beyond storytelling—it’s a masterclass in visual tension, controlled chaos, and quiet, human moments between bursts of fire. So when I imagine the perfect ending to the series, I’m thinking not just about where the characters go—but how it feels and looks when they get there. For me, the perfect ending isn’t a neat bow. It’s earned peace. It’s a kitchen that doesn’t implode every night. It’s healing that isn’t loud—but steady. Carmy doesn’t need a Michelin star. He needs to learn how to breathe. I’d love to see him step away from the kitchen—even if temporarily—and focus on therapy, maybe even pursue a culinary mentorship program as a mentee, not the genius. I want to see him have the courage to be soft, to build a relationship with Claire where love doesn’t feel like a threat. Not perfect—just real. Sydney deserves the final word. I want her at the center of the kitchen, not just holding it together, but owning it. Maybe she opens a second location—a more casual, experimental space that reflects her vision. She’s the future of the industry in this show, and I’d love the final frame to rest on her face: focused, calm, in control. Richie, in the perfect ending, doesn’t have to become Carmy. He finds success in being himself. Maybe he becomes the guest experience director full-time—suits, playlists, service. He’s proof that evolution doesn’t have to look like reinvention. Just alignment. And visually? The final shot is handheld—natural light streaming through the kitchen window. It’s a slow pull back as everyone preps, calm for once. The kitchen breathes. The fire’s still on. But this time, it’s not burning anyone alive. Just warmth.

My favorite song on BRAT is “I might say something stupid.” It’s one of those tracks that feels so casual on the surface but cuts deep when you’re really listening. Charli captures that post-party vulnerability—when the lights are low, your guard is down, and all of a sudden, you're thinking about someone you shouldn’t still be missing. There’s something about the way she sings “I might say something stupid / like I really miss you” that just hits. It’s raw, a little messy, and completely honest. I’ve had those nights—where the noise fades, the crowd thins out, and all you’re left with is your own longing. That push and pull between pride and honesty, between pretending you’re over it and actually not being over it at all—that’s what makes the song so real. Charli has this gift of turning emotional chaos into something that feels glamorous and tragic all at once. This track, with its understated production and quiet sadness, doesn’t scream for attention—and that’s why it feels so intimate. It’s not a performance. It’s a confession. As someone who’s navigating healing, closure, and identity all at once, “I might say something stupid” feels like a permission slip. To miss people. To admit you’re not over it. To be soft, even if just for a moment. It’s the vulnerability for me. That quiet bravery in saying the thing out loud—even if it might be “stupid.”

Billie Eilish’s music has held me during moments when I couldn’t quite hold myself. There’s something about the way she writes—so bare, so unfiltered—that makes you feel like she’s speaking directly to the part of you that doesn’t always have the words. Her songs don’t just sound good—they feel true. Choosing just three is hard, but these are the ones that hit the deepest for me. 1. “everything i wanted” This song feels like a soft place to land when you’re carrying invisible weight. I’ve had moments where I achieved things I worked hard for—but inside, I was struggling. I was exhausted, anxious, and quietly unraveling, and no one really knew. “everything i wanted” captured that disconnect so perfectly—that feeling of being seen from the outside, but still feeling lost on the inside. The line "I had a dream / I got everything I wanted... but when I wake up I see / You with me" always brings tears to my eyes. It reminds me how important it is to be held by people who truly see you beyond your accomplishments. 2. “your power” This one hit me hard. It’s gentle, but the message is loud. As someone who’s experienced gender-based harm and manipulation under the guise of love, I felt like this song put words to something I hadn’t fully named out loud. It reminded me that silence doesn't mean consent, and that even soft-spoken truth can be revolutionary. Billie sings with such restraint—but that’s what makes the message even more powerful. It’s a quiet reclaiming, and I felt that in my bones. 3. “when the party’s over” I’ve played this song during endings—quiet breakups, career shifts, even the moment I walked away from something I once dreamed about. There’s a kind of grief that doesn’t shout, and this song captures that perfectly. It’s about leaving, not because you want to hurt someone, but because you’re finally choosing yourself. I’ve sat with this song in the middle of hard decisions, letting the sadness settle without judgment. Billie’s delivery isn’t dramatic—it’s real. That stillness? That ache? I’ve lived that. Billie’s music feels like it was made for the in-between moments—the ones where you’re not sure if you’re falling apart or finally coming back to yourself. She reminds me that it’s okay to feel messy, to take up space, to speak softly and still be heard. Her songs don’t rush you. They let you feel what you need to feel. And sometimes, that’s exactly what healing sounds like.

My name is Ashley Rogers, and I’m a Master of Social Work student at Dominican University. But beyond the degree, I’m someone who has spent most of my life moving between roles—supporter, advocate, survivor, builder. I’ve worked in housing programs, domestic violence shelters, disability services, and residential youth care. Every experience has deepened my belief that people don’t just need services—they need to be seen, believed, and supported in ways that feel human. Growing up, I didn’t have the language for trauma or mental health. I just knew how to survive. I knew what it felt like to adapt without being asked what I needed, and how hard it was to speak up in systems that expected you to stay quiet. I carry those early experiences into every room I enter. Whether I’m sitting with a client in crisis or designing a care plan for a child who’s been labeled “difficult,” I move from a place of deep empathy. I’ve been on both sides of the paperwork. One of the most defining parts of my work has been supporting children with disabilities and complex trauma. Many of the kids I’ve served didn’t use words to communicate, but they told their stories through behavior, energy, rhythm, silence. I’ve learned to slow down. To meet people where they are. To stop trying to fix and instead focus on building trust. It’s in these relationships—quiet, layered, and real—that I’ve seen the most healing happen. My personal experience with impaired vision has also shaped me. I’ve learned how exhausting it can be to constantly adapt in environments that aren’t built for you. I’ve also learned how powerful it is to ask for what you need—even if the system resists. Living with a disability has made me more attuned to access, to the spaces people fall through, and to the strength it takes to advocate when you’re already carrying so much. That perspective is something I bring into every space I work in. Looking ahead, I want to open a network of trauma-informed childcare centers in under-resourced communities—spaces that care for not just children, but their families. I envision centers where disability is not treated as a barrier, but as a natural part of the human experience. Where early education is infused with emotional safety, cultural pride, and tools for regulation and expression. Where caregivers can access support without shame—mental health services, parenting workshops, advocacy, and rest. I want to help build a world where care isn’t earned, but assumed. Where support isn’t conditional. And where people don’t have to fall apart to finally get the help they need. Earning my MSW is one step toward building that world. It’s equipping me with the clinical, policy, and leadership tools I need to make change that’s both relational and structural. This scholarship would ease the financial burden of graduate school and allow me to stay grounded in the communities I serve. But more than that, it would affirm that this kind of work—slow, intentional, justice-rooted—is worth investing in. I’ve chosen this path because I don’t just want to do meaningful work—I want to help reimagine how we define care, how we deliver it, and who gets to lead it. And I’m just getting started.

I chose to pursue a degree in healthcare through the lens of social work because I believe healing must be comprehensive—emotional, cultural, and systemic. Healthcare isn’t just what happens in clinics or hospitals; it’s also the everyday systems that impact how people survive, recover, and grow. For me, social work is healthcare. And I’m pursuing my Master of Social Work to become a trauma-informed practitioner who can build bridges between clinical care, community advocacy, and long-term healing—especially for Black and Brown families, survivors, and individuals with disabilities. My path to this work has never been linear, but it has always been rooted in care. Over the last decade, I’ve worked in housing stabilization, child welfare, domestic violence advocacy, and disability services. In each of these roles, I witnessed firsthand how deeply health outcomes are shaped by access to safety, information, and culturally competent support. I’ve supported children with complex medical needs and behavioral diagnoses, as well as caregivers managing their own trauma while trying to make decisions for their families. Over and over, I’ve seen people fall through the cracks because no one slowed down long enough to ask the right questions—or to listen fully to their answers. This is why I’ve committed myself to being part of the next wave of healthcare workers who bring a different kind of presence into the room. As a woman in this field, I know how often our intuition, our boundaries, and our knowledge are questioned. But I also know the power of being a provider who leads with both compassion and critical thinking. I plan to use my degree to become a licensed clinical social worker (LCSW), specializing in trauma-informed, disability-affirming care in both medical and community-based settings. Whether I’m sitting with a teen in crisis, a parent navigating a new diagnosis, or a care team that needs help seeing the full picture, I want to be the person who makes others feel safer, not smaller. As a woman, I also understand that caregiving has historically been undervalued—seen as emotional labor rather than professional expertise. Part of my impact will be helping to shift that narrative. I want to use my position in healthcare to elevate the work of community healers, peer advocates, doulas, and frontline workers whose knowledge is often excluded from clinical decision-making. I believe in honoring lived experience as a valid source of data. My work will center not just evidence-based practice, but also community-informed wisdom. Long term, I hope to launch trauma-informed childcare centers that act as community health hubs for families navigating disability, violence, or poverty. These centers will offer wraparound services—therapeutic support, health education, peer-led groups, and culturally responsive care—all under one roof. I want to make sure that caregivers and children can access care early, consistently, and without shame. And I want to build a workforce of women—especially Black, Brown, and disabled women—who are supported, protected, and trained to lead. Healthcare needs more people who’ve lived on both sides of the system—people who understand the policies and the people. I intend to be one of them. This degree isn’t just about advancing my career. It’s about helping others feel seen, safe, and supported—in the ways I needed most and didn’t always receive. That is how I plan to make a difference.

While I haven’t volunteered directly with an equine-based nonprofit, my time at Sarah’s Inn—a domestic violence shelter providing support, advocacy, and education to survivors and their families—taught me something similar to what I imagine equine therapy offers: how to slow down, how to listen beyond words, and how to meet trauma with presence instead of urgency. At Sarah’s Inn, I supported women and children rebuilding their lives after violence. Many arrived emotionally shut down, understandably mistrustful, and carrying the heavy weight of decisions they never asked to make. I learned quickly that what they needed wasn’t someone to “fix” their situation—it was someone to witness their story without judgment. Much like what I’ve come to understand about equine therapy, the power wasn’t in what I said, but in how I showed up—calm, grounded, and consistent. One particular experience stands out. I was working with a woman who had left a long-term abusive relationship and was navigating custody hearings, housing instability, and severe anxiety. She barely made eye contact during our first meetings and often sat in silence. My instinct early in my career would have been to fill that silence with solutions—but I had learned better. I gave her time. I sat with her through quiet sessions. I reflected back small strengths she had forgotten she possessed. Over time, she began to share. She laughed. She cried. She asked questions. And eventually, she made powerful decisions for herself—not because someone told her what to do, but because she finally had space to hear her own voice. What I discovered about myself through this work is that I am not here to be a savior—I’m here to be a stabilizer. I’ve learned that healing is relational. It happens in moments of trust, safety, and mutual respect. And it requires letting go of the need to control outcomes. My job, like a therapeutic horse’s role in equine-assisted programs, is not to lead the survivor—it’s to walk beside them. The work also deepened my understanding of body language, nonverbal communication, and nervous system regulation—all of which are foundational in both equine therapy and trauma-informed advocacy. I began to notice how my own body impacted the room: if I entered anxious, the client often mirrored that. But if I grounded myself—through breath, tone, posture—the entire dynamic softened. This self-awareness has been transformational, both professionally and personally. I now know that I can be a source of calm in chaotic systems. That presence is power. Serving at Sarah’s Inn also solidified my belief in the importance of holistic healing spaces. Many survivors need more than legal aid or temporary shelter—they need therapeutic interventions that engage the body, spirit, and mind. This has influenced my long-term career goal of launching trauma-informed childcare centers that integrate sensory tools, somatic practices, and family-based supports. While we may not have horses on-site, the philosophy of healing through relationship, rhythm, and nonverbal trust will be core to our model. Volunteering with survivors has taught me that healing isn’t loud—it’s often quiet, intuitive, and nonlinear. Whether working in a shelter, a classroom, or eventually as a licensed social worker, I carry this lesson with me. We don’t always need to have the right words. Sometimes, it’s enough to be steady, honest, and kind

My name is Ashley Rogers, and I am currently pursuing a Master of Social Work (MSW) at Dominican University with a long-term goal of transforming systems of care for marginalized communities. My focus is on trauma-informed practice, disability justice, and early childhood development. Although I am not pursuing a formal minor, much of my coursework and fieldwork centers on mental health, social policy, and nonprofit leadership—all key areas I plan to integrate into my future work. This scholarship would directly support my ability to complete my degree while continuing to serve vulnerable youth and families. As a full-time graduate student and frontline social service professional, balancing financial stability with academic excellence is a constant challenge. Receiving this scholarship would alleviate that financial strain and allow me to focus more fully on deepening my clinical knowledge, completing licensure hours, and expanding my impact through community-centered projects. In the future, I hope to launch a network of trauma-informed childcare centers that offer holistic, wraparound support for children with special needs and their caregivers—especially in under-resourced Black and Brown communities. These centers will combine early education, family services, and culturally grounded mental health care. This scholarship isn’t just an investment in my education—it’s an investment in the future systems I plan to build. Thank you for considering my application and for believing in the importance of accessible, justice-driven social work.

My name is Ashley Rogers, and I’m a Master of Social Work student and longtime advocate for trauma-informed care, disability justice, and racial equity. I’ve worked for over a decade in child welfare, housing stabilization, and behavioral health—supporting individuals and families navigating cycles of harm, poverty, and survival. But some of the deepest lessons I’ve learned haven’t come from my professional roles—they’ve come from my own experiences with adversity, particularly as a survivor of gender-based violence. I am a victim of workplace-based gender violence, masked under the language of professionalism, hierarchy, and retaliation. In 2024, I was wrongfully terminated from a nonprofit whose public mission centered reproductive justice. I took the role with clarity of purpose, believing that I had found a place where my values and skills would be honored. But once inside, I was quickly met with gaslighting, manipulation, and subtle acts of degradation. My boundaries were ignored. My transparency was punished. When I requested trauma-informed support and disclosed a disability-related accommodation, I was sidelined. The moment I named what was happening—when I spoke up about the retaliation, when I cited my legal protections under the ADA and began documenting gendered treatment—I was removed. Locked out of systems, my position eliminated without process or explanation. It was more than a job loss. It was a rupture of trust and safety, a silencing of someone who dared to speak. The impact was severe. Emotionally, I spiraled through grief, shame, and disbelief. Financially, I lost the security I had worked hard to build. Spiritually, I questioned whether it was even safe to bring my full self into spaces that claimed to be progressive but refused accountability. What helped me move forward was reclaiming my voice. I filed charges with the EEOC and the National Labor Relations Board—not just for myself, but for every woman who had been told she was “too sensitive,” “too demanding,” or “not a good fit” after naming abuse. I surrounded myself with healing-centered communities, began writing again, and immersed myself in my graduate coursework. I stopped chasing validation and started building power. This adversity shaped not only my beliefs, but my entire vision for what care work should look like. I realized that trauma-informed practice cannot live on mission statements alone—it has to show up in how we treat each other behind closed doors. I became even more committed to building spaces where survivors are not punished for having boundaries, where disabled professionals are not shamed for asking for access, and where women of color do not have to shrink in order to keep their jobs. Now, I am designing a trauma-informed childcare model that centers the healing of both children and their caregivers. My vision is to create spaces of safety, consistency, and joy—where neurodivergence is normalized, emotional regulation is taught, and accountability is practiced, not avoided. I want to build systems that reflect what I needed and didn’t get. If I could offer advice to anyone navigating similar violence or institutional betrayal, it would be this: Your discomfort is data. Your voice is enough. And your healing is not selfish—it’s revolutionary. What they call “disruption” is often truth. Don’t shrink. Document everything. Get support. And above all, don’t let their inability to hold your power make you forget that it’s real. Because it is. And it’s worth protecting.

I’m a fan of Sabrina Carpenter not just because of her music, but because of the way she carries herself as a multidimensional artist and woman. Watching her grow—from Disney Channel actress to chart-topping singer-songwriter—has been a powerful reminder that you’re allowed to evolve, to be playful and profound at the same time, and to take control of your own narrative. Sabrina doesn’t just perform—she tells stories. And somewhere along the way, she helped me feel more confident telling my own. Sabrina’s artistry stands out because she’s not afraid to take risks. She leans into humor, double meanings, and clever wordplay—but she also lets herself be raw, hurt, or messy. Songs like “emails I can’t send” feel like pages ripped straight out of a diary, while “Nonsense” shows that even in heartbreak, there’s room for levity and flirtation. Her music has been a mirror for me during times when I’ve struggled to reconcile all the different parts of who I am. Like her, I’m someone who can be strong and sensitive, thoughtful and sarcastic, deeply introspective one moment and laughing at something ridiculous the next. Sabrina doesn’t force herself to choose one lane—and that’s helped me stop trying to fit into one, too. Her career has also taught me about resilience. When “Because I Liked a Boy” came out, it felt like a moment of truth-telling that was long overdue. It was more than a breakup song—it was a response to being vilified, misrepresented, and blamed in a very public way. The fact that Sabrina didn’t let that moment define her, but instead used it to clarify her voice and deepen her songwriting, meant a lot to me. I’ve been through situations where people misunderstood my intentions or painted me in a light that didn’t reflect who I am. Seeing Sabrina choose transparency over silence—and art over retaliation—showed me a path I didn’t know I could take. She reminded me that your truth doesn’t need approval to be valid. Beyond the music, I admire how she engages with her fans. She doesn’t take herself too seriously, but she does take her work seriously. Whether it’s through funny outro lines during live “Nonsense” performances or heartfelt messages to her audience, Sabrina gives off the energy of someone who knows who she is and still has room to grow. That balance is rare—and inspiring. Sabrina’s career has impacted how I move through the world creatively and emotionally. As someone who writes and dreams of building something meaningful, her confidence reminds me to trust my voice. As someone who has known heartbreak and healing, her vulnerability reminds me that I’m not alone. And as someone navigating my own path, her evolution reminds me that success doesn’t have to come at the cost of authenticity. Being a fan of Sabrina Carpenter means more than loving her songs—it means being reminded, every time I hear her voice, that I’m allowed to change, to be bold, to laugh through pain, and to show up as my full self, whether people understand me or not. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

Mental health is not something I learned about in a classroom first. I met it in real life—through exhaustion that I couldn’t explain, through grief no one wanted to name, and through systems that punished people for their pain. Mental health has shaped me not as a clinical concept, but as a human experience I’ve lived through, witnessed, and now work to hold space for in others. It has influenced every part of my life—my beliefs, my relationships, and my purpose. Growing up Black, female, and working-class in Chicago meant that mental health was something you survived, not something you treated. Our family didn’t have the language for depression or anxiety—we had “bad nerves,” prayer, and the expectation to keep going. I watched strong women raise entire households while slowly disappearing inside themselves. I watched children like me internalize that silence as strength. And I carried those lessons with me into adulthood—until my body started telling a different story. In my early twenties, I began working in social services while navigating my own unspoken trauma. I was working with children in crisis during the day and trying to hold my own pain together at night. I loved the work, but I was burning out. I was over-functioning in every area of my life—at home, at work, in relationships—until my health and spirit hit a wall. I didn’t have the tools or the permission to name what I was feeling as chronic stress, secondary trauma, and unresolved grief. And like so many women—especially Black women in caregiving roles—I almost didn’t notice how much I was shrinking under the weight of it. It wasn’t until I started working more intentionally with mental health professionals, both personally and professionally, that things began to shift. I saw how trauma doesn’t just show up as sadness—it shows up as disconnection, reactivity, fatigue, and sometimes, silence. I saw how many children I worked with were carrying burdens far beyond their years, just like I had. And slowly, my belief system began to transform. I began to understand healing not as an individual task, but as a collective right. This shift in belief radically altered the way I do my work. As a Residential Case Manager at Hephzibah Children’s Association, I support youth with complex trauma, disabilities, and behavioral health needs. Many of these children have been misunderstood, over-disciplined, and labeled before anyone asked what happened to them. I have worked with nonverbal youth who express emotions through movement, teens with PTSD misdiagnosed as “defiant,” and children placed in residential care not because they were dangerous—but because they were deeply hurt. My mental health lens allows me to meet these young people with curiosity instead of judgment. I see behavior as communication. I prioritize regulation over compliance. And I build plans of care that center safety, connection, and voice. I also work closely with families—many of whom are navigating their own trauma histories—to ensure that healing doesn’t stop at the child, but extends into the home. One of the most transformative relationships I’ve had was with a child named Jayden. He was nine years old, had a long history of school removals and psychiatric hospitalizations, and was described by professionals as “unreachable.” But when I met him, I didn’t see a problem to solve—I saw a sensitive child who had never been safe enough to be himself. By building trust through sensory tools, music, and nonverbal communication strategies, I watched Jayden slowly emerge. He began participating in class. He started smiling during group music time. He even began using simple words to express his needs. It wasn’t a quick fix—it was a long, careful relationship rooted in mental health-informed care. Experiences like that have affirmed my career aspiration: to reimagine how we provide care to children and families. My ultimate goal is to open a network of trauma-informed childcare centers in under-resourced communities. These centers will offer wraparound services—mental health care, early intervention, parent support, and educational enrichment—all designed with cultural humility and accessibility in mind. I want to create environments where children feel safe to play, express, and grow… and where parents don’t have to choose between survival and emotional presence. I also envision these centers as spaces of community healing—offering workshops, therapy, and peer support for caregivers who are still learning how to hold their own stories. Mental health has taught me that many of us are parenting while healing. And when we’re supported with compassion and the right tools, we can break generational cycles and build something different for those who come next. On a personal level, my journey through mental health challenges has changed the way I approach relationships. I am more intentional with boundaries, more honest about what I can and cannot hold, and more open to naming when I need rest. I’ve also learned to extend grace to myself in the same way I extend it to others. That alone has been a radical shift. Pursuing my Master of Social Work is not just a step toward professional advancement—it’s a continuation of this healing path. Through this program, I’m gaining the language, clinical skills, and policy knowledge I need to scale my impact and build something sustainable. But I’m also doing this for the younger version of me—the one who didn’t know she was allowed to ask for help. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to continue my education while staying grounded in direct service. It would ease financial burdens and give me space to focus on refining my trauma-informed childcare model. Most importantly, it would affirm that this kind of work—slow, relational, community-rooted healing—is worth investing in. Mental health has shaped every part of who I am. It’s taught me that healing is possible, that systems can evolve, and that care is most powerful when it’s guided by compassion, not control. My life’s work is to bring that truth into the world—and to create spaces where others can feel it, too.

My name is Ashley Rogers, and I’m a Master of Social Work student at Dominican University. I’ve spent over a decade working in child welfare, housing stabilization, and family support—fields that consistently bring me face to face with children and families navigating life with complex needs, often without the resources or understanding they deserve. My career path has always been guided by one belief: that everyone, regardless of diagnosis or disability, deserves care that centers dignity, communication, and inclusion. Currently, I work as a Residential Case Manager at Hephzibah Children’s Association, supporting youth with developmental disabilities, trauma histories, and behavioral health needs. In this role, I collaborate with interdisciplinary teams—therapists, educators, social workers, and direct care staff—to ensure that each child’s unique strengths and challenges are reflected in their care plan. These youth are often nonverbal, sensory-sensitive, or managing the emotional aftermath of disrupted placements, abuse, or neglect. They’ve been misunderstood and mislabeled by systems that see only the behavior and not the story behind it. One child in particular shaped my commitment to this work. Jayden was nine years old when he entered our group home. He had been removed from multiple schools and foster homes, and his intake documentation labeled him as “nonverbal,” “aggressive,” and “uncooperative.” But when I met Jayden, I didn’t see a dangerous child—I saw a sensitive boy whose nervous system had never known safety. I took time to build trust: sitting near him quietly during transitions, learning his nonverbal cues, and working with his care team to design sensory-friendly supports. Through rhythm, music, and visual communication tools, Jayden began to emerge. He slowly started making eye contact, reaching for connection, and expressing emotions through movement and soft words. We adapted his education plan to center his strengths instead of trying to force compliance. Over time, Jayden began participating in group learning, sharing space with peers, and even joining in music time with a soft drum in his lap. He wasn’t “fixed”—he was finally supported. Jayden’s progress reaffirmed that we don’t need to change children with special needs—we need to change the systems around them. We need more trauma-informed, disability-affirming spaces where children can be seen as whole from the start. That’s what I plan to create. My long-term goal is to launch a network of trauma-informed, inclusive childcare centers that offer wraparound services for children with special needs and their families. These centers will go beyond basic education—they will provide mental health care, parent coaching, adaptive play therapy, and workforce development for caregivers. The spaces will reflect the communities they serve, with sensory-friendly design, cultural representation, and bilingual support staff. I envision family rooms, flexible programming, and collaborative service plans where therapists, educators, and parents are all at the table together. Receiving this scholarship would directly support my ability to complete my MSW while continuing to serve children like Jayden. It would relieve financial pressure and allow me to focus more fully on designing the infrastructure of my childcare model, deepening my training in disability justice, and eventually pursuing clinical licensure. But more than anything, it would affirm that this work—seeing children deeply, listening without judgment, and building systems that include everyone—is worth investing in. I’m not just preparing to work with people with special needs—I’m preparing to reimagine how we support them.

As a Residential Case Manager at Hephzibah Children’s Association, I have the privilege of working with children who have experienced profound instability—youth living with complex trauma, behavioral health diagnoses, neurodivergence, and disrupted family systems. My job isn’t just to meet their immediate needs. It’s to build relationships, co-create safety, and help them see themselves beyond the labels they’ve been given. In my experience, some of the most transformative work begins not with grand gestures, but with the quiet, consistent choice to keep showing up. One child in particular reminded me why I do this work. Jayden was just nine years old when he was referred to our group home. His intake file read like a cautionary tale—three failed foster placements, multiple psychiatric hospitalizations, and a long history of school removals. Educators had labeled him “nonverbal,” “oppositional,” “low-functioning,” and “a danger to others.” But what stood out to me the most wasn’t the red flags. It was the complete absence of curiosity. No one seemed to be asking the most important question: What has this child survived? The first time I met Jayden, he was hiding under a table in the classroom. He wouldn’t look at me. He didn’t speak. When approached, he would curl in on himself or lash out—whichever made adults back off faster. But even in that moment, I saw something else in him. There was an alertness in his eyes, a sharp intelligence just beneath the surface. He wasn’t unreachable. He was protecting himself the only way he knew how. Instead of pushing him to engage, I gave him space. I started spending quiet time near him during transitions. No pressure, no instructions—just consistent presence. I’d sit on the floor nearby, reading out loud or humming softly. Eventually, I noticed his body soften. He began glancing at me from under the table. He started tapping the rhythm of my humming on the floor. That was our first shared language—rhythm. As I learned more about Jayden, it became clear that he responded deeply to music, sensory play, and visual learning. So, I worked closely with his occupational and speech therapists to build a trauma-informed care plan around those strengths. We brought in sensory tools like weighted blankets, textured materials, and a small hand drum he could use to regulate his emotions. His classroom routine was adapted to include movement breaks, visual schedules, and one-on-one check-ins using picture communication cards. And slowly, Jayden began to emerge. He started whispering single words to staff—“green,” “outside,” “music.” He would reach for my hand when he was overwhelmed. He learned to signal when he needed a break. During art therapy, he drew colorful spirals and shapes, and would beam with pride when his work was hung on the walls. He began sitting in on morning meetings. He handed out crayons to classmates. And eventually, he looked forward to school. His progress didn’t come from fixing him. It came from understanding him. From honoring his pace. From building trust before teaching tasks. I learned to see every behavior as communication—anger as fear, withdrawal as sensory overload, silence as a boundary. And once Jayden knew he didn’t have to earn our care, he began to take risks. He began to learn. One moment I’ll never forget was during a staff-client karaoke night. Most of the kids were singing pop songs or rap verses. Jayden had been quietly watching from the corner. When a familiar instrumental started playing—one we’d used in our music sessions—he began to hum. Then he tapped the rhythm on his knees. Then, in the middle of the room, he stood up and swayed, softly mouthing the words to a song I didn’t even know he had memorized. The entire room went still. It was the first time many staff had seen him voluntarily participate in something social, expressive, and joyful. That moment wasn’t just about music. It was about liberation. It was about a child learning that he was safe enough to be seen. Jayden taught me that impact isn’t measured by how fast a child learns, or how compliant they become. It’s about helping a child feel safe enough to show up as their full self—and then building a system around that self, not the other way around. That’s what Sierra Argumedo believed in, and it’s what I believe in too. My time at Hephzibah has strengthened my resolve to change how we care for children in educational settings—especially children with disabilities, trauma, or behavioral health needs. Too often, education systems prioritize conformity over connection. They punish children for how they cope before they even ask why they’re coping. If I could change one thing about education, it would be this: I would center healing over discipline, relationship over routine, and voice over compliance. Every child deserves to be met with the same care and curiosity I was able to offer Jayden. As I continue my Master of Social Work at Dominican University, I carry Jayden’s story with me. My long-term goal is to launch a network of trauma-informed childcare centers that combine early education, mental health support, family services, and culturally grounded care. I want to create spaces where every child, especially those from marginalized communities, feels seen, heard, and loved. Where learning is not separate from healing, but rooted in it. This scholarship would help me complete my graduate education while continuing to serve children like Jayden. It would ease the financial strain of balancing school, parenting, and full-time service work—and it would affirm that the kind of care Sierra believed in is still worth fighting for. Jayden once needed others to speak for him. Today, I carry his voice forward. Because every child deserves the chance to be seen—and every adult working in education needs the tools, training, and support to truly see them. Thank you for considering this investment—not just in me, but in the future I’m helping build, one child at a time.

As a Residential Case Manager supporting youth with behavioral health needs, intellectual and developmental disabilities, and complex trauma histories, I’ve learned that working with children like Rebecca means seeing beyond diagnoses and behaviors—it means listening with your whole self. While no two children are alike, every child wants to be understood, included, and celebrated. When working with a child who has a rare disorder, my first priority is connection. I don’t assume—I observe. I watch for nonverbal cues, vocalizations, preferences, and rhythms. Building trust is the foundation for everything else. Rebecca’s story reminds me of many young people I’ve served—children who communicate without words but with deep feeling. When I support nonverbal youth or those with rare or undiagnosed conditions, I take an individualized, strengths-based approach. I work alongside occupational and speech therapists to implement sensory supports, communication devices, and visual tools. I also rely heavily on structure, routine, and environmental cues that reduce anxiety and support engagement. Whether it’s incorporating movement, music, or a favorite object, I follow the child’s lead and adjust my methods until they light up with curiosity or joy. In one of my most meaningful cases, I worked with a nonverbal teen girl with a dual diagnosis of autism and a genetic condition that impacted mobility and cognition. Medical staff hadn’t seen her condition before, and many assumed her learning capacity was limited. But over time, I realized she responded strongly to tactile experiences, rhythm, and facial expression. I collaborated with her occupational therapist to create a personalized sensory toolkit and helped adapt her service plan to include drumming, textured objects, and multi-sensory storytelling. Slowly, her engagement deepened. She began initiating eye contact, laughing in response to favorite stories, and eventually using a tablet to make food choices. Her transformation didn’t come from a textbook—it came from meeting her where she was. To truly reach and teach a child like Rebecca, the work must be relational, creative, and interdisciplinary. But even more essential is family partnership. Families are not just caregivers—they are experts, historians, and advocates. In my practice, I treat families as team leaders. I begin every plan of care with a collaborative intake: What makes your child laugh? What triggers stress? What brings comfort? These conversations have helped me avoid unnecessary setbacks and build interventions that reflect who the child is, not just what professionals assume. I’ve seen firsthand how involved, informed families accelerate a child’s progress. I’ve also seen how exhausted and unsupported families struggle to navigate services alone. That’s why I see my role as a bridge—between families and systems, between children and the people who may not yet know how to see them fully. Like Rebecca’s care team, I strive to become the person a child looks forward to seeing because I took the time to understand them. Rebecca’s story moved me deeply. Her joy, her community, and the love surrounding her reflect exactly why I chose this field. As I pursue my Master of Social Work, I carry with me every child who needed someone to believe in them and every family who trusted me with their child’s care. This scholarship would help me continue this work—refining my clinical skills, strengthening my advocacy, and building a career that centers dignity, connection, and inclusion for children like Rebecca.

Receiving this scholarship would be more than financial support—it would be an investment in a long-term vision to create sustainable systems of care for Black and Brown families. As a Master of Social Work student at Dominican University, I am working toward launching a network of trauma-informed childcare centers that do more than educate children—they help families heal, grow, and thrive. This scholarship would directly support my ability to complete my education, deepen my training, and bring this vision to life. I’ve worked in social services for over a decade, supporting families navigating housing instability, domestic violence, systemic neglect, and intergenerational trauma. I’ve served as a Family Support Specialist, a Housing Case Manager, and a Childcare Director—roles that allowed me to see, firsthand, how deeply families need care that is consistent, affirming, and rooted in community. Again and again, I’ve witnessed caregivers forced to choose between survival and stability because they didn’t have access to safe, affordable, or culturally competent childcare. These experiences have shaped my career goal: to build accessible childcare infrastructure that includes wraparound services like mental health support, parent education, and economic opportunity. My plan is to franchise this model—starting in Chicago, but ultimately expanding to other under-resourced neighborhoods across the country. Each center will be led by someone from the community it serves, and every dollar reinvested into families through tuition support, professional development, and community care initiatives. I don’t just want to operate centers—I want to transform what early childhood education and family support can look like when equity is the foundation. Pursuing my MSW is a critical part of that plan. It will give me the tools to design trauma-informed programs, advocate for policy change, and manage systems that reflect care, not control. But balancing school, life, and work is challenging. Like many adult learners and first-generation graduate students, I carry not just the cost of tuition, but the weight of being the first to do this—for myself, my child, and my community. Financial assistance would allow me to reduce my workload, focus on my practicum, and invest more energy into the early-stage development of my childcare initiative. Beyond the financial impact, receiving this scholarship would also serve as encouragement. It would be a reminder that my vision is valid—that building institutions that affirm Black and Brown families is worth funding. It would affirm that even though I am still in school, I am already doing the work. This scholarship won’t just help me finish my degree—it will help me create jobs, support mothers, empower educators, and disrupt generational cycles of harm. It will help me open doors that others can walk through. And it will bring me one step closer to a future where care isn’t a privilege, but a right. Thank you for considering this investment—not just in me, but in the world I am building alongside my community.

In the life of my dreams, I wake up knowing my work is nourishing not just children, but entire families and communities. I look around and see something that didn’t exist when I was growing up: a thriving network of childcare centers that I created—spaces built by us, for us. These aren’t just daycares. They’re healing environments, safe havens, and anchors in neighborhoods that have long been disinvested and overlooked. My dream is to launch a franchise of trauma-informed, culturally rooted childcare facilities that directly serve Black and Brown communities. These centers won’t just care for children—they’ll care for parents, caregivers, and the community at large. Families will have access to wraparound services like parenting support groups, mental health care, workforce development, warm meals, and early childhood education designed with our culture and brilliance in mind. In these centers, the staff reflects the families we serve. Black and Brown educators and caregivers, many of whom were once parents in our program, are empowered to grow into leadership. I see parents becoming center directors, staff becoming franchise owners, and youth returning to work in the very spaces that raised them. Through mentorship, licensing support, and ongoing professional development, I want to build a new kind of infrastructure—one rooted in legacy and community wealth. I’m currently pursuing my Master of Social Work at Dominican University because I know that deep, systemic change requires more than vision. It requires training, policy literacy, and the ability to build models that can scale. My experience as a Family Support Specialist, Housing Case Manager, and Childcare Director has shown me just how interconnected our struggles are. I’ve supported families facing housing instability, domestic violence, and the trauma of systems that were never designed for them. Again and again, I’ve seen how lack of access to affordable, affirming childcare becomes the breaking point—and how healing-centered support can become a turning point. This dream isn’t about business for me—it’s about justice. I see my childcare centers as part of a broader strategy to disrupt cycles of poverty, prevent intergenerational trauma, and invest in the emotional and economic health of our communities. Children will grow up in spaces where they are seen, celebrated, and protected. Caregivers will no longer have to choose between earning a living and being present for their families. And communities will be able to look within themselves for care, rather than looking to systems that have historically failed them. I also plan to create a foundation connected to the franchise—one that provides sliding-scale tuition, scholarships for Black educators, and seed funding for parents who want to launch their own centers. I want to turn my success into a pathway for others to build their own. This scholarship will help me continue this journey. With financial support, I’ll be able to complete my MSW program and deepen my training in community mental health, nonprofit leadership, and program development. I’ll be able to devote more time to developing the infrastructure of the childcare model I’m building—because this isn’t just a dream. It’s already in motion. I’m not just imagining a better future—I’m building it. One child. One caregiver. One center at a time.

My name is Ashley Rogers, and I come from a lineage of Black women who held families, carried burdens, and survived in silence. Their strength taught me resilience, but their silence taught me something else—that healing is just as important as survival. I’m a Master of Social Work student at Dominican University, and my life’s work is rooted in creating spaces where Black families, especially our youth, don’t have to carry their pain alone. For over a decade, I’ve worked across housing, child welfare, reproductive justice, and early childhood education—often supporting families in crisis. In every role, I’ve seen how deeply mental health intersects with everything else: safety, stability, parenting, education, and identity. For Black communities, especially, mental health challenges are often misdiagnosed, ignored, or criminalized. We aren’t just underserved—we’re misunderstood. That gap between what we need and what’s available is where I see my purpose. Mental health isn’t separate from the work I do—it’s the heart of it. I’ve worked with mothers navigating domestic violence while trying to keep food on the table. I’ve supported children whose anxiety is mistaken for “bad behavior.” I’ve been the one to show up with resources when no one else did, and I’ve also been the one to sit beside someone and say, “You’re not broken—you’re just carrying too much.” I believe care should feel like that: human, affirming, and culturally grounded. My own mental health journey has shaped how I show up in this work. I’ve experienced the toll of burnout, the isolation of being the “strong one,” and the emotional cost of working within systems that don’t value the communities they claim to serve. These personal experiences have made me a more empathetic practitioner and a more unapologetic advocate. I know what it’s like to need care and not know where to turn. That’s why I fight so hard to make sure others don’t have to navigate that same silence. Looking forward, my goal is to launch a network of trauma-informed childcare centers in Chicago that center healing—not just for children, but for their caregivers and communities. These centers will offer mental health support in ways that feel natural and culturally safe: through storytelling, parent circles, creative expression, and education rooted in liberation, not punishment. I want to raise a generation of Black children who understand emotional regulation, know how to ask for help, and see their mental health as a strength, not a shame. I also want to make sure that Black caregivers—especially mothers—aren’t left behind. So many of us are carrying trauma while trying to raise emotionally healthy children. My vision includes wraparound support: therapy, housing advocacy, community-led education, and practical tools to help families heal together, not in isolation. This work is deeply personal. It’s born from what I’ve witnessed, survived, and chosen to build in response. I’ve organized Juneteenth events to reclaim joy, helped parents navigate impossible systems, and held space for Black girls navigating trauma that was never theirs to carry. And through it all, I’ve kept asking the same question: What would our communities look like if healing was free, accessible, and ours to define? This scholarship would allow me to deepen my education and expand the reach of what I’m building. I’m not just here to provide mental health services—I’m here to change the way our communities experience care. This is more than a career—it’s a commitment to our collective future.

Growing up, I witnessed the quiet damage that intimate partner violence can leave behind... not just physical harm, but emotional silence, broken trust, and a slow erosion of self-worth. Some of the women closest to me stayed in relationships that drained them, not because they didn’t want something better, but because they didn’t believe better was possible. Those early observations didn’t just disturb me—they shaped me. They became the root of my purpose and the compass guiding my career in social work. I believe education is one of the most powerful tools we have to prevent and reduce intimate partner violence. Not just academic education, but community-based, culturally grounded education that teaches people to name their experiences, recognize harm, and access tools to change their circumstances. Education creates possibility... the possibility to imagine a different kind of love, a different kind of safety, a different kind of future. Too often, survivors are told to “just leave,” without acknowledging the deeply layered barriers they face—economic dependence, isolation, housing instability, fear of child welfare involvement, and a lifetime of being gaslit or silenced. My work has consistently shown me that people don’t stay because they’re weak... they stay because systems aren’t designed for them to exit safely. That’s what I want to change. As a Family Support Specialist, Housing Case Manager, and former Childcare Director, I’ve worked with families navigating the ripple effects of trauma and systemic neglect. I’ve held space for mothers forced to choose between violence and homelessness... for children internalizing chaos as normal. I’ve helped connect families to food, housing, safety planning, parenting classes, and mental health care—always through a trauma-informed, culturally responsive lens. These experiences fuel my desire to not just work within broken systems, but to reimagine them entirely. Now, as a Master of Social Work student at Dominican University, I’m building toward my long-term vision: launching a network of trauma-informed childcare centers across Chicago. These centers will serve as more than places for children to play... they will be healing hubs for families. Wraparound support will include legal advocacy, domestic violence prevention, parenting resources, housing navigation, and workforce development for caregivers. The children in these centers will experience structure, safety, creativity, and joy—what every child deserves. Education will be at the heart of these spaces. I want to support caregivers in reflecting on how their own histories shape the way they nurture, discipline, and love. I want to teach children emotional literacy and healthy boundaries from the start. I want to help communities break cycles—not just by telling them what not to do, but by showing them what’s possible. That’s what real prevention looks like. I bring both professional experience and lived wisdom to this work. I’ve managed complex caseloads, led programs, mentored youth, and organized community events like Berwyn’s annual Juneteenth celebration. I’ve also navigated systems as a Black woman with my own story of survival. I understand what it feels like to be resourceful and unsupported at the same time... to be both caregiver and advocate, builder and survivor. This perspective allows me to connect deeply with the people I serve and to design interventions that meet them where they are. Receiving this scholarship would not only support my education... it would directly contribute to the systems I’m building for others. I’m not pursuing this degree to simply work in the field—I’m here to reshape it. I want to create sustainable care models that center Black and Brown families, that honor trauma without pathologizing it, and that replace cycles of harm with cycles of healing.