Addiction almost took everything from me. For a long time, it ran my life. I told myself I was fine, that I could stop whenever I wanted, but the truth was, I couldn’t. It started small, like it always does. I was trying to fill an emptiness I didn’t understand. I wanted peace, I wanted to stop hurting, but instead I ended up trapped in a cycle that kept stealing pieces of me one by one. I grew up around addiction. My father struggled for years, and it broke my heart to watch it take him away from me. I promised myself I would never be like that, but when pain goes untreated, it finds a new way to show up. I spent years pretending to be strong while falling apart inside. I smiled, I worked, I took care of everyone else, but when I was alone, I used whatever I could to quiet my mind. It was my grandmother’s voice that finally broke through all of it. She raised me when my dad couldn’t, and she was the one who taught me what love really looks like. I used to sit at her kitchen table while she read her Bible and prayed out loud for everyone she loved, including me. After she passed away, I could still hear her in my head telling me to get back up, to trust God, and to never give up on myself. I finally listened. I got help. I let people in. I started to heal. Getting sober was not easy. It was the hardest thing I have ever done. It meant facing things I had buried for years. It meant forgiving myself for the pain I caused others and learning how to forgive my father too. But with time, prayer, and support, I started to come back to life. I found my faith again. I realized that God had never given up on me, even when I had given up on myself. Now, I am a mom to two beautiful daughters who are the heartbeat of my life. I am in college working toward a degree in ministry and education, and I run a small salon where I get to love people every day. My salon chair has become a place of prayer and healing. Women come in for hair appointments and end up opening their hearts, and I get to listen and remind them that they are not alone. I also serve in my church’s deliverance ministry, helping other women find freedom the same way I did. My dream is to one day live in Japan and teach there, not just in classrooms but in life. I want to help people who are struggling, who feel unseen, who need someone to believe in them. Addiction once made me feel hopeless, but now it gives me purpose. It helps me understand people in their darkest places. It reminds me that light can reach anyone, even the ones who think they are too far gone. Being sober gave me my life back. It gave me faith, peace, and a reason to wake up every morning. I want to spend the rest of my life giving that same hope to others. Thank you for this incredible opportunity!!!

“Casa Confessions” Listen, I do not just watch Love Island. I live it. I breathe it. My group chats are full of screenshots, theories, and screaming about recouplings. My family knows that when Love Island is on, I am not available for anything short of a national emergency. So when I say I have a challenge idea that would change television history, I mean it. Casa Confessions would be the perfect storm of truth, temptation, and pure entertainment. Each Islander gets invited to a private “confession booth” that looks like a tropical spa but is secretly full of cameras. They sit down, relax, and are told they are about to play a simple word association game. What they do not know is that their answers are about to cause absolute chaos in the villa. They are asked things like “Name the Islander you trust the least,” “Who do you secretly think about before bed,” and “If you had to choose someone else to couple up with, who would it be.” They answer honestly because they think it is anonymous. But the next night, the villa gathers around the fire pit for the reveal. The answers are read aloud, word for word, and everyone has to guess who said what. The tension would be wild. Some people would laugh it off, some would panic, and a few hearts might actually break. But it would also create some of the most honest conversations of the season. People would finally say how they really feel instead of hiding behind politeness. Fans like me would be glued to the screen, popcorn in hand, watching relationships either rise to the occasion or completely fall apart. To calm things down afterward, the Islanders would get a chance to make their own short “confession videos,” where they explain their answers directly to the camera. Those clips would air the next day, giving the audience all the emotional highs and lows we crave. It would be funny, dramatic, and revealing, all at once. Casa Confessions would add a new layer of truth to Love Island. It would show that love is messy, honesty is powerful, and sometimes the heart says what words will not. Fans would talk about it for years. It is the kind of challenge that would trend worldwide, spark memes, and probably lead to a few unexpected recouplings. I may not work for the show, but if I did, this challenge would already be on the schedule. Love Island is about taking risks, facing feelings, and living in the moment, and Casa Confessions would capture all of that in one unforgettable day. Thank you so much for this awesome opportunity!!!

If loving Wicked were a competition, my daughters and I would win every time. We have the soundtrack memorized, the dialogue half memorized, and we have turned our living room into a stage more times than I can count. There are still trails of glitter in the carpet from our “Defying Gravity” performances. I play Elphaba, my oldest daughter insists she is Glinda, and my youngest just wants to sing “For Good” at the top of her lungs like it is a national anthem. But beyond the fun and the laughter, Wicked has truly changed our lives. It is more than a musical in our home. It is a story that became part of our family. Elphaba’s courage to stand up for what is right, even when it costs her everything, speaks to me deeply. I know what it feels like to be misunderstood and to carry labels that do not show who you really are. Watching Elphaba rise anyway, with that fearless spirit that says “you cannot pull me down,” makes me cry every time. It reminds me and my daughters that being different is not something to hide. It is something to celebrate. We have had Wicked nights where we make popcorn, put on green face paint, and sing until our throats hurt. We talk about what it means to be a real friend, like Glinda learning to love Elphaba not despite her flaws but because of her heart. Those nights have become more than just family fun. They are life lessons. I want my girls to grow up knowing that being kind, standing for truth, and being brave enough to be themselves will always matter more than being popular. And then there is the music. Wicked’s songs have carried us through happy days and hard ones. “For Good” is the song that makes me cry every single time we sing it together. It reminds me that even in difficult seasons, we can still change each other’s lives for the better. “Defying Gravity” has become our anthem for courage. Whenever life feels heavy or things seem impossible, my daughters and I play it in the car and sing until the windows fog up. The beauty of Wicked is that it reminds us that good and evil are not always as simple as they seem. Real strength often comes from being misunderstood but staying true anyway. It has taught me and my daughters to use our voices and to be bold when life feels scary. Wicked is not just a show to us. It is part of who we are. It is late night sing-alongs, green eyeshadow everywhere, and tears during “For Good.” It is laughter, hope, and the reminder that no matter what anyone says, we can all learn to defy gravity together. Thank you for this awesome opportunity!!!

I grew up in a world where college felt like a dream that belonged to other people. We did not have money set aside for education, and no one really talked about college like it was an option. Most of the adults I knew were just trying to keep food on the table and pay the bills. That was what survival looked like. I learned early on that wanting something more did not mean I could afford it. For a long time, I carried that belief with me and convinced myself that college was out of reach. As I got older, that feeling never left. I watched people go to college and start careers, while I went straight into working to make ends meet. But deep down, I still wanted more. I wanted to learn, to grow, to show my daughters that even when you start with very little, you can still create something meaningful. When I finally decided to go back to school, I had to face the same fears I had growing up. I still did not have the money. I still had responsibilities. I was still a mom trying to hold everything together. But this time I had faith that God would make a way, and He has. Now I am a full time student, a mother, and a business owner. I am studying ministry and education because I want to help others find hope and purpose. My dream is to serve in Japan one day, to teach and share the gospel with people who may feel as lost as I once did. Every class I take feels like a small miracle. It is a reminder that I am breaking barriers that once felt permanent. This scholarship would mean more than financial help. It would be an answer to prayer and a reminder that hard work does not go unnoticed. It would give me the freedom to focus more on my studies and less on worrying about how to afford them. I want to finish my education not only for myself but for my daughters who are watching me. I want them to see that even when life tells you something is impossible, you can still do it with faith, courage, and perseverance. I did not grow up with money or opportunities, but I grew up with a heart that refuses to quit. That is what gives me an advantage. I may not have had an easy path, but I have learned how to keep walking even when the road is long. I know what it means to want something so badly that you refuse to let go. That is why I believe I deserve this scholarship. Thank you so much for this opportunity!!

Being the first person in my family to go to college feels a bit like walking into a room that no one told me existed. I keep looking around thinking, wow, this is real, I actually made it here. For so long I thought college was for other people, the ones who seemed to have it all together. But now I am here, coffee cup in one hand, books in the other, trying to prove to myself and my two daughters that we can rewrite our story. Most nights, I am doing homework with one eye open and the other one half asleep. My daughters peek into the room to ask if I am done yet, and I tell them not yet but soon. Sometimes they sit beside me with their crayons and say they are doing homework too. Those moments make me want to cry and laugh all at once. They are watching me become what I once thought was impossible, and that changes everything. I am studying ministry and education because I want to help people find hope again. I used to think my life was too messy to ever mean something, but God has a funny way of turning the mess into the message. My dream is to serve in Japan one day, teaching and sharing love in a culture that has already captured my heart. I am learning Japanese little by little, usually between laundry and dinner, and every new word feels like a small miracle. Being a first generation college student has taught me more than textbooks ever could. It taught me that faith can sit beside exhaustion and still smile. It taught me that strength sometimes looks like showing up to class when you want to cry. It taught me that my girls are learning from me even when I think I am failing. I do not just want to earn a degree. I want to build a life that tells my daughters they can do anything. I want them to see that courage is not loud or perfect. It is just getting up every day and trying again. College is hard, but watching my girls see me chase something that once felt impossible makes it worth every late night, every tear, and every prayer whispered over my laptop. Thank you so much for this opportunity!!

Giving back has become part of who I am. It is not something I have to plan or think too hard about anymore. It is just what I do because it feels right. I have been through enough in my life to know what it feels like to need hope, so I try to give that same hope to other people in any way that I can. Serving on the Temecula Sister City Association has been one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. The people in that group have become like family to me. Working with them showed me what can happen when people from completely different places come together with open hearts. Through our exchanges and projects, I fell in love with the beauty of Japan and the kindness of its people. Their humility, their respect for one another, and their quiet strength touched me deeply. Being part of that connection stirred something inside me that has never gone away. I started to feel that God was calling me to do more than just visit or volunteer. I want to live there someday, to help their communities and share the love of Jesus in ways that are gentle and genuine. I am studying ministry and education so that when the time comes, I can teach, serve, and connect with people in their language and culture. I have been learning Japanese little by little, and every word feels like a step closer to where I am meant to be. My dream is to create a safe place for people to learn, grow, and find peace — the same peace that changed my life. Right now, I give back through my work and through my faith. I am a hairstylist, but my salon chair is often more like a small ministry. People come in not only for a haircut but for a moment of care. They sit, they talk, sometimes they cry, and I listen. If they ask, I pray with them. I have seen people walk in with heavy hearts and leave lighter, and that means everything to me. I also help with food distribution and community outreach through my church. My daughters often come with me because I want them to see what love looks like when it takes action. This scholarship would help me continue my education without constantly worrying about how to make ends meet. It would mean more time to focus on my studies and prepare for the work I believe God is calling me to do. My dream is not about success in the world’s eyes. It is about making a difference that lasts. I may not be able to fix everything, but I can show up for people. I can love them, listen to them, and do my best to bring hope where it is needed most. That is how I give back now, and that is how I plan to keep giving for the rest of my life. Thank you so much for this opportunity!!

My dad was a lot of things, but boring was never one of them. He was a talented musician who could make a guitar sing and a motocross rider who had absolutely no fear. He lived fast and loud, chasing adrenaline on dirt tracks and melodies on his guitar strings. I grew up thinking he was a superhero. When I was little, I would watch him play music with his friends and feel like the whole world was alive. The sound of his laughter filled every room, and his energy was contagious. He was wild, kind, complicated, and full of heart. But that big heart of his turned out to be fragile. When the doctors said he had heart disease, it felt like a cruel joke. How could someone who moved through life with that much fire suddenly be told to slow down? He tried to act like it didn’t bother him, but I could see how hard it was for him to go from racing and performing to sitting in a hospital bed hooked up to wires. It was like watching a bird with its wings tied down. He fought hard, but heart disease doesn’t always play fair. There were good days where he’d tell stories and joke around, and then bad days where he could barely get out of bed. Through it all, I learned what real strength looks like. Not the kind that comes from speed or music or muscles, but the quiet kind that keeps showing up even when everything hurts. When he died, the world felt dimmer. The house was too quiet without his guitar playing in the background. For a long time, I couldn’t even listen to music because it made the ache sharper. But eventually, something shifted. I started hearing his songs differently. They became reminders that he was still with me, in every note and in every memory of him living so fully, even when his body was breaking down. Losing him made me think about my own health in a new way. I used to ignore my body. I would tell myself I was fine even when I wasn’t. Doctors scared me. Checkups felt like bad news waiting to happen. But after watching my dad’s struggle, I knew I couldn’t live in denial anymore. Now I make it a priority to get checked, to eat right, to move my body, to rest. I still get scared sometimes, but I use that fear as power. Every healthy choice I make feels like a way of honoring him. His death changed the way I live. I want to be brave like he was, but also wise in the ways he couldn’t be. I want to live long enough to see my dreams through and still carry his spirit with me. My dad taught me to love life loud, to create beauty out of chaos, and to never let fear stop me from moving forward. His heart may have failed, but his legacy still beats strong inside mine.

My name is Ashley Harrell, and for most of my life, I felt like something was wrong with me. As a little girl, I could never sit still. My mind was always racing, and I was constantly being told that I talked too much or could not focus. When I was finally diagnosed with ADD, it was during a time when only boys were really seen as having it. Teachers and even doctors did not know what to do with girls like me. I felt like I was just “too much.” That label followed me, and instead of understanding myself, I learned to feel broken. Growing up, I tried hard to fit in and be “normal,” but the truth was I felt lost inside my own head. I was creative, emotional, and full of energy, but I had no idea how to manage it. By my teenage years, that inner chaos turned into depression and anxiety. I started using drugs as a way to quiet the noise in my mind and numb the constant feeling that I was not enough. What began as a way to escape quickly became the trap that nearly destroyed me. Addiction took over every part of my life. I lost control of my choices, my emotions, and my identity. I hurt people I loved and felt more shame than I thought a person could carry. I tried to get clean many times, but the pain I carried from childhood always pulled me back under. It took years before I finally realized that my addiction was not my identity. It was a symptom of deep wounds and untreated mental health struggles that had followed me since I was a child. The turning point came when I was finally ready to face myself. I started counseling and opened up about my mental health for the first time without fear or shame. I began to understand how my mind worked, and instead of fighting against it, I learned how to manage it. Through therapy, recovery programs, and faith, I found new ways to cope and new reasons to live. The moment I began to accept who I was, everything started to change. I discovered that my sensitivity, energy, and compassion were not weaknesses—they were gifts. Recovery has been a long road, but it has become one of the greatest blessings of my life. It taught me patience, humility, and empathy. I now help other women find freedom through ministry and support groups, especially those struggling with addiction, fear, or feeling unworthy. Every time I see someone begin to believe in themselves again, it reminds me of why I survived. Education has also been a powerful part of my healing. For years, I believed I was not smart enough to go back to school because of my past. Addiction and shame told me I could not do it. But I decided to prove those lies wrong. I am now pursuing a degree in ministry because I want to reach people who feel forgotten and help them find healing—spiritually, mentally, and emotionally. One of my biggest dreams is to serve in missions, especially in Japan, where so many people silently battle depression and hopelessness. I want to be a voice of hope for those who feel unseen, just like I once did. To stay grounded in recovery, I have learned that consistency and connection are everything. I make my mental health a daily priority. I stay accountable through community and continue counseling when needed. I keep structure in my life, and I lean on my faith for strength and guidance. I’ve learned that recovery is not about perfection—it’s about progress and staying honest one day at a time. Today, I am proud of the woman I have become. I am a mother of two beautiful daughters, a wife, a business owner, a student, and a survivor. My past no longer defines me. Instead, it fuels my purpose to help others who are still trapped in the pain I once lived in. My journey through ADD, mental health struggles, and addiction has shown me that the human spirit can overcome anything with love, faith, and determination. This scholarship would not only help me continue my education but would also honor the story of girls like me who were misunderstood, mislabeled, and hurt, yet found a way to rise. I want to use my life to remind others that healing is possible, freedom is real, and no matter how broken things seem, there is always hope for a new beginning. Thank You so much for the opportunity!!!

The person I lost was my grandmother, but she was really everything to me. She was my mother and my father rolled into one. She raised me when no one else could. My real dad has struggled with addiction for as long as I can remember. Drugs took him from me piece by piece until all that was left was a shadow of the man I used to know. I loved him so much, and watching him destroy himself was like standing in the middle of a fire I couldn’t put out. But my grandmother—she was the one who stood between me and the flames. She was small but mighty. She could turn one can of soup into dinner for five people and still make it feel like a feast. She hummed gospel songs while she worked, prayed over everything, and somehow always made me feel safe even when nothing around us was. She was the kind of woman who prayed like she was talking straight to heaven, and I believe she did. Her hands were always busy and her heart was always open. When she died, something inside me cracked wide open. I remember the day I walked into her house after the funeral. It was too quiet. Her chair was empty, and I could still smell her perfume in the air. I went into her room and found her Bible lying open on the bed. The pages were worn and wrinkled, full of little notes and scribbles. My name was written there more than once. I sat down on her bed and cried until there were no tears left. That moment changed me. It was like losing the only person who ever made me feel completely safe in this world. After she was gone, I had to figure out who I was without her. I had to grow up fast. I had to forgive my dad and face all the anger I had buried for years. I had to learn how to let God become my comfort instead of just hearing about Him through her. Some days I still reach for the phone to call her. I still want her advice, her laugh, her prayers. But I can feel her strength in me now. I know she is part of why I am still standing. My dad’s addiction and my grandmother’s love are two sides of the same story that made me who I am. One taught me about heartbreak and loss, the other taught me about mercy and faith. Because of them, I have this unshakable fire inside me to help people who are broken, forgotten, or lost. I want to show others that no matter how far gone someone seems, there is always hope. I know what it feels like to think it’s over. And I know what it feels like to rise up anyway. My grandmother’s faith is alive in me now. It’s in the way I keep going when I want to give up. It’s in the way I pray for my father and believe he can still be free. It’s in the way I’m chasing education, ministry, and healing for myself and for others. Losing her broke my heart, but it also gave me purpose. Her love is the reason I can still believe in redemption. And I carry that with me every single day. Thank you so much for this opportunity!

When I was a child, they told my parents I had Attention Deficit Disorder. Back then, it was considered something that mostly happened to boys, and girls like me were usually labeled as talkative, emotional, or lazy. I remember sitting in classrooms trying to focus, but my mind was always racing. It was not that I did not want to learn, it was that my brain seemed to run on its own rhythm. Teachers often told me I was smart but scattered, capable but inconsistent. I carried those words with me for years, believing something was wrong with me. I was put on Ritalin and other medications starting at a young age. They quieted my mind but also made me feel like a stranger in my own skin. I grew up thinking that my ability to function depended on a pill. As I got older, I started self-medicating in unhealthy ways, just trying to feel normal. I was chasing peace but did not understand that peace could not come from a prescription or a bottle. It had to come from healing. Eventually, I hit a wall. I realized that I could not keep living in survival mode. I needed to rebuild my life from the inside out. I found mentors and counselors who helped me understand how my mind worked instead of trying to silence it. I learned about routines, nutrition, sleep, and the power of setting small goals. I started to see that my ADD was not a curse, it was just a different kind of wiring. Once I stopped fighting against myself, I started thriving. Faith also played a big role in my healing. I believe God made my mind exactly how it is on purpose. What once felt like chaos now feels like creativity. My ability to think in many directions at once helps me connect with people in ways others might miss. I used to see my mental health struggles as something to hide, but now I see them as part of my testimony. They remind me that I can overcome, that God can take something messy and turn it into a message. This journey has completely changed how I see education. For years, I thought I was not capable of going back to school. But now I know that with healthy habits, good mentors, and support, I can do this. I am learning how to study in ways that work for my brain instead of against it. I am learning how to rest, how to focus, and how to be patient with myself. My experience with ADD has influenced my beliefs, relationships, and career goals more than anything else in my life. It taught me compassion for people who feel misunderstood. It gave me the desire to become a teacher and mentor, especially for those who struggle with mental health or learning differences. I want to show others that being different does not mean being broken. It means being built for something unique. Thank you so much for this opportunity!!

I have faced many kinds of loss in my life, but the ones that shaped me most were losing my father to drugs, losing my grandmother who was like my mother, and losing two babies through miscarriage. Each of these losses tore something out of me, but they also taught me how to hold on to God in ways I never knew I could. My father was taken by addiction long before he died. I watched him disappear piece by piece, choosing drugs over the family who loved him. As a child I could not understand why he did not stay. I spent years wondering what was wrong with me that I could not make him want to live differently. It took me a long time to understand that his addiction was not about my worth. It was about his pain. That realization grew into compassion for others who are bound by things they cannot break on their own. When my grandmother died, it felt like the world stopped spinning. She was my mother in every way that mattered. She was the one who taught me about prayer, love, and hard work. Losing her was like losing the air I breathed. For a long time, I felt like I could not move forward without her. But even in that heartbreak, I started to hear her voice in my mind saying the things she used to say to me. She would tell me to keep going, to trust God, and to stay kind no matter what happens. Her strength became my strength. Then came the pain of my miscarriages. There is a kind of silence that follows that loss, one that no one can prepare you for. I remember sitting alone feeling like I had failed before I even had the chance to begin. Those tiny lives changed me though. They taught me how sacred life is, even the smallest and shortest of it. I started to see people differently after that, realizing how fragile we all are and how every soul matters. Each of these losses has shaped the way I see the world and the way I live my life. They have made me more gentle, more patient, and more passionate about helping others heal. They have pushed me toward ministry and education because I want to bring hope to people who are walking through their own pain. I want to be someone who can look at a hurting person and say, I know that feeling, but I also know there is life after it. My dream now is to go to Japan and teach the gospel there. I want to share the same love that rescued me and show others that even in loss, there can be purpose. My father’s story gave me compassion, my grandmother’s story gave me courage, and my babies’ stories gave me heart. Together they made me who I am today, a woman who still believes that God can turn even the deepest pain into something beautiful. Thank you so much for this opportunity!

I am pursuing a career in education because for most of my life I honestly believed learning was not something that belonged to me. I grew up in an environment where education was not valued or encouraged, and somewhere along the way I decided that meant I just was not smart enough. I accepted that lie and carried it quietly for many years. I would look at people with degrees and think they were a different kind of person, the kind who had doors open for them that would always stay shut for me. Then in my thirties, God began to gently undo those beliefs. I started realizing that I actually loved learning. I just had never been allowed to see it that way. Every class I took opened something new inside of me. I began to feel like a child again, full of wonder and curiosity, only this time I had the maturity to appreciate it. Now at 39 I am finally able to learn freely, and it feels like redemption in motion. Education to me is not just about information or grades. It is about transformation. It is the process of discovering who you really are and what you are capable of becoming. That is what I want to give to others. I want to be the kind of teacher who helps people see the beauty in learning even if they have been told their whole lives that they are not good enough. I want to create a space where people feel seen, safe, and inspired to grow. For me, that calling goes even deeper. My heart burns to go to Japan and teach the gospel there. I have felt God’s pull toward that nation for years, and I know part of my purpose is to share His truth in both word and action. I am studying not only ministry but also Japanese so that one day I can communicate the love of Jesus in their language. I want to be able to sit across from someone and tell them in words they understand that they are loved and not forgotten. There is something powerful about combining education with faith. Jesus Himself was a teacher. He met people where they were, whether on a mountaintop, a fishing boat, or sitting by a well. He taught through stories, compassion, and truth that reached beyond the mind and into the heart. That is the kind of educator I want to become. Not someone who simply passes along facts, but someone who teaches in a way that awakens life and purpose. I often think about my younger self, the little girl who thought she would never have a chance. She inspires me every single day. I want to keep learning for her, to keep growing for her, and to teach others so they can find the same freedom I have found. If God can take someone like me, who once believed learning was impossible, and turn her into a teacher, then I know He can do anything. Thank you so much for this opportunity!