What a fickle thing it is, when you’re six years old. Knees buried in dirt, haloed by patchy grass, I sat in the backyard the night my mom told me he died. My cousin by my side, the two swings swaying gently in our view. I felt nothing. Just the moon above us and pre-rehearsed hymns pouring from our lips. What a fickle thing it is, too young to understand. For years, I thought overdose meant cigarettes. I yelled at my mom when I found a pack in her purse. Later, I learned about oxycontin. Sweet memories of him — our creekside walks, cereal mornings — were punctured by the realities of his addiction. At seventeen, I discovered he didn’t die clean in a hospital, but alone, in a drug-ridden house. At twenty, that image then included a photo of me clutched in his hands. I couldn’t shake the notion that he had stolen half of me when he left. I now have existed in the world for longer than I knew him, and can only try to reconcile what I knew and experienced with the ugly underbelly of addiction. The kicker of it all – I could never grow to hate him for any of it. What a fickle thing it is. It redefines normalcy. After he died, school became my tether. Overachieving offered a fragile sense of control. Straight A’s, an honors diploma — anything to prove I could hold steady against the unpredictable. Education was my escape, a foundation. And my mom was the architect. What a fickle thing it is. I watched my mom cry at her dad’s funeral like a six year old. Are we ever old enough to understand it? Funny to be a veteran, my mom the pupil. After his death, she became a steady, unwavering force, quietly bearing the weight of two parents at once. In New Orleans, where decent public education was scarce, my mom, supported partly by Social Security benefits, worked relentless hours and sacrificed her retirement to send me to private school. She also introduced me to dance classes, giving my grief a funnel, a form. Through her sacrifices, she planted in me the seeds of artistry, resilience, and hope. Today, as a writer and director of films, my work revolves around the very themes she helped me survive: grief, addiction, resilience. My recent short films explore these realities with brutal honesty. Through filmmaking and movement, I’ve learned to transform grief into empathy, loss into connection. As I prepare for my senior thesis film — a story about confronting loss and memory in my hometown of New Orleans — I find myself honoring my mother’s support in every frame. She gave me the education, the freedom, and the resilience to tell these stories. Now, I aim to build upon her sacrifices by turning personal pain into communal healing. The scholarship would not only ease the financial strain that chronic illness and dwindling savings have placed on my mother in recent years, but it would allow me to complete secondary education and focus my time and energy on a project that isn’t just a requirement, but a tribute. To him. To her. To home. To resilience. Her support was instrumental because it caught me at the most fragile point of my life, when I could have slipped away. Instead, she anchored me. She gave me the chance not just to survive, but to imagine, to dream. If you really think about it, it’s not all that fickle. Grief, after all, is just love trying to find a place to go.

What a fickle thing it is, when you’re six years old. My knees buried in dirt, haloed by patchy grass, in the backyard of my childhood home the night my mom told me he died. My cousin by my side, our hands clasped towards the moon, and two swings gently swaying within our view. I felt nothing. The moon above, pre-rehearsed hymns poured from our lips. What a fickle thing it is, too young to understand. For years, I thought overdose meant cigarettes. When I found a pack in my mom’s purse the next year, I yelled at her. Later, I learned about oxycontin. At seventeen, I believed he died in a hospital bed. At eighteen, I found out he died alone, in a drug-ridden house. The imagery was nauseating, and re-punctured a barely patched wound, out of which spilled the pestering question: "What was he thinking in his last moments?" My most recent discovery: he was found with a photo of me clutched in his hands. Sweet memories of him slowly were pierced with the reality of his suffering. It started making more sense why he could hardly bring his spoon to his mouth when eating cereal, in the seldom mornings I spent with him. I realized why my grandma lectured him in the shadows of her hallways, for our nightly excursions in the woods, where he’d carry me along a creek and show me deer markings on trees. This has undoubtedly been the hardest part – the complex aftermath of addiction. Picturesque memory, ruptured by betrayals — pills left on the floor as a baby, money squandered, promises broken. An inevitable influx of information led to a constant redefining of who he was, ultimately leading to a constant questioning of who I was. I couldn’t shake the notion that he had stolen half of me when he left. I now have existed in the world for longer than I knew him, and can only try reconciling what I knew with the ugly underbelly of addiction. The kicker of it all – I could never grow to hate him for it. What a fickle thing it is. I watched my mom cry at her dad’s funeral. Are we ever old enough? Funny to be a veteran, my mom the pupil. Decent public education was hard to come by, Louisiana ranking 48th in education. My mom invested in my future by paying for private school. I started making straight A’s young. Overachieving helped me latch onto a sense of identity, and a semblance of control. It became an opportunity to prove I could hold steady against the unpredictable. My mom worked long hours, supported partly by social security benefits, and sacrificed her retirement to make that possible, and never let it on. I graduated with an Honors Diploma, Top Ten of my class, and a 4.41 GPA. Somewhere along the way, school transformed from coping to a genuine thirst for learning. After he died, my mom also put me in dance classes — a gift I can't thank her enough for. Movement gave my grief a funnel. It taught me that the body, when words fail, can still speak. In this intuitive act, she planted the seeds of what I now pursue. She introduced me to artistry, expression, and storytelling. In pushing me to succeed in school, she gave me the tools to pursue it. As a writer and director of films, my work circles themes of grief, addiction, resilience, and hope. I spent a lot of time trying to crack that fickle thing’s code in my stories, obsessively creating different characters, circumstances, and worlds. One day, I decided to get honest in my writing, and I had a breakthrough: you can't solve it. This is, paradoxically, freeing. Through my three recent films, I’ve learned that transformation is possible: grief, repackaged into empathy, into art, into connection. Today, filmmaking and movement remain twin threads that stitch me back to myself. They're the twin languages through which I process what feels unprocessable. As I approach my senior year, I approach shooting my thesis – A short film about a lawyer, Lucy, forced to go back to New Orleans for a case. When she arrives, she must confront a trauma that her memory blocked out: her brother’s overdose. This film could be a catalyst for my dream: to tell stories that authentically portray themes that I keep coming back to. Crowdfunding is how I will be able to produce it, in addition to saving anything left from my paychecks after groceries and rent. However, it’s difficult to see a future for it, or for my education at large, with my college fund dwindling, and loans piling. Through scholarships, loans, and determination, my mom and I have scraped by. Unfortunately, my mom is no longer in a position to continue providing due to chronic back pain and an autoimmune disease. This scholarship would allow me to study and create without adding strain to my mom, whose sacrifices have already carried me so far. It would give me the breathing room to create a project that isn't an assignment, but a tribute. To him. To home. To resilience. Most of all, to hope. Beyond my senior thesis, I aspire to make films that spotlight the complex realities of grief and addiction — stories that facilitate empathy, dialogue, and healing for audiences facing similar struggles. In the spirit of this scholarship's mission, encouraging artists to give back, I am committed to transforming personal loss into storytelling that fosters empathy. I believe I should be awarded this scholarship because my life, my work, and my dreams are fueled by the kind of persistence and depth that only experience can teach. I strive for excellence not just to succeed, but to give shape to the intangible — to turn pain into community. If you think about it, it’s not all quite that fickle. Grief, after all, is just love looking for a place to go. Reel: https://vimeo.com/1072732381