There's a photo of me from one of my birthdays where I'm sitting in a hospital bed with a party hat on, smiling weakly at a cupcake with a candle. I look small and tired, but also proud. That image sums up a lot of my childhood: trying to hold onto moments of joy while navigating a complicated medical world I never asked for. I was born with a tumor in my brain, which caused me to live with hypopituitarism, as the tumor wasn't the only thing that was removed from my brain; my pituitary gland was removed as well. This affects many parts of the body, including the immune system. Throughout my early years, I was in and out of the hospital, had routine visits, specialists, emergency illnesses, and countless appointments. Some years, it felt like I spent more time in exam rooms than in the classroom. The challenges didn't stop in childhood. In middle school, I still had frequent medical absences, and by my freshman year of high school, it hit especially hard. My weakened immune system meant that even a common cold could turn into something more serious. I missed many school days due to illness or doctor's visits. At times, it felt impossible to keep up. I'd come back to class overwhelmed by everything I had to catch up on: notes, quizzes, homework, and even though my teachers were supportive, it was hard not to feel left behind. But I never gave up. I knew I had to adapt. I created schedules to manage my makeup work. I emailed my teachers from home when I was too sick to come in. I leaned on online resources, took detailed notes, and carved out extra time on weekends to review what I missed. I had to learn discipline quickly, but I also had to be kind to myself and recognize that pushing through meant doing the best I could, not being perfect. What helped me overcome wasn't just academics, though. It was my mindset. I refused to let my condition define me or my future. Every time I showed up to school after a long absence, I told myself that just walking in the door was a win. I focused on my goals, like becoming a math teacher one day, and reminded myself that setbacks are just part of my story, not the end of it. Now, as I near the end of high school, I'm proud of how far I've come. I've gotten more involved in my community and taken on leadership roles, including in National Honor Society, and I've poured energy into giving back through volunteering. And most importantly, my health has been the best it's ever been during my junior year. I still have to manage my condition, but I finally feel like I'm moving forward more than I'm falling behind. It hasn't always been easy to show up, but I've always found a way to. And with the strength I've built through these challenges, I know I'll continue to adapt and overcome whatever comes next in college and beyond. Thank you for honoring students like Braiden and me, and for encouraging us to keep pushing forward.

The room was filled with laughter, tiny voices, and the unmistakable smell of syrup. I was crouched next to a group of preschoolers, helping them glue googly eyes onto paper snowmen during our Pancakes and Pajamas holiday event at the Franklin Public Library. One little girl tugged on my sleeve and whispered, "I want to do another one. Can you help me?" In that moment, I wasn't thinking about volunteer hours or community service; I was just fully there, helping a child feel seen, included, and proud of something she had made. That's what volunteering has become for me: presence, joy, and connection. I'm Ava Spring, a high school senior from Massachusetts who plans to become a math teacher. But long before I discovered my dream career, I discovered the magic of service through the Franklin Public Library. Whether I'm helping at story time, leading crafts at our Halloween Party, reading one-on-one with a shy toddler, or preparing activities for Saturday programs, I've learned that volunteering isn't about the task; it's about the people. Over time, I've taken that mindset to other parts of my community. I've volunteered with the Franklin Food Pantry, where I've helped fight food insecurity as a holiday Food Elf and through the Empty Bowls fundraiser at my school. I also work with the Franklin Police Department and Downtown Partnership, supporting local events and initiatives. As a member of the Teen Advisory Board at the Franklin Public Library, I've even started a collage club, offering a creative and safe space for fellow teens and even younger children to relax and connect with their peers. Through all of this, I've learned the power of showing up. Volunteering has taught me how to lead quietly, support consistently, and step in wherever I'm needed. It's given me empathy, confidence, and a strong sense of purpose. These experiences have also shaped my career goals. I want to continue helping young people as a teacher, someone who not only teaches equations but also builds relationships, fosters curiosity, and makes every student feel valued. Financially, I know college will be a challenge. Scholarships like this one make it possible for me to pursue my dreams without adding an overwhelming burden to my family. But beyond the financial support, this scholarship means something deeper, it reflects values I truly believe in: service, kindness, and making the world better one small moment at a time. As I move forward, I plan to continue working with children and families in and out of the classroom. I want to keep volunteering at the library during breaks, create math enrichment opportunities for kids, and someday lead student service clubs that empower teens to give back just like I have. Volunteering has given me so much: a sense of belonging, a vision for my future, and the belief that I can make a difference. I hope to carry that spirit forward in everything I do, just like Carla M. Champagne did. Thank you for honoring her legacy and for considering me.

“I’m sorry that I’m not enough / Maybe I’m just not as tough as I thought” —Olivia Rodrigo, teenage dream That lyric from “Teenage Dream” cuts deep. When I first heard it, I stopped what I was doing. It was like Olivia had pulled the words straight from the Notes app spiral in my head. In just two lines, she captured a feeling I’ve carried for years—the fear of not being enough, of being “too soft” for everything life expects of me. But also? The quiet realization that maybe I’ve been pretending to be tougher than I really am, just to keep up. My version of toughness was smiling through hospital visits. I was diagnosed with hypopituitarism as a kid, and the first decade of my life was filled with IVs, MRI scans, medication schedules, and a kind of emotional isolation I didn’t know how to name back then. I even had a birthday in the hospital. It was hard to explain to other kids, and even harder to explain to myself. I used to cry just looking at old photos, wondering if those versions of me deserved the same kind of care and love as the “normal” kids. Listening to GUTS—and especially “teenage dream”—gave me something I didn’t know I needed: permission to not have it all together. Olivia Rodrigo doesn’t just write about heartbreak from boys. She writes about heartbreak from yourself—the kind that comes when you feel like you’re falling short of who you’re supposed to be. That lyric became a mirror, showing me that I wasn’t alone in feeling like I had to perform strength in a world that rarely stops to ask what’s really going on inside. But here’s the thing: “not enough” doesn’t mean broken. And “not as tough” doesn’t mean weak. I’ve realized, with time and Olivia’s help, that softness can be its own kind of strength. I’ve taken that with me into the work I do now, especially volunteering with young children at my local library. I design craft activities, read picture books, and try to create the kind of safe, joyful space I used to crave when I felt out of place. I also volunteer with the Franklin Food Pantry, helping fight food insecurity through projects like the Empty Bowls fundraiser and holiday “Food Elf” collections. Even when life feels overwhelming, I know I’m making an impact. And I no longer see my sensitivity as a weakness—just a reflection of how deeply I care. The GUTS album didn’t fix everything. But it did help me reframe how I see myself. Olivia’s vulnerability opened a door for my own. Her music reminded me that being emotional, scared, or unsure doesn’t make me less—it makes me human. That lyric from “teenage dream” reminded me that I don’t have to be perfectly strong to be worthy. Sometimes just showing up, messy feelings and all, is more than enough. In the chaos of adolescence, GUTS gave me a soundtrack that said, “Me too.” And when I sing along—when I belt those words out like a personal battle cry—I feel a little braver. A little stronger. A little more okay with being a work in progress.

When I first saw Wicked, I didn't expect it to feel so personal. I went in thinking I'd enjoy the music and the spectacle, but what I found was a story that echoed my own life in ways I hadn't fully put into words. Elphaba's journey--her strength, her struggle with identity, and her ultimate self-acceptance--felt deeply familiar to me. I was born with hypopituitarism, a rare condition that caused me to be in and out of hospitals as a child. I even spent one of my birthdays in a hospital room, surrounded by wires and IV poles instead of friends and balloons. Although my childhood was filled with playgrounds and sleepovers, those things were accompanied by checkups, lab results, and managing a condition I didn't fully understand. There are photos from those years that I still struggle to look at without tears. For a long time, I felt isolated and different, as if something about me was fundamentally "wrong." That's why Elphaba's story resonated so powerfully. She's misunderstood, judged for something she can't change, and yet she refuses to let that define her. She doesn't give in, she rises. Defying Gravity wasn't just a musical number; it became a personal anthem. Every time I hear it, I am reminded that I can take ownership of who I am, that I don't have to be what others expect, and that I don't have to hide the parts of me that used to make me feel broken. As I've grown older, I've come to accept and even embrace my medical journey and condition. It's shaped who I am: empathetic, strong, and determined to help others. I've channeled that into community work, especially through my volunteering at the Franklin Public Library. There, I work with young children during story time and craft events, always with the hope of making them feel seen and loved for who they are. I know how much it means to feel like you belong, and I try to create that space for every child who walks through the door. I also volunteer at the Franklin Food Pantry, serving as a "Food Elf" during the holidays and participating in the Empty Bowls fundraiser. I've learned that strength doesn't always look like standing on a stage singing your heart out. Sometimes, it's quietly serving others, offering a helping hand, or listening without judgment. These acts of service, like the friendship between Elphaba and Glinda, remind me that real magic is found in kindness and connection. Wicked taught me that who you are is enough, that differences are not flaws, but sources of power. Elphaba's transformation isn't about changing to fit in, but learning to love herself despite how others see her. That message gave me the courage to accept my past, embrace my present, and look forward to a future where I can empower others, especially as a future math teacher who hopes to create a classroom where all students feel safe, supported, and celebrated. In the end, I love Wicked not just for its music or magic, but because it gave me a language for my own story. It reminded me that even when the world tries to label you as "wicked," you still have the power to fly.

My name is Ava Spring, and I'm a high school student deeply committed to using my time and voice to make my community a better, safer, and more supportive place, especially for kids and teens who may not feel seen or protected. Whether I'm helping young children discover the joy of reading at the pubic library, or working to reduce food insecurity through volunteer programs, I strive to create spaces where everyone feels respected, valued, and safe. I've been volunteering at the Franklin Public Library since middle school. I assist with youth events, story times, and STEM activities, helping children feel excited about learning. Many of the kids I work with come from different backgrounds, and I've learned how important it is to be patient, inclusive, and kind. I always try to model empathy and make every child feel welcome, especially those who are shy, anxious, or new to the community. I believe that building confidence in kids early is one of the most powerful ways to prevent bullying later. In addition to my library work, I serve as a "Food Elf" for the Franklin Food Pantry. Each winter, I collect donations in my neighborhood and help distribute them to families in need. I've also participated in the Empty Bowls club and fundraiser that is held every year at my school. The final fundraiser at the end of the year raises money and awareness to fight hunger in our town. These experiences have shown me how much a small act of service can impact someone's life, and how important it is to stand up got people, even when it is quiet or behind the scenes. Financially, my family does not have the means to fully support the rising costs of college, and I know I will need scholarships and aid to pursue my dream of becoming a math teacher. I hope to pay forward the encouragement I've received by making my future classroom a place of safety and curiosity, where students can thrive not only academically, but also emotionally. When it comes to bullying, both in person and online, I believe prevention starts with awareness and action. I speak up when I see someone being mistreated, whether it's subtle exclusion in group projects or hurtful comments in a group chat. I've made it a personal rule to check in on friends and classmates who seem withdrawn or isolated, and I try to lead by example, both offline and on social media. I've also shared resources from trusted mental health organizations through my school clubs and personal channels, especially during times when online trends and cyber challenges pose risks to students' well-being. In this increasingly digital world, teens need to be equipped not only with rules about internet safety but with real conversations about empathy, respect, and the long-term consequences of our words and actions. I hope to continue these conversations, both now and in my future as an educator, so that no child ever feels powerless, online or in person. By staying involved in my community, standing up for others, and working toward a future in education, I aim to protect and uplift today's youth in the same way I've been supported by those who believed in me.

I open my phone to check the time, and suddenly it's been 47 minutes, and I'm crying over a video of a duck and a cat becoming best friends. My camera roll? A chaotic mix of BeReal selfies, aesthetic coffee I didn't even drink, screenshots of texts I haven't replied to, and cursed memes that only my friends and I understand. I have an emotional support water bottle, a Notes app full of unhinged shower thoughts, and a playlist for every mood, including "main character in a coming-of-age film driving away from my problems at sunset." I communicate in TikToks, emojis, and voice memos that start with "okay, so don't freak out..." I'm somehow in six group chats and haven't turned on notifications for any of them. I romanticize my life with coquette-core and existential dread in the same breath. I overthink everything, yet can multitask with 12 tabs open, music playing, FaceTime on, and still manage to submit an assignment two minutes before the deadline. I believe that healing starts with a Pinterest board, that vibes matter more than credentials, and that reposting an infographic is activism and aesthetic. My fashion sense is thrifted chaos, my sleep schedule is a suggestion, and my digital footprint is 60% memes, 30% oddly specific Amazon finds, and 10% Google searches like "how to fake confidence in under 3 seconds." So yeah, I'm not just Gen Z, I'm the Gen Z starter pack with a human heartbeat. I don't just live in the chaos, I am the chaos. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Most students groan when they hear the word "homework." But in seventh grade, I found myself excited to go home, not because I was done with school, but because my math teacher, Mrs. Hunzeker, had given me puzzles to solve, not pages from a textbook, but challenges that made me think. I would sit down, pencil in hand, feeling like a detective chasing the truth through logic. And when I solved one, I felt a kind of joy that stuck with me. Mrs. Hunzeker taught Algebra, but she didn't just teach equations or rules; she taught curiosity. She often replaced traditional homework with brain teasers and problem-solving activities, and instead of limiting the learning to the classroom, she fueled my hunger to explore math outside of it. I was hooked. I started asking her for more puzzles, and she happily gave me extras to work on, even over the summer. One day after class, she pulled me aside and said something that changed everything: "I think you're ready to skip geometry." I was shocked. The idea had never occurred to me. But she saw potential in me that I hadn't yet seen in myself, nor had past teachers truly acknowledged. She took the time to explain the process to both my mom and me, walked us through how to test out of geometry, and even gave me resources to prepare. I followed her advice, passed the test, and advanced to Algebra II early. That moment wasn't just about moving ahead in math, it was when I realized what it means for a teacher to truly believe in a student. Her influence didn't end there. I had always liked math, but Mrs. Hunzeker made me love it. More importantly, she showed me how a great teacher can shape someone's life, not just academically, but personally. Her encouragement gave me confidence. Her creative teaching sparked my imagination. Her belief in me gave me courage. And her passion for math planted the seed of my own. Today, I want to be a math teacher, just like Mrs. Hunzeker. I want to give students more than equations and worksheets. I want to challenge them with puzzles. I want to recognize their strengths, even the ones they can't see yet. And I want to open doors for them the way she opened one for me. Mrs. Hunzeker didn't just teach me algebra. She taught me to love learning, to take initiative, and to believe in my own potential. Because of her, I know the kind of teacher I want to be: one who inspires, encourages, and makes learning feel like a puzzle worth solving.