Essay Title: Leading Without a Spotlight I grew up around quiet strength. My family includes military and law enforcement members, and I was raised to lead by example — not for praise, but because it’s the right thing to do. That shaped who I am today: a 19-year-old Black, queer, trans college student, working toward a degree in kinesiology with plans to become a certified coach and earn a master’s in sports management. My goal is to help athletes — especially young, Black, and queer ones — grow into their full selves, on and off the track. Every day, I live the values that strong leadership is built on: consistency, purpose, and integrity. I’m not the loudest person in the room, but I’m steady. I show up. I listen more than I speak, and when I do speak, it’s intentional. That’s how I lead — through example, empathy, and action. Resilience is in every part of my journey. I didn’t start transitioning until after high school so I could continue competing in track. That meant putting part of myself on hold to hold onto the thing that gave me peace. It wasn’t easy, but it taught me how to stay focused under pressure and how to move forward even when no one fully understands what you’re carrying. Being unselfish isn’t about grand gestures — it’s about showing up for others in real ways. I mentor younger athletes, advocate for mental health in sports, and share my story when it helps someone feel seen. I want to be the coach I didn’t always have — someone who pushes you without breaking you down, and who values your whole self, not just your stats. I’ve always had to be focused and disciplined. As a first-gen college student, I’m not just working toward my goals — I’m setting a foundation for the next generation in my family. I take my education seriously and treat every opportunity like it matters, because it does. My work ethic comes from my mom, who taught me that showing up, even when it’s hard, is its own kind of success. To me, leadership isn’t about control — it’s about care. It’s being someone people trust in difficult moments. It’s holding space for others, speaking truth with kindness, and choosing purpose over pride. That’s the kind of leader I am now and the kind I’m becoming — steady, clear, and committed to building something better for others. This degree isn’t just for me — it’s for every kid who feels like they have to hide who they are to succeed. I want to make sure they don’t have to. Honoring the legacy of people like Antonie “Tony” Bernard Thomas means carrying forward the values he lived by: strength, selflessness, and showing up for others, day after day. That’s what I plan to do.

Essay Title: Becoming Myself in a World That Didn't Make Room When people talk about being “yourself,” they rarely mention the cost. For me, becoming myself meant hiding parts of who I was just to survive — sometimes from the world, sometimes from the people I loved, and sometimes even from myself. I’m Azrael — Az or Azzie to most — and I’m a 19-year-old Black, queer, trans person still learning how to live in a body and a world that haven’t always felt safe. I didn’t start transitioning until after high school. It wasn’t because I wasn’t ready, or because I didn’t know who I was — I knew. But I was an athlete. I ran track, and hurdles gave me purpose when everything else felt like noise. To keep competing, I held off on transitioning. I made myself smaller and quieter, because that’s what survival looked like. And that’s the thing no one tells you: sometimes staying alive means putting parts of yourself on hold, even when it hurts. Mental health was something I didn’t have the language for growing up. In my family and community, emotions were meant to be pushed down, not talked through. I learned to smile when I felt like breaking. I learned to show up when I wanted to disappear. And I got good at it. So good, in fact, that people never noticed I was barely holding on. I was seen as “calm under pressure,” when in reality, I was scared that if I cracked, I wouldn’t know how to put myself back together. But I made it through. Not untouched, but aware. And that awareness has shaped everything — how I treat people, how I move through the world, how I listen and lead. I care deeply about mental health because I’ve lived what happens when it’s ignored. I care about LGBTQIA+ youth because I am one. And I care about suicide prevention not just as a concept, but as a reality I’ve brushed up against more than once — in my thoughts, in my community, in the names I whisper to myself on hard days. Now, I’m studying kinesiology because I want to coach — not just athletes, but people. I want to be the kind of adult I didn’t always have: someone who sees you clearly, pushes you to grow, and reminds you that your humanity isn’t up for debate. I plan to build a coaching philosophy that puts mental health on the same level as physical training, especially for young queer and Black athletes. We need more spaces where people are allowed to show up as whole, not just perform. My journey hasn’t been linear or easy. But it’s mine. And I’ve fought for every inch of peace I’ve found. I don’t share my story for pity — I share it because someone else might need to hear it. Someone who’s hiding, holding their breath, or afraid they won’t be accepted. If this scholarship helps me keep going and keep showing up for others like me, then it’s already doing what Elijah’s memory deserves: helping another hand hold on.

Essay Title: Creating Space for Every Body and Every Mind When people hear “STEM,” they often think of labs, equations, and data sets. I think of people. I think of every young Black kid who’s been told to “toughen up,” every trans teen who's afraid to join a team, and every athlete struggling in silence because mental health still isn’t taken seriously enough — especially in sports. That’s the issue that drives me: the gap between physical performance and emotional well-being, and how systems still fail to make space for those who don’t fit the mold. I didn’t start transitioning until after high school. Not because I wasn’t ready, but because I knew I couldn’t compete in track if I did. That decision wasn’t just about sports — it was about holding off on living fully in my truth to keep doing the one thing that grounded me. I’ve had to navigate gender identity, mental health, and being Black in spaces that weren’t built with people like me in mind. And through all of that, science — specifically kinesiology and the study of the human body — became a way to reclaim power. Understanding how the body moves, recovers, and adapts made me realize how much of ourselves we’re expected to disconnect from just to “push through.” That disconnection hurts people, especially young athletes. Right now, I’m pursuing a degree in kinesiology, with the goal of becoming a track coach and eventually working in sports management. But I’m not just chasing a title — I’m building a future where coaching includes care, where athletes are trained not just physically but supported mentally, and where queer and BIPOC youth see themselves represented in leadership. I want to change the way we think about performance and wellness, especially in underserved communities that have always had to make do with less. I’ve already started small. I’ve mentored younger athletes in my community, talking with them about things beyond technique — things like managing stress, dealing with identity, and listening to your body without shame. I’ve helped teammates advocate for better resources, and I speak up when I see someone being pushed too hard without support. These aren’t headline-worthy acts, but they matter — and they plant seeds. Community service, to me, isn’t just volunteering once a semester. It’s how you show up, every day, for the people around you. It’s knowing your impact isn’t measured in hours, but in how deeply you care about changing what’s broken. I believe education isn’t just a ladder — it’s a blueprint. With the right tools, I can build something better: a program, a team, a culture that treats wellness and success as inseparable. With a STEM foundation and a heart for service, I’ll create space for every body and every mind — because no one should have to choose between being themselves and being seen. That’s the kind of future I’m working toward. One rep, one degree, one conversation at a time.

Essay Title: Quiet Battles, Loud Purpose I grew up learning how to hold things in. In my family, silence was a form of survival. We didn't have the language for anxiety or depression — just "you’ll be fine" or "pray on it." My mom is a strong woman. She held down multiple jobs, raised me with everything she had, and never let me see how tired she was. But I saw it anyway. I learned early that strength doesn’t always look like what people think it does. Sometimes it’s just making it through the day. My name is Azrael, but most people call me Az or Azzie. I’m 19, Black, queer, and a first-generation college student. Mental health has shaped almost every corner of my life — not always in ways that were easy to see. I’ve had to navigate self-doubt, isolation, and the pressure of being “the first” in spaces where I’ve often felt misunderstood or unseen. But I kept going — because I knew what it took just to get here, and I refuse to waste that. High school was a turning point. I was misjudged constantly — labeled quiet, passive, too soft. The truth was, I was fighting battles no one saw. I didn’t want pity; I wanted space to breathe and just exist. I used to think that if I stayed small, I wouldn’t break. But shrinking doesn’t protect you — it just hides you from yourself. It took time, but I started being honest — first with myself, then with others. I learned that naming your feelings doesn’t make you weak. It makes you honest. That shift — from silence to clarity — changed the way I see everything. I no longer feel the need to prove my worth to people who aren’t even trying to understand me. That mindset saved me. Now, I care deeply about helping people grow — especially young Black kids like me who need a safe place to land. I’m studying kinesiology with plans to coach and eventually work in sports management. Why? Because sports saved me. Track gave me a lane to run in when life felt like it was closing in. Hurdles became my metaphor: you don’t get to control the spacing, but you learn to move with it. Coaching lets me pass that lesson on. I want to be the kind of coach I didn’t always have — someone who sees you fully, pushes you to be better, but never breaks you down to do it. Mental health matters in athletics, and in life, and I want to be part of making that conversation louder — especially in spaces where it’s still whispered, ignored, or judged. Mental health doesn’t define me, but it’s shaped how I move: with intention, patience, and empathy. It’s deepened my relationships, because I don’t just hear people — I see them. It’s influenced my goals, because I want to lead from a place of understanding, not just performance. And it’s taught me that quiet strength isn’t lesser strength. It’s just different — and just as needed. So when I think about the future, I see more than just a career. I see a path I’m building for others — one where they can show up whole, be seen clearly, and grow without shame. That’s what this scholarship means to me: not just honoring my own journey, but helping create space for others to take theirs.

"The Switch Up" – A Challenge About Trust, Timing, and Taking Risks If there's one thing Love Island taught me, it’s that timing changes everything — in relationships, in competition, in life. That’s probably why I connect with it so much. As someone who's had to make every move count, I see the show not just as drama or romance, but as a reminder that staying grounded when things shift is a skill. So, I came up with a challenge that tests exactly that. Introducing: The Switch Up It starts simple — or at least, it looks that way. Islanders pair up as usual, but they don’t know the full rules yet. Halfway through the challenge, they’ll be tested on how well they actually know their partner — but here’s the twist: every wrong answer earns a "switch ticket." Those tickets can be used to either change partners, swap with someone else, or force two people to switch. But it’s all anonymous. Round One: Compatibility Quiz Each pair answers a set of personal or preference-based questions separately (“What’s their biggest fear?” “How do they handle conflict?” “What’s their go-to karaoke song?”). For every mismatch, a switch ticket is earned and placed in a communal pool. No one knows how many tickets were earned — just that they exist. Round Two: Physical Challenge — “Tied Together” Couples are physically tethered and have to complete a series of obstacle-style challenges as a unit (think water balloon carry, blindfold navigation, building a tower). Communication is key. But tension builds, especially if Round One didn’t go well. The Switch After both rounds, Islanders are pulled aside individually. They’re told how many switch tickets were earned (not by who), and given the option: use a ticket to switch their partner — or stay loyal and leave things alone. If more than one Islander uses their switch, chaos follows. Pairings get jumbled, and no one knows who made what call unless they choose to come clean. This challenge would be iconic because it hits on what Love Island does best: test trust, shake up dynamics, and show us who’s really playing the long game. It also gives quieter players a strategic moment to make big moves — without being messy for no reason. (Not everything has to be loud to be impactful.) Why do I care about this challenge? Because I get it. I know what it’s like to be misunderstood, underestimated, and still have to figure out who you can count on — sometimes while everything’s falling apart. Life doesn’t always give you prep time. Neither does Love Island. That’s why I think this challenge fits: it reflects real things like trust, resilience, and how you act when the timing isn’t on your side. I may be calm under pressure, but I’ve lived enough to know that stillness doesn’t mean weakness — it means watching, learning, and making your move when it matters. That’s what The Switch Up is about. Not just surviving the game, but knowing yourself enough to play it with intention.

There was a moment when I realized I didn’t just like sports—I needed them. I was 14, halfway through a rough freshman year, quiet but observant, always pushing myself harder than anyone else did. Running track wasn’t just about competition. It was about breathing when everything else felt too heavy. It was the one place where being tall, serious, and focused wasn’t “too much”—it was right. My biggest dream is to become a sports management professional and a hurdles coach—specifically for high school athletes like I once was. I want to build programs that focus on more than medals. I want to teach athletes how to build resilience, handle pressure, and learn the art of getting back up. Because hurdles aren’t just physical—they’re personal. You fall, and the next step still has to be forward. I’m currently majoring in kinesiology and working toward a coaching certificate, with plans to earn my master’s in sports management. I study, I work, and I do my best to stay afloat financially. But the truth is, school costs more than tuition. It’s the books, the meals between classes, the mental exhaustion of balancing survival and success. And I come from a low-income background where dreaming big has always meant working harder than most. I’ve never been handed anything—but I’ve also never stopped reaching. This scholarship wouldn’t just be help. It’d be momentum. It would allow me to invest fully in the education I came here for—without wondering if I can afford next semester’s materials or needing to skip out on internships that aren’t paid. It would mean fewer compromises and more chances to grow into the kind of leader I needed when I was younger. And I know this dream is possible. I’ve already been that kid who shows up to practice early, asks for extra drills, and leads the cool down when no one else does. I’ve volunteered at community events, mentored underclassmen, and worked while studying full-time. I’m not perfect, but I am persistent—and that’s what sets me apart. I don’t run away from pressure. I train under it. People don’t always expect someone like me—soft-spoken, tall, Black, anime-watching, R&B-listening me—to pursue something like this. But I’m not doing this to prove anyone wrong. I’m doing it to prove myself right. I know what I’m capable of. I know how to lead with empathy, how to listen deeply, and how to hold space for the people I coach. That’s what I want to build: not just strong athletes, but strong humans. Being awarded this scholarship would be more than recognition—it would be a reminder that my story matters, that my dream is valid, and that I’m not running this race alone. It would give me the chance to step into my purpose more fully, and maybe one day, return the favor by building opportunities for others the same way this scholarship builds one for me. So thank you, Austin, for believing that access should never be the thing that holds a student back. I’m ready to earn this—not just on paper, but in everything I do after.

I don’t remember the first time someone called me “intimidating,” but I remember how it felt. Like I had to shrink myself just to make people comfortable. Like my height, my silence, even my focus—especially my focus—was too much. I was a tall Black girl who ran track, kept her grades up, didn’t date, didn’t party. And for some reason, that made people uncomfortable. But eventually, I stopped shrinking. I realized what made me different didn’t need to be softened. It needed to be sharpened. My name is Azrael. I’m 19 years old, a kinesiology major, future sports management professional, and someone who’s still learning how to balance gentleness and grit. I grew up with a lot on my shoulders—literally and figuratively. Being 5’11 and the oldest sibling, people expected me to be strong all the time. What they didn’t see were the days I questioned everything—my appearance, my voice, my future. What got me through was the same thing that got me through every hurdle I ran on the track: rhythm, resilience, and the reminder that I’m not doing this just for me. I want to coach track one day, specifically hurdles. Not just because I ran them, but because they taught me everything I know about timing, failure, and recovery. You don’t just clear a hurdle because you’re fast—you clear it because you know when to lift your legs and when to land. I’ve fallen. More than once. But I never stayed down. I kept running, even if I finished last. That mentality has carried over into everything I do—from school to leadership roles to community work. I’ve volunteered with food drives, helped clean local parks, and supported events for young athletes. These aren’t just checkboxes for me. I genuinely believe in showing up for people, the same way I needed someone to show up for me when I didn’t believe in myself. I’ve also worked hard in school, maintaining above a 3.0 GPA while navigating burnout, identity struggles, and a lot of pressure. But I never gave up. Because I want to leave something behind that means more than just trophies or titles. This scholarship would help me keep going. I’ve already had to make tough financial decisions—choosing which textbooks to buy, applying for jobs between classes, even skipping out on opportunities because I couldn’t afford the fees. I’m doing everything I can to hold it down, but support like this would lift some of that weight. It would let me focus on what I came to college to do: learn, grow, and one day give back to the athletes I’ll coach the way mentors once gave to me. Kalia Davis sounds like someone I would’ve looked up to—someone who knew how to lead with excellence, not ego. Someone who probably understood what it means to work hard, not for praise, but because it’s just who you are. If I can carry even a fraction of her legacy forward, I’ll consider that a win. I’m not perfect. But I’m passionate, persistent, and always pushing toward something better. I’m not shrinking anymore. I’m standing tall, literally and figuratively. And I’m ready to run toward whatever’s next.

When people ask what I want to do with my life, I usually keep it simple: I want to coach. But not just drills and times and medals—I want to coach people. I want to build spaces in sports where athletes feel safe enough to grow, where leadership looks like empathy, and where showing up as your full self isn’t just allowed—it’s expected. I’m Azrael, a 19-year-old kinesiology major at UTSA. I ran track for seven years, specializing in hurdles. I don’t compete anymore, but what the sport gave me still shows up every day—in how I lead, how I think, how I care for others. Hurdles taught me rhythm, discipline, patience. You can’t rush the jump or overthink it. You trust your body, stay present, and commit. That mindset didn’t leave when I hung up my spikes. I’ve always been someone people come to when things feel heavy. I’ve calmed teammates down before big races. Talked friends through burnout. Held space when younger athletes felt like they were failing. That’s what leadership looks like to me. It’s not loud. It’s steady. It’s knowing when to speak and when to just listen. That’s also why I take mental health seriously. I’ve seen what it looks like when it gets ignored—on and off the track. I know how it feels to be overwhelmed and still expected to perform. I’ve had to learn how to protect my peace, create boundaries, and build habits that keep me grounded. It’s personal, and it shapes everything I plan to do as a future coach. My dream is to earn my bachelor’s in kinesiology, get my coaching certificate, and go on to complete a master’s in sports management. Long term, I want to run a program—maybe even build one from the ground up—that centers athlete wellness just as much as performance. Where representation isn’t a checkbox, and athletes see coaches who actually reflect who they are and what they value. This isn’t just about a career to me. It’s about care. It’s about leadership that feels human. And it’s about creating the kind of environment I wish I had when I was coming up in the sport. I’m not here asking for a handout. I’m here because I’m ready to do the work—to earn it, grow through it, and give it back.

College doesn’t pause for mental health—and that’s exactly why I had to learn how to make space for mine. I’m Azrael, or Azzie for short. I’m a 19-year-old kinesiology major at UTSA, working toward becoming a coach and sports management professional. On paper, I manage a lot: classes, labs, studying, navigating identity, and keeping myself mentally balanced. But underneath all that is the quiet work I do every day to stay grounded. Mental health affects everything for me. When I’m not taking care of it, it shows up fast—lack of focus, fatigue, irritability, self-doubt. It impacts how I study, how I interact with people, and how I talk to myself. And since I’m someone who’s naturally calm and collected on the outside, people don’t always realize when I’m struggling. That’s made it even more important for me to be honest with myself—because if I don’t check in, no one else can do it for me. What helps me most is routine and self-awareness. I journal often—sometimes just a sentence or two—to keep track of how I’m really feeling. I stretch or move my body before class, even if it’s just five minutes. I say no when I need to. I mute notifications. I remind myself that rest isn’t something I have to earn. These aren’t big, dramatic habits—but they’ve changed everything. They keep me steady when school gets overwhelming. Being a Black trans girl in college comes with its own layer of mental pressure—there’s always the awareness of how I’m being perceived, how safe I feel, how much space I’m “allowed” to take up. That kind of stress stacks up. So prioritizing my mental health isn’t optional—it’s survival. It’s how I make sure I can keep showing up for myself and for the future I’m building. That future isn’t just about a degree. It’s about creating better systems in sports—ones that treat athletes like full people, not machines. I want to coach in a way that centers emotional wellness as much as physical training. And I can’t lead with that mindset if I’m not practicing it in my own life. Academically, protecting my mental health makes me more focused and present. Personally, it allows me to show up in my relationships with more care and patience. And long-term, it’s helping me become a better leader. I want people around me—teammates, classmates, future athletes—to feel like they don’t have to break down just to be taken seriously. I want mental health to be a part of the conversation before it becomes a crisis. This scholarship would support more than just my education—it would support my ability to keep showing up for myself the way I need to. I take my mental health seriously, because I know exactly what it costs when you don’t. And I know how powerful it is when you do.

Mental health has never been just a concept to me—it’s been the quiet undercurrent shaping how I move through the world, how I love, and how I lead. Growing up, I lived in a home where tension was normal. My father was abusive—toward my mother and toward me, verbally. That kind of environment makes you grow up fast. It teaches you silence before it teaches you language. And for a long time, I confused survival with peace. I’m 19 now, a kinesiology major at UTSA with dreams of becoming a coach and sports management professional. But beneath all of that—the degree, the career plans, the certifications—I’m someone who had to learn how to listen to herself first. My experience with mental health, both my own and what I witnessed in my family, shaped everything about who I am. Not just the heavy parts, but the gentle ones too. For a long time, I struggled with emotional regulation and self-doubt. I didn’t always have the words for what I was feeling, only that I felt too much and nowhere felt safe to land it. In the Black community, especially as a Black trans girl, talking about mental health can feel like breaking a rule. You’re told to pray, to push through, to be strong. But I don’t think strength is the absence of struggle—I think it’s choosing yourself anyway. That’s what I’ve been doing. Choosing myself. And in doing that, I’ve learned how to show up for others. I’m not a therapist, but I’ve been a steady voice for my teammates, classmates, and younger athletes who needed someone calm, someone who could handle their bad days without flinching. I take mental health seriously because I know what it feels like to carry things in silence—and I don’t want anyone to feel alone in that. My understanding of the world is shaped by empathy and emotional awareness. I value leadership that is thoughtful, not performative. I believe representation in wellness and sports matters because it changes who feels safe participating. I want to coach in a way that builds not just athletic ability, but trust and emotional stability. That’s why I’m here. That’s what I’m working toward. Relationships for me now are built on intention. I value clear communication, patience, and people who meet me where I am instead of trying to “fix” me. I’ve learned to set boundaries, to be soft without letting people walk over me, and to offer that same grace back to others. My goals are rooted in this balance—of care and direction, gentleness and leadership. This scholarship would help me stay focused on my education, but more importantly, it aligns with what I believe in. Destigmatizing mental health isn’t just important—it’s urgent. And I want to keep doing my part, one conversation, one athlete, one honest moment at a time.

One problem I’m passionate—lowkey obsessed—with solving is the lack of care in sports spaces. I don’t just mean physical care like injury prevention, though that’s important too. I mean emotional care. Mental wellness. Representation. The kind of environment where athletes feel like full people, not just bodies or performances on a schedule. I first realized how real this gap was back in high school, during my sixth year running track. One of the underclassmen on our team was super talented but kept falling apart under pressure. People just told her to "toughen up," but I could see she didn’t need toughness—she needed someone to listen. One day, after practice, she broke down to me. We talked for maybe thirty minutes, and the next meet, she ran with more confidence than I’d seen all season. That moment hit me hard. Not because I fixed her, but because no one else even tried to understand her. That’s when it clicked. Sports aren’t just physical. They’re emotional. And the way we coach, manage, and lead needs to reflect that. Especially for athletes who are Black, first-gen, queer, or just different. So many of us carry stuff that never gets talked about. We deal with burnout, mental health struggles, identity issues—and nobody builds space for that. I want to change that. It’s not just a goal, it’s the why behind everything I’m doing. Right now, I’m studying kinesiology at UTSA with plans to get my coaching certificate and eventually a master’s in sports management. I chose this path because I want to lead in a way that redefines what coaching even looks like. I want to open up conversations around mental health in athletics. I want to build programs that center care, not just performance. And I want to be a visible, steady presence for athletes who don’t usually see someone like me—Black, trans, first-gen—in leadership. I’m also from the Midwest originally, and I know how it feels to come from a place where opportunities feel limited and the path ahead looks foggy. I didn’t grow up with a roadmap. Everything I’m doing, I had to figure out by piecing it together. I don’t say that to be dramatic—it’s just real. So yeah, solving this problem is personal. Because I know what it’s like to feel invisible in spaces that should be building you up. This scholarship would help me keep going—less stress about money means more focus on actually doing the work. But bigger than that, it would show me that people see the vision. That there’s value in creating care-based leadership in sports, and in making sure the next generation of athletes doesn’t just survive, but thrives. That’s what I’m building. One athlete, one conversation, one program at a time.

If I had to give one piece of advice to another first-generation college student, it would be this: don’t wait to feel ready—just start. Start asking questions. Start applying for things you think you might not get. Start building habits that make sense for you, not just what you think a “good” student is supposed to do. Starting is scary—but waiting for perfect timing will cost you more than fear ever could. I say that because I am that student. First-gen. UTSA. Kinesiology major, sports management minor. A 19-year-old Black girl who didn’t grow up with anyone who could explain FAFSA, office hours, or what a degree plan even looked like. There were moments I felt completely out of place—like everyone else got a manual I missed. But I kept showing up. I kept starting, even when I didn’t feel ready. Being first-gen means you’re constantly moving through uncharted territory. You’re teaching yourself how to balance school, work, financial aid, family expectations, and your mental health—sometimes all in one day. You learn to carry pressure with a quiet kind of strength. But you also learn how powerful it is to ask for help. To claim space. To be honest about what you don’t know yet. That’s why I’d share that advice. Because too many of us think we need to have it all figured out before we begin. But truthfully? None of us do. I’ve learned the most from the moments I was honest enough to say, “I don’t know how this works, but I want to learn.” That kind of vulnerability is how we survive—and how we lead. In my own journey, I’ve leaned into discipline, grace, and consistency. I’m pursuing a future in coaching and sports management because I believe in creating spaces where young people—especially Black girls, LGBTQ+ youth, and first-gens—feel seen, supported, and believed in. I ran track for seven years, and now I want to coach not just performance, but people. That starts with building spaces where people can grow without shame. This scholarship would support more than just tuition—it would give me more time to focus on learning, growing, and preparing for the future I’m building. It would take some of the weight off my shoulders so I can show up more fully in my classes, in leadership spaces, and in the community I plan to serve. So to the next first-gen student reading this: take your first step, even if it feels shaky. Start before you feel ready. Your path might not look like anyone else’s—but it’s still valid, still worthy, and still yours to walk.

Being different isn’t something I had to learn—it's something I had to own. I’m Azrael, a 19-year-old Black trans woman, a first-generation college student, and someone who walks through the world knowing I’m being seen, judged, admired, or misunderstood—all at once. But I’ve never been interested in fitting into a version of myself that makes others more comfortable. My power is in my difference. What makes me different isn’t just my identity. It’s how I lead. How I show up. How I care deeply without asking for attention in return. I study kinesiology with plans to earn my coaching certificate and pursue a master’s in sports management. On paper, it sounds like I want to coach athletes—and that’s true. But I also want to change how coaching feels. I want the next generation of athletes—especially young Black girls, queer kids, and anyone who feels invisible in sports—to know there’s someone in their corner who sees them. All of them. I’ve mentored younger students, helped teammates through injuries and burnout, and led mental health discussions on campus—not because it’s required, but because I remember what it’s like to need that support and not see anyone offering it. I lead with softness and structure. I stay calm under pressure. And I know that being emotionally intelligent in a leadership space is a strength—even if people don’t always see it that way right away. The thing is, you never know who’s watching you. Maybe it’s the girl who hears me correct someone misgendering me and realizes she can advocate for herself too. Maybe it’s someone watching me walk into a gym and take up space they were told wasn’t made for people like us. Maybe it’s the quiet freshman who sees me volunteer every week and feels like they have permission to do the same. I might never know who they are—but they see me. And that’s enough for me to keep being real, every single day. I’ve done community service consistently for the past few years—volunteering at youth sports programs, helping with health and wellness events, and showing up where I’m needed. The truth is, my whole life is built around service. Not performative or loud—but intentional and lasting. Whether I’m tutoring someone through anatomy homework or guiding a younger student-athlete through their first big meet, I give what I needed at their age: kindness, clarity, and care. Being unapologetically myself means I don’t wait for validation. I create space. I reflect on what I needed growing up and try to be that for someone else. My voice might not always be the loudest in the room, but it’s clear. It’s steady. And I use it to lead—not just for myself, but for the people watching from the sidelines, waiting for a reason to step forward too. This scholarship would help me continue that work—not just as a student, but as a presence. Someone who proves, quietly and consistently, that being yourself is more than enough—it’s powerful. And I plan to use that power to keep lifting others as I climb.

I have always thought that leadership should be human. It should come to the people and give them directions not just but with care. This is the belief that I had studied kinesiology and I had a minor in sports management. I dream of being a track and field coach and a sports management professional-a person who not only makes great athletes but also great and self-aware people. At first sight, my path might not seem to be a traditional fit for STEAM. That is why kinesiology is the science of movement, and everything, I am studying biology, psychology, physics, and human performance. This is science that is applied to life as it is about helping people to find out about their bodies, to avoid injury, to perform, and to heal holistically. As a Black woman, I realized the importance of seeing people like me in wellness and athletic leadership spaces. This field is close to my heart. I was a track runner specializing in hurdles for 7 years. The years I spent training were more than just about learning the skills I needed for competition; I learned how to have rhythm and to be patient, and, subsequently, how to lead when we are under pressure. After I left the competition, I came to the conclusion that I didn’t lose my passion—I just needed a different role. And the answer was coaching. Nevertheless, coaching is more than just shouting out times or barking drills. The best coaches are mentors, educators, and advocates. Therefore, that’s what I am pursuing. I pursued this major in order to create a culture for sports where rigor and empathy can thrive. It would be a space for young athletes, especially those from marginalized backgrounds, to feel supported beyond their performance. A culture where mental well-being is visible and representative of every level—from the coaching staff to the trainers. That starts with education. That starts with me. This scholarship goes beyond funding my tuition—it would fulfill the vision. It would not only allow me to remain focused but also to engage in the local youth programs, and to move towards my coaching certification without the burden of financial stress. It would help me continue what I have already started: being there for people, leading with care, and illustrating that people like me belong in this area. I have also spent time being a mentor to younger students, training my teammates who were injured, and organizing wellness programs in schools. I do it because I know what a huge difference it can make when someone believes in you. Kayla Nicole Monk believed in the concept of creating something larger than herself, and I want to honor that spirit. I also want to leave something behind that outlives me. The path that I have chosen is service-oriented. Whether I'm coaching a high school hurler through their first season, or designing mental health resources for student-athletes, the impact is what I am shooting for. This scholarship would be the catalyst for my next move. I'm not just here to get a degree; I'm here to change the way we lead, interact, and grow in the sports industry. And I'm ready to stay engaged in that job.

My name is Azrael. I’m 19, a proud Black trans girl, and a kinesiology major at UTSA, working toward my coaching certificate and eventually a master’s in sports management. I’m not here to tell a sad story—I’m here because I know who I am, I know where I’m going, and I’ve learned how to keep choosing myself, even when the world doesn’t make it easy. Being transgender has shaped every part of how I move through life. It’s not something I turn off or leave at the door when I walk into a classroom, a gym, or anywhere else. It’s a constant—but so is my determination. I transitioned in high school, quietly at first, then more openly as I grew into myself. There were moments I was misgendered in public and didn’t correct anyone because I was too tired. Moments I shrunk myself just to feel a little safer. But there were also moments of clarity—like when I heard my name said right for the first time, or when I caught my reflection and finally saw me. I’ve lost some people along the way, but I’ve also found the ones who see me fully. Being trans taught me how to pay attention—not just to who I am, but to who others are, too. It’s made me more empathetic, more careful with how I treat people, more intentional in my leadership. I don’t just want to be a coach—I want to be the kind of mentor I wish I had when I was younger. Someone who leads with care and creates space for others to grow without shame. My passion for sports isn’t about competition—it’s about transformation. I ran track for seven years, specializing in hurdles. There’s something about hurdles that feels symbolic: you don’t just run—you time your steps, you trust your body, and you commit even when the next obstacle is right in front of you. It taught me discipline, but more than that, it taught me resilience. I don’t run competitively anymore, but the lessons stayed with me. That’s why I chose this field. Representation matters. Growing up, I never saw trans coaches—especially not Black trans women—at any level of sports leadership. That silence told me, without saying it out loud, that maybe there wasn’t room for someone like me. But I’m not waiting for permission to belong. I’m building the career I needed to see. My mom is one of my biggest influences. She’s been through more than anyone should have to carry, but she still shows up for herself and the people she loves. She raised me to be grounded, observant, and strong in a quiet way. Watching her hold it all down with grace taught me what leadership really looks like. That’s what I try to bring to every space I’m in—whether I’m helping a teammate work through a bad day, leading a group project, or mentoring someone younger than me. Financially, college has been a challenge. I’ve been doing everything I can to stay focused—budgeting, applying for aid, working when I can—but every little bit helps. This scholarship would give me the breathing room to keep going, and I wouldn’t take that lightly. I plan to earn my bachelor’s in kinesiology, get my athletic coaching certificate, and pursue a master’s in sports management. I want to start at the high school level and work my way up—coaching hurdles, then eventually leading a full track program. My long-term goal is to create inclusive, mentally healthy sports environments where young athletes feel seen and supported—not just pushed to perform. Being trans shaped how I see the world, but it didn’t limit what I believe is possible. If anything, it made me more clear about my purpose. I’m not trying to be perfect—I’m trying to be real, consistent, and impactful. That’s how I plan to show up: not just as a coach or professional, but as someone who proves that we can lead with softness, strength, and authenticity—all at once.

When I think about wellness—mental and physical—I don’t just see it as something to “maintain.” For me, it’s something I work at, protect, and honor. My body has been my instrument for years, running track since I was twelve. Seven seasons of hurdles taught me how to breathe through discomfort, lead with control, and find rhythm when everything feels chaotic. That discipline didn’t stay on the track—it’s woven into how I live, love, and show up for myself. I’m Azrael. I’m 19, a Black trans girl, and I’m working toward a degree in kinesiology with a coaching certificate, planning to pursue my master’s in sports management after. My dream? To coach and lead in the world of track & field—not just to produce winners, but to raise whole athletes. Young people who know that their worth isn’t tied to a stopwatch and that how they care for themselves matters just as much as how fast they move. That’s why wellness matters to me. Because for people like me—Black, trans, LGBTQ+, ambitious—there’s no blueprint. There’s pressure to prove yourself, but little room to pause. And when you don’t see yourself reflected in leadership or coaching staff, it’s easy to feel like you have to shrink to fit in. I don’t believe in shrinking. I believe in shifting the space. There’ve been hard days. My body, voice, and presence have all been questioned. I’ve been misgendered in meetings, stared at during weigh-ins, asked invasive questions by people who didn’t see the harm. That kind of tension wears on your mind, even when you stay composed. But I don’t let it define me. I move with grace not because it’s easy—but because I’ve learned how to protect my peace without hardening my heart. As a student, balancing health can feel like a full-time job. Between classes, family, finances, and identity—it’s a lot. I’ve had to create systems: weekly meal preps, therapy when I can afford it, journaling, stretching every morning before class. I don’t always get it right, but I check in with myself often. And I treat rest as a necessity, not a reward. That mindset has kept me grounded. Representation in sports, especially from coaches who lead with empathy and intention, changes lives. I want to be that for someone—someone’s first coach who saw them fully, who encouraged strength and softness. That’s what good coaching is. It’s not yelling from the sidelines; it’s building trust, it’s knowing when to push and when to hold space. That’s who I’m becoming. I’m applying for this scholarship not just because it would help me financially (though it would), but because I know I reflect what this award stands for. I’m not waiting to be taken care of—I’ve learned how to take care of myself. I’ve turned challenge into clarity, and I’m still learning, still growing, and still here. I’m not just asking for opportunity—I’m ready to earn it, grow through it, and give it back.

Life has thrown me some pretty tough hurdles—not the kind you jump on the track, but the kind that test your spirit, resilience, and will to keep going. As a 19-year-old Black trans woman, my journey has been anything but easy, but it’s also been full of lessons that have shaped who I am today. From mental health struggles to finding my footing in a world that often feels like it wasn’t built for me, I’ve fought hard to get where I am, and I’m not stopping now. Growing up in Ohio as an only child, I was used to figuring things out on my own. My relationship with my parents has always been complicated—there’s love there, but also a lot of ups and downs. Add in the stress of navigating my identity, and you’ve got a recipe for some serious emotional challenges. By the time I hit high school, I was struggling with anxiety and depression, and there were days when just getting out of bed felt like its own hurdle. Track and field became my escape. For seven years, I specialized in hurdles (fitting, right?), and it taught me how to face obstacles head-on. Running gave me structure, confidence, and a sense of purpose when everything else felt chaotic. But after high school, I made the decision to focus on my transition—a choice that meant stepping away from the sport I loved. It was a bittersweet moment, but I knew I needed to prioritize my mental and physical well-being. Starting college at UTSA was another big leap. Moving from Ohio to Texas, managing school, and figuring out how to pay for it all while navigating my transition was overwhelming at times. Therapy became a lifeline for me, helping me learn how to manage my anxiety and work through the self-doubt that sometimes crept in. I also leaned on my faith, reminding myself that every hurdle—no matter how high—could be cleared if I stayed focused and kept moving forward. Through it all, I’ve grown in ways I never thought possible. I’ve learned to ask for help when I need it, to celebrate my progress (even the small wins), and to show myself grace when things don’t go as planned. Those lessons have not only helped me in my personal life but have also shaped my career goals. As a kinesiology major, I’m working toward becoming a PE teacher and track coach, specializing in hurdles. My dream is to create spaces where kids—especially Black and LGBTQ+ youth—feel supported, valued, and empowered to chase their goals. I want them to see that their struggles don’t define them and that every obstacle is an opportunity to grow stronger. Managing my mental health is an ongoing journey, but I’m proud of the steps I’ve taken to prioritize my well-being. Regular therapy, journaling, and leaning on my chosen family have been key parts of my recovery. I also make it a point to stay active, using fitness as both a stress reliever and a reminder of the strength I’ve built over the years. Moving forward, I plan to incorporate these tools into my work as a coach, teaching my students that mental health is just as important as physical fitness. This scholarship would be more than just financial support; it would be a recognition of how far I’ve come and a boost toward where I’m headed. I’m determined to make a difference in the lives of my future students, showing them that no matter how tough life gets, they have the strength to overcome anything. Life’s hurdles may be challenging, but with resilience, determination, and a little bit of faith, every one of them can be cleared.

If there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s that every hurdle is a lesson—and trust me, I’ve jumped a lot of them. I’m a 19-year-old Black trans woman originally from Ohio, now in Texas, working toward my degree in kinesiology at UTSA. My dream is to become an elementary or middle school PE teacher and a track coach specializing in hurdles. While it might not sound like a traditional way to change the world, I believe education and mentorship are some of the most powerful tools for uplifting women and creating lasting change. Growing up, I spent over seven years competing in track and field. Hurdles became my favorite event because they weren’t just about speed; they were about timing, focus, and resilience—qualities I’ve relied on in every part of my life. After graduating high school, I began my transition, which meant stepping away from the sport I loved to focus on becoming the person I was meant to be. It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made, but it also showed me how important it is to have people in your corner who believe in you. That’s the kind of support I want to give to the next generation. As a teacher and coach, I plan to create spaces where every student feels seen, valued, and capable of greatness. Representation matters. Growing up, I didn’t have many teachers or coaches who looked like me or shared my experiences, and that absence pushed me to become the role model I needed. I want my students—especially girls, Black kids, and LGBTQ+ youth—to know that they’re not just allowed to dream big but that they deserve to. One of my biggest goals is to help young women find their confidence through sports and fitness. Athletics taught me discipline, self-belief, and how to work toward something bigger than myself. I want to pass those lessons on, showing my students that being strong—physically, mentally, and emotionally—isn’t just about winning medals. It’s about believing in yourself, even when the world doubts you. Beyond the classroom and the track, I hope to advocate for equity in education and fitness. Too often, schools in underserved communities lack the resources to give students access to quality physical education programs. I want to change that. By partnering with local organizations and creating accessible fitness initiatives, I hope to give every kid—regardless of their background—a chance to thrive. My journey hasn’t been without challenges. Moving from Ohio to Texas, navigating college as a first-generation student, and balancing my transition with my studies has tested my resilience in ways I never expected. But every challenge has also strengthened my drive to make a difference. This scholarship would allow me to focus more on my education and less on financial stress, giving me the tools to pour everything I’ve got into my future students and athletes. At the end of the day, my mission is simple: to empower the next generation of girls to see themselves as leaders, athletes, and changemakers. I believe that when women are supported and encouraged, they can clear any hurdle in their path—and I plan to be there, cheering them on every step of the way.

When people think about making cities more equitable, they might picture urban planners or policy experts. Me? I picture kids running laps in PE class, learning life lessons that extend far beyond the gym or the track. I may not be heading into urban planning or economics, but as a future elementary or middle school PE teacher and track coach, I know that change starts at the ground level—literally. I’m a 19-year-old Black trans woman, originally from Ohio but now studying kinesiology at UTSA in Texas. Growing up as an only child, I’ve always been used to figuring things out on my own. My relationship with my parents has been rocky at times, but their drive and resilience taught me to stay grounded even when life gets hard. That mindset got me through seven years of running track, specializing in hurdles, where I learned how to face obstacles head-on. Now, I’m taking that same energy into my career, focusing on how education and mentorship can empower underserved communities. While I might not be drafting city plans or analyzing housing markets, I’m deeply passionate about creating environments where kids—especially those from marginalized backgrounds—feel supported, safe, and encouraged to dream big. Affordable housing and gentrification might seem far removed from a gym or track, but the truth is, they’re connected. Stable housing creates stable lives, and stable lives give kids the freedom to focus on things like school, fitness, and discovering their potential. In my career, I want to build more than just strong athletes—I want to build strong communities. That means working with schools and local organizations to provide fitness programs and mentorship opportunities for kids who don’t always have access to these resources. Sports taught me discipline, resilience, and how to handle setbacks. Those lessons don’t just build better athletes—they build better people. What motivates me the most is knowing how much representation and support matter. Growing up, I didn’t have many teachers or coaches who looked like me or understood my experience as a Black trans woman. That absence showed me how important it is to be visible, to show kids that their identity doesn’t limit what they can achieve. Whether they’re navigating systemic barriers or just trying to figure out who they are, I want them to know they have someone in their corner who believes in them. Sustainability and equity might sound like abstract concepts, but they come to life when you focus on the next generation. By fostering confidence and resilience in kids, we can prepare them to tackle bigger issues like housing disparities, gentrification, and environmental sustainability. I may not be solving these problems directly, but the students I teach and mentor? They just might. This scholarship would help me continue my education and build a career focused on empowering others. I’m not just looking to teach or coach—I’m looking to change lives, one student and one step at a time. Because when kids believe in themselves, they become the kind of leaders who can make our cities, and our world, a better place.

Faith has always been a quiet force in my life—not loud, not flashy, just steady. Growing up in Ohio as an only child, I leaned on it in small ways: when life at home got messy, when I was trying to figure out who I was, and when I needed the courage to take my next step. But the time I relied on my faith the most? That was when I started my transition after high school. For most of my life, I felt like I was running a race on the wrong track. On the outside, everything seemed fine—I was a track athlete for seven years, competing in hurdles and loving the rhythm of the sport. But inside, I was struggling. I knew who I was, but I didn’t know how to make my reality match. After graduation, I finally made the decision to transition. And let me tell you, it was one of the most terrifying but freeing things I’ve ever done. At first, I thought the hardest part would be medical appointments and figuring out how to afford everything. (Spoiler: it wasn’t cheap.) But what hit me the hardest was the emotional toll—stepping away from track, facing judgment from people I thought would have my back, and feeling like I was starting from scratch in every area of my life. That’s when I turned to my faith in a way I never had before. Faith isn’t about having all the answers; it’s about trusting that you’ll figure things out along the way. For me, that looked like praying for strength when I didn’t feel like I had any left, asking for clarity when my path felt blurry, and finding the courage to keep going, even when it felt like the world was watching me stumble. One verse that stuck with me during that time was Philippians 4:13: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” It wasn’t a magic fix, but it became my mantra. On days when I felt too overwhelmed to move forward—like when I left track behind or had tough conversations with my family—I repeated it to myself until I believed it. Slowly but surely, I found my footing again. Now, as a kinesiology major at UTSA, I’m building a future that aligns with who I truly am. My dream is to become an elementary or middle school PE teacher and a track coach. I want to create spaces where kids, especially Black and LGBTQ+ youth, feel supported, valued, and empowered to chase their goals. Faith helped me navigate one of the toughest seasons of my life, and it’s the foundation I’ll use to guide the next generation through their hurdles—on and off the track. This scholarship would mean more than just financial relief; it would be a reminder that perseverance pays off. I’m proud of how far I’ve come, and I know that with God’s guidance, the work I’m doing will make a real difference. Life is full of challenges, but faith has taught me how to meet them with courage and grace. And trust me, I’m not slowing down anytime soon.

Helping people isn’t just a career goal for me—it’s who I am. I’ve always been that person who makes sure everyone’s good, whether it’s cheering up a teammate after a bad race or explaining how to jump hurdles to someone who’s struggling (on the track and in life). It’s just how I’m built: I care deeply, and I want to leave the world better than I found it. I’m 19, Black, trans, and proud of every layer of who I am. Growing up in Ohio as an only child, I didn’t have a blueprint for how to navigate all the things life threw my way. My journey, especially transitioning after high school, hasn’t been the easiest, but it taught me how to stay grounded, stay kind, and push forward no matter what. Now, I’m here in Texas, majoring in kinesiology at UTSA (class of 2027—let’s go!), and I’m building the foundation to help others do the same. My goal is to become an elementary or middle school PE teacher and a track coach for high school and AAU athletes, specializing in hurdles. Sports and education have always been my safe spaces, and I want to create those spaces for the next generation. PE isn’t just about teaching kids to throw a ball or run laps. It’s about showing them how to build confidence, set goals, and believe in themselves—even when life feels like one big obstacle course. I learned those lessons firsthand during my seven-plus years running track. The sport shaped me in ways nothing else could. It taught me discipline, teamwork, and the importance of showing up—whether you’re feeling unstoppable or just barely holding it together. Even though I had to step away from competing after I started transitioning, I’m taking everything I learned into this next chapter. I don’t just want to coach kids; I want to help them grow into their best selves, on and off the track. Helping others doesn’t stop at sports for me. I’ve been involved in community work, from volunteering at youth clinics to mentoring young athletes who need guidance. I’m all about showing up for people, especially the ones who feel like they don’t have anyone in their corner. There’s a unique kind of magic in helping someone realize their potential, and that’s the magic I want to bring to the world through my career. As a Black trans woman in a field where people like me are still underrepresented, I know my presence matters. Representation is powerful, and I want my students—whether they’re Black, trans, or just figuring out where they fit in the world—to see what’s possible when you stay true to yourself. Robert F. Lawson’s legacy of making the world a better place is inspiring. It’s a reminder that small, consistent acts of kindness and service can create a ripple effect that changes lives. Through education and coaching, I plan to honor that legacy by being a guide, a cheerleader, and a safe space for every kid I work with. At the end of the day, my career is about more than teaching kids how to run or jump—it’s about teaching them to believe they can overcome any hurdle, on the track and in life. And if I can do that, then I’ll know I’ve made my mark.

Fishing is about way more than casting a line and hoping for a bite. It’s patience, precision, and knowing when to fight and when to let go. Honestly? That’s a whole metaphor for my life. While I’m not out here competing in bass fishing tournaments (yet, LOL), I know what it means to show up with character, sportsmanship, and work ethic—whether it’s in my community or in everything else I do. I’m a 19-year-old Black trans woman from Ohio, now in Texas chasing a kinesiology degree at UTSA (class of 2027, let’s gooo!). Growing up, my life had its challenges. As an only child, I learned early how to hold my own, but I also learned how to care for others and build connections. When I started transitioning after high school, I had to redefine what strength, resilience, and leadership looked like for me. It wasn’t easy, but it shaped me into someone who leads with both compassion and grit. My track and field days are where I really learned the value of teamwork and sportsmanship. I was a hurdler for over seven years before stepping away to prioritize my transition. Track isn’t just a solo grind—it’s about supporting your team, pushing each other to do better, and being there for those rough days when a hurdle takes you out (literally). I’ve carried that same energy into everything I do, especially when it comes to mentoring and giving back. In my community, I’ve found ways to make an impact that matter to me. For example, I’ve volunteered at youth sports clinics, teaching kids how to set goals and believe in themselves. My favorite moment? Watching a shy 10-year-old cross the finish line with the biggest smile because I helped her believe she could. That’s the stuff I live for—helping people realize their potential, no matter where they start. When it comes to work ethic, I’m all about consistency. Whether it’s juggling a full course load, mentoring younger athletes, or just showing up for myself and my dreams, I don’t half-step. If I say I’m doing something, I’m doing it, period. That same mindset applies to how I treat people. I don’t care where you come from or what you’re dealing with—respect and empathy come first. If fishing is anything like the other challenges I’ve faced, then I know it’s about showing up, being patient, and handling setbacks without losing your cool. That’s how I live my life. Travis Ely’s legacy of sportsmanship, hard work, and community is something I deeply connect with, even if my “fishing tournaments” happen to look like life’s hurdles. I plan to take these lessons into my career as an elementary or middle school PE teacher and a track coach. I want to build spaces where kids feel seen, supported, and inspired to dream bigger. Just like fishing teaches patience and persistence, I want my students to learn those skills too—whether they’re chasing medals on the track or just trying to figure out who they are. At the end of the day, success isn’t about how fast you get there. It’s about the impact you make and the people you lift along the way. I may not have a bass fishing rod in my hand, but trust me—I’m reeling in every opportunity to make a difference.

What I want to build isn’t just a career—it’s a foundation. A space where kids, especially Black and LGBTQ+ youth, can see themselves as capable, valued, and powerful. My dream is to become a PE teacher and track coach, working with elementary and middle school students to teach them how to move their bodies, build their confidence, and tackle life’s hurdles—both literal and figurative. Growing up in Ohio, I spent over seven years running track, and hurdles were my specialty. They’re like a life lesson in motion: you sprint, you jump, you stumble, and then you do it all again. That’s exactly how I’ve lived my life—figuring things out one jump at a time. Moving to Texas for college, transitioning after high school, and navigating my identity as a Black trans woman have all taught me how to adapt, persevere, and keep pushing forward. Now at UTSA, majoring in kinesiology, I’m laying the groundwork to build something meaningful for myself and my community. Fitness and education aren’t just about exercise; they’re about teaching discipline, fostering resilience, and creating a sense of belonging. That’s what I want to offer as a coach and mentor—a place where every kid feels seen, supported, and empowered to succeed. The impact of what I’m building isn’t just personal; it’s generational. When kids learn to believe in themselves and their abilities, they carry that confidence into every part of their lives. I’ve experienced firsthand how powerful it is to have someone in your corner cheering you on, and I want to be that person for my students. Whether it’s helping a shy kid find their voice or showing an athlete how to overcome their fear of failure, I’m committed to creating an environment where growth happens on and off the field. This scholarship would help me continue my education without the constant financial stress, allowing me to focus fully on my goals. With the right tools, I’m confident that I can build something that lasts—a legacy of opportunity, representation, and empowerment. I’m running this race not just for myself but for the next generation. And trust me, I don’t plan on stopping until the finish line is miles behind me.

Mental health has been one of the biggest hurdles I’ve faced in life, and like any good track coach will tell you, clearing a hurdle takes focus, practice, and sometimes a stumble or two. As a 19-year-old Black trans woman, my journey has been anything but straightforward, but my experiences with mental health have shaped my beliefs, strengthened my relationships, and inspired my dream to teach and coach the next generation. Growing up in Ohio as an only child, I always felt a quiet pressure to figure things out on my own. My relationship with my parents has had its highs and lows, and while they’ve supported me in some ways, navigating my identity as a trans woman added layers of complexity to our dynamic. By the time I started transitioning after high school, I was juggling emotional exhaustion, financial stress, and the huge leap of moving to Texas to attend UTSA. It felt like I was running a marathon with hurdles every five feet, and for a while, I didn’t think I’d make it to the finish line. Therapy became my lifeline. It taught me how to manage anxiety and gave me tools to rebuild my self-esteem. More importantly, it reminded me that asking for help isn’t weakness—it’s strength. That realization reshaped my beliefs about what it means to be “strong.” Strong isn’t pretending everything’s fine; it’s admitting when you need support and showing up for yourself anyway. That mindset shift has been a game-changer for how I approach everything, from my relationships to my career goals. My mental health journey has also deepened my empathy and patience, especially in my relationships. I used to think I had to carry everything alone, but my friends and chosen family have shown me how much lighter life can feel when you let people in. That’s the kind of environment I want to create for my future students and athletes. I want them to know that it’s okay to struggle, to fall, and to get back up as many times as it takes. These experiences are at the heart of my passion for becoming an elementary or middle school PE teacher and a track coach specializing in hurdles. Sports have always been my outlet. I spent over seven years running track, and hurdles were my favorite event because they taught me how to face obstacles with courage and precision. Though I had to step away from the sport to focus on my transition, the lessons I learned stayed with me. Now, I’m studying kinesiology at UTSA to turn that passion into a career where I can inspire young people to see fitness as more than just exercise—it’s self-care, resilience, and a tool for personal growth. As a coach, I want to be more than someone shouting from the sidelines. I want to be the kind of mentor who helps kids feel seen and supported, especially those from marginalized communities. Growing up, I didn’t have many teachers or coaches who looked like me or understood my experiences. That absence fueled my determination to be the representation I never had. My mental health journey has taught me that success isn’t about avoiding struggles; it’s about learning to navigate them with grace and persistence. This scholarship would help me continue my education without the added financial stress. At the end of the day, I’m running this race not just for me but for every kid who feels like they don’t belong. Life is full of hurdles, but with the right support, every one of them can be cleared.

Leadership isn’t about standing in front of a crowd and barking orders—it’s about showing up, creating space, and guiding people to believe in themselves and their abilities. My journey as a leader has been anything but straightforward, but every twist and turn has taught me something valuable about strength, resilience, and connection. I’ll take you back a bit: I ran track and field for over seven years, specializing in hurdles. If you know anything about hurdles, it’s all about timing, precision, and determination. That pretty much sums me up too. For me, it wasn’t just a sport—it was my escape, my proving ground. But when I started my transition, I had to step away from the thing I loved most. It wasn’t easy, but I learned how to jump over life’s hurdles without a track beneath me. In high school, I faced a lot. My transition wasn’t just a personal journey; it was a public one. You can’t exactly hide when you’re the only Black trans girl in a small Ohio school. Between navigating my identity and dealing with the opinions of everyone and their mama, it felt like a full-time job. But here’s the thing: I refused to shrink. Instead, I chose to lead. I started mentoring younger athletes who were dealing with their own struggles—whether it was anxiety about a race or problems at home. I couldn’t run with them anymore, but I could teach them how to block out the noise, focus on their goals, and push through the pain. I reminded them (and myself) that it’s okay to stumble as long as you keep going. One of my proudest moments was organizing a track clinic for middle schoolers. I pulled together my old teammates, recruited coaches, and even convinced a local business to sponsor snacks. The clinic wasn’t just about running; it was about building confidence. Watching those kids leave with their heads held higher than when they walked in? Unmatched. Of course, leadership comes with challenges. There were times I doubted myself—felt like I wasn’t “enough” to lead because I was still figuring things out too. But I realized leadership isn’t about having all the answers; it’s about showing people they have the strength to find their own. Now, as a kinesiology major at UTSA, I’m aiming for a career as an elementary or middle school PE teacher and a track coach specializing in hurdles. I want to create spaces where kids—especially the ones who feel like they don’t belong—can thrive. I know firsthand how much a good coach or teacher can change someone’s life. It’s not just about teaching them how to run or throw; it’s about showing them they’re capable of more than they think. In the future, I plan to combine my skills in kinesiology with my life experience to build programs that are as inclusive as they are impactful. I want to mentor young athletes, especially LGBTQ+ kids and kids of color, and teach them not just about sports but about resilience, discipline, and self-love. Leadership isn’t about being perfect; it’s about showing up, even when it’s hard, and leaving things better than you found them. That’s exactly what I plan to do, one hurdle at a time.

If there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s how to jump hurdles—literally and figuratively. I’m a 19-year-old Black trans woman from Ohio, now living in Texas and chasing my dreams of becoming a PE teacher and track coach. My journey hasn’t been a straight line (because when is it ever?), but every twist, turn, and hurdle has shaped me into someone who refuses to back down. Growing up as an only child, I learned early how to navigate life with independence and resilience. My parents and I have had our ups and downs, but their encouragement to always push for more stuck with me. I fell in love with track and field as a kid, spending over seven years competing, with hurdles becoming my specialty. Running hurdles felt like my thing—not just because I was good at it, but because it mirrored my life. Every jump was a reminder that obstacles aren’t roadblocks; they’re opportunities to grow. After high school, I made the decision to transition, and while it was one of the best decisions for my mental and emotional well-being, it came with sacrifices. I had to step away from track during a time when I felt I was just getting started. Still, that choice wasn’t the end of my story—it was the beginning of a new chapter. Now, as a kinesiology major at UTSA, I’m preparing to step back onto the track, not as an athlete but as a coach, mentor, and advocate. My dream is to become an elementary or middle school PE teacher and a high school or AAU track coach. I want to create spaces where every kid feels seen, supported, and celebrated—especially Black kids and LGBTQ+ youth. Growing up, I didn’t see many coaches or teachers who looked like me or shared my experiences. That absence motivated me to be the representation I wish I’d had. I want kids to know they’re capable of greatness, no matter who they are or where they come from. I’m passionate about fitness and education because I know how transformative they can be. Sports taught me discipline, confidence, and how to work toward something bigger than myself. As a teacher and coach, I want to pass those lessons on, showing students that movement isn’t just about physical health—it’s about mental and emotional well-being too. It’s about building a community and learning to tackle life’s hurdles with courage. The road here hasn’t been easy. Moving from Ohio to Texas, starting college, navigating my identity, and figuring out how to pay for it all has been A LOT. But each challenge has fueled my determination. I’ve learned to lean into my goals, seek out support when I need it, and remind myself why I started. This scholarship would help lighten the financial load, giving me the space to focus on my studies and prepare for the impact I want to make. I’ve always believed that the world changes when people are free to be themselves. For me, being myself means stepping into my purpose as an educator and coach who inspires kids to dream big, jump high, and never let life hold them back. I’m running toward my dreams, and I’m taking everyone who believes in me along for the journey.

What’s unique about me? Well, let’s start with the basics: I’m a 19-year-old Black trans woman from Ohio now navigating college life in Texas. But that’s just the surface. What truly makes me stand out is my journey—the hurdles I’ve cleared, both literal and figurative, to be where I am today. Growing up as an only child in Ohio, I had to learn independence early. My parents and I have had our ups and downs, but even in the messiness, I’ve always held on to the values they instilled in me: work hard, stay kind, and don’t let life’s challenges define you. Those lessons were my fuel for seven years of track and field, where I found a passion for hurdles that felt like a perfect metaphor for life. Every jump taught me how to push through fear, adjust to obstacles, and stay focused on the finish line—even when the path felt impossible. After high school, I started my transition, a deeply personal decision that also meant stepping away from the sport I loved. It wasn’t easy to leave track behind, but that choice opened the door to fully embracing who I am. Now, as a kinesiology major at UTSA, I’m working toward my dream of becoming an elementary or middle school PE teacher and a track coach. My goal isn’t just to teach kids how to move their bodies—it’s to show them how fitness, confidence, and perseverance can transform their lives. What sets me apart is my commitment to creating safe, inclusive spaces for kids who don’t always see themselves reflected in the world around them. As a Black trans woman, I know how powerful representation is. Growing up, I didn’t have coaches or teachers who looked like me or shared my experiences. I want to change that. Whether it’s on the track, in a gym, or in a classroom, I want every kid I work with to know they’re seen, valued, and capable of achieving greatness. This scholarship would make a huge difference in helping me reach that goal. As a first-generation college student, the financial side of higher education is one of my biggest hurdles. Balancing school, bills, and medical expenses while navigating a new state has been a challenge, but it’s one I’ve tackled head-on with the same determination I brought to the track. With this support, I could focus even more on my studies and professional growth, so I can start making the impact I’ve dreamed of. I’ve also been proud of the impact I’ve already had in my community. Back in Ohio, I volunteered at youth fitness programs, helping kids discover the joy of movement. I’ve mentored younger athletes, sharing lessons I learned through my own experiences with sports and life. And I’ve become a advocate for equity and inclusion, showing others that success doesn’t have to come at the expense of authenticity. What drives me isn’t just the desire to succeed; it’s the determination to leave something better behind. I want my legacy to be one of empowerment—proof that no matter how big the hurdles, they can be cleared. Adam Montes’ story inspires me because, like him, I believe education is one of the most powerful tools we have to lift each other up. I hope to honor his memory by using my journey, my struggles, and my triumphs to make a lasting impact on the students and communities I’ll serve. Because at the end of the day, I’m not just running this race for myself—I’m running it for everyone who’s ever been told they don’t belong. And trust me, we all belong.

Being the first in my family to go to college feels like stepping into a whole new world with a map I had to draw myself. It’s overwhelming at times, sure, but it’s also a privilege I don’t take lightly. I’ve chosen this path because I want to create opportunities for myself and others, building a legacy of empowerment through education and mentorship. Growing up as an only child in Ohio, I learned early on that life isn’t always a smooth track. My relationship with my parents has been up and down, and navigating the transition to adulthood—and my identity as a Black trans woman—hasn’t been simple. But those experiences taught me resilience. They also fueled my decision to pursue higher education, not just for me, but for the doors it will open for others. I’m currently a kinesiology major at UTSA, on track to graduate in 2027. My dream is to become an elementary or middle school PE teacher and a track coach specializing in hurdles. Why hurdles? Because they’re the perfect metaphor for life: obstacles everywhere, but you can clear them with the right mindset, preparation, and drive. I want to pass that lesson on to the kids I’ll teach and coach—especially those who come from backgrounds like mine. Preparing for this journey hasn’t been easy. From the application process to navigating financial aid, it often felt like I was learning a new language. Without a family roadmap for college, I had to lean on my own research, ask a million questions, and figure things out step by step. It’s been frustrating at times—like, who knew FAFSA could be THIS complicated?—but every step forward reminded me why I started. Transitioning after high school added another layer of complexity. Balancing medical appointments, emotional growth, and the demands of college life hasn’t been easy, but I’ve made it work by staying focused on my goals. Therapy, journaling, and finding supportive communities have helped me keep my mental health in check, even when things felt overwhelming. One of the biggest ways I’ve prepared for this journey is by keeping my goals front and center. Education to me isn’t just about earning a degree—it’s about creating a ripple effect. I want to teach kids that fitness isn’t just physical; it’s about confidence, discipline, and self-belief. Growing up, I didn’t see many teachers or coaches who looked like me or understood my experiences, and I want to change that. Representation matters, and I’m determined to be the role model I didn’t have. Being a first-generation college student is tough, no doubt about it. Financial stress, emotional pressure, and figuring everything out solo—it’s a lot. But it’s also made me stronger. Every hurdle I’ve faced has taught me something valuable about myself and my ability to overcome challenges. This scholarship would help ease some of the financial burden, allowing me to focus more on my studies and less on how I’m going to pay for it all. It would bring me one step closer to becoming the teacher and coach I’ve always wanted to be—someone who inspires the next generation to chase their goals, jump their hurdles, and never let life hold them back. I’m proud to be a first-gen college student because it means I’m opening doors for myself and the family I’ll create. It’s not just about crossing the finish line—it’s about showing others that they can, too.

Life has thrown me a fair share of hurdles, and not the kind you jump over on a track. As a 19-year-old Black trans woman, my journey toward becoming an educator and coach has been anything but smooth, but I’ve learned to face adversity with resilience and determination. Each challenge has shaped me into someone who refuses to back down, no matter how tough the race gets. I grew up in Ohio as an only child, and while my relationship with my parents has had its highs and lows, one thing they taught me was the importance of perseverance. For over seven years, I competed in track and field, specializing in hurdles—a sport that felt like a metaphor for life. Every race taught me how to tackle obstacles head-on, adjust when things didn’t go as planned, and keep pushing toward the finish line. Unfortunately, I had to step away from track after high school to focus on my transition, a decision that was necessary for my well-being but deeply bittersweet. Transitioning wasn’t just a physical journey; it was a mental and emotional one, too. Navigating this process while starting college in a new state was overwhelming. I moved from Ohio to Texas to attend UTSA, where I’m majoring in kinesiology and aiming to graduate in 2027. Juggling school, medical costs, and the emotional weight of stepping into my true self was a lot—but giving up was never an option. I leaned into my love for fitness and teaching, using my goals as motivation to keep going. One of the biggest steps I’ve taken to overcome adversity is learning to ask for help, even when it feels uncomfortable. Whether it’s leaning on mentors, seeking out resources, or connecting with my chosen family, I’ve realized that strength doesn’t mean doing everything alone. I’ve also prioritized taking care of my mental health, something that’s often overlooked but crucial for staying on track (literally and figuratively). Therapy, journaling, and surrounding myself with supportive people have been game-changers for me. Another way I’ve stayed focused is by keeping my eyes on the bigger picture. I’m passionate about becoming a PE teacher and track coach because I know how much impact the right mentor can have. Growing up, I didn’t see many coaches who looked like me or shared my experiences, and I want to change that. Representation matters, especially for Black girls and LGBTQ+ youth. My goal is to create a space where every kid feels seen, valued, and empowered to chase their dreams—whether they’re sprinting down a track or navigating life’s tougher challenges. Adversity has taught me that success isn’t about avoiding hurdles; it’s about learning how to jump higher and recover faster. This scholarship would help me continue my education and get one step closer to becoming the kind of teacher and coach who turns obstacles into opportunities for the next generation. If I can inspire just one student to believe in themselves the way I’ve learned to believe in me, then every challenge I’ve faced will have been worth it. Bravery isn’t about being fearless; it’s about moving forward even when fear tries to hold you back. And trust me, I’m moving forward, one hurdle at a time.

For me, education isn’t just a way to get a degree; it’s a way to break barriers, build confidence, and create opportunities that didn’t exist before. As a 19-year-old Black trans woman and the first in my family to go to college, education represents hope, resilience, and the chance to pave the way for future generations. Growing up in Ohio as an only child, I always knew that education was the key to building a life different from what my parents and I experienced. My relationship with them has been up and down, but one thing they instilled in me was the value of hard work and the importance of striving for more. Now that I’m at UTSA majoring in kinesiology, I’m chasing my dream of becoming an elementary or middle school PE teacher and a high school/AAU track coach. I want to use my education to inspire kids to embrace fitness, confidence, and perseverance—tools that help them on and off the field. Education is important to me because it’s about more than academics. It’s about learning how to overcome challenges, build character, and pass those lessons on to others. As someone who spent over seven years running hurdles in track, I know what it’s like to face obstacles, literally and figuratively. Whether it was balancing sports with academics, dealing with financial challenges, or transitioning after high school, every hurdle taught me how to keep pushing forward. Now, I want to teach my students and athletes that no matter how high the hurdle, there’s always a way to clear it. The legacy I hope to leave is one of representation and empowerment. Growing up, I didn’t see many teachers or coaches who looked like me or shared my experiences. As a Black trans woman, I understand how much it matters for kids to see someone who reflects their struggles and potential. I want my students to know that they’re capable of greatness, no matter what society might tell them. I also want to make fitness and health education more accessible to underserved communities. Far too often, kids from these areas are overlooked when it comes to resources and opportunities. Through programs, clinics, and mentorship, I plan to create spaces where every child can thrive, regardless of their background. Representation, access, and support—those are the pillars of the legacy I hope to leave behind. This journey hasn’t been easy. Moving from Ohio to Texas, navigating my identity, and balancing school with financial stress have all tested me. But every challenge has only deepened my drive. Education isn’t just about me; it’s about the ripple effect it creates. When I graduate in 2027, I won’t just be crossing the finish line for myself—I’ll be doing it for my family, my students, and every kid who needs someone to believe in them. Education gives me the tools to build a better future, and I’m determined to use them to make a lasting impact.

Being a first-generation college student is a lot like running hurdles—there’s a mix of excitement, fear, and the constant feeling that you have to keep moving, no matter how high the obstacles get. For me, it’s not just about earning a degree; it’s about setting a new standard for what’s possible in my family and proving to myself that I belong in spaces we’ve never been before. My career goals—becoming an elementary or middle school PE teacher and a track coach—are deeply influenced by my experiences as a first-gen student. Growing up, I didn’t always have someone to guide me through life’s hurdles (pun intended). My mom and I have always been close, but with limited resources and no blueprint for navigating higher education, I had to figure out a lot on my own. Now, I want to be the kind of mentor I needed when I was younger. Teaching PE might not sound revolutionary to some, but it’s more than just fitness to me. It’s about helping kids understand their bodies, build confidence, and create healthy habits—things I didn’t fully appreciate until I started running track. As a coach, I want to show my athletes, especially Black girls and LGBTQ+ kids, that they can thrive on and off the field. I want them to know they’re capable of overcoming any hurdle life throws their way, whether it’s in sports or beyond. Being first-gen also means I’m acutely aware of how systems can either uplift or hold people back. That awareness fuels my passion for equity in education. I’m determined to create environments where every student feels seen, supported, and celebrated. Representation matters, and as a Black trans woman, I understand how powerful it is for kids to see themselves in their mentors. This journey hasn’t been easy. Moving from Ohio to Texas, balancing school, and navigating my transition have tested me in ways I didn’t expect. But every step has reminded me why I started: to open doors for myself and the next generation. Being first-gen doesn’t define me, but it does drive me. It’s my reminder to keep pushing forward, one hurdle at a time.

Being the first in my family to go to college feels like running a hurdles race I didn’t even know I signed up for—except the hurdles are invisible, and I’ve been figuring out where they are as I sprint forward. It’s wild, exciting, and a little overwhelming all at once. To me, being a first-generation college student is about rewriting the story. It’s about breaking cycles, opening doors, and proving to myself and my family that we belong in spaces we weren’t always told were meant for us. I grew up in Ohio as an only child, raised by a mom who made sure I knew the value of hard work, even when the odds felt stacked. She supported me in everything, especially my seven-plus years of track and field, where I discovered my passion for hurdles. Track was my outlet, my escape, and my favorite way to compete. Unfortunately, I had to leave it behind when I began my transition after high school—a choice I made for my well-being, even though it hurt. But hurdles taught me lessons I’ll carry forever: how to keep pushing, adjust to obstacles, and celebrate every win, no matter how small. Now, I’m at UTSA, majoring in kinesiology and on track to graduate in 2027. My goal? To become an elementary or middle school PE teacher and a track coach for high school and AAU athletes, specializing in hurdles. Fitness isn’t just about physical health; it’s about building confidence, teaching discipline, and creating safe spaces for kids to learn about themselves. I want to be the kind of coach and teacher who sees the potential in every student, especially those who feel overlooked or out of place—because I’ve been there, and I know how much it matters to have someone in your corner. My long-term goals are simple but powerful. I want to make fitness and health accessible for every kid, no matter their background. As a Black trans woman, representation is a big deal to me. When I was growing up, there weren’t many coaches or teachers who looked like me, and that absence stuck with me. I want to be the person I didn’t have—a mentor who leads with care, supports her students beyond the classroom or track, and shows them they can rise above anything life throws at them. Being a first-gen student means carrying the weight of my family’s dreams while building a path for the next generation. It means figuring out FAFSA forms, navigating college life in Texas (where everything is HOT and big), and balancing the challenges of my identity with my drive to succeed. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it. This scholarship would help me focus on my education without stressing about how I’m going to pay for it all. It’s an investment in my ability to give back—to my students, my athletes, and my community. When I look at where I am now and where I’m headed, I can’t help but feel proud. Every hurdle I’ve jumped so far has brought me closer to my dream. And trust me, when I say I’m not stopping until I reach the finish line.

I’ve always known I wanted to work in a field where I could make a difference. As a future educator and public servant, I see myself not just as a teacher but as someone who helps shape lives and build communities. My career of choice is to become a physical education teacher and track coach, specifically for elementary and middle school students, while also serving as a mentor for high school athletes. I’m passionate about this path because I believe health, fitness, and mentorship are tools that can empower kids, help them overcome challenges, and set them on a path to success. Growing up as a Black trans woman in Ohio, I didn’t always see people who looked like me or shared my experiences in leadership positions. That lack of representation made me feel invisible at times. But it also lit a fire in me. I realized that I could be the role model I never had—a teacher and coach who shows kids they belong, no matter who they are or where they come from. My passion for this career is rooted in the belief that education isn’t just about academics; it’s about nurturing confidence, resilience, and the ability to dream big. Pursuing this dream hasn’t been easy, and I’ve made sacrifices along the way. My family didn’t have a lot of money, so I had to be creative about funding my education. From picking up part-time jobs to managing my finances with precision, I’ve learned how to stretch every dollar. Transitioning to college out of state also meant leaving behind my comfort zone and support network in Ohio, which was hard but necessary for my growth. On top of that, navigating life as a trans woman while pursuing higher education and breaking into public service hasn’t been without its hurdles. But every challenge has taught me something valuable: persistence pays off, and sacrifices now will create opportunities later. Another significant sacrifice has been time. Between balancing school, work, and volunteer opportunities, I’ve had to give up weekends, vacations, and plenty of social events to stay on track. While my peers were relaxing, I was studying, planning for my future, or working to support myself. But for me, these sacrifices aren’t regrets. They’re investments in a life that I know will make a difference, not just for me but for the kids and communities I’ll one day serve. My dream is to create inclusive spaces where every student feels valued, safe, and inspired to reach their full potential. Whether I’m teaching PE or coaching hurdles, I want to instill the values of discipline, teamwork, and self-belief in my students. Beyond that, I’m committed to advocating for policies and programs that make education and fitness accessible to all kids, especially in underserved communities. Kerry Kennedy’s story resonates deeply with me because it reflects the power of determination and resourcefulness. Like her, I’ve learned how to make small resources go a long way and turn challenges into stepping stones. Winning this scholarship would not only support my education but also bring me closer to fulfilling my mission of empowering young people through education and service. Life may not always be easy, but it’s good—and I’m determined to make it even better for the next generation.

I’m a 19-year-old Black trans woman originally from Ohio, now attending school in Texas. My journey hasn’t been the easiest, but every challenge I’ve faced has shaped me into someone driven to make a difference—not just for myself, but for the people who come after me. Growing up, my family dynamic was all about resilience. My mom is my rock—she taught me the importance of hard work, compassion, and how to keep my head up even when life felt heavy. My siblings? They’re my built-in support system. Whether we were hyping each other up before school or trash-talking over board games (in love, of course), they taught me the value of loyalty and having each other’s back. Family is where I first learned to compete, to love, and to fight for what matters. In high school, I was a student-athlete, competing in track and field. My passion? Hurdles. There’s something about the rhythm of sprinting, jumping, and pushing through obstacles that feels like a metaphor for my life. I also balanced sports with academics, earning my diploma in 2023 from Rogers High School in Toledo, Ohio. It was a lot—early practices, late-night study sessions, and navigating my identity as a trans woman—but I never let those hurdles stop me. Instead, they fueled my drive to succeed. Now, I’m pursuing a degree in education, with plans to become a PE teacher and track coach. I want to work with elementary and middle school students, laying the foundation for their health and fitness, while also coaching high school and AAU track teams, specializing in hurdles. My goal is to create a supportive and inspiring environment for young athletes, particularly those who feel overlooked or underestimated. Representation matters, and I want kids to see someone who understands their struggles and believes in their potential. Beyond coaching, I’m passionate about using sports to build community and teach life skills. Athletics isn’t just about winning; it’s about discipline, teamwork, and learning how to rise after a fall. I want to make fitness accessible to all students, especially those in underserved communities who might not have access to training programs or facilities. This scholarship would help me continue my education and put me one step closer to achieving my goals. Stephan Laurence Wolley’s legacy is one of family, faith, and competition—values I hold close to my heart. Like Stephan, I believe in giving my all, whether on the track, in the classroom, or in life. Through this scholarship, I hope to honor his memory by carrying those principles forward and using them to make a positive impact on the next generation.

The field of strength and conditioning has already come a long way from just yelling, “One more rep!” while someone struggles under a barbell. It’s more intentional now—science-backed strategies, individualized plans, and a focus on whole-person wellness. But there’s still so much room to grow. In the next 5–10 years, I see strength and conditioning becoming even more tailored, accessible, and tech-driven. And I’m ready to not just watch it happen, but to help make it happen—track hurdles and all. The future of this field is going to lean heavily into tech and data. Wearable tech isn’t going anywhere—it’s only getting better. Athletes won’t just know their step counts or heart rates; they’ll have data on recovery, muscle activation, and mental readiness. Think: your watch knowing you’re stressed and saying, “Maybe let’s skip that heavy squat today, okay?” (A sassy watch? I’m here for it.) This precision will change the game, especially for younger athletes. As a future middle school PE teacher and high school/AU track coach, I’ll use this tech to keep my athletes safe, performing at their best, and actually enjoying their growth without unnecessary setbacks. I also think we’re finally going to start valuing the mental side of strength and conditioning as much as the physical. Let’s be real—athletes, especially young ones, are under ridiculous pressure. If the next decade doesn’t prioritize mental health in training programs, we’ve failed. I want to create environments where my athletes feel supported emotionally as well as physically. A kid who feels safe and heard will show up harder—for their goals, their team, and themselves. Representation matters too. I didn’t have many (or any) coaches who looked like me growing up—Black, trans, and figuring life out one awkward step at a time. That absence hit harder than I realized. Now, I want to be the role model I needed. Someone who makes sure every kid, no matter who they are, feels like they belong on the field, the track, or wherever they choose to compete. I’ll specialize in hurdles because, let’s face it, they’re the ultimate metaphor for life. You sprint, you jump, you stumble, and then you sprint again. It’s beautiful chaos, and I want my athletes to feel the same way about chasing their goals. Accessibility is another big shift I see coming. Strength and conditioning can’t just be for elite athletes or people with fancy gyms. It has to reach more communities—especially underserved ones. The goal? Leveling the playing field so every kid has a shot, whether they’re training for their first 5K or dreaming of Olympic gold. As a coach and PE teacher, I’ll push for programs that make fitness approachable and fun, especially for kids who might not think of themselves as “athletes” yet. Because guess what? They are. So, how do I fit into all of this? Simple: by being the coach who cares just as much about who my athletes are as I do about how fast they run or how high they jump. I’ll use the tools, tech, and mindset shifts coming to strength and conditioning to create something bigger than just wins or personal records. I want my athletes to leave my team feeling stronger—not just physically, but in every part of their lives. Strength and conditioning is evolving, and I’m here for it. In the next decade, I see it becoming smarter, kinder, and more inclusive. And when it does? I’ll be on the frontlines, stopwatch in hand, ready to make sure every kid who crosses my path knows they can jump every hurdle life throws their way.

When Community Shapes a Mission Growing up Black and trans in Ohio, I was already used to navigating a world that didn’t feel built for me. Rogers High School wasn’t exactly a beacon of queer joy, but it was where I started seeing the cracks in the system—and the people falling through them. I didn’t fully step into my identity until after I graduated, but there was one moment in high school that stayed with me, shaping how I see activism and the work I want to do moving forward. There was this friend—let’s call her Jay. Jay was a lesbian, loud in all the best ways, and carried herself like she didn’t care what people thought (even if, deep down, I knew she did). We’d known each other for years, but senior year hit her different. She told me about how her family didn’t support her, how she was tired of hiding pieces of herself, and how heavy it all felt. I didn’t have the words for it at the time, but listening to her, I realized she wasn’t just talking about herself. She was describing so many of us—me included. We ended up sitting in the back corner of the library one day, talking for hours. Jay wasn’t looking for advice or a pep talk; she just wanted someone who got it, someone who could sit in the mess with her without pretending to have all the answers. I didn’t know it at the time, but that moment shifted something in me. I realized how important it is to hold space for people, especially when the world feels like it’s doing everything it can to push them out. After that, I started paying more attention. I noticed the quiet ways people in the LGBTQIA+ community tried to survive, whether it was by shrinking themselves to fit in or finding little pockets of freedom where they could just be. I also saw the way other people—teachers, classmates, even friends—ignored what they didn’t understand. And I decided I didn’t want to be one of those people. I wanted to be someone who showed up, someone who made the cracks smaller, even if I couldn’t fix them all. Now, as a Black trans woman, I think about Jay a lot. She taught me that activism isn’t always loud or flashy. Sometimes, it’s sitting in a library corner, making sure someone knows they’re not alone. That’s the energy I want to carry into my future. Whether it’s creating spaces for LGBTQIA+ youth, pushing for policies that actually protect us, or just being someone who listens—I want to do the work that makes survival easier for the next generation. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that representation and support aren’t just buzzwords. They’re lifelines. And I want to make sure those lifelines are there for the people who need them most, no matter how heavy their world feels.

My name is Azrael, and I am a 19-year-old sophomore at UTSA, majoring in kinesiology. As a trans Black woman, my experiences with mental health have been deeply intertwined with my identity and my journey through life. These experiences have significantly shaped my beliefs, relationships, and career aspirations. Growing up, I faced numerous challenges that impacted my mental health. Being transgender in a society that often doesn't understand or accept you is incredibly tough. On top of that, being Black adds another layer of complexity and struggle. The weight of societal expectations and discrimination can be overwhelming, leading to feelings of isolation, anxiety, and depression. One of the most profound influences on my beliefs about mental health came from witnessing my mom's struggles. She battled depression for years, and seeing her go through that made me acutely aware of how critical mental health is. Her experiences taught me that mental health issues are not just personal struggles but societal ones that need more understanding, compassion, and better resources. These experiences have deeply influenced my relationships. I've learned the importance of empathy, support, and open communication. I strive to be there for my friends and family, offering a listening ear and a shoulder to lean on. My journey has also taught me to value authenticity and vulnerability in relationships. By being open about my struggles, I encourage others to do the same, fostering a sense of community and mutual support. My career aspirations have been shaped significantly by my experiences with mental health. As someone who has found solace and strength in physical activity, I decided to major in Kinesiology and pursue a career as a Physical Therapist Assistant. I believe that physical health and mental health are deeply interconnected. Through my work, I hope to provide holistic care that addresses both the physical and mental well-being of my patients. My involvement in track and field has also played a crucial role in my mental health journey. Running track for seven years, specializing in the 110m hurdles, 300m hurdles, and pole vault, has taught me discipline, resilience, and the importance of setting and achieving goals. It's been a vital outlet for managing stress and anxiety. The camaraderie and support from my teammates have provided a sense of belonging and helped me navigate my mental health challenges. In addition to my academic and athletic pursuits, I am passionate about mental health advocacy. I plan to volunteer at local organizations that focus on mental health awareness and support. Through these experiences, I can see firsthand the difference that compassion, understanding, and proper resources can make in someone's life. I am committed to being a part of the solution and working towards a society where mental health is prioritized and everyone has access to the care they need. In conclusion, my experiences with mental health have profoundly influenced my beliefs, relationships, and career aspirations. They have taught me the importance of empathy, support, and holistic care. I am determined to use my education and experiences to make a positive impact in the field of physical therapy and mental health advocacy. The Elevate Mental Health Awareness Scholarship would not only help me achieve my educational goals but also empower me to continue my work in raising awareness and supporting those who struggle with mental health issues. Thank you for considering my application.