I have never experienced “normal” stability in the traditional sense. I grew up having to adapt quickly, moving between environments, learning how to read people before I spoke, and understanding early that my voice would either be shaped by my circumstances or used to reshape them. What makes me different is not just what I have gone through, but how I choose to respond to it: through service, discipline, and creation. As a first-generation college student and someone who has navigated housing instability and family separation, I learned to rely on self-direction long before I ever understood what that meant academically. I did not have a blueprint for college, financial aid, or even basic systems that others often take for granted. Instead, I became resourceful. I asked questions, I learned how to advocate for myself, and I started turning confusion into structure. That same skill—turning uncertainty into action is what now guides my approach to helping others. My uniqueness also comes through my identity as a poet and future medical professional. I write to process experiences that are often difficult to say out loud, especially experiences tied to grief, trauma, and identity. But I also use writing as a way to make people feel seen. I have shared pieces of my poetry in spaces where I did not know who was listening, only later finding out that my words helped someone else feel less alone. That is something I carry with me deeply: you never always see who is being impacted by your honesty. In addition to writing, I am pursuing biomedical sciences and emergency medicine with the goal of becoming a physician. My path in healthcare is shaped by the belief that care is not only clinical: it is human. I have learned that people do not always need perfect solutions; sometimes they need someone who is willing to sit with them, listen, and treat them with dignity. Whether through volunteering, leadership, or future clinical work, I try to bring that mindset into every space I enter. I also embrace service in small but meaningful ways. I help others in academic settings when they are overwhelmed, I mentor when I can, and I stay aware of the people who are often overlooked in group environments. I have learned that impact is not always loud. Sometimes it is quiet consistency, showing up, being reliable, and offering encouragement when someone is close to giving up. What makes me different is not just resilience. It is the way I have learned to turn that resilience into action that benefits others. I do not know who is always watching, but I understand that someone always is. Because of that, I choose to move through the world with intention. If my presence can remind even one person that their circumstances do not define their future, then I consider that enough reason to keep going.

I learned early that survival and ambition often grow in the same place. I am an immigrant to the United States, and my journey here was not defined by opportunity, but by separation. When my parents became unable to care for me, I entered the foster care system—a reality that forced me to grow up quickly and navigate a world that often felt uncertain and temporary. Stability was never guaranteed, but I refused to let instability define my future. Instead, I made a decision that would change the course of my life: I enlisted in the reserves. For me, it was not just a commitment to serve—it was a path out of the foster system and a bridge toward higher education. It was discipline, structure, and purpose at a time when I needed all three. It gave me the foundation to begin building a life on my own terms without the usual structure others have. As a young Black woman, an immigrant, and now a Pre-Med Biology student, my path has never been linear. Alongside these challenges, I carry the loss of my mother, a military woman whose strength continues to shape how I move through the world. Even in her absence, she remains my greatest example of resilience, service, and compassion. Watching her serve both in the military and in medicine planted a vision in me long before I fully understood it. Today, I am pursuing that vision through my goal of working in emergency medicine—where urgency meets compassion, and where lives can be changed in a single moment. But my ambition is not just personal; it is rooted in what I have lived. I have seen how systems fail young people—especially Black girls—when they lack stability, mentorship, and access. I know what it means to be displaced, to carry trauma quietly, and to still be expected to succeed. These experiences did not break me; they sharpened my understanding of how much change is needed. That is why my future in medicine is not only about becoming a doctor—it is about becoming an advocate. I plan to work in emergency medicine, serving individuals in their most vulnerable moments, particularly those from underserved communities. Beyond clinical care, I want to create programs for unhoused and at-risk youth—especially young women navigating foster care or instability—so they have access to both healthcare and long-term support. I want to build spaces where they are not just treated, but truly seen. Education, to me, is more than a pathway—it is resistance. It is how I reclaim control over my future in a system that often limits women like me. Yet I am also aware of the financial barriers that come with this journey. Like many Black women, I am pursuing higher education while navigating the weight of its cost. This scholarship would not only ease that burden; it would invest in a future where my work extends far beyond myself. I am not simply working toward a degree—I am building a legacy of service, resilience, and transformation. Everything I have endured has prepared me not just to succeed, but to create change. My story is not defined by what I lacked, but by what I am building. And I am building a future where survival is no longer the starting point for girls like me—where it is only the beginning.

There was a time when my life felt like it had no direction—when stability was something I watched other people have. Experiencing homelessness at a young age forced me to grow up quickly. I learned how to adapt, how to stay mentally strong when everything around me felt uncertain, and how to keep going even when quitting would have been easier. In those moments, I didn’t have much, but I held onto one thing: the belief that if I kept pushing forward, something would change. That change began when I found rugby at Norwich University. Rugby became more than just a sport to me—it became structure, purpose, and a place where I belonged. The first time I stepped onto the field, I realized that rugby didn’t care about where I came from. It didn’t judge my past. It only demanded effort, discipline, and heart. And that was something I could control. Through rugby, I learned what it truly means to be part of a team. When you step onto the field, you’re not just playing for yourself—you’re playing for the person next to you. That sense of responsibility shaped my character in ways nothing else could. I became more accountable, more disciplined, and more driven. Whether it was showing up to practice on time, pushing through exhaustion, or supporting my teammates, rugby taught me that consistency and commitment matter. Off the field, those lessons carried into my life and academics. Even when things were difficult, I stayed focused on improving myself. I worked to maintain strong grades and stayed involved in my community whenever I could, because I understood that growth doesn’t only happen in one area of life—it happens everywhere. Rugby gave me the mindset to keep striving, even when circumstances were not in my favor. What makes rugby so powerful is its ability to unify people from completely different backgrounds. On my team, everyone has their own story, their own struggles, and their own reasons for playing. But once we step onto the field, those differences disappear. We become one unit, working toward a common goal. That experience has shown me the importance of respect, communication, and trust—values I will carry with me for the rest of my life. Today, I am no longer defined by where I started. I am defined by how I responded. Going from homelessness to competing for a rugby scholarship is something I take pride in, not because it was easy, but because it wasn’t. It required resilience, determination, and a refusal to give up on myself. This scholarship represents more than financial support—it represents an opportunity to continue building my future through both education and the sport that helped shape me. I plan to keep growing as a player by pushing my limits physically and mentally, and as a person by staying committed to my goals and giving back to others who may be facing challenges similar to mine. Rugby didn’t just change my life—it gave me direction, purpose, and the confidence to believe that I can achieve more. No matter where I go from here, I will carry those lessons with me, always striving to be stronger, more disciplined, and more resilient than I was the day before.

Letter to the Alexandra Rowan Foundation ( prompt choice #3) I chose the poetry prompt because poetry is the only form that has allowed me to speak honestly about my body, fear, and survival without overexplaining. Nonfiction often feels too controlled. Poetry lets the truth exist as it actually does—in fragments, pauses, and breath. For a long time, I hated my body. Not only for how it looked, but for how unpredictable and demanding it felt. I resented the fear it carried, the way it reacted to stress, and the way it refused to be ignored. I treated my body as something to discipline rather than something that was trying to protect me. That tension between resentment and survival is where this poem began. “Letter to the Body” is written in second person because I needed distance to be honest. Addressing my body as “you” allowed me to name my anger and mistrust while also recognizing the truth: my body kept me alive when my life felt unsafe and overwhelming. It learned how to survive before I learned how to understand it. This poem also speaks quietly to women’s health. Women are often taught to override their bodies, to push through pain and dismiss warning signs. Writing this poem was an act of reconciliation—choosing to listen instead of fight, and presence instead of control. Alexandra Rowan’s legacy as a writer and a woman deeply resonates with me. Her story reminds us how fragile and powerful the body can be, and how important it is to give voice to experiences that are often invisible. This poem is my way of doing that—making survival visible as a daily, embodied choice. Poetry has helped me stay alive in quiet moments and given me language when silence felt dangerous. I submit this poem as an honest offering and a reflection of the writer I am becoming—one who tells the truth with care and without apology. HERE IT IS: Letter to the Body You carried me when I did not trust you. You stayed when I questioned every signal, every ache, every warning. I blamed you for being loud, for being careful, for refusing to disappear quietly. I asked why you remembered what I wanted to forget. Why breath sometimes hesitated. Why silence felt crowded. Why fear lived so close to my pulse. I didn’t understand then that you were protecting me the only way you knew how. You learned survival before I learned language. You kept count when my mind went numb. You slowed me down when the world demanded speed. You whispered when shouting would have broken us. I owe you an apology. For every time I treated you like a problem to solve instead of a home that kept me alive. Thank you for staying alert. For staying present. For staying. Thank you for teaching me that caution is not cowardice, and that care is a form of strength. I forgive you for what you carry. I forgive myself for not listening sooner. We are still here. And now, when I write, I write with you— not against you.

My military family member is my mother. She served as a Marine in the Military Auxiliary Radio System (MARS) program, and her service shaped the way I understand responsibility, sacrifice, and survival. She never spoke about the military as something glamorous. Instead, she described it as serious work—showing up when things are hard and doing what needs to be done, even when no one is watching or when you feel like you have nothing on you left. One of the most important lessons my mother taught me was that service is not always a choice made from comfort. Sometimes, it is a decision made out of necessity, and whatever reason you make your choice to serve, you serve with pride and own your mistakes. That lesson stayed with me long after she passed away. After losing my mother, my life became unstable very quickly. I was facing the real possibility of homelessness and had no safety net to fall back on. As the child of an immigrant mother, I had no extended family in the United States and no support system. The only person I thought might help was my father, but he chose his career over caring for me. Eventually, I entered the foster system. During that time, I often asked myself what my mother would have done if she were still here. She wouldn’t have waited. She wouldn’t have panicked. She would have acted. So I did the same. In order to survive and avoid becoming homeless, I signed myself up for military service. I initially committed to the Air Force because I needed structure, stability, and a way forward. Later, I also signed up with the Marines, following the path my mother once walked. These decisions were not made lightly or for prestige. They were made because I needed a lifeline. I needed a home. I needed a way to keep going and I needed a change. As I learned more, I realized that the enlisted paths I had taken did not align with my long-term goal of becoming an officer, and I discovered that I could attend college, get a degree, and still serve so I became a midshipman. That realization was difficult. It forced me to confront the gap between survival decisions and long-term planning. Still, I do not regret acting when I had no other option. I did what I knew how to do in that moment: I chose survival. What my mother taught me most was accountability. You own your choices—both mistakes and successes. You learn from them. You adjust your course without giving up. That mindset is something I carry with me every day. When plans change or things don’t work out the way I imagined, I don’t see that as failure. I see it as growth. My mother’s service shaped how I respond to hardship. She showed me that strength is not about having everything figured out; it is about continuing forward anyway. Her example gave me the courage to take responsibility for my life when no one else could do it for me. James T. Godwin’s story resonates with me because he lived a life of service far beyond the uniform. He was a leader, a provider, and a storyteller who cared deeply about his family. My mother was the same. She served quietly, loved deeply, and left behind lessons that continue to guide me. Thank you for taking the time to read my story and considering my application.

Growing up in a single-parent household shaped my understanding of struggle early on. After losing my mother, my life became unstable in ways I did not fully understand at the time. I faced emotional hardship, financial insecurity, and periods where simply staying focused on school felt overwhelming. There were moments when my future felt uncertain, and continuing forward required more effort than I thought I had. Those experiences are what led me toward medicine. Navigating loss, instability, and trauma made me aware of how deeply life events affect both physical and mental health. I saw how stress, grief, and lack of support can change a person’s ability to function. I also saw how powerful it is when someone listens, takes you seriously, and offers care without judgment. That awareness stayed with me and gradually turned into a desire to be the person who shows up for others during their most difficult moments. My interest in medicine is rooted in wanting to help people who feel overwhelmed, unheard, or stuck in survival mode. I am currently pursuing a pre-medical path because I want the skills and knowledge to make a real difference in patients’ lives. Medicine challenges you to think critically, act responsibly, and remain compassionate under pressure. That balance speaks to me because I have learned to function under pressure myself. The challenges I faced forced me to grow up quickly. I learned independence, resilience, and self-advocacy out of necessity. I had to manage responsibilities while processing grief and trauma, all while continuing my education. Those experiences strengthened my discipline and taught me how to stay focused even when circumstances are difficult. They also made me more patient and empathetic toward others, especially those facing invisible struggles. In healthcare, I believe those qualities matter just as much as technical skill. Patients often come in carrying more than symptoms—they bring fear, uncertainty, and personal history. My experiences have taught me how to listen carefully, remain calm, and treat people with respect. I understand what it feels like to need help and not know where to turn, and that perspective will guide how I care for patients. Financial barriers and personal hardship have not stopped me from pursuing medicine, but they have made the journey more challenging. This scholarship would help relieve some of that burden and allow me to focus more fully on my education and training. It would also affirm that resilience and perseverance are recognized and valued. Every challenge I have faced has shaped the person I am becoming. Rather than holding me back, those experiences clarified my purpose. I am pursuing medicine because I want to provide care that is thoughtful, patient-centered, and rooted in understanding. My goal is to use my education not only to treat illness, but to make healthcare more humane for the people who need it most.

The family member I lost was my mother. Losing her changed everything about my life—my sense of safety, my understanding of love, and the way I move through the world. My mother was my constant. She was the person who made things feel manageable, even when life was difficult. She showed me what care looked like through actions, not just words. When she passed away, I lost more than a parent. I lost my anchor. The world felt suddenly quieter and heavier, and I was forced to grow up much faster than I was ready to. Her death left a space that nothing could fill. Grief did not come all at once—it arrived in waves. Some days it showed up as sadness, other days as anger, confusion, or exhaustion. There were moments when simply getting through the day felt like an accomplishment. I had to learn how to function while carrying something invisible that most people could not see. After losing my mother, my life became unstable in ways I never expected. I faced challenges that no young person should have to navigate alone. There were times when continuing school and planning for the future felt impossible. But even in the hardest moments, I remembered how much my mother believed in me. I knew she would not want her absence to be the end of my story. That belief is what kept me going. Her loss shaped my resilience. It taught me how to sit with pain instead of running from it. It taught me independence, strength, and empathy. I became more aware of how fragile life is and how important it is to show up for others. I learned that perseverance does not mean being unaffected—it means continuing forward even when your heart is heavy. Grief also shaped my sense of purpose. I am more intentional with my goals now because I understand how quickly things can change. I take my education seriously because I see it as a way to honor my mother’s sacrifices and love. Every step forward feels like carrying her with me, even though she is no longer physically present. There are still moments when I wish I could talk to her, ask for advice, or hear her voice. That loss never disappears. But it has become part of who I am, not something that defines my limits. It reminds me to live fully, to care deeply, and to keep going even when things feel overwhelming. The Eden Alaine Memorial Scholarship resonates with me because it recognizes how deeply loss can shape a person’s life—and how continuing forward takes real strength. Losing my mother was the hardest experience I have faced, but it also shaped my perseverance. I am still standing, still striving, and still building a future she would be proud of. I carry her with me in everything I do.

My name is Beldomisa Mendes, and my entire life has been shaped by loss, resilience, and the hope that education can change everything. I grew up in Angola with my mother, who was strong, loving, and the person who taught me the meaning of hard work and kindness. She raised me mostly on her own, and even though we didn’t have much, she gave me everything she could. When she passed away before I turned eighteen, my world fell apart. I suddenly became a daughter without a parent, a teenager trying to survive alone, and a young woman forced to grow up faster than anyone should. Losing my mother changed everything. I had to face life in the United States without her support, guidance, or comfort. I entered the foster system, moved between homes, and spent months feeling lost and unsure what my future would look like. I did not have the family structure that many people around me relied on. I did not have someone to explain college paperwork, someone to encourage me, or someone to tell me that I was going to be okay. I had to figure out everything on my own—school, work, immigration, housing, and healing from trauma. But even in those difficult years, my mother’s words stayed with me. She always told me that education was the one thing nobody could ever take away from me. So I chose to honor her by pursuing school with everything I had. I pushed through fear, loneliness, and instability because I knew she would want me to build a life better than the one I started with. Being a student without parents forced me to become resourceful and independent. I learned how to advocate for myself, how to find mentors, how to survive difficult living conditions, and how to keep going even when I felt alone. These challenges have made me stronger, kinder, and more determined to help others who are struggling. Today, I am an undergraduate biology and neuroscience student, and I am also enlisted in the Marine Corps. My dream is to become a doctor, specifically in neurology or emergency medicine. I want to help people the way I wished someone could have helped my family when we were struggling. I want to serve communities that often feel unseen—immigrant families, low-income families, and young people facing trauma or instability. I want my education to be more than a degree. I want it to be a way to make a difference. Losing a parent taught me empathy. Growing up without stability taught me leadership. Being first-generation taught me courage. And surviving everything I’ve been through taught me that one person’s kindness can change someone’s life. Through my education, I plan to become that person for others. I want to be a doctor who listens, who understands pain, and who treats people with dignity. I want to use the opportunities I’ve fought for to uplift others who feel like they have no one in their corner. This scholarship would help me continue my education without the constant stress of trying to pay for everything alone. But more importantly, it would honor the strength of my mother and every parent who has tried their best in difficult circumstances. Thank you for considering my story.

My name is Beldomisa Mendes, and I proudly serve in the United States Marine Corps. I am currently enlisted in the Marine Corps Reserve, working toward becoming a Marine Corps officer in the future. My training has taken me across several states, and each step has strengthened my discipline, resilience, and commitment to serving something greater than myself. Wearing the Marine uniform changed the way I see myself—I am no longer the girl who came to the U.S. with nothing; I am a woman who has sworn to protect and serve my country. My military service has shaped every part of my goals for the future. I am an undergraduate student studying Biology on the Pre-Med track with a focus on Neuroscience and Emergency Medicine. My dream is to become a medical officer in the Marine Corps and later earn my M.D. to serve as a neurologist or pediatric doctor. Before I ever stepped into a uniform, I knew I wanted to help people. But serving in the Marines showed me what it truly means to be responsible for others' lives, to stay calm under pressure, and to push forward even when exhausted. Those experiences made my goal clearer: I want to become the kind of doctor who shows up in moments of crisis and provides strength, knowledge, and hope. As a veteran, I have faced challenges that have shaped who I am. I grew up without stability, and I came to the U.S. as an immigrant with no support system. I lost my mother young, experienced homelessness, and had to fight for my education on my own. Joining the Marines meant stepping into a world where I could earn respect, build discipline, and prove to myself that my past did not define my future. But balancing school, service requirements, and financial responsibilities has not been easy. I am a first-generation college student, and every semester is a challenge to afford tuition, books, uniforms, and basic needs. Still, the military taught me how to adapt, overcome, and push forward no matter the obstacle. Giving back to my community is something I take seriously, especially after joining the Marines. Like John Acuña, I believe leadership is not just about rank—it’s about helping people where you are. I support my community by mentoring other first-generation and immigrant students who feel lost navigating college life. I volunteer on campus through student government and community events, and I am building a nonprofit project called Root & Rise to support unhoused teenage girls. I know what it feels like to be alone, scared, or without guidance, and I want other young women to have someone in their corner. I also give back by sharing my story through my writing. I am a published poet, and my work focuses on grief, identity, healing, and the immigrant experience. Many young women—especially those in the military, immigrant families, or foster care—tell me that my writing makes them feel less alone. I see that as a form of service too. Serving my country has taught me courage, purpose, and responsibility. Pursuing higher education has given me direction and hope. And giving back to my community keeps me grounded in the reason I work so hard: I want to serve, heal, and uplift others, just like John Acuña did throughout his life. This scholarship would help me continue my education while I serve, and it would support my goal of becoming a Marine officer and future doctor who gives back to her community the same way others gave to me.

To whom It might concern, Thank you for this amazing opportunity. My plans for the future come from everything I have lived through. I grew up facing many challenges—abuse, instability, immigration struggles, and times when I didn’t know where I would sleep next. Because of these experiences, education has always been more than school for me. It has been hope. It has been the one thing that could help me build a better life. My dream now is to continue my education in science, serve my community, and become a doctor so I can help people who feel the way I once did: unseen, unheard, and unsure if their future mattered. I am currently studying biology and neuroscience, and I plan to go to medical school after I complete my degree. I want to become a neurologist or a medical officer because I am passionate about understanding the human body and helping people heal. I also want to support immigrant families, people dealing with trauma, and young students who face the same struggles I once faced. I want to be a doctor who not only treats symptoms but listens to stories. Someone who gives people comfort, safety, and hope. I am also enlisted in the Marine Corps, which teaches me discipline, leadership, and the importance of service. The Marines have helped me grow stronger mentally and physically, but college teaches me how to think deeply, study, communicate, and prepare for the medical field. Both paths work together to shape the person I want to become. But even with all my motivation, college is expensive. I am a first-generation student. I do not have help from parents, and I am paying for my education on my own. There have been times when I had to choose between bills and books. Times when I had to work long hours while still trying to keep up with my classes. This scholarship would help reduce that stress. It would allow me to focus more on school instead of constantly worrying about how to pay for it. This scholarship would help me pay for textbooks, lab fees, transportation, and other basic needs so I can stay stable while continuing my education. It would give me more time to study, volunteer, and grow in the field I love. It would help me stay on track toward medical school by easing the financial pressure that holds many first-generation students back. My plan for the future is not only to succeed myself, but to help others succeed too. I want to mentor young immigrant girls who feel lost. I want to show students from unstable homes that they can still build a future. I want to be someone who proves that your past does not decide your worth. College has already changed my life. This scholarship would make it possible for me to continue my education without falling behind or being overwhelmed by financial stress. I am determined to reach my goals, and with help from this scholarship, I will be one step closer to becoming a doctor, serving my country, and giving back to the communities that shaped me. Thank you for considering my application and taking the time to read it.

Most students begin their education with stability—a home, supportive parents, a quiet desk where homework waits for them. My path did not look like that. I became a non-traditional student long before I understood what the word meant. I grew up navigating abuse, instability, homelessness, and the daily work of survival. I became an immigrant with no roadmap, a daughter without a parent to advocate for her, and a young woman who had to choose resilience over despair before I even knew what resilience was. Nothing about my journey has followed a traditional script, and yet—like Andrea Worden—I’ve learned to build a life driven by purpose, compassion, and the belief that even broken beginnings can lead to powerful futures. When I arrived in the United States, I had no safety net. I was balancing school, grief, culture shock, and fear, all while learning to protect myself in environments that were not always kind. When my mother passed away, everything I had depended on emotionally collapsed, and I entered the foster system, moving from place to place with more uncertainty than belonging. I learned quickly that education would either be my escape or another thing I lost. So I held onto it. Even when I was sleeping on couches, even when I was working just to afford food, even when I had no documents, even when other seventeen-year-olds had families cheering them on—my motivation came from the belief that I could still build something better. This is what makes me a non-traditional student: I am pursuing my education not from a place of comfort, but from survival, courage, and determination. School is not something I do; it is something I fought to keep. Despite everything, kindness never left me. If anything, hardship sharpened it. I’ve always believed that pain should make you softer, not harder. Whether it was helping other students in foster care fill out college applications, supporting friends who were struggling with mental health, translating for families who didn’t speak English, or stepping into leadership roles so others would feel safe—I carried compassion with me even when little was given in return. When I enlisted in the Marines, it wasn’t because my path was easy. It was because I wanted to serve with honor and prove to myself that I could transform everything I’d lived through into strength. Boot camp taught me discipline, but my life before the military taught me the most important lesson: how to endure. How to keep pushing when every muscle says stop. How to lift others up even when I am tired. When other recruits struggled, I was the one quietly encouraging them, reminding them that they were not alone—because I know exactly what loneliness feels like. Andrea Worden saw people for their heart, not their résumé. I see myself in that philosophy. My transcript doesn’t show the nights I studied biology by phone flashlight because the power was cut. It doesn’t show the mornings I went to school hungry. It doesn’t show the immigration court dates, the concussion that pulled me out of sports, or the emotional recovery that took years. But my life shows it—through the grit I’ve built, the kindness I give, and the compassion I extend to anyone who crosses my path. One moment that shaped who I am today happened during my senior year of high school. I was living with someone who was not safe, yet I still tried to finish homework, apply to colleges, and act like everything was normal. One night, after months of holding everything inside, I broke down and told a trusted adult what was happening. I thought admitting weakness would make me look fragile, but it did the opposite: it opened the door to support, protection, and the chance to rebuild my life. That was the moment I learned that strength isn’t silence—strength is honesty, vulnerability, and the courage to start again. That experience completely changed my path. I became committed not just to surviving, but to helping others survive. I joined student leadership. I mentored younger girls going through difficult home situations. I began volunteering for organizations supporting immigrant youth and homeless teens. I wrote poetry to raise awareness about trauma, grief, and healing. And I promised myself that no one around me would ever feel invisible, the way I once did. Today, I am a biology and neuroscience student with dreams of becoming a physician—specifically someone who treats patients with compassion first and credentials second. My career goal is to become a neurologist or medical officer, serving both in the community and within the military. I want my education to be more than a degree; I want it to be a lifeline I extend to others. I am not the typical student, and I am proud of that. My life has made me stronger, more empathetic, and more determined than any straight-line path could have. I carry the same spirit Andrea Worden lived by: perseverance rooted in kindness, strength shaped by adversity, and a deep desire to uplift those who feel unseen. This scholarship wouldn’t just support my education—it would honor a legacy I already strive to live every day. My story isn’t polished, but it is real. And like Andrea, I intend to use it to change lives.

Recovery, to me, is the moment you decide that the life you were handed will not be the life that defines you. I am in recovery not from substances, but from years of instability, trauma, homelessness, and survival mode that shaped how I saw myself and what I believed I deserved. Recovery has been the process of relearning safety, rebuilding trust in my own decisions, and choosing a future that is gentler than my past. For me, recovery meant leaving abuse, seeking help without shame, and fighting for my education while navigating immigration, housing insecurity, and the constant pressure to “hold everything together” on my own. It meant becoming clean from the beliefs that told me I was unworthy, unlovable, or incapable of achieving more. Recovery is the daily commitment to break cycles that harmed me and create new ones rooted in purpose, discipline, and hope. It is choosing to study, to serve, to build a career in medicine, and to become the version of myself my younger self prayed for. Recovery is not a finish line — it is a promise to continue healing, growing, and rising, no matter how many times life tries to pull me back.

One of the most challenging experiences I faced was starting anew in a foreign country without the mother who raised me, the home where I grew up, or the safety net that most individuals take for granted. I arrived in the United States from Angola as a teenager, equipped with only two things: fear and determination. My mother passed away just before I turned eighteen, erasing the little stability I had left. I transitioned from couch to couch, from one home to another, striving to juggle school, survival, and grief all simultaneously. As an immigrant, I found myself alone, learning English, adapting to a new culture, and maturing into adulthood far sooner than I should have. Yet, it was through these very adversities that I discovered my strength, my ingenuity, and the motivation to pursue a future in STEM. The struggle that had the most significant impact on me was not just my status as an immigrant, but the necessity to construct my life without a roadmap, guidance, or a family framework to rely upon. I had to find a way to attend school full-time, apply for legal status, work when possible, manage trauma, and secure shelter—all while aiming to perform academically at the level I knew I was capable of. There were times when I was uncertain of where I would sleep next, instances when the pressure felt overwhelming, and moments when I considered giving up—not due to a lack of ability, but because I was utterly fatigued. What motivated me to persist was a sense of responsibility and resourcefulness. My mother instilled in me the belief that education is the most powerful tool a woman can possess. Following her passing, that belief became my inheritance. I learned to advocate for myself within systems that were foreign to me. I reached out to lawyers to resolve my immigration status. I spoke to teachers when I required assistance. I sought mentors and adult figures who could provide guidance in the absence of my family. I taught myself how to navigate FAFSA, college applications, medical forms, legal documents, and financial planning. I improved my English by studying every evening, translating song lyrics, textbooks, and at times, entire conversations. I learned how to survive—and subsequently, how to thrive. This resourcefulness propelled me directly into STEM. Science became more than just a subject; it became my foundation. I was drawn to biology and neuroscience because they offered a sense of clarity in a world that once seemed unpredictable. Where my life had been disorderly, science provided logic. Where my path had been unclear, STEM presented opportunity, order, and purpose. I am currently pursuing biology, emergency medicine, and neuroscience because I aspire to be a doctor who comprehends resilience not only academically but also personally. My lived experiences will enable me to become a physician who recognizes the whole patient—their fears, their hopes, and the unseen battles they face. Being an immigrant transformed me into a student who values education, who studies purposefully, and who seeks understanding rather than rote memorization. It also shaped me into a future professional who perceives potential where others identify obstacles. I possess the skills to find solutions in situations where none seem apparent. I have learned to remain composed in crises because my life has been one long crisis. I know how to adapt, innovate, and lead because I have had no choice but to do so. I take great pride in being the daughter of immigrants in the field of STEM. My challenges didn’t defeat me; instead, they shaped me.

I often think about how courage is not always loud. Sometimes it is a girl boarding a plane alone at sixteen. Sometimes it is leaving everything familiar in search of safety, education, and a life where your dreams can exist. When I read about Malgorzata “Maggie” Kwiecien, I felt a surprising sense of recognition, almost as if someone had written parts of my story before I ever lived them. She crossed an ocean for new opportunities. I crossed one for survival. But we both arrived in the United States with the same thing: no support system, no certainty, and no guarantee except our own determination. Like Maggie, I learned early that independence is not a choice; it is a necessity. I moved to the U.S. from Angola alone, navigating a new culture, a new school system, and a new language while trying to process grief, instability, and the loss of my old life. I worked, studied, and rebuilt myself from the ground up, often relying on my belief that education would be the key to changing my story. Maggie arrived in the U.S. with no safety net and faced every challenge head-on. I understand the loneliness of starting over in a place where nobody knows your name or your history. I understand what it means to hold onto your goals when everything around you feels uncertain. Maggie was known for her physical bravery—skiing, climbing mountains, running, diving, and constantly testing the limits of her own strength. My version of that bravery looked different, but it felt the same. I pushed myself into sports like rugby, wrestling, and volleyball, not because they were easy but because they taught me to trust my body, my resilience, and my ability to rise after being knocked down. On the field, I learned that strength is not the absence of fear; it is the choice to keep moving anyway. Every physical challenge I took on reminded me that I could overcome difficulties outside the field too. What inspires me most about Maggie is that her bravery went beyond the physical. She was intellectually fearless—bold enough to question, debate, and pursue mastery in engineering. She refused to let the world limit what a woman could achieve in STEM. That boldness is something I carry with me in my own academic journey. I am now studying biology, neuroscience, and emergency medicine, determined to become a doctor and eventually a neurologist. Like Maggie, I am devoted to knowledge. When I face something complex, I don’t turn away; I lean in. I want to understand the human body the way she wanted to understand structures, fires, and engineering systems. I want to be an expert, not just a participant. I relate to Maggie’s resilience in the face of hardship, but I also relate to her hope. She built a life in the U.S. through perseverance and curiosity. I am doing the same. Every step I take—every class, every exam, every late night spent studying—is part of my promise to myself to create the future I once feared I would never have. Maggie’s story reminds me that women like us don’t simply survive; we rebuild, excel, and inspire others. I am like her in my determination, courage to start over, commitment to learning, and refusal to let obstacles define me. I hope to honor her legacy by becoming the kind of woman who turns challenges into purpose and who uses her education not only for herself but also for the communities she will one day serve.

Rugby family means belonging in a world where, for a long time, I had to survive without it. Before I ever stepped onto a pitch, I knew what it felt like to fight—but not for a score, not for a trophy, and not with a team beside me. I fought through instability, loss, and years of feeling like I had to carry every weight alone. I knew how to be strong, but I didn’t know what it felt like to be supported. That changed the day I found rugby. Rugby became the first place where no one asked me to be perfect—just present. A place where my toughness wasn’t questioned, my story wasn’t judged, and my voice wasn’t ignored. When my cleats first touched the grass, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: safety. A different kind of safety. The kind that comes from knowing people will run with you, defend you, yell for you, and lift you off the ground even when life has knocked you down long before the match ever began. On the field, I wasn’t the girl who lost her mother too young. I wasn’t the girl who had to navigate homelessness, instability, or the pain of being left to figure out adulthood alone. I wasn’t the girl who had to grow up faster than she should have. In rugby, I was simply part of a team—needed, valued, and believed in. Every tackle felt like releasing something I was never allowed to drop. Every ruck felt like reclaiming territory life had taken away from me. Every huddle felt like a home I built with my own hands. Rugby family means someone sees the warrior in you long before you see it in yourself. My teammates taught me that strength isn’t just surviving hardship—it’s letting others stand with you in the places where you always had to stand alone. They taught me that leadership doesn’t always come from having the loudest voice, but from being the one who refuses to give up, even when life has given more reasons to quit than to continue. They taught me to trust again. As I look toward college, I don’t just hope to play rugby—I need it. Rugby grounds me. It gives me a reason to stay disciplined, to stay focused, and to stay connected in a world that once taught me to rely only on myself. As I pursue a rigorous biology major, prepare for military service in the Marine Corps, and work toward becoming a doctor, rugby reminds me that I don’t have to walk any path alone ever again. It grows the leadership I want to bring into the service. It sharpens the courage I want to bring into medicine. And it nurtures the compassion I want to give back to every girl who feels like she doesn’t belong anywhere. College rugby isn’t just a goal—it’s the next chapter of my healing. I want to play at a competitive level, continue developing as an athlete, and become the kind of teammate who makes others feel seen, safe, and valued, just like rugby once did for me. I want to be part of expanding women’s rugby so younger girls know they have a space in this sport, in this community, and in this world. Rugby family means everything to me because it gave me back pieces of myself I thought I lost forever. Rugby gave me strength, but my rugby family gave me hope. And with that hope, I’m ready for the future.

I grew up moving between Angola, Brazil, and the United States, living in a world shaped by instability, loss, and resilience. As a first-generation college student who faced homelessness at seventeen and navigated life without parental support, I learned early that empathy is not something we talk about — it is something we practice. These experiences became the foundation of my leadership, my academic ambition, and my commitment to building a more compassionate global community. Today, I am a Biology/Pre-Med student and enlisted U.S. Marine with a 4.0 GPA. My academic path is rooted in the desire to help others heal, both physically and emotionally. I hope to become a neurologist and eventually serve as a medical officer, bridging medicine, humanitarian work, and cross-cultural understanding. My unique skill is the ability to connect with people across backgrounds — something I learned from living in multiple countries, speaking several languages, and navigating the world largely on my own. One of the ways I plan to build a more empathetic global community is through the nonprofit initiative I founded called Root & Rise. Root & Rise focuses on supporting unhoused teenage girls by offering mentorship, educational guidance, and emotional support. I created this program because I know what it feels like to be a young girl without stability or family to rely on. My goal is to expand Root & Rise internationally, especially in Angola and Brazil, where many young women face barriers to education and safety. By connecting girls with mentors, resources, and mental-health support, I hope to create a network of young women who uplift each other and build futures filled with possibility. My service in the Marine Corps has also shaped my vision of a more united world. The military brings people from every background together under one mission, teaching discipline, teamwork, and respect. As I continue my service, I want to use my leadership skills to create environments where people feel valued and heard, regardless of where they come from. In a world filled with division, empathy must be practiced intentionally — especially in institutions like the military and medicine, where lives depend on trust. Academically, I use my talents in science and communication to bridge cultural gaps. I plan to use my medical career to advocate for accessible healthcare in underserved communities. Many diseases disproportionately affect marginalized populations not because of biology, but because of lack of access, education, and understanding. By becoming a physician who respects cultural differences and listens deeply to patients’ stories, I hope to model a more human-centered form of global healthcare. What makes my journey bold is that everything I am building, I am building from the ground up — without family support, financial safety nets, or generational guidance. But it is also what makes me grateful, focused, and determined to leave the world better than I found it. My experiences taught me that empathy is not weakness; it is a revolutionary force that can change families, communities, and nations. With my education, military service, and nonprofit work, I hope to inspire young women — especially first-generation students — to pursue their dreams boldly, even when life tells them they shouldn’t. I want my story to prove that empathy and ambition can coexist, and that healing the world begins when we choose to understand one another.