When most kids were playing “house,” I was playing “school.” I would line up my dolls and stuffed animals, transform my bedroom into a classroom, and re-teach the lessons I had just learned at school earlier that day. Even then, I wasn’t just memorizing information. I was practicing what I knew deep down I wanted to be: a teacher. That dream has followed me through every season of my life, even the difficult ones. Growing up in a large family with adopted siblings, older sisters at home, and nieces and nephews filling the house meant that resources were always shared. A challenge for me has not been financial instability, but financial insecurity. My parents provided faithfully, but with so many people under one roof I learned early that my portion of time, attention, and money could only cover needs, not desires. For example, when I had to leave club soccer because of the expense, I turned to creativity instead. What I thought was a loss became a chance to explore new passions. I began making short movies with my sisters, discovering the joy of storytelling and teamwork. That experience taught me how to turn limitations into opportunities, an important lesson I continue to carry with me. Adversity has shaped me into someone who does not wait for perfect circumstances to pursue her calling. I have loved teaching since I was little, and I refuse to wait until I earn a degree to start nurturing children. Today, I serve as the Children’s Ministry Director at my church, where I lead lessons, coordinate activities, and build meaningful relationships with kids. Each week, I get to practice what I have always dreamed of doing: teaching with patience, care, and creativity. Through these experiences, I have grown as a leader, a problem-solver, and a mentor. I have learned to adapt when resources are limited, to step forward when leadership is needed, and to give wholeheartedly even when challenges arise. I plan to major in Elementary Education and become an elementary school teacher. As a first-generation student, I am aware of the challenges ahead. Students like me graduate at lower rates and often face additional barriers even after earning a degree. But I also know that the skills I have developed through adversity, including resilience, adaptability, and determination, equip me to overcome those statistics. This scholarship would give me the support to focus on my studies and continue building the foundation for a career in education. Most importantly, it would allow me to give back: to nurture and inspire future students just as I once taught my dolls and just as I now guide the children at my church.

In my house, space is a luxury, silence is rare, and nothing belongs to just one person. Growing up in such a full home taught me that resources stretch thinner than we imagine, but it also showed me how to thrive with creativity and determination. For me, a challenge would not be financial instability, but financial insecurity. I grew up with a large and loving family, but as my parents adopted my three other siblings, and as my older sisters stayed home and one sister had four children over the years, my family grew even more significantly. My house has always been full, and I have learned that my parents must divide their time, attention, and resources among all of us. In that respect, I’ve always needed to have the awareness that though we could afford something if it was just me, my family is so large that what portion is left to satisfy my needs is only sufficient enough for my needs and not my desires. For this, I had to learn to be adaptive and resourceful, to find joy in the things that were completely free of charge. When I got pulled out of club soccer for financial reasons, I turned to another hobby I had unknowingly planted the seed for years before: creating movies. I didn’t do it alone. My sisters and I would spend hours in the backyard and around the house—me and my pink iPad against the world, making movies and creating whole worlds with our imaginations. Those afternoons taught me that passion doesn’t require wealth; it requires creativity, persistence, and community. As I grew older, that spirit of resourcefulness carried into other parts of my life. At school, I pushed myself academically, enrolling in honors and AP courses and striving for excellence even when the workload was heavy. At home, I took on responsibilities to support my family, from helping with household tasks to caring for my younger siblings. These experiences taught me resilience, time management, and leadership. They also showed me that success is not measured by what you lack, but by how you use what you have. Support through this grant would give me the chance to take the next step in pursuing my goals. I dream of becoming a teacher and eventually founding a nonprofit for community outreach—paths that were inspired by my own upbringing and the value of support systems. With financial help, I would not only be able to focus on my education without the constant weight of financial insecurity, but I would also be in a position to pour into others the way my family and mentors poured into me. Motivated and high-achieving students from disadvantaged backgrounds deserve scholarships and grants because our stories prove that we will not waste the opportunity. We know how to stretch resources, how to adapt, and how to work hard. Given the right support, we can turn obstacles into stepping stones, and use our success to lift others along the way.

I was standing in the sea, but I never left the sanctuary. Last summer, I planned and directed my church’s first-ever Vacation Bible School—something I had dreamt of since childhood. I grew up with VBS as the highlight of every summer: bright colors, loud songs, games that spilled into the parking lot, and memory verses tucked into my mind like treasure. When the pandemic canceled those moments, I tried to recreate them in my living room, crafting a homemade VBS for my little brother and nephew. I built stages from couch cushions, led songs off my phone, and taught Bible stories from a plastic stool. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to keep the joy alive until the day I could finally give that experience to others. And then it happened. Our theme was Under the Sea, and I brought that ocean to life in our church building. Blue streamers became crashing waves. Jellyfish floated from ceiling tiles. Every room felt alive. But it wasn’t the decorations that made it holy—it was the way kids ran through the doors each day with wonder in their eyes, the way teen volunteers stepped up as leaders, the way parents lingered a little longer each afternoon, watching joy unfold. VBS also served as a bridge between our church and the greater community. Many families came for the first time through that event—and some stayed. They found a place where their children were known by name, where parents felt supported, and where faith was not forced but joyfully explored. It was a reminder that the church doesn’t just exist for Sundays—it’s here to serve and welcome, every day. What I hope continues to grow out of this event is that spirit of welcome. I want to see more churches open their doors with bold creativity, making faith accessible and engaging for children who may never have stepped into a sanctuary before. I want to see more teenagers and adults rediscover the joy of giving their time and energy for something that doesn’t earn applause, but changes lives. The smiles and songs of a hundred kids may fade from memory, but the feeling they leave behind doesn’t. That sense of belonging, of joy, of being part of something bigger—it lingers. Planning VBS showed me that leadership doesn’t have to be loud, and ministry doesn’t have to be formal. It can look like glitter on the carpet and snack wrappers in the trash and hours of rehearsed choreography for a three-minute song. It can look like welcoming strangers until they feel like family. This is more than just a summer program—it’s the start of a lifelong story. And as long as I’m here, I’ll keep writing that story every summer—under the sea, into the wild, out in space, in the sanctuary, and everywhere in between.

I didn’t think leadership would look like me—sixteen, unsure, standing in front of a room full of energetic kids with crackers in one hand and a Bible in the other. But Jesus did. When I was thrust into the role of Children’s Ministry Director at my church, I didn’t feel ready. My co-director stepped down unexpectedly, leaving me—young and newly fifteen—to lead a team of volunteers, organize events, plan lessons, and shepherd the hearts of dozens of children. Doubts came loud and fast. You’re too young. They won’t listen. You’re not enough. But faith always has a way of speaking back. Jesus never waited for perfect. He called fishermen, tax collectors, the overlooked and underestimated. And in that, I found my model for leadership. I wasn’t asked to be flawless. I was asked to be faithful. So I showed up—with lessons, snacks, crafts, and, more than anything, love. I leaned heavily on prayer, Scripture, and the wisdom of the leaders and pastors around me. I learned to lead with gentleness, with structure, with encouragement. I learned that real leadership isn’t loud—it’s consistent. It’s being present when it’s hard. It’s wiping tears, listening closely, laughing loudly, and speaking truth softly. That season, which began in fear, became the most joyful part of my life. I discovered how deeply I love teaching children, watching them light up as they learn about God’s love, watching them memorize verses and ask real, honest questions about faith. One of the most powerful moments of my leadership came during the first Vacation Bible School I ever planned, just last summer. After one of the sessions, a young girl who had visited for the first time approached me. We had only met that week, but something in the prayer I led earlier that day had stayed with her. She said, “I want to give my life to Jesus... but I don’t know how to get closer to God.” My heart overflowed. I sat with her, and we talked about starting with the Gospels—how understanding who Jesus is helps us accept His unfailing love. We talked about worship music, how it softens our hearts, and how to set a pace with reading Scripture that feels sustainable, not overwhelming. Since that day, every time I see her, she gives me updates—what chapter she's in, the new Christian friends she's made, the lessons she’s learning. I even helped her pick out her first Bible online, and just recently she came beaming to tell me it had arrived. Watching her life shift—watching Jesus move in her so clearly—has been one of the most incredible honors of my life. That’s what leadership through faith looks like: not perfection, not authority, but being available and willing for God to use you to guide someone closer to Him. For a long time, I buried my desire to be a teacher. It felt too risky—too uncertain financially, too “safe” for someone who was told to aim higher. But faith has reshaped my vision. Teaching isn’t a fallback. It’s a calling. And I now understand that I don’t have to teach in a religious school to bring Jesus with me. His joy, His kindness, His acceptance can show up in every lesson I teach and every child I encounter. Faith didn’t just influence my leadership—it built it. It held me steady when I wanted to run, and it’s leading me forward still, into classrooms I haven’t walked into yet, toward futures I can’t fully see. And that’s okay. I’ve learned that I don’t need the whole picture to take the next step. I just need Jesus.

The weight of my parents’ dreams rests gently on my shoulders, yet it is not a burden; it is a gift. My mother, a woman with an unshakable passion for teaching, once dreamed of standing in a classroom, shaping young minds and fostering a love for learning. My father, a man with a sharp mind and a heart for justice, aspired to become a lawyer, defending those whose voices were often silenced. But when they came to this country, leaving behind everything familiar, those dreams were quietly set aside. Not out of resignation, but out of a deep, unwavering love for me. They chose to nurture their dreams through me, pouring every ounce of their hopes and sacrifices into shaping the future they envisioned for their children. I often think about the curly-headed, African American baby girl in the photo on my parents' mantel—me, as an infant. There I am, swaddled in a blanket, my tiny hands held high as if reaching for something beyond the limitations of what I knew. In a sense, my parents were holding me up in the same way: not only with their arms but with their dreams. They believed that through my opportunities, their dreams could come true. As immigrants from El Salvador, my parents navigated the unfamiliar and difficult terrain of a new country, all while raising a family. Before I was born, they had already made an incredible impact by fostering more than 100 children, providing them with love, stability, and a sense of belonging in a world that often overlooked their needs. Their actions were a testament to their commitment to something bigger than themselves: a vision for a better future. Growing up, I saw my parents’ sacrifices firsthand. I saw my mother take on jobs that didn’t align with her true calling, and my father tirelessly working in a field that wasn’t his passion, all to give me the opportunity to pursue my dreams. They never spoke of regret; instead, they spoke of pride in the path I would one day take. They shared with me the value of education, the power of determination, and the importance of giving back to those in need. It was their unwavering support, and the sacrifices they made, that ignited the fire within me to pursue higher education, to work toward becoming the first in my family to earn a college degree. Their journey has shaped my aspirations in profound ways. I see the sacrifice in every opportunity I have. But more than that, I am inspired by their commitment to service, to creating a better world for others. My aspirations extend beyond my own success; I want to use the education I gain to give back to my community, to open doors for others who may not have had the same opportunities. I want to be a bridge between the sacrifices of the past and the possibilities of the future, just as my parents were for me. In everything I do, I hope to honor their influence. Whether I become a teacher or find another path to serve my community, I will carry their dreams with me. I will work to ensure that the sacrifices they made were not in vain and that their legacy of love and service to others lives on in the work I do. Their journey is the foundation upon which I will build my future, and it is through honoring their dreams that I will continue the cycle of hope they started.

I never thought a movie like "Legally Blonde" would resonate with me. In fact, I actively tried to dislike it. The opening scenes were filled with every cliche imaginable—sorority girls obsessed with fashion, pink everything, and a protagonist who seemed like a walking stereotype. I cringed, rolled my eyes, and wondered why this film had such a dedicated fan base. But as the story unfolded, something unexpected happened: I found myself rooting for Elle Woods. Not only does she work relentlessly to prove herself, but she does it without sacrificing who she is. She doesn’t change to fit Harvard—she makes Harvard change for her. What makes Elle’s journey so compelling is that she doesn’t just succeed by working hard; she succeeds by bringing her authentic self to the table. The final courtroom showdown is the perfect example. She cross-examines the witness with precision, applying what she’s learned in law school, but she also uses her own sharp instincts and personal knowledge of haircare to catch a key inconsistency that everyone else missed. And as a cherry on top, she effortlessly throws in the "math" that Chutney—yes, the antagonist’s name is actually Chutney—had smugly dismissed earlier. Watching that moment play out was immensely satisfying, not just because Elle wins the case, but because she does it on her own terms. After ignoring "Legally Blonde" for years, I finally gave it a chance—and it surprised me. What I assumed was just a shallow, feel-good comedy turned out to be an empowering story about perseverance, intelligence, and self-acceptance. Elle’s journey reminded me that growth doesn’t mean losing yourself; it means becoming the best version of who you already are. Her ability to stay true to herself while proving everyone wrong is something I deeply admire and aspire to in my own life. The film also challenged my own biases. I judged Elle at the start, just like her professors and classmates did. I expected her to fail. But she showed me that strength doesn’t always come in the form of seriousness and cynicism—it can come wrapped in pink, armed with charm and confidence. Reese Witherspoon’s performance brings Elle to life in a way that’s both delightful and inspiring, making it impossible not to love her by the end. "Legally Blonde" taught me that success isn’t about fitting into a mold; it’s about breaking it. Watching Elle rise above expectations made me reflect on my own aspirations, reminding me that I don’t have to change who I am to succeed—I just have to work hard and believe in myself. And if I can throw in some unexpected expertise along the way, even better.