The most significant loss I've experienced was losing my grandpop. Not just when he passed but before that when addiction began to take him from us. He was a proud, loving, Godfearing man who served in the military, carrying both honor and the unseen weight of his service. Like many veterans he came home changed. Unlike himself. The things he saw, carried, and the silence expected of him after it all took a toll that none of us fully understood at the time. As a child, I didn't have the words to describe what was happening. I only knew that my grandpop wasn't always the same man in the memories I have of us together. Every now and again I have flashes of core memories with him, I can feel his warmth when I'm having a bad day, hear his laughter randomly. The way he'd tell me I'll do great things, how not to worry about anything because god already has it figured out. But those moments were overshadowed by the reality of his struggle. Addiction had a way of taking him away, even when he was sitting right in front of us. Watching someone you love battle something so powerful teaches you a kind of heartbreak that never really leaves. But it also teaches empathy, the ability to see pain beneath behavior, to understand that peoples choices are often rooted in wounds we can't see. As I got older, I realized my grandpop addiction wasn't weakness it was pain left untreated. That realization changed the way I see the world. Losing him to addiction shaped me in more ways than I can count. It taught me how to pay attention to the quiet signs that someone is hurting and how to help in times of need instead of sitting back and watch. It made me want to use my voice and creativity to help others feel less alone in their battles. His story is one of the many reason I'm passionate about mental health and why I want to use communication and media to make awareness more accessible, relatable, and real. My grandpop struggle opened my eyes to the lack of resources for people especially veterans when it comes to mental health. There's stigma to mental health. I want to help change that. Through storytelling, creative projects, and social platforms. I hope to amplify messages of healing and highlight the importance of accessible mental health care. I believe that stories, when shared honestly can change lives and the way that people view the world we live. His loss taught me resilience, but also compassion. It made me realize that strength isn't about pretending you're okay it's about acknowledging when you're not and still choosing to keep going. It shaped the way I treat people, the way I approach challenges, and the way I think about success. To me success isn't just about personal achievement it's about using what you've lived through to make something better for someone else I carry my grandpop with me everyday. I carry his laughter, his love, his wisdom, and his pain. His story reminds me to build the kind of world where people don't have to suffer in silence. Losing him hurt me deeply but it gave me purpose. I want to be the kind of person who turns pain into progress. My grandpop story may have ended in loss but through my work I hope his legacy continues in every message I share, every person I help, and every life that's made just a little lighter because someone cared enough to listen.

Grief has a way of slipping into the quiet spaces of your life, taking the shape of whatever you fear most. For me, it arrived a random morning during my junior year of high school, when the world seemed to tilt off its axis and never quite tilt back. My pop pop, the man who prayed with the steady certainty of someone who had tested God and found Him faithful every time had passed away. The loss was sudden, out of the blue, and impossibly heavy. My pop pop was the first person who taught me what faith looked like, not in a sermon, not in a church pew, but in the gentle way he lived. His Bible was always open, even on the days when his hands shook. He prayed for me before I ever prayed for myself. And suddenly he was gone, and I felt like the air had been knocked out of my life. In the weeks after his passing. I found myself searching for anything that could quiet the ache inside my chest. I turned to marijuana, believing the haze could soften my grief, that it could help me forget when memory hurt too much. But numbness is not healing. It's only silence pretending to be peace. I knew my pop pop wouldn't have recognized the girl I was becoming, moving through my days exhausted, disconnected, and trying to escape a pain that needed tending, not burying. But it wasn't guilt that pulled me out of that place it was the memory of his voice, low and warm, reciting the same prayer every night. "God, Hold her close when I no longer can." That prayer followed me everywhere, even when I tried not to hear it. A few months later after going through a OCIA program within my local Catholic Church. In March just before Easter day I decided to be baptized. Standing there about to be baptized I felt both completely exposed and completely held. It was as if every moment of numbness, every night I cried alone, every ache I tried to outrun, rose to the surface. When the water touched my forehead, it felt like returning, like finding the path my pop pop walked his entire life and stepping onto it for the very first time. I didn't emerge from that baptism suddenly healed. Grief doesn't disappear. It transforms. But I did emerged anchored, grounded in a faith that gave my suffering meaning. Instead of running from pain, I learned to sit with it, to pray through it, to let it change me without breaking me. My pop pop is not here to see the person I'm becoming, but I carry him with me. In every prayer, every choice to stay present instead of number, in every quiet moment where I feel God filling in the spaces I once tried to fill alone. Faith didn't erase my grief it taught me how to rise from it. My pop pop always told me "Don't worry your pretty head about it because God already worked it out." That's something that I carry with me every bad day, every set back, and every doubt. I learned that sometimes the most powerful healing comes not from forgetting but from believing, believing that even in our darkest seasons, we are never walking alone.

Being a first-gen student means stepping into a world that no one in my family has walked through before. It means carrying the weight of possibility. As a black woman raised by a single parent I grew up watching strength in it's rawest form. My mom gave birth to me at just 18. She worked, sacrificed, and rebuilt our lives move after move, doing everything she could to give me opportunities she never had. Her resilience became my blueprint. But being a first-gen also means navigating everything alone. Scholarship applications, financial aid, course decision, internships, and still balancing work and school. There's no one at home who can explain how college works or what steps comes next. Every form, every deadline, every unknown felt like a test I had to pass without studying. While it's all very stressful and I feel like life keeps bumrushing me it has taught me how to figure things out, and how to advocate for myself. One of my biggest challenges I've faced is learning to believe that I belong in spaces my family has never entered. Imposter syndrome is real when you're the first. But every time I feel like giving up or doubt myself I remember the little girl who watched her mom create a life out of nothing but love and determination. My dreams are rooted in visibility and impact. I want to work in media and creative communication uplift stories that often go unread or unheard. Stories of people like me: first gen students, young Black woman, families who built strength out of struggle. I want to build platforms that educate, empower, and shift narratives. I want to use creative storytelling and digital media to make sure others feel seen and represented. This scholarship would help me continue my journey by easing the financial weight that makes college so difficult for first-gen students. It would give me the stability to focus on my studies, explore opportunities that I wasn't once able to afford like study abroad, and pursue experiences that will move me closet to my goals instead of worrying bout how I'll afford books, basic needs, and tuition. It would honor the sacrifices my mother made and help me become the first in my family to not only enter higher education but to thrive in it. Being a first-gen student isn't easy. It is powerful. It means rewriting the story for myself and the ones who will come after me. It means choosing hope over fear. Possibilities over limitations. I'm ready to keep going and carrying my family's dreams, my own determination, and the belief that I am building something bigger than myself.

As a Black woman who has watched my community face mental-health challenges without the resources, or access to get support, I've learned that healing is not a luxury, it's a necessity. Too often people who look like me are forced to carry their struggles alone not only because therapy is too expensive but because a lot of Black people don't believe mental health issues are real. The unique contribution I want to make is a bridge one built between mental-health and creative expression. Art has always been one of the safest places for people to process emotions without judgment and I believe it can be a powerful tool for healing. Especially in communities where traditional therapy is stigmatized or unaffordable. When my Pop Pop died I felt like my world was shattering and I didn't know how to properly grieve his death. I was currently taking Journalism and it became my therapy. I poured every ounce of pain into my work and were able to write beautiful things, make cinematic edits, and more. I hope to use my skills in media, design, and communication to build platforms that make mental-health education free, relatable, and culturally relevant. That means creating visual resources and digital content that teach coping strategies in simple, stigma free language. It means designing online spaces where young people can engage with mental-health tools without fear or shame. My contribution is simple but powerful. Using art and communication to make healing accessible, empowering, and possible for everyone.

Growing up as a Black woman raised by a single Black mother, I learned early on that strength is not always loud. Sometimes it's the quiet act of getting up time after time when life keeps knocking you down. We moved often. Going from place to place, carrying our whole life in boxes that never stayed unpack for long. But in every new room, my mother taught me how to build a home out of resilience. She showed me how to stand tall in places that weren't for people like me and her. How to dream even when the world told us that girls like us should settle. Coming from a low-income household didn't just shape my circumstances. It shaped my spirit. I learned to be resourceful, creative, and determined. I learned not everything is guaranteed expect the effort I put in. Every challenge became a lesson for me. Every doubt was a push forward. Every closed door taught me how to make my own. These experiences are the reason I want to create impact. I want to be the voice and visibility that I didn't always see growing up. I want to use my story and struggle to uplift young people who feel overlooked and underestimated. My goal is to build spaces in media where Black voices can be heard without apology. Right now I'm actively working toward that vision. Taking on leadership roles behind the scenes, learning digital media, building platforms through writing, graphics, and social content. I didn't choose my circumstances, but I chose what I do with them. And I choose to rise not just for me but for those who will come after me.