I want to pursue a career in the nonprofit sector because I am not just interested in helping people—I am building a system that solves a problem I have seen over and over again. I am a single mother, and raising my children on my own has taught me what stability, consistency, and intentional support actually look like in real life. There is no backup plan in my household. When something needs to be handled, I handle it. When my children need emotional support, structure, or guidance, it is my responsibility to provide it. That level of responsibility has shaped the way I see the world—and more importantly, the gaps that exist in it. One of the biggest gaps I see is what happens to children in foster care or unstable homes once they reach adulthood. Many of them are pushed toward independence without ever being properly supported. They are expected to go to college, manage finances, maintain their mental health, and build a future—all without the foundation that many other students take for granted. They don’t just need opportunity; they need structure, guidance, and a place where they feel safe enough to grow. That is where my purpose comes in. I am pursuing a degree in education because I want to be a teacher, but my vision goes beyond the classroom. I plan to open a nonprofit transitional home near the University of Arkansas that provides a dorm-style living environment specifically for young adults who have aged out of foster care or come from unstable backgrounds. This home would remove one of the biggest barriers to success—housing—by providing a safe place to live at no cost. But more importantly, it would provide the support systems that are often missing. Residents would receive weekly therapy to help them process past trauma, life skills classes to teach practical independence, and tutoring to ensure academic success. The goal is not just to get them into college, but to help them stay, succeed, and graduate. I want to create a space where students are not just surviving, but supported in every area of their lives. As a teacher, I will also be able to connect with students academically and emotionally, reinforcing the importance of education while understanding the realities they may be facing outside the classroom. My role will not be limited to teaching content—I want to be part of building confidence, stability, and long-term success. My goal is to create a system where young adults who may have been overlooked are given a real chance to thrive. Not a temporary solution, but a structured, intentional environment that changes their trajectory. The nonprofit sector is where this work belongs because it allows me to prioritize impact over profit and people over convenience. It allows me to build something that is rooted in care, structure, and long-term transformation. I am not pursuing this path because it sounds meaningful—I am pursuing it because I see exactly what is missing, and I know how to build it. I am already living a life of responsibility, structure, and care within my own home. My goal is to extend that same environment to others—and in doing so, help create a future where more young people don’t just make it to college, but actually make it through.

My life of service did not begin with a title or a formal role—it began through my experiences. I have lived through instability, loss, and personal challenges that shaped how I see the world. Growing up, I experienced hardship that forced me to mature quickly. Later in life, I faced additional challenges, including becoming a single mother and navigating life without the kind of support many people rely on. Through all of it, I learned what it feels like to need stability, guidance, and someone who truly cares. That understanding is what drives my commitment to serving others. My faith became stronger after the loss of my father, who was the most important person in my life. Losing him changed me, but it also led me closer to God. In that process, I found purpose in my pain. I began to understand that my experiences were not just something I survived—they were something I could use to help others. Today, I live a life of service through the way I care for my children and the path I am building for my future. I am a single mother raising three daughters, including one who I have adopted. Providing them with a safe, stable, and loving home is my first and most important responsibility. I am intentional about creating an environment where they feel secure, valued, and supported—because I understand how much that foundation matters. But my vision goes beyond my own household. I am currently pursuing my education with the goal of becoming a social worker and eventually a therapist. I want to work with children—especially girls—who have experienced trauma, instability, or time in the foster care system. I want to be the person who shows them that their circumstances do not define their future. My goal is not just to help people in a professional setting, but to build something bigger. I plan to create a space where children can experience healing, stability, and guidance—whether that is through fostering, mentoring, or providing resources for young girls who need support. I want to be able to serve not just individuals, but entire families and communities. Service, to me, is not about recognition. It is about impact. It is about showing up for people when they need it most. It is about using your experiences, your strength, and your faith to create something meaningful for others. My education is the next step in that journey. It will give me the tools, knowledge, and opportunities to expand the impact I want to have. It will allow me to move from helping within my immediate circle to reaching and supporting others on a larger scale. I believe that everything I have been through has prepared me for this path. And I am committed to using my life, my education, and my faith to serve others in a way that creates real, lasting change.

In 2023, after giving birth to my second daughter, I developed a blood clot that became a serious and frightening medical situation. What was supposed to be a time of recovery and bonding with my newborn quickly turned into something much more serious. I was faced with the reality of how quickly my health could change and how critical it was to take care of myself—not just for me, but for my children. As a mother, that experience was especially overwhelming because I could not afford to slow down. I still had responsibilities, a newborn to care for, and a household depending on me. It forced me to become more aware of my health and more intentional about how I care for my body moving forward. That experience strengthened my resilience and reminded me that even in moments of fear, I have the ability to push through and continue showing up for my family. Resilience does not always look loud. For me, it started quietly—through a decision. There was a point in my life where everything felt like it was happening to me. Trauma from my childhood, a marriage that left me with anxiety and fear, and the weight of responsibilities that never seemed to let up. I could have stayed in that place mentally, letting those experiences define how I saw myself and what I believed was possible for my future. But instead, I made a choice. I decided that my story was not going to end there. I began using my voice, not necessarily out loud at first, but internally. I started challenging the thoughts that told me I was stuck, that life would always feel heavy, and that I had no control. I began to reimagine what my life could look like—not based on where I had been, but based on where I wanted to go. That shift changed everything. I rebuilt my life from the ground up. I removed myself from environments that no longer served me, even when it was difficult. I created a home that is peaceful, stable, and safe for my three daughters. There is no chaos, no constant conflict—just consistency, love, and intention. That didn’t happen by accident. It happened because I chose to build something different. As a single mother, I carry a lot on my own. There are no co-parents, no safety net, and no one stepping in to share the responsibility. But instead of seeing that as a limitation, I have used it as motivation. I have learned to rely on myself, to problem-solve, and to move forward even when things feel uncertain. My voice has also shaped the way I see my future. I am pursuing my education not just as a personal goal, but as a way to create a different life for my children. I want them to grow up seeing what it looks like to take control of your narrative—to refuse to be defined by circumstances and to build something better anyway. Resilience, for me, is not about pretending things were easy. It is about acknowledging that they were not—and choosing to rise anyway. It is about creating peace where there used to be chaos. It is about becoming the stability you once needed. It is about deciding that your past may have shaped you, but it does not get to decide your future. There was no single moment where everything changed overnight. Instead, it was a series of small, intentional decisions that led me here—to a life that I built, a mindset that I chose, and a future that I am actively creating.

My name is Callie, and I am a minority single mother raising three daughters—Bay, who is adopted, and my biological daughters Billie and Birdie. There are no co-parents in our lives and no child support. Everything my children have, every bit of stability and security they experience, comes directly from me. Being a single mother means carrying responsibilities that are often meant for multiple people. I am the provider, the caregiver, the decision-maker, and the emotional support system in our home. There is no one to fall back on when things get overwhelming, no one to split the load with. If something needs to be done, it is my responsibility to figure it out. And I do. There are moments where the weight of it all is heavy—balancing finances, managing a household, raising three children, and pursuing an education at the same time. There are sacrifices that come with that. Time that could be spent resting is spent studying. Money that could go toward wants is directed toward needs. Every decision I make has to be intentional, because I am building not just for myself, but for my children. But there is also something powerful about knowing that I have created a stable and peaceful environment for my daughters on my own. Without the presence of a co-parent, my home is free from conflict, tension, and instability. My children are not exposed to arguments, court battles, or emotional unpredictability. What they have instead is consistency, safety, and a mother who shows up for them every single day. That peace is something I value deeply, because I understand how much it shapes a child’s sense of security. As a woman of color, I am also aware of the additional challenges that come with navigating systems that are not always built with us in mind. I have seen firsthand how opportunities can feel out of reach, especially when financial limitations and family responsibilities are combined. But I have never allowed those barriers to define what is possible for me or my children. Education is not just a personal goal for me—it is a long-term investment in my family’s future. I am pursuing my degree because I want to create stability that extends beyond survival. I want my children to grow up seeing what it looks like to set goals and follow through on them, even when the circumstances are difficult. I want them to understand that their background does not limit their future. At the same time, this journey is not easy. There are real financial challenges that come with being a single mother in school. Every dollar matters. Every hour matters. And while I have learned how to stretch both, there are limits to what one person can carry alone. This scholarship would provide more than financial support—it would create space. Space to focus more deeply on my education, space to breathe, and space to continue building a future for my children without constant financial pressure. What has been most fulfilling about this journey is not just what I am building for myself, but what I am showing my daughters. They are watching me navigate challenges, stay disciplined, and continue moving forward no matter what. They are learning resilience, independence, and strength not through words, but through example. I am not waiting for the perfect situation. I am building in the middle of real life. And through every challenge, every sacrifice, and every late night, I remain committed to creating something better—not just for me, but for the three little girls who are watching me do it.

The person who has supported me the most in my life—and continues to shape who I am even after his passing—is my dad. He was not just my only parent. He was my foundation. He was the one person I could rely on for anything, no matter what I was going through. We talked multiple times a day, about everything from serious life decisions to the smallest, most random moments. He knew me in a way that no one else ever has, and he loved me without conditions. My dad believed in working hard and figuring things out no matter what. That mindset became something he instilled deeply in me. He wasn’t the kind of person who made excuses—he was the kind of person who found solutions. And because of that, I grew up believing that no matter how difficult life became, I could always find a way through it. I never needed a mom; I had him. When I lost him, it felt like losing the one person who made the world feel steady. In his final days, I stayed with him in hospice. For three days, I sat beside him, rubbed his feet, watched TV with him, and held onto every moment I could. Even when he could no longer speak, there was still a connection there—something unspoken but deeply understood. Being there with him during that time was one of the hardest and most meaningful experiences of my life. After he passed, I couldn’t bring myself to attend the funeral. I couldn’t face seeing him that way. The version of him I carry with me is the one who laughed, who talked to me every day, and who showed up for me no matter what. Losing my dad changed the direction of my life, but it also clarified it. I carry him with me in everything I do. Both of my daughters are named in honor of him, because I wanted his presence to live on through my family. The way I parent my children is deeply influenced by the way he loved me—consistently, patiently, and without judgment. He showed me what it meant to be someone’s safe place, and now I strive to be that for my daughters. His support also shaped the way I approach my education and my future. He always believed I was capable of more, even when I doubted myself. That belief didn’t disappear when he did—it stayed with me. It pushes me to continue my education, to build a stable life for my children, and to pursue something meaningful. There are things I wish I had done differently. I wish I had spent more time with him. I wish I had been more patient, more aware of how limited our time was. But those regrets have turned into lessons. They remind me to be present in my own life and intentional with the people I love. I also found my faith more deeply after losing him. In the middle of that grief, I needed something to hold onto. I find peace in believing that he is with God, no longer in pain, finally at rest, doing the things he loved—laughing, fishing, and free. That belief has helped me continue forward, even on the hardest days. The way I honor my dad is by continuing to build a life he would be proud of. I honor him through my perseverance, through my role as a mother, and through my commitment to creating a better future. I honor him by not giving up, even when life becomes overwhelming.

My name is Callie, and my understanding of mental health did not come from a textbook—it came from lived experience. I grew up with trauma that shaped the way I saw the world from a young age. Instability, fear, and emotional stress were not occasional experiences for me—they were normal. As I got older, I carried those patterns with me, even when I didn’t fully understand them. I learned how to function, how to push through, and how to survive, but I did not yet understand what that survival was costing me internally. Later in life, I entered a marriage that intensified those unresolved wounds. That relationship left me with severe anxiety and symptoms of post-traumatic stress. I found myself constantly on edge, always anticipating something going wrong, even in moments where I should have felt safe. My mind struggled to rest. My body struggled to relax. I developed patterns of control and repetition—what I now recognize as obsessive-compulsive tendencies—as a way to create stability in an environment that once felt unpredictable. At one point, I realized I was no longer just responding to life—I was reacting to everything through the lens of past trauma. That realization was a turning point. I made the decision to remove myself from that environment and rebuild my life. That was not easy. It required me to face not only my circumstances, but also myself. Healing is not a straight line, and there were moments where it felt overwhelming. But I refused to let my past define the rest of my life. Today, I am a single mother raising three daughters in a home that is calm, stable, and safe. That did not happen by accident—it was intentional. I am deeply aware of how trauma can shape a child’s life, and I have made it my mission to break that cycle. My children are growing up in an environment where they do not have to walk on eggshells, where they are not exposed to conflict, and where they can feel secure in their home. My mental health journey has also changed the way I approach my own life. I have learned to recognize my triggers, to create structure, and to develop coping strategies that allow me to function and grow. What once felt like overwhelming anxiety has become something I actively manage. What once felt like chaos has been replaced with intention. I am not perfect, and I am still healing—but I am no longer the same person I was when I was living in survival mode. This journey has given me a deep sense of empathy and awareness. It has strengthened my resilience and shaped the way I approach both my education and my future career. I am pursuing a path where I can help others—especially those who have experienced trauma—because I understand how isolating those experiences can feel. Mental health challenges can either stop you or shape you. In my case, they have shaped me. They have forced me to grow, to become more self-aware, and to build a life that is rooted in stability, intention, and strength. I am not defined by what I went through—I am defined by what I chose to do after.

My name is Callie, and the most defining loss of my life was losing my father—the only parent I truly had. My dad was not just a parent to me. He was my safe place, my best friend, and the one person I could always count on. We talked multiple times a day, about everything and nothing at all. He knew me better than anyone. In many ways, he was my whole world. When he passed away, it didn’t feel like I lost a part of my life—it felt like my entire world collapsed. There is no real way to prepare for losing the one person who has always been there for you. It leaves a silence that nothing else can fill. In his final days, I stayed with him in hospice for three days. I rubbed his feet, sat beside him, and watched TV with him. Even when he could no longer speak, we still found ways to be together. We laughed. We shared quiet moments that didn’t need words. It was one of the most surreal and painful experiences of my life—watching someone you love slowly slip away while trying to hold on to every last second with them. When he passed, I couldn’t bring myself to go to the funeral. I couldn’t see him like that. None of my sisters went either. It was too much. The man we loved—the one who had been our strength—was gone, and facing that reality in that way felt impossible. Losing my dad changed everything about my life. It changed the way I see the world, the way I approach relationships, and the way I parent my own children. Both of my daughters carry pieces of him, even in their names, because I wanted his presence to live on through them. I carry him with me in the way I love, the way I show up, and the way I try to be the kind of parent he was to me. There are things I wish I had done differently. I wish I had spent more time with him. I wish I had been more patient, more present, more aware of how precious that time was. Those regrets don’t go away, but they have shaped me. They have made me more intentional with my own children. I make sure they feel loved, heard, and valued every single day, because I know how quickly time can be taken from you. His passing also brought me closer to God. In the middle of that grief, I needed something bigger than myself to hold onto. My faith became a place where I could process my pain and find meaning in it. I find comfort in believing that my dad is at peace, that he is no longer suffering, and that he is somewhere better—finally able to rest, to laugh, and to do the simple things he loved, like fishing, without pain or limitation. As painful as his loss has been, it has also shaped the person I am becoming. It has made me stronger, more grounded, and more determined to build a life that would make him proud. I carry his lessons with me every day—in my work, in my education, and most importantly, in the way I raise my children. Losing my father will always be the hardest thing I have ever experienced, but it also became a turning point in my life—one that continues to shape my purpose, my faith, and my future.

My name is Callie, and I am a single mother of three daughters—Bay, who is adopted, and my biological daughters Billie and Birdie. When I say I do this on my own, I truly mean that. There are no co-parents, no child support, no one stepping in to carry the weight with me. It is just me. And the truth is, I have learned not to wait for help. Being a single parent while pursuing an education is one of the hardest things I have ever taken on, not because I am incapable, but because the responsibility never turns off. I am the provider, the caregiver, the teacher, the comfort, the structure—everything my children need, I have to be. There are days where I am balancing schoolwork, cooking, cleaning, helping with homework, and making sure my children feel safe and loved, all at the same time. There is no pause button. There is no backup plan. There is only me continuing to show up, over and over again. Of course there are moments where I feel overwhelmed. Anyone in my position would. But I have learned to push through those moments, to regroup, and to keep going. That is what being a single mother has taught me—how to carry everything, even when it is heavy, and still move forward. What makes my situation unique is that while I carry this responsibility alone, my home is also peaceful. My children do not have to witness arguments, court battles, or tension between adults. There is no instability coming from outside forces. It is calm. It is safe. It is consistent. And that is something I do not take for granted. I have seen what it looks like when children are caught in the middle of conflict. Many of the women around me, including members of my own family, are also single mothers navigating co-parenting situations filled with stress, anger, and ongoing challenges. In contrast, my household is built on stability and emotional safety. While I carry more responsibility on my own, I have been able to give my children a peaceful environment, and that is something I am deeply grateful for. Being their mother is not just a responsibility—it is my purpose. Everything I do, including pursuing my education, is for them. I want to create a life where they never have to question their stability, where they can grow up feeling secure, supported, and confident in who they are. I want them to see what strength looks like—not the kind that complains or gives up, but the kind that shows up every single day and gets the job done. Going back to school as a single parent has required sacrifice. Time that could be spent resting is spent studying. Money that could go toward extras is carefully managed to cover what we need. Every decision I make is intentional, because I know that what I am building now will shape our future. This scholarship would not just support my education—it would support a mother who is doing everything in her power to create a better life for her children. It would ease some of the financial pressure and allow me to focus more on my studies while continuing to provide for my family. More than anything, I want it to be understood that I am not defined by the fact that I am doing this alone—I am defined by how I am doing it. With strength, with purpose, and with a commitment to building something better. Because at the end of the day, I don’t just carry this responsibility—I own it.

My name is Callie, and one of the biggest challenges I have faced in my life has been learning how to succeed academically after growing up in unstable environments with limited support. Because of my childhood experiences, including time in foster care and periods of instability, my education was not always consistent. I did not always have the structure, guidance, or support that many students rely on to develop strong academic habits. As a result, I had to teach myself how to learn, how to stay disciplined, and how to push through even when things felt overwhelming. For a long time, learning felt more difficult than it seemed for others. I struggled with focus, organization, and confidence in my academic abilities. I often felt like I was behind, not because I lacked the ability to succeed, but because I had not been given the same foundation. This was frustrating, but it also became a turning point for me. Instead of giving up, I made the decision to take control of my education. I began developing my own systems for staying organized, managing my time, and breaking down information in ways that worked for me. I learned that I may not learn in a traditional way, but that does not mean I cannot succeed—it just means I have to approach challenges differently. This experience has led to significant personal growth. I have become more disciplined, more patient with myself, and more determined to reach my goals. I no longer see my learning challenges as limitations, but as something that has strengthened my work ethic and resilience. Today, I carry those lessons into every area of my life. As a mother of three daughters—Bay, who is adopted, and my biological daughters Billie and Birdie—I am intentional about creating a stable and supportive environment where they can thrive academically and personally. I also apply these skills as I pursue my own education, knowing that my effort and persistence will lead to long-term success. If I could share anything with someone facing similar challenges, it would be this: struggling does not mean you are incapable—it means you are learning. Growth takes time, and success does not have to look the same for everyone. What matters is consistency, effort, and believing that you are capable of more than you think. This scholarship would support my continued education and help me keep building a future where I can provide stability for my family and continue growing personally and academically. More importantly, it would be a reminder that hard work, even when the path is not easy, is always worth it.

My name is Callie, and my experience in foster care began after I was removed from my mother’s home due to abuse. One of the moments that stands out most to me was the period of uncertainty I faced while waiting for my father to gain custody of me. During that time, I did not know where I would end up or how long I would be in the system. As a child, that kind of instability is overwhelming, but it was also the moment where I began to develop resilience. I learned how to adjust quickly, to stay emotionally strong, and to hold onto hope even when I did not have control over my situation. I did not have the ability to change what was happening around me, but I learned that I could control how I responded to it. Instead of giving up or shutting down, I continued to push forward and believe that my situation could improve. When my father was finally able to bring me out of foster care, it was a turning point in my life. He provided me with a sense of safety and stability that I had been missing, and that experience showed me just how important those things are for a child. Although I did not get as much time with him as I wish I had, the impact he made on me stayed with me. That early experience with uncertainty and instability shaped how I approach challenges today. I no longer fear difficult situations in the same way, because I know I have already overcome circumstances that were out of my control. Instead of becoming overwhelmed, I focus on what I can do, take things one step at a time, and keep moving forward. This mindset has carried into my adult life. Today, I am a mother of three daughters—Bay, who is adopted, and my biological daughters Billie and Birdie. I have also become a foster and adoptive parent myself, intentionally creating the kind of stable and supportive environment that I once needed. My experiences have taught me that even small moments of stability can change a child’s life, and I strive to provide that for others. If there is one thing I am proud of, it is that I did not allow my circumstances to define me. Instead, I used them to build strength, perspective, and purpose. That same resilience continues to guide me as I pursue my education and work toward a future where I can support my family and help others who have faced similar challenges. My time in foster care did not break me—it built me into someone who knows how to keep going, no matter what.

My name is Callie, and I am a biracial woman and a mother of three daughters—Bay, who is adopted, and my biological daughters Billie and Birdie. My life has been shaped by both personal adversity and the responsibility of raising and advocating for children, which has given me a deeper understanding of inequality and the importance of creating opportunity. One of the most defining challenges I have faced is building stability for my family while continuing to grow and pursue my education. Balancing motherhood, financial responsibility, and long-term goals has required discipline, resilience, and constant determination. There have been times where I felt overwhelmed, but those moments pushed me to become stronger and more focused on the future I am creating for my children. As a biracial woman of color, I have experienced and witnessed the ways that opportunity is not always equally distributed. This became even more clear to me through my involvement in the foster care system. I have seen firsthand how children of color are often treated differently and face additional barriers simply because of who they are. For example, in many cases, children of color over the age of two are categorized as “special needs” due to the assumption that they may have a harder time finding permanent homes, while white children in similar situations are not labeled the same way until much later. Seeing disparities like this has deeply impacted me and shaped my purpose. Instead of allowing these realities to discourage me, they have strengthened my commitment to making a difference. This is one of the reasons I chose to foster and adopt, and why I am intentional about creating a loving, stable environment for my children. I want them—and other children like them—to grow up knowing that they are valued, capable, and deserving of every opportunity. In addition to my role as a mother, I am actively involved in my community by teaching my daughters how to play basketball and helping coach their cheerleading team. Through this, I aim to build confidence and provide guidance not only for my children, but for others as well. I understand how important it is for young people, especially those from underrepresented backgrounds, to have someone who believes in them. Adversity has taught me that challenges are not meant to stop you—they are meant to shape you. They build strength, perspective, and purpose. If I could give advice to someone facing similar circumstances, I would tell them this: do not let the limitations placed on you define your future. Start where you are, use what you have, and keep going. Your path may look different, but that does not make it less meaningful. Stay focused, stay consistent, and believe that your effort will create change—not just for yourself, but for others as well. Receiving this scholarship would support my educational journey and allow me to continue building a stable future for my family while working toward making a meaningful impact in my community. I am committed to using my experiences, my voice, and my education to help create more equitable opportunities for others.

My name is Callie, and I am a biracial woman and a mother of three daughters—Bay, who is adopted, and my biological daughters Billie and Birdie. My life has been shaped by both personal adversity and the responsibility of raising and advocating for children, which has given me a deeper understanding of inequality and the importance of creating opportunity. One of the most defining challenges I have faced is building stability for my family while continuing to grow and pursue my education. Balancing motherhood, financial responsibility, and long-term goals has required discipline, resilience, and constant determination. There have been times where I felt overwhelmed, but those moments pushed me to become stronger and more focused on the future I am creating for my children. As a biracial woman of color, I have experienced and witnessed the ways that opportunity is not always equally distributed. This became even more clear to me through my involvement in the foster care system. I have seen firsthand how children of color are often treated differently and face additional barriers simply because of who they are. For example, in many cases, children of color over the age of two are categorized as “special needs” due to the assumption that they may have a harder time finding permanent homes, while white children in similar situations are not labeled the same way until much later. Seeing disparities like this has deeply impacted me and shaped my purpose. Instead of allowing these realities to discourage me, they have strengthened my commitment to making a difference. This is one of the reasons I chose to foster and adopt, and why I am intentional about creating a loving, stable environment for my children. I want them—and other children like them—to grow up knowing that they are valued, capable, and deserving of every opportunity. In addition to my role as a mother, I am actively involved in my community by teaching my daughters how to play basketball and helping coach their cheerleading team. Through this, I aim to build confidence and provide guidance not only for my children, but for others as well. I understand how important it is for young people, especially those from underrepresented backgrounds, to have someone who believes in them. Adversity has taught me that challenges are not meant to stop you—they are meant to shape you. They build strength, perspective, and purpose. If I could give advice to someone facing similar circumstances, I would tell them this: do not let the limitations placed on you define your future. Start where you are, use what you have, and keep going. Your path may look different, but that does not make it less meaningful. Stay focused, stay consistent, and believe that your effort will create change—not just for yourself, but for others as well. Receiving this scholarship would support my educational journey and allow me to continue building a stable future for my family while working toward making a meaningful impact in my community. I am committed to using my experiences, my voice, and my education to help create more equitable opportunities for others.

My name is Callie, and I am a mother of three daughters—Bay, who is adopted, and my two biological daughters, Billie and Birdie. Being their mother is the most important role in my life, and it shapes everything I do, including how I show up in my education, my community, and the example I set every day. Sports have always been a meaningful part of my life. Growing up, I played volleyball and participated in archery, where I learned discipline, focus, and how to stay committed even when things became challenging. Those experiences built a foundation in me that I still rely on today—especially in moments when life requires strength and perseverance. Now, my relationship with sports has grown into something even more meaningful. I am currently teaching my daughters how to play basketball and helping coach their cheerleading team. In this role, I’m not just teaching skills—I’m helping build confidence, teamwork, and self-belief in young girls. I see firsthand how powerful encouragement can be, and I make it a priority to create an environment where they feel supported, capable, and proud of themselves. Motherhood has taught me a level of responsibility and resilience that goes beyond anything I experienced growing up. I am raising three girls who are watching everything I do, and I take that seriously. I want Bay, Billie, and Birdie to grow up seeing what it looks like to work hard, to keep going, and to treat others with kindness. Whether it’s through coaching, teaching them new skills, or simply showing up every day, I strive to lead by example. My goals for the future include continuing my education and building a career where I can support not only my family, but also others in meaningful ways. I am passionate about helping people grow, heal, and find stability, and I want to create a life where my daughters see that it’s possible to turn challenges into purpose. Kalia D. Davis lived a life defined by excellence, ambition, and kindness, and her story is deeply inspiring. Like her, I believe in showing up fully in every role I carry. Whether as a student, a mother, or a mentor, I am committed to doing my best and encouraging others to do the same. This scholarship would not only support my educational journey, but it would also help me continue building a stable and purposeful life for my daughters. More than anything, it would allow me to keep pouring into them and my community, carrying forward the values that Kalia represented—hard work, compassion, and the drive to make a difference.

What I love most about Wicked is that it tells the story of someone who was never meant to fit in—and stopped trying to. Elphaba isn’t just “different.” She’s judged, misunderstood, and constantly placed in a position where she has to either shrink herself to be accepted or stand fully in who she is, even if it costs her everything. That’s what makes her story so powerful, because it’s not just fantasy—it’s real life. There have been many moments in my life where I’ve felt like I didn’t quite fit into one category or another, where I had to navigate expectations, judgment, and uncertainty while still trying to build something meaningful for myself and my children. As a single mother pursuing my education, I’ve had to make decisions that weren’t always easy or understood by others. But like Elphaba, I’ve learned that sometimes the right path isn’t the one that looks the most acceptable—it’s the one that’s true to who you are. “Defying Gravity” is more than just a song. It’s a turning point. It represents the moment when you stop asking for permission to be yourself and start choosing your own direction, even if it means doing it alone. That message has stayed with me because I’ve had to do exactly that—push forward, rebuild, and create a future not just for myself, but for my daughters. What also makes Wicked so meaningful to me is the relationship between Elphaba and Glinda. It shows that people can come from completely different perspectives, make different choices, and still impact each other deeply. It reminds me that growth doesn’t always look the same for everyone, and that understanding others doesn’t require being identical to them. Wicked isn’t just about magic—it’s about identity, courage, and the strength it takes to stand in your truth when the world doesn’t fully understand you. It’s about choosing growth over comfort, even when it’s difficult. In my own life, “defying gravity” looks like continuing my education, pursuing a future where I can help others, and building something meaningful for my family. It means not letting circumstances define my limits, and not waiting for approval to move forward. That’s why Wicked resonates with me so deeply—because it reminds me that being different isn’t something to hide. It’s something to rise with.

The tulip bloomed later than the others. All around her, the peonies stood tall—full, rich, and radiant. Their petals were deep and layered, bold in color and presence, like they had always known exactly who they were meant to be. The garden seemed to celebrate them. Bees lingered longer. The sunlight seemed to favor them. The tulip, by contrast, was softer. Her petals were lighter, blending shades in a way that didn’t quite match anything around her. Not as full as the peonies. Not as simple as the daisies. Just… somewhere in between. She spent most mornings watching. Watching how easily the peonies swayed together, how naturally they belonged. Watching how the garden seemed to understand them without explanation. And she wondered, quietly, if something about her had gone wrong. “Why don’t I look like them?” she once asked the wind. The wind didn’t answer right away. It simply passed through the garden, brushing gently against every petal, every leaf, every stem—until it circled back to her. “Because you weren’t meant to,” it finally whispered. That didn’t make her feel better. Days passed, and the tulip tried to shrink herself—closing her petals tighter, tilting away from the sun, hoping maybe if she took up less space, she wouldn’t feel so out of place. But flowers cannot stop blooming just because they are uncertain. One morning, a small child wandered into the garden. She moved slowly, carefully, like she was searching for something she couldn’t quite name. She passed the peonies without stopping, though they were the brightest in the garden. Then she paused. Right in front of the tulip. Her eyes lit up. “You’re my favorite,” the child said softly. The tulip stilled. No one had ever said that before. The child leaned closer, studying her petals—the way the colors blended instead of choosing one. The way she stood differently, not quite like anything else in the garden. “You’re different,” the child smiled. “That’s why I like you.” And for the first time, the tulip didn’t feel like something unfinished. She felt… intentional. The wind returned, gentler this time. “Do you understand now?” it asked. The tulip lifted her head just slightly, letting the sunlight fall fully across her petals. “I think so,” she said. She looked around the garden again—but this time, nothing felt like a comparison. The peonies were still bold. Still beautiful. But so was she. Not in the same way. In her own way. And that was enough. In that moment, the tulip realized she had spent so much time measuring herself against others that she never allowed herself to simply exist as she was. She learned that being different didn’t mean she was lacking—it meant she was unique in a way the garden needed. And more importantly, she learned that belonging isn’t about blending in, but about being seen and appreciated for exactly who you are.

Mental illness shaped my life long before I had the language to describe it. My mother struggled with severe bipolar disorder, depression, and alcoholism. As a child, I lived inside the unpredictable rhythm of her mental state — the highs that spun too fast and the lows that swallowed entire days. I grew up learning to read danger in silence, instability in the way a door closed, and emotional storms in the smallest shift of energy. Even though I was young, I understood that her behavior was not “who she was,” but an illness she could not outrun. That distinction saved my empathy. It taught me to separate the person from the disease — a lesson that later became the foundation of how I understand, comfort, and support others. My father eventually raised me alone, creating stability where chaos once lived. His love was calm, predictable, structured — the exact opposite of what mental illness had shown me. He didn’t talk much about my mother’s condition, but he demonstrated every day what it meant to provide emotional safety. That contrast shaped my understanding of mental health more deeply than any textbook ever could. It showed me that mental illness is not just a diagnosis; it is something that ripples through entire families, shaping childhoods, relationships, and identities. That early exposure to instability also made me the person I am now: steady, empathetic, unshakable in crisis, and deeply attuned to the emotional needs of others. Those instincts eventually drew me to foster care. Today, I am a foster parent and an adoptive parent, caring for children who carry their own invisible histories — trauma, grief, anxiety, fear, and disrupted attachments. When they arrive in my home, I can recognize the survival patterns I once used myself. I can see what they’re not saying. I can sense the emotional landmines before they explode. Instead of being triggered by their struggles, I understand them. In many ways, my childhood prepared me to love them better. Mental illness affected my life profoundly, but it also gave me purpose. It taught me that healing is not linear, safety is everything, and compassion is a skill. Now, as I pursue my education, my goal is to build a career rooted in mental health advocacy and trauma-informed care. I want to support children and families the way my father supported me — consistently, patiently, and without judgment. I hope to use my lived experience not as a weight, but as a tool. Mental illness shaped the beginning of my story, but I am choosing how it shapes the rest. My education will allow me to take the empathy, insight, and resilience I gained from those early years and turn them into professional expertise that can help others navigate the very experiences that once hurt me. In that way, the hardest parts of my past become seeds for healing — not just for me, but for every child and family I have the privilege of serving.

Supporting others with their mental health has never been something I “decided” to do — it is something I grew into, almost by necessity, and later embraced as a calling. As a single mother, a foster parent, and soon an adoptive parent, I have spent years helping children navigate emotions, anxiety, loss, and instability. Many of the kids who have come through my home arrived carrying more fear than words, more behaviors than explanations. My role has often been to slow down, interpret, soothe, and create a sense of safety where none existed before. Because of my own childhood experiences with a mentally unstable parent, I learned early how to read emotional shifts, how to de-escalate, and how to recognize the “hurt child” inside people. That has become one of my greatest strengths. I use it daily — whether I’m comforting a foster child during a panic episode, advocating for my daughters at school, or simply supporting a friend who feels overwhelmed. The people around me know that my home, my presence, and even my voice are steady places to land. I also serve actively in my foster community and church, where mental health conversations are often avoided or misunderstood. I’ve helped other foster parents regulate kids with trauma responses, guided overwhelmed moms to local therapy resources, and shared strategies that have helped my own children thrive. Simply put, I support others by showing up consistently, listening deeply, and creating emotional safety — the thing so many people lack. My studies will allow me to turn this lived experience into clinical, professional skill. I plan to pursue a career in mental health and child advocacy, with a focus on trauma-informed care. I want to work with children and families who feel unseen, unheard, or misunderstood. My goal is to combine my intuitive understanding of people with evidence-based mental health training so I can support others not only emotionally, but effectively. Every step I take in my education is driven by the belief that emotional healing changes the trajectory of entire families. I’ve witnessed it in my own home and in my community. With the right training and support, I hope to help even more people find stability, compassion, and hope.

Growing up in a single-parent, low-income household taught me how to persevere long before I even knew the word for it. My father raised me on his own, and while we lacked material things, we never lacked commitment, structure, or unconditional love. Watching him shoulder every responsibility — provider, protector, teacher, and nurturer — shaped the way I approach every challenge today. His example taught me that perseverance is not loud or dramatic; it is steady, consistent, and deeply rooted. That foundation is what carries me now as a single mother, foster parent, and adoptive parent. Raising my daughters on my own while caring for foster children has required resilience, discipline, and faith. I have learned to navigate systems, advocate in courtrooms and schools, and create a home full of stability, routine, and warmth despite limited financial resources. Instead of letting my circumstances limit me, they have fueled me. I know what it feels like to be the child who needed safety and the parent who must provide it. My life experiences are exactly why I plan to make a positive impact through my education. I am pursuing my degree so I can serve vulnerable families and children with greater knowledge and influence. Whether through social work, mental-health support, or child advocacy, my goal is to create spaces where kids feel protected and parents feel supported — especially those navigating poverty or single parenthood. Right now, I’m actively working toward my goals by furthering my education, volunteering in my foster community, supporting other foster parents, and participating in church outreach efforts. Every step I take is rooted in the belief that cycles can be broken, families can be strengthened, and children can heal when someone simply chooses to show up.

Giving back has never been a separate “project” in my life—it is the center of who I am. I am a foster parent, an adoptive parent, and an active member of my church community, and each of these roles gives me the privilege of pouring into children and families who need stability, safety, and unconditional love. My home is built on the belief that healing starts with consistent care, gentle structure, and the kind of compassion that sees beyond behaviors and into a child’s heart. As a foster and adoptive parent, I step into the lives of children during the most vulnerable moments of their story. These children often come from instability, uncertainty, and loss, and my job is to provide a home where they feel safe enough to breathe again. I give back by being present—showing up for therapy sessions, advocating in schools, communicating with caseworkers, and creating a nurturing environment where children can rebuild their sense of worth. My daughters and I treat fostering as a ministry of love and service. It is not always easy, but it is always purposeful. I also actively support other foster families in my community. Whether it’s answering late-night calls from new foster parents, swapping resources, or showing up with meals and encouragement, I believe in strengthening the entire foster system by being a dependable neighbor. My church plays a huge role in this mission as well. We participate in donation drives, child welfare outreach, and community-care projects that serve both children and adults in crisis. I want every child—not just the ones in my home—to feel seen, known, and supported. Giving back to children has shaped my vision for the future and my career path. I plan to use my education to continue advocating for vulnerable populations, especially youth who have experienced trauma, instability, or the loss of a parent. I have lived through the realities of a single-parent household, and I am now raising my children as a single mother myself. I understand firsthand how much resilience, guidance, and emotional grounding young people need. My goal is to become a professional who bridges compassion with actionable support—whether through mental health work, social services, or adolescent advocacy. In the long term, I hope to create a youth mentorship and life-skills program tied to the foster community. So many teens age out of care with very little support, and I want to build a space where they can learn practical skills, receive emotional mentorship, and gain a stable support system they can lean on as they transition into adulthood. I want to be part of breaking generational cycles—not through temporary fixes, but through sustained connection and empowerment. Ultimately, giving back is not something I do when I have extra time—it is the calling that shapes my daily life. My home, my education, and my future career all revolve around creating spaces where children and families feel safe, supported, and loved. I believe in leaving the world better than I found it, one child and one community at a time. This scholarship would allow me to continue pursuing my education while continuing the work I already do in my home and community. With financial support, I can focus more on serving, advocating, and building the foundation for the programs and outreach I plan to launch in the future. I am committed to a lifetime of giving back—and I am grateful for the opportunity to further that mission.

My name is Callie Benaías Ofelia Dismuke, and my life’s calling is to care for people who have been overlooked, unheard, or unseen. Growing up as a biracial girl in a home shaped by instability, mental illness, and generational trauma taught me early what it feels like to survive without support—and what a difference one stable, loving adult can make. My father was that person for me. He raised me alone, shielded me from chaos, and built a home grounded in safety and structure. When he passed away, I became fully aware of the impact that one caretaker can have on a child’s entire world. That realization is what now guides my career path. Today, I am a single mother raising two daughters with the same intentional love my father gave me. I am also a future bilingual social worker and therapist whose goal is to build safe, healing spaces for young girls, foster youth, and families who are fighting battles they don’t know how to name. My dream is to combine clinical training, cultural sensitivity, and lived experience to create a career dedicated to emotional restoration and generational change. My greatest gift—and the one I plan to use professionally—is my ability to see the “hurt child” inside people, even adults. I grew up navigating the unpredictable storms of a mother who struggled with bipolar disorder, alcoholism, and untreated mental health crises. Because of that, I learned to recognize pain behind behavior, fear behind anger, and loneliness behind silence. I carry an unusual level of empathy and emotional intuition, not because it was taught to me, but because I survived within it. That ability is what I want to turn into my life’s work. Through my education in Foreign Languages with a concentration in Spanish, and eventually a Master of Social Work, I plan to serve communities that are often underserved—particularly Hispanic, bilingual, and mixed-race families who face both cultural and psychological barriers to mental health access. There is a tremendous need for therapists who understand intersectionality, identity, and generational trauma on a personal level. I want to be one of the few who can sit across from a young girl and say, “I understand,” and mean it with my whole heart. My impact will come through prevention, advocacy, and healing—helping children feel safe in their own homes, helping mothers break cycles, helping teens navigate their emotions, and helping families rebuild communication and trust. In the long run, my goal is to open a therapeutic home for teen girls aging out of foster care, where stability, mentorship, and education are priorities—not afterthoughts. I want these young women to experience what my father gave me: a sense of worth, safety, and belonging that carries them into adulthood. I believe that careers that care are built on compassion, consistency, and courage. I have lived all three. I have navigated motherhood alone, advocated for foster placements, fought for my children in educational systems, and rebuilt myself after loss and instability. These experiences didn’t break me—they prepared me. This scholarship would not just support my education; it would help me become the kind of professional our world desperately needs: a bilingual therapist who leads with empathy, a mentor who understands trauma firsthand, and a woman dedicated to making sure no child grows up feeling invisible. With this degree, I will transform my lived experiences into a career that heals, empowers, and uplifts the communities I serve. Caring is not just what I want to do—it is who I am. And I am ready to turn that into a lifelong impact.

Even though I’m not a part of the EDM or rave community, the values behind PLUR—Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect—are values I live by every day as a mother, a student, and a future mental-health professional. To me, PLUR represents a world where people lead with empathy, choose gentleness even in hard moments, and build community across differences. Those are principles I not only believe in, but actively embody in every space I enter. Peace, to me, means choosing emotional stability and creating an environment where people feel safe to exist as they are. As a single mother of two daughters, peace is not abstract—it is something I cultivate intentionally. I’ve built a home where my girls never have to tiptoe around conflict, unpredictability, or chaos. I break cycles by giving them the emotional security I didn’t have growing up. Peace, for us, looks like structure, consistency, healing conversations, and the freedom to feel their feelings without punishment. I extend that same peaceful presence into my friendships, my academic life, and my community. I try to be the person who softens a room, not the person who brings tension into it. Love, in my life, is both action and responsibility. It’s waking up every day and choosing to show up for my daughters with patience, humor, and dedication—even when I’m tired or overwhelmed. It is loving people not just when they’re easy, but when they’re hurting, withdrawn, or afraid. A big part of who I am is my ability to see the “hurt child” inside people, even adults. Because of my upbringing, I developed a deep sense of empathy and intuition. When I love, I love by understanding. I love by listening. I love by creating space for people who have never been allowed to take up space before. Unity means community. It means connection. It means refusing to let anyone feel alone. I’ve built unity in my life in non-traditional ways—through motherhood, through supporting friends in crisis, and through my personal mission to uplift young girls and foster youth who need stable adults. As a future therapist and social worker, unity is at the core of why I am pursuing this career path. I want to be someone who brings people together, who bridges cultural gaps as a bilingual professional, and who helps families find their footing again. Unity shows up in how I encourage other women, how I advocate for mental health, and how I make sure no one in my circle feels isolated in their struggles. Respect, finally, is something I give freely but also something I had to learn to demand. As a woman—especially a woman of color—people often underestimate me or expect passivity. Over time, I learned to speak up for myself with clarity and confidence. Whether I’m dealing with lawyers, insurance companies, school systems, or everyday situations where people try to take advantage of my kindness, I hold my ground. Respect also means honoring others’ boundaries, identities, cultures, and experiences. It means remembering that everyone is fighting a battle I cannot see, and responding with compassion instead of judgment. In my life, PLUR is not a slogan—it’s a lifestyle rooted in healing, motherhood, and service. It guides how I raise my daughters, how I support my community, and how I aspire to help others professionally. My goal is to carry these values into my future work in mental health, offering peace to those in crisis, love to those who feel forgotten, unity to those who feel alone, and respect to every person I meet.

Mental health matters to me because it shaped the foundation of my life long before I ever understood the word “mental health.” I was raised by a mother who lived with manic bipolar disorder, depression, and alcoholism, and the instability in my childhood taught me early what happens when mental illness goes untreated. Later in life, I survived an abusive marriage, became a single mother, and lost my father—the one stable parent I had ever known—to a slow, heartbreaking decline from heart failure. Every chapter of my life has shown me a different side of human suffering, resilience, and the desperate need for mental-health support at every age. These experiences are the reason mental health is not just important to me as a student—it is my calling. As a mother, especially a mother of daughters, I understand how mental wellness shapes identity, confidence, and generational patterns. I am intentional about creating a peaceful home, modeling emotional regulation, and helping my girls name and understand their feelings. Advocacy for me begins inside my home: teaching my daughters that their feelings are not “too much,” that they don’t have to apologize for existing, and that they can take up space without fear. As someone who grew up without emotional safety, my advocacy also expands into my community. I am the friend, sister, and foster-care advocate who notices the struggling child no one else sees. I have a deep awareness of trauma responses—silence, hyper-independence, people-pleasing—because I lived them. When I interact with children in my life, including the foster youth I hope to adopt, I approach them gently, always looking past the behavior and into the unmet need underneath it. My greatest talent is seeing the “hurt child” in someone and responding with empathy instead of judgment. I also advocate for mental health in real-world systems where vulnerable people are often overlooked. As a single mother navigating courts, insurance companies, divorce proceedings, and educational institutions, I’ve had to learn how to speak up for myself despite a childhood that conditioned me to stay quiet. These systems can be intimidating for anyone, especially women and people of color, and I’ve made it a point to help others find their voice as well. Whether it’s helping a friend understand their rights, encouraging another single mother to pursue therapy, or supporting someone through a mental-health crisis, I use my lived experience to guide others toward stability and hope. As a student pursuing a degree in Foreign Languages with the long-term goal of earning my Master of Social Work, I plan to bring cultural competence and trauma-informed care into my future work. Becoming bilingual will allow me to serve communities that often struggle to access mental-health services due to language barriers. My goal is to work with foster youth, trauma survivors, and families whose mental health has been shaped by generational cycles of instability—cycles I am actively breaking in my own life and home. This scholarship would allow me to continue my education without sacrificing the emotional stability I’ve worked so hard to create for my daughters. Balancing school, work, and motherhood is not easy, but it is meaningful. Every assignment I complete and every class I take is a step toward becoming the professional I wish my younger self had met. Mental health is important to me because I’ve seen what unhealed pain does to a parent, a child, a family, and a community. I’ve lived the consequences—but I’m also living the restoration. And I hope to spend my career helping others do the same.

My understanding of mental health began long before I ever recognized the term. I grew up with a mother who battled severe mental illness—manic bipolar depression compounded by alcoholism. Her unpredictability shaped every corner of my childhood. Some days she was unreachable, lost in her own pain; other days, her emotions swung so sharply that the safest response was silence. As a child, I didn’t have language for any of this. I only knew that home didn’t feel safe, stable, or predictable. My nervous system learned survival instead of security. I learned to shrink myself, fix myself, and raise myself. Those early experiences formed my beliefs about emotional expression: that speaking up was dangerous, that needing anything was a burden, and that my role was to stay small to keep the peace. When I was eventually sent to live with my father, I experienced stability for the first time. He raised me alone and gave me the love and calm my mother couldn’t. Those years taught me what healthy attachment looks like—something I carried into motherhood. But trauma doesn’t vanish when childhood ends. It follows you into adulthood and whispers in the moments you feel most vulnerable. I realized this when I became a mother myself. Looking at my daughters, I understood that if I didn’t confront the patterns I inherited, they would quietly become the patterns they inherit. So I began the hard work of healing. Then came a new set of adversities: an abusive marriage, the challenges of becoming a single mother, and the suffocating pressure of navigating life’s systems—insurance, courts, finances—on my own. I had to learn to speak up for myself in ways I was never taught. Advocacy became a skill I earned through necessity. And then I lost my father, the one stable parent I had ever known. Watching his slow decline from heart failure was one of the heaviest experiences of my life. I sat beside him through surgeries, falls, hospital stays, pacemakers, and finally hospice. I rubbed his feet the night he passed, and when I woke, he was gone. That grief transformed me. It deepened my compassion and expanded my understanding of invisible suffering. These experiences—childhood trauma, loss, single motherhood, recovery from abuse—did not break me. They shaped me. They re-oriented me toward service, empathy, and purpose. That is why I am pursuing a career in the mental health field. I want to support children and families who have lived through instability, fear, or emotional unpredictability. I understand firsthand how a parent’s untreated mental illness can impact a household, a child’s development, and a child’s sense of self. I also understand the transformative power of one safe adult—and the generational healing that becomes possible when someone decides to break the cycle. My long-term goal is to earn my Master of Social Work and become a therapist specializing in trauma, foster youth, and family systems. I want to be the person who helps others navigate what I once had to endure alone. This scholarship would allow me to continue my education without compromising my daughters’ stability—something I have fought fiercely to protect. Balancing motherhood, healing, school, and work is demanding, but resilience is a language I learned young. I’m not afraid of hard work; I’m grateful for the chance to transform my pain into purpose. Mental health didn’t just influence my life—it defined my calling. Now, I hope to use my education to make sure the next generation feels supported, understood, and never alone.

My relationship with mental health began long before I had words for what I was experiencing. I grew up in an environment shaped by instability, fear, and emotional neglect. As a child, I learned to survive by staying quiet, shrinking myself, and reading the moods of the adults around me. No one taught me emotional regulation, communication, or safety. Instead, I taught myself how to disappear. That silence followed me into adulthood. Even when I was hurting, I apologized for everything. I apologized for speaking, for needing help, for taking up space, for simply existing. Trauma teaches you to become small. But becoming a mother forced me to confront that. I realized that if I didn’t heal, my daughters would inherit emotional wounds that did not belong to them. So I started doing the hardest work of my life: learning how to be well. My mental-health journey began with leaving an abusive marriage and choosing peace over fear. It continued when I began raising my daughters alone, determined that they would grow up seeing a woman who used her voice instead of hiding it. I faced years of anxiety, self-doubt, and trauma responses that I didn’t yet understand. But I kept going. I learned how to communicate instead of shutting down, how to regulate instead of exploding, how to sit with discomfort without abandoning myself. Trauma shapes you, but it doesn’t have to define you. That has become my greatest lesson. Losing my father deepened that lesson even more. Heart failure is a slow, cruel decline, and I had to watch him fade away in front of me. I watched him lose weight, lose strength, lose pieces of himself. I watched him get stent after stent, a pacemaker, and eventually lose the ability to work or even stand without falling. I sat by his side in hospice, rubbing his feet as he slipped away in his sleep. That experience shattered me—and rebuilt me. Grief taught me empathy in a way nothing else could. It gave me the ability to see the hurt child in other people. It softened me, but it also strengthened me. It made me want to help others navigate pain without feeling alone the way I once did. That desire is why I am pursuing a career in mental health. My goal is to earn my Master of Social Work and serve children who have lived through the same instability, abandonment, and fear that I survived. Through my work as a foster and adoptive mother, I’ve already seen how trauma lives in the mind and body. These children don’t need someone who pities them; they need someone who understands the language of survival and can help translate it into healing. I want to be that person. I want to build spaces where children feel safe enough to be honest, brave enough to feel, and supported enough to grow. I want to teach emotional literacy, break generational cycles, and give kids the stability I once longed for. I want to make healing accessible to every child, especially those who are overlooked by systems that misunderstand trauma. This scholarship would allow me to move confidently toward that future. As a single mother, balancing school, work, and parenting requires structure, determination, and sacrifice—but I have never been afraid of hard things. I survived hard things. Now I am choosing to transform them. Mental health didn’t just influence my life—it saved it. And it gave me a mission: to help others find the same freedom, hope, and strength that I fought to create for myself and my daughters.

Taylor Swift has had countless unforgettable performances, but the one that moved me the most was her 2022 commencement speech for New York University paired with her performance of “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” on Saturday Night Live. Even though one was spoken and the other was sung, together they captured the two sides of Taylor’s artistry: her wisdom and her storytelling. Both moments reflect why her career has resonated so deeply with people like me—women who have had to rebuild themselves, find their voice, and step into a new chapter with courage. In her NYU speech, Taylor talked honestly about mistakes, reinvention, and the art of starting over. What struck me most was the simplicity of her message: “You don’t have to know everything right now.” She gave graduates permission to grow, to fail, and to keep moving forward without having all the answers. As a single mother returning to college, I carried so much pressure to be perfect, to balance everything flawlessly, and to never fall behind. Hearing Taylor speak about embracing change rather than fearing it felt like someone removed a weight from my shoulders. It reminded me that my story isn’t delayed—it’s unfolding exactly the way it’s meant to. But it was her SNL performance of “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” that showed the emotional backbone of that message. She stood alone on the stage with a red scarf, performing a ten-minute song with no dancers, no elaborate set, just raw storytelling. The courage it takes to tell a story that personal, that honest, and that long—without shrinking or apologizing—was inspiring. It showed that a woman’s voice does not need to be softened, shortened, or edited to be worthy of attention. As a biracial woman, I’ve spent years learning to unlearn the habit of shrinking myself. I was raised in a world where women, especially women of color, are taught to apologize for simply existing. Speaking up—at work, with insurance companies, in courtrooms, in schools—became a survival skill. But Taylor’s performance reminded me that using your voice can also be an art. It can be powerful, steady, vulnerable, and firm all at once. Watching her deliver every lyric with full conviction made me realize that stepping into my own future requires the same type of bravery—unfiltered truth, no shortcuts, and no fear of taking up space. Both moments—her speech and her performance—represent Taylor’s evolution as a woman who has been in the spotlight for almost two decades but continues to reinvent herself. “The Life of a Showgirl” celebrates that ongoing journey, the idea that you can be both performer and person, both polished and healing, both learning and shining. As someone returning to school to build a career rooted in language, communication, and community, I see a reflection of my own path in hers. Reinvention does not erase past chapters; it honors them by building something stronger. Taylor’s performances taught me that transformation is not just allowed—it is necessary. And that showing up fully, with your whole story, is its own type of courage. That is why her NYU speech and her “All Too Well” SNL performance remain the most moving to me: they remind me that I am allowed to grow loudly, boldly, and unapologetically, just like the showgirl herself.

Adversity has shown up in my life in many forms—moments of mental exhaustion, financial stress, unexpected responsibilities, and seasons where I had to rebuild myself from the ground up. But I have learned that bravery is not the absence of fear or difficulty; it is the decision to keep moving with intention. Every step I take toward my education today is rooted in the discipline I built during the hardest moments of my life. The greatest adversity I’ve faced hasn’t been a single event, but the ongoing challenge of pursuing my long-term goals while raising children on my own. Single parenthood demands everything—emotionally, mentally, physically—and there is no “later” button when life becomes overwhelming. I am the provider, the nurturer, the routine-keeper, the problem solver, and the safe place for my daughters. Balancing all of that with my educational aspirations could have felt impossible, but instead it became the foundation of my strength. My first step in facing adversity was retraining my mindset. I had to unlearn the belief that pursuing my dreams was selfish or unrealistic because I was a mother. I realized that my daughters learn what is possible by watching me choose growth. So instead of shelving my goals, I made them a part of our family vision. My girls sit with me while I study, celebrate every test I pass, and know the name of my major just as well as I do. Turning my journey into our journey completely reshaped the way I navigate challenges. The second step I took was creating structure and discipline in every area of my life. I built routines that support both motherhood and higher education—organized schedules, early mornings, consistent Spanish practice, and a work-study balance that honors my children’s needs. Instead of waiting for “perfect timing,” I created a system where success is achievable in the middle of real life. The third step was learning to advocate for myself without hesitation. As a woman—especially as a biracial woman—I’ve had to grow comfortable using my voice in spaces where people expect me to shrink. Whether it’s dealing with insurance companies, financial aid offices, college administrators, or professional settings, I’ve learned how to ask questions, assert boundaries, and speak with confidence. That bravery has protected my time, my education, and my future. The fourth step in overcoming adversity was allowing myself to dream long-term again. My career aspirations—to work with youth, serve my community, and build a future rooted in empathy—require education, time, and commitment. Instead of letting challenges derail me, I’ve used them as evidence that I’m capable of far more than I once believed. The same resilience that got me through difficult chapters is the resilience that will carry me into my professional life. Finally, I’ve learned that adversity is easier to face when you anchor yourself in purpose. My purpose is my family, my faith, my education, and the impact I hope to make. These aren’t just goals; they’re the reason I wake up every morning ready to push forward. My daughters deserve to watch a woman pursue her potential. I deserve that too. This scholarship would help lighten the financial weight of returning to school while supporting two children. But more importantly, it would represent another act of courage—another moment where I chose growth over fear, commitment over comfort, and the future over any temporary obstacle. Bravery, to me, is continuing anyway. And that is exactly what I intend to do.

I grew up in a single-parent household, and today I am a single parent myself. What many people misunderstand is that single-parent families are not defined by absence—they are defined by presence. My childhood was shaped by a father who was fully devoted to raising me with stability, love, and intentionality. That focused environment created a bond between us that carried me through every stage of my life and continues to guide the way I raise my own daughters. Being raised by one parent meant there were no distractions, no divided loyalties, and no emotional confusion in the home. My father chose to raise me on his own because he wanted my formative years to be grounded, peaceful, and safe. That choice gave me a childhood where I always knew exactly who was in my corner. I grew up with consistency, clarity, and a deep sense of security. That is a gift many people take for granted. Now that I am a mother of two girls, I find myself parenting with the same intentionality my father modeled. Our home is calm, focused, structured, and deeply connected. We are a small family, but we are strong because of how close we are. My girls know they are the center of my world, and I know that the environment I’ve created for them—stable, loving, and peaceful—is shaping them in the same positive way my father shaped me. People often assume single parenthood is defined by struggle, but for us it has been the source of clarity. There are no conflicting parenting styles, no tension in the home, no disruptions to their emotional development. I can give them a consistent upbringing rooted in values I believe in: education, kindness, hard work, faith, and emotional safety. Raising them on my own has allowed me to be fully present, fully accountable, and fully dedicated to their well-being. One of the biggest challenges I’ve overcome is learning how to carry that responsibility alone while still building a future for myself. Losing my father, who was my foundation, made that journey even harder. But his example is the reason I continue. Everything I am doing now—returning to school, earning my degree, building a stable future—is part of honoring the way he loved me and continuing that legacy for my daughters. Education is my pathway to creating generational security and to serving my community. I am studying Spanish because I believe language is one of the most powerful tools for connection, empathy, and advocacy. Long-term, I plan to work with youth—especially those in foster care or difficult home situations—because I know what it feels like to grow up in unconventional circumstances, and I know how life-changing it is when even one adult shows up consistently. I want to be that person for others. This scholarship would allow me to balance my responsibilities at home with my academic goals without the constant pressure of financial strain. Every bit of support helps me stay focused on my coursework while maintaining the stability and routine my daughters rely on. It would give me the freedom to continue my education with confidence, knowing that I am building a future not just for myself, but for the two little girls watching me become the woman I am meant to be. My story is shaped by single-parent love—first as a daughter, now as a mother. I plan to use my education to carry that legacy outward into the world, helping others feel seen, supported, and safe, just as my father made me feel.

Balancing my education with my commitment to my family as a single mother is not a challenge I run from—it is a calling I step into with confidence. My daughters are my greatest supporters, my closest companions, and the reason I pursue a future rooted in stability, service, and purpose. Everything I am doing now is for the life I want to build for them, and every step I take in school becomes a step we take together as a family. Motherhood has shaped me into someone who does not fold under pressure but grows through it. Because of my girls, I have built a structured and peaceful daily rhythm that supports all of us. I am at my best when I have responsibilities on my plate, and motherhood has only strengthened that ability. I often joke that I wear one hundred hats before lunchtime—but it’s true. I am the nurse, the taxi driver, the teacher, the maid, the chef, the entertainer, the counselor, and the cuddle machine all in one. Single or not, motherhood is a superpower, and God designed women with the capacity to nurture, multitask, manage, and lead with grace. These roles that I fill every day have become training grounds for the skills I now bring to my academic life: discipline, time management, and the ability to stay grounded under pressure. Because of that structure, balancing school feels natural. When I study, my girls pull out their books too. When I grow, they grow beside me. We have created a household culture where learning is normal, effort is celebrated, and discipline is shared. My daughters know that their mother is working toward a degree not only to build a future for us, but to show them what perseverance looks like in action. My commitment to education is part of my commitment to them. This scholarship would change everything for us. As a single parent, I carry the weight of providing financially while still being present emotionally, spiritually, and physically for my children. Every dollar I do not have to worry about is time and energy I can give back to my studies and my girls. Removing the financial strain would allow me to focus on my degree, remain consistent in my coursework, and move toward graduation without the fear of choosing between tuition and basic needs. It would bring stability to our home during a season of intense work and transition. My long-term goal is to use my degree to build a better life for my family and to serve my community—especially young women and foster youth who often go unheard. As someone who is biracial, a woman of faith, a survivor, and a mother, I have learned to use my voice in systems where women like me are often overlooked or underestimated. I want my education to become a tool I use to advocate for others, to build safer communities, and to serve families who need someone who understands struggle but chooses resilience. Balancing education and motherhood is not easy, but it is deeply meaningful. My girls are watching me become the woman I have always wanted to be—steady, educated, faith-rooted, and capable. With this scholarship, I can continue that journey with fewer barriers and greater focus. Thank you for considering my application, and for supporting parents like me who are working hard to change the trajectory of our families for generations to come.

My greatest talent is always seeing the hurt child in someone. No matter where a person comes from, what language they speak, or how they present themselves to the world, I instinctively look for the story beneath the surface. I see the eight-year-old who learned to speak softly to stay safe. The teenager who had to grow up too fast. The adult who still carries silent fears. This ability to recognize the inner child in people is the foundation of my empathy, and it’s the talent I will use to help build a more understanding global community. Empathy is a global language—one that transcends borders, cultures, and generations. As a mother raising two daughters and as a student pursuing a degree in Foreign Languages with a concentration in Spanish, I am learning how communication and compassion work together. Language allows us to speak to people; empathy allows us to truly hear them. When we combine the two, we create connections that can transform communities. In my daily life, I practice this by approaching people gently, whether they are educators, parents, caseworkers, or strangers. I’ve learned that when you respond to someone as if they are a whole human being—with history and hurt behind their eyes—you create space for trust and understanding. That space is where change begins. This talent is especially important in the work I hope to do with vulnerable youth, particularly foster children. Many of them have never had an adult see them fully—beyond their behaviors, beyond their circumstances. My ability to see the wounded child in someone helps me meet them with patience instead of judgment, encouragement instead of frustration. It helps me advocate loudly, yet love softly. Those are the qualities that build safe homes, strong communities, and confident futures for kids who have had to be strong for too long. Studying Spanish strengthens this calling. It expands the number of people I can embrace and understand. It allows me to communicate with families who are often overlooked or underserved because of language barriers. It helps me become a bridge—someone who can step into another culture with humility and respect, and help others do the same. When we can communicate across languages, we open the door to deeper understanding and more compassionate support systems. As a mother, I am also planting this empathy into my daughters. I teach them to take up space without apology, to use their voices confidently, and to treat others with dignity. I want them to grow up knowing that strength and softness are not opposites—they are partners. The more children learn that early, the more empathetic future generations will become. My faith also shapes this mission. Jesus consistently saw people not just for who they were in the moment, but for who they could become. He saw the hurt in others without shaming them. That is the model I follow: to look beyond the surface, beyond the defenses, beyond the mistakes, and to treat people with the compassion that heals. This scholarship would support my education, but it would also support a much larger purpose. My goal is to create a ripple of empathy—through my career, through my daughters, through every family I serve, and through every heart I meet. I believe the world changes when we treat people as if their inner child still matters. Because it does.

For most of my life, I was taught—directly and indirectly—to apologize for simply existing. As women, we’re trained to soften our tone, take up less space, and accept less than we deserve. And as a biracial woman, that pressure became even more complicated. Society looks at women like me and assumes silence. Assumes compliance. Assumes prey. But life has a way of teaching you who you truly are. As an unmarried woman navigating the world, I quickly learned that people often see us as easy targets. Insurance companies speak to you like you don’t understand your own policy. Car salesmen assume you’ll accept the first number they throw out. Judges and officers can dismiss your voice before you even finish a sentence. Divorce lawyers expect you to be overwhelmed. Realtors assume you’re not serious. Educators assume you’ll settle. And every time, I had a choice: shrink back into the girl who was taught to stay quiet, or become the woman my daughters needed me to be. So I learned to use my voice. Not out of anger, but out of necessity. Not to fight, but to stand. Not to prove anyone wrong, but to prove something to myself. Real life forced me to develop a confidence I didn’t grow up seeing. I learned how to speak clearly, how to ask hard questions, how to hold professionals accountable, how to advocate for myself in systems not built to listen to women—especially women of color. Every phone call, every appointment, every meeting became practice. And slowly, speaking up stopped feeling like a battle and started feeling like my right. What I didn’t expect was how deeply this journey would shape my daughters. I realized that the way I handle real-life challenges becomes the way they learn to face their own. When they watch me correct a billing issue without apologizing, they learn assertiveness. When they hear me negotiate instead of accepting the first offer, they learn self-worth. When they see me read contracts, ask questions, and refuse to be rushed, they learn wisdom. I am raising girls who know that their mother does not crumble under pressure. And because of that, they won’t either. That is the legacy I want to leave: Girls who do not shrink. Girls who do not apologize for taking up space. Girls who see their mother stand tall and learn that they are allowed to stand even taller. My voice used to feel small. Now it feels like a tool—something God gave me not just to protect myself, but to guide my daughters and to serve others. As I return to college at 32, I do so with a confidence I wish I’d had earlier in life. In my classes, in my future career, and in my community, I plan to use my voice to advocate, uplift, and encourage other women who are still learning how to speak. This scholarship would help me continue that journey, but more importantly, it supports the mission I’m building in my home: raising girls who know how to stand their ground and a woman who finally learned to stand on hers.

My name is Callie, and my journey has been anything but traditional. I grew up biracial in a home where I never felt safe. I ran away from my mother’s abuse again and again until the courts finally placed me with my dad. But stability didn’t last—he kicked me out at fifteen. From there, I couch-hopped, slept wherever I could, and learned to survive long before I learned to dream. By seventeen, I went to Langston hoping college would save me, but without stability or support, I failed out and ended up living with strangers from Craigslist just to have a bed. I shouldn’t be where I am today—but by the grace of God, I am. His hand on my life is the only reason my story didn’t end where it began. Now, as a 32-year-old single mother raising two daughters and in the process of adopting a teenage girl from foster care, my past has become my purpose. I’m studying Spanish and working toward becoming a bilingual therapist and eventually a house-mother for foster girls—creating the kind of safe, structured, Jesus-centered home I desperately needed at their age. I want to show them that the world does not get the final say over their identity, worth, or future. I also run a small handmade business that helps support my family while I’m in school. Everything I do is rooted in resilience, motherhood, faith, and the desire to break generational cycles for good. This scholarship would lighten the financial pressure that comes with being a full-time student, provider, and soon adoptive parent. It would give me the stability I never had growing up and allow me to keep moving toward the life I’m building—one where my story becomes someone else’s survival guide.

My decision to return to school is rooted in healing, faith, and the deep desire to rewrite a story that once felt broken. At thirty-two, I am a single mother, a biracial woman navigating identity in a world that often tries to choose for you, and someone who has survived domestic violence, loss, and profound loneliness. Returning to college is my second chance—a chance to reclaim the life I almost walked away from and become the woman I needed when I was younger. I grew up without my mother and with my father as my entire world. He was a strong Black man, steady and loving, the foundation of my identity and the root of my faith. Losing him in 2022 to congestive heart failure changed me forever. Heart failure is slow and cruel; I watched him fade piece by piece—getting thinner, weaker, falling often, needing stents, pacemakers, hospital stays, and eventually hospice. I held his hands and rubbed his feet as he took his last breaths. When I woke up and found him gone, it felt like my identity left with him. He was my link to my culture, my history, my grounding. Returning to school is one of the ways I’m rebuilding that sense of self and honoring everything he taught me. My first attempt at college was over a decade ago. I was young, homeless at times, overwhelmed, and trying to survive. School felt like a luxury for other people—kids from TV families, kids with support, kids with stability. I never saw myself in that world. When I became a mother at twenty-two, everything became about survival again. And when I found myself in a violent marriage, the only degree I was earning was strength. Escaping that relationship, rebuilding my life, and raising my daughters on my own reshaped my entire future. Now, I am returning to school because I refuse to let my daughters grow up believing education is “for someone else.” I want them to see their mother studying, writing papers, joining honor societies, and graduating with distinction. I want them to see a woman who didn’t just tell them about perseverance—she lived it. I’m pursuing a Bachelor’s in Foreign Languages with a concentration in Spanish because I want to become fully bilingual and use that skill to serve more families and more children. After my bachelor’s, I will continue directly into my Master’s in Social Work. My long-term calling is to work with foster youth—especially teenage girls who feel forgotten or unseen. I am currently in the process of adopting an older teen myself, and this journey has only deepened my passion. I want to become a licensed therapist, a house-mother, and eventually the kind of support system that changes the trajectory of a girl’s entire life. This time around, I am not running on fear or survival. I am running on purpose. I am running on faith. Jesus has restored so much in me—my peace, my direction, my courage—and now I am stepping boldly into the future He always had for me. Returning to school is not a backup plan; it is redemption. It is me taking back everything life tried to steal from me. It is me breaking cycles for my daughters and planting seeds for the girls I will one day mentor, counsel, and love. This scholarship would give me the stability I need to stay focused, stay confident, and stay enrolled. But more than that, it would help me build the life I know God called me to—one rooted in service, compassion, and second chances.

My plans for the future are rooted in faith, purpose, and a calling much larger than myself. As a thirty-two-year-old single mother, a biracial woman rebuilding her life after adversity, and someone who has walked through loss, domestic violence, and deep healing, I am determined to create a future that breaks generational cycles and lights a path for my daughters and the foster youth I hope to serve. I am currently pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in Foreign Languages, Literature, and Linguistics with a concentration in Spanish. Becoming truly bilingual is not just an academic goal for me — it is a tool that will open doors to serve more families and more communities. After earning my bachelor’s, I plan to continue straight into a Master’s in Social Work, with the long-term goal of becoming a licensed therapist and ultimately a house-mother for foster girls. I want to be the woman I needed when I was young — safe, steady, loving, and present. My future is centered on service. Before my father passed from congestive heart failure, his greatest lessons to me were faith in Jesus, compassion for others, and taking care of the people entrusted to you. Those lessons live in me now. They shape how I mother my daughters, how I approach education, and how I dream about the future. I am adopting an older foster youth because I believe no child is ever “too old” to deserve a family. I want to build my home into a place where teenage girls can grow, stabilize, heal, and step into adulthood with confidence and love. I know the exact work I want to do: • counseling teen girls who feel unseen • supporting foster youth aging out of care • advocating for trauma-informed systems • creating a home that reflects the heart of Jesus — gentle, patient, protective, and full of grace This scholarship would remove barriers that often feel overwhelming for students like me. As a single mother of two (and soon a third through adoption), every dollar matters. Tuition, books, fees, and the basic costs of living all fall on my shoulders alone. I work full-time in healthcare processing claims while parenting, healing, and pursuing my degree. I do it willingly, but it is undeniably hard. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to focus more fully on my studies without carrying the constant fear of whether I can afford each semester. It would help me remain enrolled consistently, stay on track for graduation, and avoid having to pause or delay my education due to financial strain. I don’t have a family I can rely on for help — I am the help. I am the provider, the stability, and the example my daughters look to. My education is not just for me. It is for my children, the teen I am adopting, and the many girls I will one day serve in the foster-care system. It is for the generational change I am determined to create. I want my daughters to see their mother graduate with honors, to see me studying late at night, praying before exams, refusing to give up. I want them to know that a woman can start over, rebuild her life, return to school, and chase God’s plan without fear. My future is bright because I am choosing it — and because God is guiding it. With this scholarship, that future becomes more attainable, more stable, and more aligned with the calling on my life: to serve, to uplift, and to be a light for girls coming out of dark places.

For almost a decade, the healthcare field has been the center of my professional life. I began in health claims and basic data entry, which opened the door to understanding how complex—but essential—the healthcare system is for families like mine. Over time, I advanced into medical coding, and today I work as a Senior Claims Analyst, a medical biller, and a certified coder. I have been doing this work professionally since 2018, and each year has deepened my sense of purpose and responsibility within the healthcare world. My journey has not been a traditional one, but that is exactly why I feel so strongly about continuing my education and expanding my impact. As a single mother raising my children entirely on my own, stability and service have always been my driving forces. Healthcare is where both of those things meet. I have lived through moments where access to care, compassionate providers, and knowledgeable advocates made the difference between fear and survival. Those experiences shaped my desire to be someone who helps others navigate a system that can feel overwhelming, especially for vulnerable communities. One of the most meaningful steps I am taking now is pursuing a degree while also studying Spanish to become fully bilingual. In the healthcare world, language accessibility is not a luxury—it’s a necessity. So many patients, especially in marginalized or immigrant communities, are misunderstood, under-supported, or completely left behind because they cannot communicate fully with their providers or insurance representatives. I want to bridge that gap. I want to be the person who can explain a diagnosis, a claim denial, a bill, or a life-changing piece of medical information in a language that makes someone feel seen, heard, and safe. Being bilingual will allow me to help more people, advocate more effectively, and serve families who often fall through the cracks. It is an investment not just in my career, but in my ability to give back to my community in a direct and meaningful way. As a woman in healthcare, I carry not only my professional skills but also my lived experience—my empathy as a mother, my resilience as a survivor, and my determination as a first-generation college student returning to school later in life. My goal is to use my education to build a future where I can do more than process claims behind the scenes. I want to step into a role where I am actively shaping outcomes, supporting families, and advocating for those who need someone in their corner. Receiving this scholarship would relieve a tremendous financial burden and allow me to focus on completing my degree and strengthening my skills without sacrificing stability for my children. It would be a stepping stone toward becoming the kind of woman I needed when I was navigating hospitals, billing departments, and insurance systems alone—confused, scared, and determined to fight for myself and my babies. My long-term dream is to obtain my master’s degree, become a licensed therapist, and open a healing-centered space for young girls—especially those in foster care or coming from trauma—to receive support, mentorship, and mental health care. My foundation in healthcare is the first step in building that future. I want to combine medical knowledge, language accessibility, and trauma-informed care to create change far bigger than myself. I have spent the last seven years helping people behind a computer. With this scholarship and my education, I hope to step forward and begin helping them face-to-face—with compassion, clarity, and purpose.

I am a fan of Sabrina Carpenter because she represents a kind of confidence and feminine freedom I didn’t grow up seeing. What I love most about her is that everything she does is clearly for the girls — not for male validation, not for approval, not for the industry. She carries herself with a kind of joy and playfulness that makes it obvious that she is not bending to please men or centering her identity around them. She creates music that uplifts women, hypes women, and makes us feel powerful, beautiful, and seen. As a single mother raising two daughters on my own — and preparing to adopt a teenage girl — having examples of strong, self-defined, confident womanhood matters deeply to me. I want my girls to grow up understanding that their value doesn’t come from male attention. They deserve to take up space, be creative, be playful, be bold, and build a life centered around their own joy. Sabrina embodies that energy effortlessly. She’s a “girls’ girl” in the truest sense: her art celebrates womanhood, friendship, independence, and being unapologetically yourself. Her confidence has pushed me to reclaim my own. I spent years in survival mode — overcoming domestic violence, rebuilding my life from nothing, and parenting without support. Watching Sabrina lean into her femininity while still owning her strength showed me that softness and power can coexist. Her music reminds me that it’s okay to laugh again, dress up again, and live again after everything I’ve been through. Most importantly, she gives my daughters a modern role model who isn’t teaching them to shrink themselves or revolve their self-worth around a relationship. She’s teaching a generation of girls to have fun, chase their dreams, and love themselves loudly. That influence doesn’t just stay on the stage — it shows up in my home, in the way my daughters dance around the living room, and in the way I’m learning to believe in myself again. That’s why I’m a fan. And that’s why her career continues to impact my life in the most meaningful way.

I grew up in a single-parent home where survival and love had to coexist in the same tight space. My father was the steady parent who taught me loyalty and compassion, and losing him as an adult changed everything. After he passed away, I went through one of the darkest seasons of my life, and it wasn’t long before I found myself in an abusive marriage, pregnant and completely alone. My entire life shifted the day I fell to my knees in the middle of that house, five months pregnant, with nowhere else to turn. I was crying out to my father, desperate for help, when I heard his voice in my mind say only one thing: “Pray.” I was angry at first — I wanted answers, not instructions. But when I finally prayed, I felt a clarity and strength that did not come from me. God gave me a plan: gather evidence, protect myself, call lawyers, secure a place to live, and prepare to leave. I moved with a focus and determination I had never had before. I delivered my daughter safely, divorced my abuser, and rebuilt my entire life from the ground up. That experience shaped the person I am today — someone who serves, leads, and protects others the way I once needed. My faith did not just comfort me; it activated me. It became the foundation of the compassion, patience, and strength I carry into motherhood, school, and my community. As a single mother, my service to others is deeply personal. I chose to have my first daughter on my own. My second daughter I was forced to raise on my own. And now, I am preparing to adopt a teenage girl from foster care — a choice I am proud to make. The statistics for teen girls aging out of the system are heartbreaking: extremely low high-school graduation rates, high early-pregnancy rates, poverty, instability, and generational trauma. I understand trauma. I understand abandonment. And I know the power of one stable, loving adult. Opening my home to girls who need stability is not charity — it is purpose. Every day, I practice kindness through consistency: showing up when I say I will, creating routines, teaching life skills, celebrating small wins, and modeling what safe love looks like. My family is not traditional, but it is intentional. My daughters have shaped my identity more than anything else in my life — they made me strong, disciplined, spiritual, and fiercely protective. Family, to me, is not defined by blood but by commitment and healing. My future goals are rooted in this calling. I am pursuing a degree in Foreign Languages with a minor in Social Work, and afterward I plan to earn my master’s degree in Social Work to become a therapist. My dream is to build a farm-based program for girls aging out of foster care — a safe, peaceful all-girls ranch where they can live, heal, work toward college, and learn independence with a house-mother who loves them. I want to build a place where no girl is discarded, where trauma ends instead of repeating. Receiving this scholarship would directly support the education I need to build that future. It would not only help me provide stability for my daughters today, but it would also help me create the kind of legacy Ed and Aline Patane believed in — one centered on compassion, service, faith, and family.

I grew up in a single-parent household that was split between two very different worlds. My mother was present in the physical sense, but emotionally unpredictable, harsh, and often abusive. My father was the opposite—steady, hardworking, and loving—but he worked so much that I spent most of my childhood alone, raising myself in the spaces between his shifts. I grew up feeling both unprotected and unseen, craving stability but learning early that I had to create it for myself. That combination—emotional neglect on one side and physical absence on the other—shaped me in ways I didn’t understand until adulthood. I learned to be hyper-independent because there was no option not to be. I learned to look for love in unsafe places because I didn’t know what healthy attention felt like. And I learned resilience the hard way, through pain that could have broken me if God hadn’t had His hand on me. When my father died, everything inside me unraveled. I made choices out of loneliness that led me into an abusive relationship, and by the time I was pregnant with my second child, I was isolated, hurting, and afraid. The day I fell to my knees while that man screamed at me, something shifted. I prayed for the first time in years, and I felt God tell me to get up and fight for my life. I gathered evidence, contacted advocates, found a lawyer, and fought my way out. I delivered my child alone, rebuilt my life alone, and created a home full of peace, stability, and love—something I never had growing up. Those experiences shaped not only who I am, but the mother I am today. My oldest daughter was a child I chose to have on my own. My second daughter was a child I was forced to raise on my own. And now, I am adopting a teenage girl from foster care—another child I choose to love and protect. I refuse to let these girls grow up feeling the way I did: alone, unsafe, unseen, or unsupported. Being raised in a fractured family taught me exactly how family should not feel. Becoming a mother taught me how family can feel when it is rooted in safety, routine, healing, and unconditional love. My experiences also shaped my future goals. I am currently pursuing my bachelor’s degree at the University of Arkansas with a concentration in Spanish and a minor in Social Work. After earning this degree, I plan to earn my master’s and become a licensed therapist. My long-term dream is to open a girls’ ranch—an all-girls homestead where foster youth, especially teenage girls at risk of aging out, can live in safety, learn life skills, pursue education, and have the stability of a “house-mother” who truly cares about them. I want to create the home I needed growing up. I want to interrupt the cycle I barely survived. I want to catch the girls who fall through the cracks. I may not have grown up with the advantages many people have, but I grew up with empathy, strength, and vision. I understand trauma because I lived it. I understand loneliness. I understand what it means to fight for a better life because I had to. This scholarship would directly support my education and move me one step closer to creating a home where girls who grew up like me can finally exhale—finally feel safe, finally feel wanted, and finally have a future that isn’t set by their past. My childhood lit the fire. My children gave it purpose. And my education will give it power.

Liberation is not a destination—it is a daily, disciplined practice. For me, liberation began the day I fell to my knees in the middle of a violent household, five months pregnant, realizing that no one was coming to save me. I prayed for the first time in years, and from that moment forward, my life moved with a clarity and force that could only have come from God. I took pictures, documented abuse, contacted advocates, found a lawyer, and built an escape plan. I delivered my child alone. I rebuilt my life alone. And I have continued raising my children alone. I am a biracial mother. My oldest child was a choice I made intentionally. My second child was a choice I had to make alone because of circumstances that would have destroyed many people. And now I am adopting a teenage girl from the foster care system—again, by choice. I know what it feels like to be the child who fell through the cracks, and I know what it feels like to be the mother who refuses to let her children fall the same way. Through my involvement with the Arkansas foster care system, I have learned truly devastating statistics: nationally, only about 2–3% of youth who age out of foster care ever earn a college degree. Around 20% become instantly homeless, and within two years, over 70% of girls become pregnant, while a majority of boys experience incarceration or chronic unemployment. Trauma becomes its own kind of generational chain. These kids do not fail because they are broken—they fail because society fails to ask the right questions about what liberation really requires. This scholarship asks for a critical question the collective is failing to ask. Here is mine: Why do we wait until children are already damaged, already hardened, already abandoned by every system around them—before we start talking about “liberation”? Why isn’t liberation something we build into them early, the same way families with privilege build confidence, stability, and belonging into their children? I believe the path toward generational liberation begins with giving marginalized children what I desperately needed growing up: safety, love, guidance, structure, and hope they can see with their own eyes. That is why, after finishing my degree, I plan to create a girls’ ranch—a therapeutic, family-style home where teen girls leaving foster care can heal, build life skills, complete school, and enter adulthood with community, dignity, and a place to belong. My dream is to partner with the University of Arkansas so young women can stay in tiny homes on the ranch tuition-free as long as they are enrolled in school. I want to serve as a house-mother, counselor, and mentor. I want to interrupt the exact pipeline that statistics warn us about. This scholarship would not just fund my education—it would ripple outward into every girl I will serve for the rest of my life. With a degree in Foreign Languages and a minor in Social Work, followed by a master’s in Social Work, I will be fully prepared to become a licensed therapist and build the safe haven I never had. Liberation requires us to ask different questions. Mine is simple: What would the world look like if every broken girl had a mother who refused to give up on her?

Becoming a single mother—twice, in two completely different circumstances—has shaped every part of who I am. My oldest daughter was the child I chose to have on my own, with no partner and no safety net. My second daughter was the child I had to protect on my own after surviving an abusive marriage and escaping while pregnant. And now, I am in the process of adopting a sixteen-year-old girl from foster care—another choice made out of purpose, not circumstance. My journey has never been easy, but it has been deeply meaningful. Returning to college as a single mother has come with challenges that many people never see. I navigate homework assignments between bedtime routines. I read chapters in the parking lot while waiting for my daughter at school. I write essays with a toddler on my lap. I study while juggling work, healing from past trauma, and preparing to bring a teenager into my home who has never known stability. But despite everything, I show up—for my children, for myself, and for the future I’m building. My experiences as a single mother have reshaped my goals. I used to think survival was enough. Now I want more than survival—I want purpose. I am pursuing a degree in Foreign Languages with a concentration in Spanish and a minor in Social Work because I want to work directly with youth who feel overlooked, unheard, or abandoned. I know what it feels like to be young, hurting, and searching for love in all the wrong places. I know what it feels like to rebuild from nothing. And I know how powerful it can be when even one adult steps in and says, “I believe in you.” My long-term dream is to create an all-girls therapeutic homestead where teen girls—especially those aging out of foster care—can have a safe family environment to finish school, learn life skills, heal emotionally, and transition into adulthood. I want to be a house-mother who guides them through college applications, job interviews, budgeting, cooking, gardening, and building a future. I want them to have what too many foster youth never receive: a home base, a stable adult, and unconditional love. Finishing my degree is the foundation of that dream. Receiving this scholarship would impact my life in ways that go far beyond financial support. It would relieve the stress of balancing school with childcare, bills, and adoption-related expenses. It would give me the freedom to focus on my classes and maintain the GPA I need for graduate school. It would bring me one step closer to becoming a licensed therapist and opening my future ranch for girls in need. But most importantly, it would show my children—my two daughters and the teen I am adopting—that anything is possible. That single mothers can go back to school. That trauma survivors can rebuild. That women who grew up without stability can become the stability for the next generation. Every degree I earn, every class I pass, and every step forward is a step toward breaking generational cycles and rewriting what our family legacy looks like. I want my children to watch me achieve my dreams so they know they can achieve theirs. This scholarship isn’t just support for my education—it’s an investment in my family’s future, the future of the teenage girl I’m adopting, and the future of the girls I plan to serve for the rest of my life.

The biggest problem I have overcome in my life has been breaking cycles—cycles of abuse, instability, and generational patterns that told women like me to accept less than we deserve. I survived an abusive childhood, an abusive marriage, and a pregnancy that I walked through alone after escaping violence at five months pregnant. There was a moment during that time when I sat on the floor, bruised, scared, and overwhelmed, and I cried out—not just out of fear, but out of exhaustion. And somehow, through that moment of complete surrender, I found strength, clarity, and the determination to rebuild my entire life from the ground up. I left, documented everything I needed, found housing, secured a lawyer, and gave birth on my own. Since then, I’ve raised two daughters as a single parent, recovered emotionally, stabilized financially, and returned to school full-time. That process taught me discipline, resilience, and the importance of paying attention to the small things—because small things are usually the key to surviving big battles. Ironically, that lesson is what makes the next question—about stamp collecting—make perfect sense. I began collecting stamps casually when I was younger, not because they were valuable, but because each one felt like a tiny preserved moment in history. Stamps taught me patience. They taught me that small things matter. They taught me that every little piece of someone’s story—every tear on an envelope, every postmark, every detail—has value. Looking back now as a mother and a returning college student, I realize that stamp collecting was my first lesson in preservation: preserving memories, preserving identity, and preserving hope for the future. Even today, stamps remind me that something small can travel across the world and still carry a message. In many ways, that mirrors what I hope to do with my degree—carry hope, healing, and guidance to young women who need it most. This scholarship will allow me to continue my education in Foreign Languages with a concentration in Spanish and a minor in Social Work—fields I chose intentionally because they will allow me to serve a wider range of vulnerable young people. I am currently in the process of adopting a sixteen-year-old girl from foster care, and through that journey I have learned firsthand just how severe the statistics are for youth who age out of the system. Only 50% graduate high school. Less than 3% earn a college degree. Nearly 20% become homeless within a year of aging out. Many experience pregnancy, trafficking, incarceration, or generational poverty simply because they were never given a stable foundation. My dream is to change that. Once I finish my degree, my long-term goal is to build an all-girls therapeutic ranch—part homestead, part family, part transitional housing—where teen girls can complete school, heal from trauma, cook, garden, learn life skills, attend therapy, and experience stability for the first time in their lives. I want to be a house-mother, a mentor, and a safe place. I want to offer education, structure, love, and protection. I want to create the type of environment I needed when I was younger, and the type my adopted teen deserves right now. This scholarship will help me stay on track academically while parenting, adopting, and building toward a future where I can give back to the girls who statistically need it the most. Just like stamps, these girls are often overlooked—but every single one of them carries a story worth preserving.

I am currently earning my Bachelor’s degree in Foreign Languages, Literature, and Linguistics with a concentration in Spanish at the University of Arkansas, along with a minor in Social Work. As a single parent of two young daughters—and in the process of adopting a sixteen-year-old girl—my education is not just a degree; it is the foundation of the life I am building for myself, my children, and the young women I am called to serve. I became a mother in two very different ways. My oldest daughter was a child I chose—joyfully and intentionally—raising her on my own from day one. My second daughter was a child I was forced to raise alone after escaping an abusive marriage while pregnant. And now, I am adopting a teen girl entirely by choice again, because I deeply understand what young women in foster care face when they do not have a stable, loving parent to guide them. The statistics for teens in foster care—especially girls—are heartbreaking. Only about half of youth in foster care graduate high school. Less than three percent go on to earn a college degree. Within two years of aging out, one in four young men ends up incarcerated, and nearly three-quarters of young women become pregnant by age twenty-one. Many experience homelessness, trafficking, and a lifetime of low income simply because they never had a stable adult to support them. These numbers are not just statistics to me—they are girls I have met, kids I have mentored, and stories I have watched unfold in real time. I understand their trauma more than most. I survived an abusive childhood, and later, an abusive marriage. When I was five months pregnant and in a violent situation, I fell to my knees and begged God for help. That moment changed the trajectory of my life. I found the clarity and strength to leave, document what I needed, get a lawyer, secure housing, and rebuild my life from nothing. That strength has carried me through every challenge since—single parenting, healing, working, and returning to school. Being a single parent in college is an obstacle in itself. Every assignment is done after bedtime. Every exam is studied for between appointments, caseworker visits, and parenting duties. I do not have backup. I do not have a co-parent. But I show up every day because my degree will allow me to build the future I’ve been called to: becoming a trauma-informed therapist and a house-mother for teen girls who would otherwise face the same statistics that haunt our foster care system. My long-term goal is to build an all-girls therapeutic ranch—part homestead, part transitional housing, part family—where teen girls can age out of foster care without being thrown into survival mode. I want to offer a home where they can finish school, attend college, learn life skills, receive therapy, experience safety, and have a mother figure who genuinely loves them. I want to build tiny homes for them, secure grant funding for education, and create a long-term, family-style environment grounded in faith, stability, and real guidance. This scholarship would ease the financial strain I carry while balancing school, motherhood, and the adoption of a teen. It would allow me to continue my education with stability and move one step closer to building the future I envision for the young women God has placed on my heart. I am a single parent, but I am also a builder—of homes, futures, and restored identities. And helping girls escape the statistics that once threatened to shape my own life is not just my plan; it is my purpose.

My faith became real to me on the floor of a house I should have never been living in. I was five months pregnant, afraid, alone, and being mistreated in ways no woman—especially an expectant mother—should ever endure. I had already lost my father less than a year before, and grief had left me vulnerable, seeking comfort in a relationship that quickly turned dangerous. One night, after yet another moment of fear and humiliation, I fell to my knees and spoke—not to God, but to my father. I asked him what to do. And in the clearest voice I’ve ever heard, as if he were standing right behind me, he said one word: Pray. I was angry at first. I wanted comfort, answers, or rescue. Instead, all I heard was “pray.” But I listened. And the moment I did, something shifted inside me. For the first time in months, I felt clarity. I felt strength. I felt God meet me right there on the floor—pregnant, scared, and exhausted—and tell me to get up. And I did. What happened next felt like divine strategy. I suddenly knew what steps I had to take to protect my unborn baby and myself. I documented the things I had ignored. I recorded what needed to be recorded. I contacted lawyers, advocates, and safe friends. I packed my belongings in secret while he was at work. I kept going to my prenatal appointments. I found a car, found a safe place to stay, and made a plan. I never went back to that life again. I had my baby on my own. I filed for divorce. I won the case without interference. Everything I had feared would happen never did. And the man who hurt me never contacted me again. Looking back, I understand something I could not see then: God had been giving me warnings long before that night. I was too lonely and too heartbroken from my father’s death to listen. I ran to a man instead of running to God. It wasn’t until I was truly at risk—physically, emotionally, spiritually—that I finally turned to Him, and He met me immediately. He didn’t just give me comfort; He gave me a plan, courage, and a future. My faith didn’t just help me survive. It taught me to rebuild my life from the ground up. Within a year, I had a safe home, stability, and a renewed sense of purpose. I became a better mother, a stronger woman, and someone who wants to use her story to help others. That is why I am pursuing my degree. My goal is to become a therapist and, eventually, a house-mother for girls in foster care. I want to be someone who can recognize fear behind a smile, someone who can say “I understand” and truly mean it. My faith taught me that healing is possible, that God restores what was broken, and that no one is too far gone for a second chance. I want to bring that same hope to young women who feel unseen, unheard, or afraid. Faith carried me through the darkest moment of my life, and it continues to guide every step of my journey—academically, professionally, and personally. I am no longer the woman who fell to her knees in desperation. I am the woman who got up. And I am the woman who now works every day to help others rise, too.

On May 3, 2022, I lost my father — a strong Black man whose presence shaped every part of who I am. As a biracial woman with an absent mother, he wasn’t just my parent; he was my anchor to my identity, my culture, and my sense of belonging. He was the person who taught me what it meant to be Black, what it meant to walk with dignity, and what it meant to rely on Jesus when life burns everything down. What made losing him even harder was how heart failure takes someone. It isn’t fast. It is slow, cruel, and relentless. We didn’t just lose him one day — we had to watch him die in pieces over time. We watched him get thinner and thinner until he barely looked like himself. We watched him go from working and driving and moving around on his own to needing help with everything. We watched him go through stent after stent, surgery after surgery, pacemaker after pacemaker, all while trying to hold on to the father we knew. Eventually, he couldn’t stand without falling. He couldn’t breathe without struggling. His body kept failing him in slow motion, and I had to stand there helpless, watching the strongest man I knew lose his strength day by day. No daughter should ever have to watch that. In his final days, I sat beside him in hospice, rubbing his feet while he slept because that was the only comfort I could still give him. I remember waking up and realizing he had passed in the night. That moment broke something inside me. It felt unfair, heartbreaking, and cruel. These are memories I wish I didn’t have — but they also changed the direction of my life. His death forced me to rebuild myself. Without my mother, and then without the parent who connected me to my identity, I felt untethered — like I wasn’t part of anything anymore. But instead of collapsing, I pressed into God. I decided that if heart disease had taken him slowly, then I would live intentionally. I would take care of my health, feed my daughters better, break generational habits, and teach them everything I learned too late. It also changed my future. College always felt unreachable — something kids in movies did, not someone like me. But I don’t want my daughters to grow up thinking education is for “other people.” So I enrolled. I’m now earning my Bachelor’s in Foreign Languages with a Spanish concentration, and after that, I plan to pursue a Master’s in Social Work. I want to support foster youth, families in crisis, and children who feel unseen — the kinds of people who would have loved a man like my father. Cardiac disease took my father’s life. But it pushed me into my purpose. It taught me resilience, compassion, and a depth of strength I didn’t know I had. It made me want to become the kind of advocate he never had — someone who can stand beside families experiencing illness, loss, and instability and give them the hope he gave me. His legacy lives through me, through my daughters, and through every goal I pursue. He was my foundation — and now I am building something in his honor that heart failure could never take away.

Growing up, my little sister Mia was always this bright, funny, loving soul — but behind her smile was a body that didn’t always cooperate with her. Her mast cell condition changed everything about the rhythm of our home. One moment she’d be laughing and dancing with us, and the next she’d be overwhelmed with symptoms none of us fully understood. It was unpredictable, scary, and exhausting. As a child, all I knew was that my baby sister hurt in ways I couldn’t fix. But as an adult, I now see that the Lord was shaping something in me the entire time. He was molding my heart, my patience, my empathy, and my calling through every moment of her condition — even the ones that felt heavy. The Bible says, “We know that all things work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose.” I didn’t understand that verse back then, but I understand it now. Mia’s illness felt like chaos at times, but God was quietly building the very person I would become. Her condition taught me how to love gently. How to slow down. How to notice pain that isn’t spoken out loud. How to sit with someone through suffering without rushing them or judging them. How to advocate for someone whose needs are invisible to the world. Those qualities weren’t taught to me in school — they were taught to me by the Holy Spirit working through my sister. Mia made me tender. Mia made me patient. Mia made me compassionate. Mia made me a helper. Mia made me a protector. And Mia made me someone who sees the “one” that everyone else overlooks. I can confidently say that without her medical condition, I would not have the heart that I have today. And that heart is exactly what pushed me back into education at age 32 — as a first-generation college student, a mother, and a woman determined to break generational patterns in Jesus’ name. Today, I am earning my bachelor’s degree in Foreign Languages, Literature, and Linguistics with a concentration in Spanish, and I am working toward a future where I can serve youth in the foster care system. My long-term goal is to earn my master’s in social work and eventually become a licensed clinical social worker. I want to show young girls and teens what I wish someone had shown me — that God has a plan for them, that they are not forgotten, and that their experiences do not disqualify them from purpose. I want to be the stable, patient, Christ-like presence that so many children desperately need. And I know exactly where that calling came from. It came from years of watching my sister fight battles no child should have to face. It came from watching my family learn resilience through tears and prayer. It came from watching how God carried us through every flare, every hospital moment, and every unknown. Mia taught me how to love the vulnerable with my whole heart — and that is the foundation of the career I am building. If I’m blessed with this scholarship, it will not just help fund my education. It will invest directly into a calling God placed on my life through my sister’s story — a calling to comfort, support, and uplift the next generation, especially those whose pain is hidden or misunderstood.

My name is Callie Dismuke, and I am a 32-year-old first-generation college student pursuing a B.A. in Foreign Languages, Literature, and Linguistics with a concentration in Spanish at the University of Arkansas. Choosing this degree wasn’t random or aesthetic—it was purposeful. I grew up believing college was something “other people” did, something kids on TV talked about, but never something girls from my background actually reached. Now, as a mother of two daughters and a future adoptive mom, I refuse to pass that mindset down to them. I’m learning Spanish, and earning this degree, because I want them to see—with their own eyes—that their mother did it. That college is real, reachable, and beautiful for women who look like us. I chose Spanish because language opens doors. Being bilingual expands the communities I can serve, especially in Arkansas where the Hispanic and Latino community continues to grow rapidly. I want to be the kind of bilingual professional I never saw growing up—somebody who uses language to connect, advocate, and empower. After completing my bachelor’s degree, I plan to earn my Master of Social Work, become a licensed clinical social worker, and dedicate my career to supporting youth in foster care—particularly girls who feel overlooked or forgotten. My heart for this work comes from lived experience. I am a single mother who has navigated trauma, poverty, fear, and rebuilding from scratch. I have seen how systems fail our youth, especially girls of color, and how many age out without stability or support. My long-term vision is to create a faith-centered residential program for teen girls aging out of care—combining mentorship, education, therapy, and life skills. I want to be the woman who stands in that gap for them, the way I wish someone had done for me. In my field of study, women of color—especially Black and Afro-Latina women—make up a very small percentage. In many spaces, we’re still told indirectly (and sometimes directly) that we don’t belong. But instead of seeing that as discouraging, I see it as a calling. Representation matters. When a young girl sees a bilingual Black woman earning a degree, working in social work, teaching, or leading programs, something powerful happens inside her: she realizes she can, too. I plan to inspire the next generation by being intentional about visibility and service. My goal is to host workshops for foster youth about college readiness, teach basic Spanish to younger girls to spark interest early, and partner with local schools and organizations to show students what higher education can look like in real life—not just online or in a brochure. I want my daughters to grow up watching their mother study, volunteer, advocate, and build. I want my adopted teens to know they have a future. And I want every young girl I mentor to feel like the odds don’t intimidate her—they motivate her. This scholarship would directly support my journey and ease the financial burden that comes with being a full-time working mom, a future adoptive parent, and an honors student. Every dollar gets me one step closer to the classroom, the community, and ultimately, the career I’ve prayed for. I am committed to honoring Zedikiah Randolph’s legacy through service, faith, and excellence—showing the next generation that we rise higher when we rise together.

Being a first-generation college student means stepping into a world that never felt meant for me. College was something I only ever saw on TV shows — happy kids on campuses with backpacks and parents dropping them off, smiling for photos. That never felt like my life. Growing up, survival came first. Stability was a blessing. And dreaming big felt like something other people got to do. Even at 32 years old, college still feels far away sometimes — like a door that was never opened for me. But I also know that God never forgot me. Every closed door, every hard season, every detour in my life eventually led me right here: a mother, a woman rebuilding her life from the ground up, and a daughter of God determined to break generational patterns. I want my daughters to grow up knowing that “impossible” is not a real word in this family. I want them to see their mother not only surviving, but thriving — studying, learning, showing up, and doing something that nobody in our family has ever done. I want them to watch me graduate, to sit in that audience and say, “My mom really did it. So I can too.” I want education to feel normal and reachable to them, not distant or unrealistic the way it always felt to me. My faith is what drives me. Jesus has carried me through every season — single motherhood, leaving painful situations, raising my daughters with no roadmap, and healing from things I never thought I could overcome. When I enroll in school, I’m not walking in as a scared kid or a woman who feels unprepared. I’m walking in as someone God rebuilt. Someone He kept. Someone He called to do more. I’m studying Foreign Languages with a concentration in Spanish, and after that, I plan to earn my Master’s in Social Work. I feel deeply called to foster and adopt teens one day — to be the safe place I needed growing up, and to give stability, love, and guidance to kids who feel forgotten or overlooked. God put that passion in my heart, and I intend to honor it with everything I have. But going back to college as a working mom is not easy. Every expense — tuition, books, gas, childcare — comes straight from me. I don’t have a financial safety net; I only have determination, prayer, and a promise to my daughters that I will finish what I started. Being a first-generation student isn’t just about getting a degree. It’s about rewriting a story. It’s about showing my daughters that the life God has for them is bigger than anything they’ve seen. And it’s about proving to myself that with faith, discipline, and purpose, I can walk through a door I once thought wasn’t meant for me.

The person who has had the greatest impact on my life is my father, Billy Wayne Dismuke. Losing him on May 3, 2022, is the event that has most dramatically shaped who I am today. His death did not just break my heart—it rearranged my entire life, my faith, and my future. My father was my anchor. He was my only parent, my protector, my example of strength, and my connection to my culture. He was the one person who loved me without condition, and losing him felt like losing half of myself. For months, I moved through life feeling unbalanced, unprotected, and unsure of who I was supposed to be without him here guiding me. But strangely, his loss is what brought me to God. I met God on the floor—on my knees, pregnant, hurting, and alone in a difficult marriage. I will never forget that moment. I was overwhelmed with grief and fear, and I cried out from a place so deep I didn’t even know words lived there. And in that moment, I felt something lift me up, steady me, and remind me that I was not abandoned. That moment didn’t erase the pain of losing my father, but it became the beginning of my healing, my faith, and my purpose. My father’s influence still guides every part of my life. He was a quiet, steady man who believed in doing the right thing, loving people well, and taking care of those who needed help. He lived with integrity, even when life was hard. He raised me to love God, to treat people right, and to get back up every time life knocks me down. That foundation is the reason I am who I am now—a mother, a future adoptive parent, a returning college student, and a woman rebuilding her life with intention. His passing changed how I see my future. Before he died, I was surviving. After he died, I understood that life is too short to keep waiting for “one day.” I needed to build the life he always believed I deserved. I needed to become the woman I want my daughters to see. And I needed to honor him by finishing what I started years ago—my education. That’s why I returned to college after being away for years. I’m now studying Foreign Languages, Literature & Linguistics with a Spanish concentration and a minor in Social Work, with plans to complete a Master of Social Work and eventually earn my clinical license. My dream is to open a therapeutic, farm-based home for teen girls in foster care—something my father always encouraged me to work toward. He taught me to give people dignity, to be patient with those who carry heavy burdens, and to use my life to help someone else. That is exactly the life I intend to build. Losing him also strengthened my faith. When everything else fell apart, God became my stability. My father raised me to believe in prayer, but it wasn’t until life broke me open that I understood how deeply God works. Faith became the way I pulled myself out of depression, the way I kept showing up for my daughters, and the way I found enough strength to imagine a better future. His death did not end my story—it redirected it. It reminded me that legacy is not something you leave behind; it is something you live out loud. My father’s love, his lessons, and his faith live on through me, through my children, and through the girls I will one day mentor and care for.

I don’t love math because I’m the best at it. I love math because it makes sense when nothing else does. So much of my life has been unpredictable—loss, trauma, motherhood, rebuilding my identity, starting college again at 31—things that don’t come with instructions or guarantees. But math has always been the one place where there is a clear answer. A steady truth. A solution waiting to be found if I take my time and trust the process. Math feels like the opposite of chaos. As a mother, math shows up in my everyday life far more than people realize. It’s how I budget for my kids, plan groceries down to the last dollar, measure out medications, divide my time between school, parenting, and work, and keep my household running. Math taught me discipline when I didn’t have any, patience when I didn’t think I could afford it, and confidence when I started to believe I wasn’t smart enough to go back to school. But what I love most about math is that it mirrors growth. At first, problems look overwhelming, but when you break them down step by step, they become manageable. That is exactly how I rebuilt my life—one step, one choice, one solved problem at a time. Math also plays a role in my education and future career. I’m studying Foreign Languages, Literature & Linguistics with a Spanish concentration, and I’m minoring in Social Work on the way to earning my MSW. People might not immediately connect math to languages or therapy, but there is a deep logic behind both. Sentence structures, patterns, systems, statistics in social work, progress charts, treatment plans—there is math in all of it. What math teaches me is how to think clearly. How to look at something complicated, break it apart, and find the path forward. That skill alone will make me a better therapist one day, especially for the teenage girls in foster care I plan to serve. They deserve someone who sees solutions where others see problems—someone who can break big obstacles into steps that feel possible. Math gives me that mindset. I love math because it reminds me that there is always an answer, even when life feels unsolvable. It teaches me that progress counts, mistakes are fixable, and the right steps—taken consistently—lead somewhere better. Just like life.

The moment I learned what real faith felt like, I was on the floor—pregnant, grieving, and completely undone. I had just lost my father, my only parent and my biggest supporter. I was still trapped in a domestic violence marriage, exhausted from trying to hold everything together, and terrified of raising my daughters in the same environment that once broke me. I reached a point where I had nothing left to give. I fell onto my knees, hands shaking, and whispered, “God, I can’t do this anymore.” That moment changed my life. I didn’t hear a thunderous voice or feel some dramatic miracle. Instead, I felt something gentle—a steadying presence. It felt like God picked me up from that floor, not all at once, but piece by piece. That was the first time I understood faith not as a church habit or something people talk about, but as a lifeline. The obstacle I was facing wasn’t just the grief of losing my father—it was the feeling of becoming completely unprotected. I had always been “his baby,” his only child, his reason to keep going. When he died, it felt like half of me died too. I was navigating pregnancy while drowning in trauma, anxiety, and fear. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t think, and couldn’t see a way forward. The violence in my marriage kept escalating, and the weight of the world fell onto my shoulders. I was carrying a child and carrying pain at the same time. But faith stepped in where my strength ran out. Instead of giving up, I started praying. Not pretty, polished prayers—just real ones. Some days, all I could say was “God, help me.” Other days, I cried more than I spoke. But God heard me in every version of myself. He gave me clarity: leave. He gave me courage: protect your babies. He gave me endurance: you are not alone. I didn’t leave that marriage overnight, but with every prayer, I got stronger. With every step, I felt God holding my hand a little tighter. Eventually, I found the courage to walk away, rebuild my life, and become the mother my daughters needed—steady, loving, and present. My faith carried me through a second storm when my twins were born, and only one survived. Losing Ballet Ophelia at birth was a heartbreak that language can’t fully express. And my surviving daughter, Birdie, spent 53 days in the NICU. I slept in that hospital room for all 53 days, praying over her tiny body every night. Every beep, every monitor, every setback—faith is what held me together. God steadied my hands when I was scared, strengthened my heart when I felt like falling apart, and gave me hope when I had none left on my own. My faith didn’t eliminate my obstacles, but it transformed how I faced them. It brought me back to life after loss, abuse, trauma, and fear tried to swallow me whole. And it’s the reason I’m in college today—because God told me it was time to save other girls the way He saved me. My entire purpose is built on that season of surrender. I am pursuing my degrees so I can become a bilingual licensed therapist for teenage girls in foster care. My dream is to open a faith-centered therapeutic living program on my future farm—a safe, peaceful home where wounded girls can heal. And everything I do now is a reflection of the day God lifted me off that floor and told me to stand.

My mental health story is not one rooted in substance abuse, but in survival—emotional survival, spiritual survival, and the slow rebuilding of a life after years of trauma. I struggle with anxiety, PTSD, and the long-term effects of domestic violence, but my story is also about growth, faith, and becoming the kind of mother and woman I once needed. For years, I lived in a cycle of fear, instability, and emotional isolation. Domestic violence taught me to shrink myself, to stay silent, to walk on broken glass just to keep peace. I was constantly hypervigilant, constantly bracing for the next explosion. Even after I escaped, the trauma didn’t end—my body carried it with me. Anxiety became my closest companion. Noise startled me. Conflict triggered flashbacks. And motherhood, which should have felt joyful, instead felt like a battleground of fears that had nothing to do with my children. I didn’t know how deeply trauma had shaped me until I became a mom. I found myself overcompensating—terrified to be “too strict,” terrified to set boundaries, terrified that any firmness made me like the parent I never had. I let guilt raise my children more than structure did. And when things became chaotic, I blamed myself instead of seeing the truth: that my trauma was dictating my parenting, not my love. The turning point came when I realized that being a “gentle” mom wasn’t the same as being a “fearful” mom. I needed help—not because I was weak, but because I wanted to break generational patterns. I wanted my children to experience safety, not confusion; stability, not chaos; structure driven by love, not fear driven by trauma. That’s when I finally turned fully toward God, therapy, and intentional healing. My mental health recovery began on the floor—literally. Grieving the loss of my father, trapped in a DV marriage, pregnant, and exhausted, I collapsed onto my knees and prayed. I didn’t pray pretty prayers. I cried. I begged. And I felt—truly felt—God lift me back up. That moment didn’t cure my anxiety, but it gave me something I never had: hope. Since then, my healing has been a layered journey. I learned that prayer is powerful, but prayer and therapy together can be transformative. I learned that needing help does not make you broken. I learned that mental health is just as real as physical health, and just as deserving of care. And I learned to stop shaming myself for not being healed “fast enough.” Therapy taught me the language of my trauma. God taught me the purpose within it. Combining the two became the foundation of my recovery. In therapy, I began to understand why my brain reacted the way it did. I began to see how my triggers connected to childhood wounds, not current realities. I learned coping skills, grounding strategies, and healthier ways to manage anxiety. I also began exploring whether medication may be a tool for future stability—not as a crutch, but as a bridge to a calmer life. It is something I remain open to, knowing there is no shame in needing more support. My mental health struggles also shifted the direction of my education and career. I am working toward a degree in Foreign Languages, Literature & Linguistics with a Spanish concentration and a minor in Social Work. My ultimate goal is to earn my Master of Social Work, become a licensed therapist, and create a therapeutic farm-based living program for teenage girls in foster care. I want to be the house mother, the counselor, the steady person who helps them break their own cycles of trauma before adulthood swallows them whole. Every panic attack I’ve survived, every night spent replaying memories, every moment I forced myself to breathe through fear—it all fuels my compassion for young girls who are hurting and have no safe place to land. My struggles didn’t destroy me; they gave me purpose. Maintaining my mental health will require ongoing effort. I plan to continue therapy, stay grounded in my faith, maintain routines that support emotional regulation, and stay honest with myself when I need additional help. Recovery, for me, is not a destination—it’s a lifestyle. I am not healed yet, but I am healing. I am not perfect, but I am present. And I am becoming a woman my children—and my future foster daughters—can trust, learn from, and look up to. My mental health journey shaped me, but it doesn’t define me. What defines me is the way I keep showing up, the way I keep growing, and the person I am becoming through the process.

Loss rearranges the entire structure of your life, but losing a child changes the structure of your soul. On September 1, 2023, I gave birth to identical twin girls—Ballet Ophelia and Birdie Wayne. Ballet was born without a heartbeat, and Birdie was rushed away before I could even process what was happening. In one moment, I became a mother of two and a grieving parent of one. Birdie did not come home with me. Instead, she began her life in the NICU, fighting to breathe, fighting to grow, and fighting to stay. She remained there for 53 days. And for 53 days straight, I slept at the hospital—in chairs, on fold-out cots, next to her incubator—because leaving her side didn’t feel possible. I had just lost one daughter; I wasn’t willing to take my eyes off the other. Those 53 days stretched into a blur of alarms, tests, whispered prayers, breast-pumping at 3 a.m., and learning how to mother a baby surrounded by machines. I cried quietly so I wouldn’t scare her. I talked to her so she knew she wasn’t alone. Every day, I held her tiny body against my chest, imagining that she could feel not just my heartbeat but her sister’s too. Grief and hope coexisted in every moment. I mourned Ballet while fighting for Birdie. I celebrated Birdie’s progress while aching for Ballet’s absence. I learned that joy and sorrow can live in the same heartbeat, and that strength sometimes means simply showing up again the next day. Losing Ballet—and nearly losing Birdie—did not just impact me emotionally. It reshaped my entire direction in life. Before September 1st, I was unsure of my long-term goals. After September 1st, everything became clear: I wanted to build a future where my daughters could see their mother rise, not fall. I returned to school, committed to earning my degree in Foreign Languages, Literature, and Linguistics with a Spanish concentration, and then pursuing a Master of Social Work to become a licensed therapist. The NICU showed me firsthand how deeply people need emotional support. I watched mothers breaking down in hallways, fathers crying behind curtains, and nurses doing their best to hold everyone together. I realized that so many families experience invisible trauma—the kind that sits in your chest for years, unspoken and unprocessed. I want to be someone who helps hold that weight. Losing Ballet has made me more compassionate, more patient, and more grounded as a mother. It has also made me more intentional. My daughters deserve a mother who heals instead of hides, who grows instead of shuts down. My grief pushes me to become that woman. Birdie is two years old now—wild curls, big personality, and a laugh that lights up the room. She is a miracle. A noisy, beautiful, stubborn miracle. And Ballet remains part of our family too—spoken about, remembered, honored. This scholarship would not just support my education—it would help rewrite the story I want my children to inherit. I want them to see that tragedy didn’t end me. It refined me. It pushed me toward purpose. It made me someone who can sit with another hurting mother, another grieving family, and offer not just sympathy, but understanding. Ballet Ophelia’s life was short, but her impact is immeasurable. She taught me to cherish every breath, every moment, and every blessing. She taught me resilience. And she continues to guide the way I move forward—in my motherhood, my education, my career, and my calling to help others heal.

My mental health journey has been shaped the most by who I became after domestic violence—not who I was growing up. Surviving that relationship left me with layers of anxiety, self-doubt, and a constant fear that I would never be “enough.” Even after leaving, my mind stayed in survival mode. I questioned every decision, overanalyzed every emotion, and lived with a heart that expected the next disaster at any moment. Motherhood made those patterns even clearer. I wanted so badly to be a good mother that I began to overcompensate in ways that only increased my stress. I tried to give my children all the softness, safety, and presence I once lacked, but in doing so, I struggled with boundaries and structure—the very things children need the most. I was so afraid of repeating generational mistakes that I swung in the opposite direction. I said “yes” too much. I avoided routines. And then I became frustrated with chaos that I didn’t realize I was unintentionally creating. That was the moment I had to face my own mental health honestly. I realized I wasn’t failing as a mother—I was stuck in a trauma loop. I was parenting through fear instead of clarity. My anxiety made me reactive. My guilt made me permissive. My desire to protect my children from pain kept me from giving them the structure that creates stability. I didn’t see how my own wounds were shaping the environment around me until everything began feeling heavier than it should. Prayer is what pushed me to slow down and see myself clearly. I asked God to show me where the real problem was—and He did. He gently revealed that I needed both spiritual and practical support. Prayer opened my eyes, but therapy helped me understand what I was seeing. Going to therapy as a woman of color took courage. In Black and Mexican families, “being strong” often means holding it all in, praying it away, or pretending everything is fine. But I knew that God sometimes heals through people He equips. Sitting with a therapist didn’t make me weak or faithless. It made me wiser. It taught me how trauma affects the brain, how anxiety shows up in parenting, and how to build structure without fear. Therapy taught me boundaries. Prayer taught me peace. Together, they taught me balance. The more I healed, the better I became at mothering with intention rather than insecurity. I learned to create routines that keep my home calm. I learned to discipline gently but consistently. I learned that love and structure are not opposites—they depend on each other. Most importantly, I learned to give myself grace. I am not perfect, but I am present. And I am growing, every single day. This journey is the foundation of my future career. I am majoring in Foreign Languages, Literature & Linguistics with a concentration in Spanish and a minor in Social Work, and I plan to earn my Master of Social Work to become a bilingual therapist for teenage girls in foster care. My healing taught me how deeply trauma affects the mind, relationships, self-esteem, and parenting. I want to help young women break those patterns long before they become mothers themselves. One day, I plan to open a therapeutic living program on my farm in Arkansas—a structured, faith-informed home where teenage girls can rebuild their lives with guidance, safety, counseling, and unconditional love.

How losing my father led me to God, reshaped my identity, and set me on my calling The most significant loss of my life happened on May 3, 2022—the day my father died. He was my only parent, my protector, and the person who shaped every part of who I am. When he passed, I didn’t just lose a father. I lost my home, my sense of safety, my cultural anchor, and every piece of childhood I had left. I felt like the world had gone silent. And I felt truly alone for the first time. But God met me in that silence. My father raised me without a mother, and he did everything he could to hold our little world together. He carried the weight of two parents on his back, and he never let me forget that I was loved. As a biracial daughter—Black, Mexican, and white—he taught me to take pride in where I came from. He connected me to my roots in ways only a present, intentional father can. He wasn’t perfect, but he was mine. And losing him made me feel like half a person. That grief pushed me into places I never expected. It forced me to confront the emptiness in my life that I had ignored for years. I tried to be strong for my children, but inside I was sinking. One night, pregnant, exhausted, and trapped in a violent marriage, I collapsed to my knees on the bathroom floor. I had no parent to call. No safe place to turn. No one left who could carry me through it. And right there, on the cold floor, God picked me up. That was the moment my life changed. I didn’t grow up with a strong faith foundation, but grief has a way of tearing down everything unnecessary and leaving only truth behind. God whispered strength into me when I had none. He became the parent I didn’t have. He carried me out of the marriage I thought I’d be stuck in forever. He brought me into safety. He taught me that healing was possible. That purpose was possible. That motherhood didn’t disqualify me—if anything, it sharpened me. My father’s death wasn’t just a loss; it was the turning point that led me to the life God intended for me. Because of that moment, I grew a desire deep in my spirit: I want to protect girls who feel unprotected, the way I felt after losing my only parent. I want to stand in the gap for motherless children, because I am one too. And I want to give them the love, structure, and stability I spent my whole childhood searching for. His death pushed me back into education with clear purpose. My major is Foreign Languages, Literature & Linguistics with a concentration in Spanish and a minor in Social Work. After earning my bachelor’s, I plan to pursue a Master of Social Work and become a bilingual therapist for foster youth, especially teenage girls in Arkansas. My long-term dream is to open a therapeutic living program on my future farm—a place where girls receive therapy, family-style structure, safety, spiritual support, and someone to believe in them. Everything I am building now—my degree, my career, my nonprofit dreams—is the result of the grief that God transformed into purpose. Losing my father broke me, but God rebuilt me with intention. His death became my motivation. His absence became my calling. And every step I take now is for the girls who feel the same pain I once felt.

My identity has never fit neatly into a box. I am 50% Black, 25% White, and 25% Mexican—with curly Black hair, pale skin, bright green eyes, and freckles. My features confuse people before they ever learn my name. I grew up in Arkansas constantly navigating the complicated reality of being multiracial in a world that expects you to choose a side. I was “too light” to fit with some, “too Black” for others, and “not Mexican enough” to be recognized by another piece of my heritage. My appearance often erased parts of who I truly am. Being racially ambiguous shaped every part of my childhood. I learned early how race affects belonging, identity, and safety. People felt entitled to question me, categorize me, or redefine me. I didn’t have a mother to teach me how to see myself or where I fit, so I had to learn through experience—through moments of exclusion, misunderstanding, or assumptions from others. Growing up motherless made those experiences even sharper, because I had no one to anchor me to my cultures or explain the realities of colorism, passing, or mixed identity. But what once made me feel invisible is now the very thing that fuels my purpose. My identity showed me how many young girls grow up without a place where they fully belong—girls who are mixed, girls who are foster youth, girls who are living between worlds. I know that feeling intimately, and I want to use it to make sure other girls never feel alone in it. Being part of multiple underrepresented communities has shaped my academic path. I am majoring in Foreign Languages, Literature & Linguistics with a Spanish concentration, and minoring in Social Work, at the University of Arkansas. After completing my bachelor’s degree, I plan to earn a Master of Social Work and become a licensed bilingual therapist for girls in foster care, especially girls of color who face racial identity confusion, trauma, or cultural displacement. My Mexican heritage fuels my desire to become fully bilingual so I can serve Latina youth who often lack access to culturally competent mental health support. My Black heritage gives me firsthand understanding of generational trauma, resilience, and navigating systems that were not built for us. My heritage is intertwined with privilege, assumptions, and the complicated layers that come with being “white-passing” while still carrying the lived experiences of a minority woman. I exist at the intersection of these realities, and that is exactly where I want to build my career. My identity has also shaped how I serve my community today. Through my small business, Casa Pajarita, I hand-make reusable cloth pads, heating pads, and herbal hormonal remedies and donate them to foster girls in Arkansas. As a motherless child who became a single mother and an adoptive mother of teen girls, I know how much these young women need representation, comfort, and someone who truly sees them. I want to become the therapist and advocate who understands cultural nuance, racial complexity, hair and body identity, and the ways trauma intersects with all of it. My dream is to open a therapeutic, family-style living program on my future farm, where foster teen girls—especially girls of color—can live safely, receive bilingual therapy, reconnect with their cultures, build skills, and experience healing in a home filled with stability, love, and belonging. My identity has taught me how important representation is, how deeply belonging matters, and how powerful it is for young girls to see a woman who looks like them—or doesn’t look like them—but understands them anyway.

My first connection to brain cancer came through my grandmother, the woman who taught me softness, strength, and faith long before I ever understood trauma or loss. She survived brain cancer—something that shook our entire family—but she later passed away from cervical cancer. Watching her fight through both diagnoses changed the way I viewed illness forever. She was the first person who showed me what real courage looked like. As a child, I didn’t understand the medical terminology, but I understood the fear in the room, the way adults whispered, and the way treatments drained her body but never her spirit. Years later, after becoming a mother myself and walking through my own hardships, I realized how deeply her journey shaped me. Witnessing her survival—and later, her passing—made brain cancer feel both terrifying and profoundly human. It taught me that behind every diagnosis is a family trying to make sense of something bigger than them. It also showed me how illness does not just attack a body; it impacts relationships, mental health, and the emotional wellbeing of everyone connected. My grandmother’s strength is a huge part of why I am pursuing a career in healing and service today. Although I have not yet led large public initiatives about brain cancer, her story has influenced the way I show up for people. I am a caregiver by nature because I learned early how deeply people need emotional support during medical crises. I’ve helped multiple families in my life navigate fear, grief, and uncertainty—not because I had medical answers, but because I learned the importance of presence. Through my sewing business, I also create handmade comfort items and donate them to foster youth and girls in crisis across Arkansas. My heart has always been drawn to those who are hurting, especially those who feel alone in their pain, the same way my family once felt during my grandmother’s chemo appointments and hospital stays. Her journey taught me empathy at a level most people don’t encounter until adulthood. I grew up learning how to sit with people through difficult news, how to process grief, and how to stay grounded in faith even when outcomes are uncertain. That compassion is now the foundation of my career goals. In 2026, I will begin schooling at the University of Arkansas, with the goal of becoming a bilingual therapist specializing in trauma, grief, and foster youth. I plan to build a therapeutic living program on my future farm in Arkansas—a home for teenage girls who have endured instability, loss, or abuse. Many of these girls have experienced their own versions of “medical trauma,” whether through family illness, neglect, or a lifetime of caregiving roles placed on them too early. My work will focus on helping them heal through therapy, stability, and compassion. This scholarship would help me continue my education as a single, first-generation college student, adoptive mother, and survivor. I am doing all of this without family support, and every dollar matters. By completing my degree and eventually earning a graduate license, I will be able to provide mental health support to vulnerable populations, including families facing medical challenges like cancer. My grandmother’s battle taught me that life is fragile, time is sacred, and healing—physical, emotional, and spiritual—changes everything. Her legacy is the reason I am building a future centered on care, advocacy, and hope. Through education, I will honor her by becoming the person she taught me to be: someone who shows up when life becomes overwhelming and helps others navigate their hardest seasons with strength and love.

I met God on the floor. Not in a church pew. Not in a moment of peace. Not in a season of strength. I met Him on my knees, pregnant, grieving, and trapped inside a domestic-violence marriage. My father—my only parent, my protector, and the one person who ever loved me unconditionally—had just passed away. I was newly motherless all over again, newly orphaned, and newly terrified. Grief hit me like a wave I could not swim through. One night, I collapsed onto the floor and cried until I couldn’t breathe. My hands were shaking. My chest hurt. I felt completely abandoned by the world. I didn’t even know if I was praying—I was just breaking. It was the lowest moment of my life. And it was exactly where God met me. I remember the shift in the room. The air got still, like time paused. I didn’t hear a voice, but I felt something unmistakeable: God knelt down beside me. Not to lecture me. Not to demand strength from a woman who had none left. But to lift me in the gentlest way I had ever felt. In my spirit, I heard one truth: “You are not alone. You are mine. And I will carry you.” That moment changed everything. God didn’t erase my problems overnight, but He erased the hopelessness. He replaced fear with clarity. He replaced despair with purpose. He planted a fire inside me—a purpose bigger than survival. I realized I wasn’t just being rescued; I was being prepared. From that day on, my faith has guided every major decision of my life. God led me out of abuse. He led me into motherhood. He led me to adopt teen girls from foster care who carry the same wounds I once carried. And He led me back to school—not for a career, but for a calling. Today, I am enrolled at University of Arkansas, working toward becoming a bilingual therapist focused on teenage girls in group homes and foster care. I chose this path because I know their heartbreak deeply. I grew up motherless. I became an orphan as an adult. I have felt the ache of wanting guidance, safety, and someone who cared whether I lived or died. But God turned that wound into my ministry. My long-term goal is to create a therapeutic living program on my future farm in Arkansas—a home where teen girls can experience real family-style living, spiritual stability, emotional safety, and therapeutic support. I want to be both a licensed therapist and a house mother, giving them the consistency, structure, comfort, and love they deserve. I want a home where we pray together, cook together, learn together, and heal together. A home where no girl feels forgotten. Already, I’ve started serving foster youth across Arkansas through my sewing business, where I handmake and donate reusable pads, heating pads, and herbal remedies. It’s a small beginning, but it’s a part of the life God has called me to build. Everything I do is rooted in what God did for me. He picked me up off the floor so that one day, I could pick up the girls He places in my path. My life is not about success—it is about service. It is about breaking the generational patterns that tried to break me. It is about showing my daughters—both biological and adopted—that a woman led by God can overcome anything. This scholarship would not just support my education. It would support every girl God intends for me to reach.

I want to make a change in my life because I finally understand that God didn’t bring me this far just to leave me where I was. For years, I lived in survival mode—navigating a domestic violence marriage, grieving the loss of my father, and trying to raise my children while carrying the kind of trauma that steals your identity. I reached a point where I knew something had to change, and I knew that change had to start with me. I didn’t grow up with parents to fall back on, I didn’t have a roadmap, and I didn’t have generational wealth. But God gave me strength. He gave me clarity. And He gave me a second chance at the life I thought I’d ruined. The day everything shifted, I was pregnant, on my knees on the floor, crying out to God after losing my dad—my only parent. I had no idea how to move forward. But that day, I felt God pick me up off the floor and whisper that my story wasn’t over. That moment became the foundation for every step I’ve taken since. The biggest change I am making now is going back to college with intention and purpose. This is my second time trying to earn a degree. The first time, life forced me to quit. My dad’s health declined, I became a mother, and everything that could go wrong did. But now, after escaping abuse, building a stable home for my daughters, and growing in my faith, I finally have the strength and stability to return. I was recently accepted into the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville, where I plan to study psychology and later earn a graduate degree in social work or counseling. My long-term goal is to become a bilingual therapist and create a therapeutic teen living program on my future farm in Arkansas. I want to serve teen girls—especially those in foster care or group homes—who grew up with the same loneliness and instability I did. Being a motherless child, and now an orphan, shaped my heart in a specific way. I know what it feels like to raise yourself. I know what it feels like when nobody chooses you. And I know what it feels like to wish you had just one adult who cared. I want to be that adult for girls who have never had one. I have already begun preparing for this future. I am a licensed foster parent and in the process of adopting two teenage girls. I run my own small sewing business where I create reusable pads and herbal comfort items, many of which I donate to foster girls across Arkansas. I’ve taken classes, completed licensing requirements, managed my household alone, healed from trauma, and built a life defined not by what hurt me, but by who I am becoming. This scholarship will help me continue stepping into the life God has called me to. As a single mother supporting my children and two incoming teens, every resource matters. Tuition and books are expensive, and financial support would relieve pressure so I can focus fully on my education and the mission ahead of me. I am not going back to school for the sake of a degree. And I plan to pay this forward for the rest of my life. Every girl I mentor, every teen I house, every therapy session I offer, every foster youth I support—those will all be a direct reflection of scholarships like this one. My second chance will become theirs.

My “pie in the sky” dream is simple to say but enormous in impact: I want to build a therapeutic, family-style living program for teenage girls on my future farm in Arkansas—where I will be both their house mother and their bilingual therapist. It is the kind of dream that feels bigger than money, bigger than degrees, bigger than timelines. It feels like something God whispered to me long before I had the strength to believe I could ever do it. This dream was born from the ache of my own childhood. I grew up motherless, biracial, and learning how to survive emotional hunger before I ever learned how to ride a bike. I know what it’s like to crave guidance, softness, and stability. I know what it’s like to wish someone would simply choose you and mean it. Losing my father—my only parent—cemented that ache into a calling. I became an orphan at an age when most people still have someone to run home to. So I decided: No girl in my care will ever feel as alone as I did. That is the spark. The dream is to create a place where teenage girls—especially girls in Arkansas foster care—can heal, grow, feel seen, and experience what “family” can be. I want chickens, donkeys, open land, a long dinner table, evening devotionals, therapeutic sessions that feel like safety instead of punishment, and a home where every girl feels chosen. Not for a night. Not for a placement. Chosen because she is loved. To get there, I need education, and that’s why I returned to college. This is my second attempt at higher education. The first time, I had to drop out—my father’s health was failing, I became a mother, and my life shifted into survival mode. But when God says “go,” you go. And He told me it’s time to return, not for myself but for the girls He’s calling me to help. I recently got accepted into the University of Arkansas – Fayetteville, where I will study psychology and work toward becoming a bilingual therapist. My goal is to continue into graduate school and gain every credential I need to legally care for and treat these girls with excellence, not just love. But education is only one step. Here is the roadmap I’m building: • Step 1: Earn my degree as a single mother of four daughters—two biological, two adopted foster teens—so they can watch me walk across that stage. • Step 2: Gain clinical experience working with teen girls in group homes and foster settings. • Step 3: Secure land in Arkansas to begin building my nonprofit. • Step 4: Create a program blending therapy, spiritual support, and homestead living. • Step 5: Take girls who feel abandoned and show them that they were never forgotten by God. This dream feels big, sometimes impossibly big—but it also feels holy. It is far, yes, but not unreachable. Because every step I am taking, every class I enroll in, every scholarship I apply for is one foot closer to the farm, the girls, the healing, and the home waiting at the end of this road. Some dreams are fragile. Mine is rooted. And with God’s help, I will harvest every piece of it.

Education has never been a straight path for me. It has been more like a long, winding road that I’ve had to rebuild with my bare hands—piece by piece, year by year, heartbreak by heartbreak. But that road has become the clearest symbol of everything I am becoming: a woman who refuses to quit, a mother who rises for her daughters, and a future therapist determined to change the lives of teenage girls who grew up the way I did—feeling unprotected, unseen, and unloved. This is my second time trying college. The first time, I was seventeen, exhausted, and already carrying the weight of a childhood without a mother. I started with good intentions, but life came crashing down on me faster than I could keep up. My father’s health began to decline, and as his only child, the responsibility fell onto me. When God called him home, the only parent I ever knew was gone. Overnight, I became truly orphaned. Not long after, I became a mother myself, and survival took priority over school. I put my education aside—not because I wanted to, but because life demanded it. But now, years later, something shifted. I felt God nudging me again. Soft at first, then unmistakable. “Go back. It’s time.” Not for ego. Not for a job title. But because my calling requires it. I have always known I was meant to help teenage girls—girls in foster care, girls in group homes, girls carrying trauma in their bones the way I once did. I know the loneliness they carry. I know the ache of growing up without a mother. I know the confusion of trying to parent yourself when nobody ever taught you how to be a child. Education is no longer just an opportunity for me—it’s a requirement for the life God has instructed me to build. Getting accepted into the University of Arkansas – Fayetteville reminded me that it is never too late to begin again. I will major in psychology, then pursue graduate school to become a bilingual therapist specializing in adolescent trauma and group-home support. My long-term dream is to open a nonprofit and build a residential program for teenage girls on my future farm in Arkansas. It will be a place of therapeutic healing and family-style living—a home where girls can experience safety, consistency, and love. I want to be both a licensed therapist and a house mother, guiding them through faith, education, emotional healing, and life skills. Education has shaped that vision more clearly than anything else in my life. Every class I will take, every chapter I will read, every therapy model I will study—it all becomes another tool I can bring directly to the girls God assigns to me. I don’t see college as “just school.” I see it as the foundation of everything I want to build: stability, legacy, generational healing, and a new future for brokenhearted girls who don’t know their worth yet. But getting here has not been easy. For most of my life, I felt like the odds were stacked against me. Growing up biracial in Arkansas came with its own identity battles—never fully belonging anywhere, always adjusting, always observing. Being motherless meant learning femininity, boundaries, and emotional vocabulary on my own. Surviving domestic violence meant rebuilding my entire self-worth from the ground up. Becoming a single mother meant learning how to protect my daughters from the world while still trying to figure out my own place in it. And losing my father meant losing the only person who ever called me his baby girl. But through every storm, God kept me alive. And more than that—He kept me soft. He kept my heart tender enough to still feel empathy, still crave purpose, still desire to serve. One of the most meaningful ways I’ve created change already is through my small sewing business, where I hand-make reusable cloth pads, heating pads, and herbal hormonal remedies. I donate many of these items to foster girls in Arkansas because no young woman should have to feel embarrassed or unsupported when it comes to something as basic as menstrual care. It might seem like a small gesture, but for many of these girls, it is the first time they’ve ever received something made with intention, comfort, and love. My daughters inspire me daily. I have two biological girls, and I am in the process of adopting two teenage girls from foster care. I want all four of them sitting in the front row on the day I walk across the stage and receive my degree. I want them to see their mother rise from everything meant to destroy her—with no husband, no parents, no safety net—just God and determination. I want them to look at me and say, “Mama did it. So can we.”

My life’s mission is to pour love, stability, and faith into teenage girls in the Arkansas foster care system—girls who are growing up in the same pain I survived. Everything about my career goals, my calling, and even my motherhood is shaped by the truth that God rescued me from places I was never meant to stay. Because He carried me through abandonment, abuse, and profound grief, I now feel called to turn that survival into service. Helping teenage girls heal is not just something I want to do—it is the path God set out for me. I grew up motherless, and after losing my father, I am now an orphan. That reality has shaped every corner of my life. It taught me how a child aches for guidance, softness, and stability. It taught me that motherless girls learn to be tough when they should be gentle, guarded when they should be growing, and silent when they should be heard. That kind of loneliness leaves marks that follow you into adulthood. I carry those marks with me—but instead of letting them harden me, God turned them into compassion. That is why teenage foster girls are so close to my heart. They remind me of who I was and who I needed. They deserve more than a system—they deserve a woman who will show up consistently, speak life into them, and remind them that God loves them deeply, even when the world has failed them. I am a single mother—both biologically and through adoption—and I am currently adopting two teenage girls. Loving them has shown me just how many young women in Arkansas are navigating trauma alone. They deserve support long before adulthood, and they deserve someone who understands the emotional reality of growing up without parents. This is why I am pursuing my education at the University of Arkansas–Fayetteville. My goal is to become a bilingual social worker and therapist specializing in trauma-focused care for foster youth. I want to work inside group homes, residential facilities, and youth programs, creating safe spaces for girls to be vulnerable, honest, and heard. I want to bring Jesus into healing spaces—not through force, but through presence, compassion, and example. But my vision extends far beyond traditional therapy. My long-term calling is to open a nonprofit on my future farm in Arkansas: a therapeutic, family-style living program for teenage foster girls. Instead of a facility, it will feel like a home. Instead of rotating staff, I will serve as both the live-in therapist and the house mother—offering stability, emotional safety, mentorship, and daily structure. Girls will live in a peaceful rural environment surrounded by nature, animals, routine, and love. They will have chores, warm meals, family meetings, therapy sessions, and spiritual guidance. They will learn life skills, emotional regulation, gardening, cooking, creative expression, and the value of a stable home. They will know what it feels like to be chosen, nurtured, and seen. Through my sewing business, Casa Pajarita, I already donate handmade reusable cloth pads, heating pads, and herbal supports to foster youth across Arkansas. On my future farm program, each girl will receive her own handmade comfort items—because dignity and care start with the small things. Arkansas is my home, and these girls are my mission field. I want them to grow up knowing they are loved, chosen, and valuable. I want them to feel special. I want them to feel close to God. I want them to experience the kind of family that heals—not the family they came from, but the family God creates for them.

Being a first-generation college student shapes every part of my career goals because I am walking a path no one in my family has ever walked before. I grew up in Arkansas without a mother, without academic role models, and without anyone who could guide me through school, college planning, or career development. For most of my life, higher education felt like something that belonged to other people — people with more stability, more money, more support, or more opportunity. Becoming a first-generation student means I am breaking that barrier for myself and for my daughters, and that mindset fuels why I chose a career centered around helping young people who feel overlooked. I am a biracial single mother, a domestic violence survivor, and a woman who raised herself emotionally through instability, trauma, and survival. Because of that, I understand how it feels to grow up without guidance. That experience is exactly why I am pursuing a degree in Psychology, with the long-term goal of becoming a bilingual social worker or therapist who specializes in teenage foster girls. I want to work directly in group homes, residential programs, and trauma-informed youth settings. I want to be the consistent, educated adult that so many young girls — including my younger self — desperately needed. Being first-gen gives me a unique kind of motivation. I am not just earning a degree for myself; I am rewriting my family’s story. My children will grow up with a mother who not only survived hardship but built a professional career from it. They will see college not as an unreachable dream, but as a normal step toward their goals. And the foster teens I am adopting will see that their past does not define their future — education can expand their entire world. My academic path is also deeply tied to my faith. Jesus carried me through valleys that statistics say should have stopped me. As a first-gen student, earning this degree is more than an achievement; it is a testimony. It is proof that generational patterns can change through determination, grace, and purpose. My goal is to take this education and pour it directly into the lives of vulnerable teens. Being first-gen makes me deeply aware of how powerful one opportunity can be — and I intend to use my opportunity to create opportunity for others.