I don't remember the first book I ever read. I remember the first book that understood me. Growing up biracial, I often felt like I was searching for a place where I belonged. I knew who I was at home, who I was at school, and who other people expected me to be, but I struggled to reconcile those identities into one person. Then I found Life on the Color Line. For the first time, I wasn't simply reading someone else's story. I felt as though someone had finally put words to questions I had carried for years. Until then, I had never experienced a book that reflected my own life so closely. It taught me that identity is not something handed to us by others. It is something we build through our choices, our resilience, and our character. That lesson gave me the confidence to become the first in my family to pursue a college degree, rather than allowing my circumstances to define my future. Once I began to understand who I was, I started asking a different question: What kind of person do I want to become? I found that answer in The Bible. Its pages taught me that a meaningful life is measured by service rather than recognition. Those lessons became real when I put college on hold to help raise my niece and nephew after my brother's incarceration. They continue to guide me as I balance two jobs, maintain a 4.0 GPA, and pursue an education that once felt impossible. Whenever life has demanded difficult choices, my faith has reminded me that the greatest success comes from lifting others as we climb. As my love for agriculture grew, so did my curiosity about the responsibility that comes with feeding people. The Omnivore's Dilemma challenged me to look beyond what is on a plate and consider the farmers, animals, land, and communities behind every meal. Rather than discouraging me, it strengthened my commitment to agriculture. It inspired me to create Farmher's Bounty, an initiative focused on connecting local farmers with underserved communities while helping consumers better understand where their food comes from. It also reinforced my belief that agriculture is not just about producing food. It is about caring for people. When I later read All Creatures Great and Small, everything came together. Herriot showed me that veterinary medicine is built on compassion, trust, and service. He cared for animals, but he also cared deeply for the people whose lives depended on them. In his stories, I saw the future I wanted for myself. Today, my goal is to become a food-animal veterinarian who serves farming families, strengthens rural communities, and helps ensure that future generations have access to a safe and sustainable food supply. Barbara believed books could change lives because she spent her career placing them into the hands of others. I know she was right. Books did more than teach me facts. They helped me understand who I am, discover who I wanted to become, and find the courage to pursue that calling. The best books never truly end. Their stories continue in the lives of the people they shape. I hope my life becomes one more chapter in that story.

When I was younger, I rarely saw Black women represented in agriculture or food animal veterinary medicine. Without someone who looked like me in those spaces, it was easy to wonder if I truly belonged. As I grew older, I realized that representation is more than visibility. It gives someone else permission to imagine a future they never thought possible. That realization shaped the way I serve my community. Women's empowerment is not about standing in front of others. It is about standing beside them until they recognize their own potential. Through my volunteer work, mentorship, and commitment to education, I have dedicated myself to becoming the example I once searched for. As a 4-H volunteer and through Farmher's Bounty, I have had the opportunity to work with young girls who have never considered agriculture as a place where they belong. I remember one young girl who hesitated to enter the livestock barn because she believed those jobs were meant for boys. We spent the afternoon learning together, caring for animals, and talking about the many careers agriculture offers. By the end of the day, the uncertainty she carried had been replaced with excitement and confidence. Moments like that remind me that empowerment often begins with a single person believing in you before you believe in yourself. Through Farmher's Bounty, I have also helped organize partnerships with local farmers and volunteers to improve food security in underserved communities. Seeing girls volunteer alongside agricultural professionals allows them to recognize that leadership, service, and science are careers they can pursue as well. My own journey has reinforced every lesson I hope to teach. I left college at nineteen to help raise my niece and nephew, returned years later while working two jobs, and have maintained a 4.0 GPA as I pursue my dream of becoming a food animal veterinarian. Along the way, I have experienced profound personal loss, including the murder of my nephew. Rather than allowing grief to define my future, I chose to channel it into advocacy, community service, and educational outreach. I want young women to understand that resilience is not the absence of hardship. It is the decision to keep moving forward with purpose when life becomes difficult. Every challenge I have overcome has strengthened my commitment to helping other women discover that their circumstances do not determine their potential. Charlene Howard believed education could transform lives, and I hope to honor that legacy throughout my career. As a veterinarian, I plan to mentor young women entering agriculture, expand educational opportunities in underserved communities, and continue creating pathways that connect families with healthy food and agricultural education. My greatest measure of success will never be the degrees I earn or the titles I hold. It will be the number of young women who pursue dreams they once believed were impossible because they saw someone who looked like them doing the same. That is the lasting effect I hope to have on women's empowerment, and it is the legacy I intend to leave for generations to come.

Growing up, college was never something my family expected me to pursue. When your focus is on making it through today, it is difficult to imagine investing in tomorrow. As a first-generation college student and a minority, higher education often felt more like a distant dream than an achievable goal. I refused to let my circumstances determine my future. At nineteen, I made the difficult decision to put college on hold so I could help raise my niece and nephew after my brother was incarcerated. My priorities shifted from lectures and exams to providing stability for two children who needed someone they could depend on. Years later, I returned to school with a renewed sense of purpose. Today, I work two full-time jobs while maintaining a 4.0 GPA because I know exactly what earning a college degree represents. It is more than a personal accomplishment. It is an opportunity to change the trajectory of my life and create opportunities for others. My long-term goal is to become a food-animal veterinarian serving Ohio's farming communities. Agriculture has always been more than an industry to me. It is where I learned responsibility, perseverance, and the importance of serving others. I want to help producers improve animal health, strengthen food security, and ensure that family farms have access to compassionate, high-quality veterinary care. Beyond clinical practice, I hope to mentor students from underrepresented backgrounds who have never considered careers in agriculture or veterinary medicine because they have never seen someone who looks like them succeed in those fields. That mission extends beyond my future profession. Through Farmher's Bounty, I have worked to improve food security by connecting local farmers with underserved communities and helping families better understand where their food comes from. I believe agriculture has the power to strengthen communities, and I want my career to bridge the gap between producers and consumers while expanding access to healthy, locally produced food. This scholarship would provide more than financial assistance. It would provide breathing room. As I write this essay, I have gone 157 consecutive days without a single day off. Every day has been spent working, attending class, studying, and fulfilling family responsibilities. Every penny I earn goes toward paying bills or covering college expenses. While I have never expected my journey to be easy, the constant pressure of balancing work, school, and financial obligations leaves little time to recharge. This scholarship would reduce that burden, allowing me to devote more time to hands-on veterinary experiences, academic opportunities, and community service instead of worrying about how I will afford the next semester. It is not simply an investment in my education. It is an investment in the impact I hope to make throughout my career. Being the first in my family to earn a college degree is not where my story ends. It is where a new chapter begins. My goal is not simply to earn a diploma. It is to become a veterinarian who serves communities, advocates for agriculture, and opens doors for students who once believed college was beyond their reach. I want my success to become proof that the first person to walk through a door can hold it open for everyone who follows.

If you asked someone to describe a "Mad Genius," they would probably picture someone with wild hair, an overflowing notebook, and ideas that make everyone else stop and say, "There's no way that will work." To be fair, I already have the wild, curly hair, so I'm halfway there. But over the years, I've realized that being a Mad Genius has very little to do with appearance. It has everything to do with seeing possibilities where everyone else sees limits. I've always been fascinated by the question, "Why does it have to be that way?" Whether I was experimenting in the kitchen, working around the farm, or studying science, I found myself more interested in challenging assumptions than accepting them. Why are certain foods only eaten at breakfast? Why do people insist some flavors don't belong together? Why can't the solution to a problem come from combining ideas that seem completely unrelated? Most people look at ingredients and see exactly what they are. A Mad Genius looks at the same ingredients and imagines what they could become. That way of thinking has followed me throughout my life. When I left college at nineteen to help raise my niece and nephew, many people assumed my education had reached its final chapter. Years later, returning to school while working two jobs and pursuing a degree in animal science wasn't the obvious choice. It certainly wasn't the easy one. But every meaningful innovation begins with someone willing to ignore the phrase, "That's just the way it's always been." If I had accepted that thinking, I never would have discovered what I was truly capable of accomplishing. Studying animal science has only strengthened that perspective. Most people see agriculture as an industry built on tradition, but I see one fueled by innovation. Every advancement in animal health, nutrition, sustainability, and food production exists because someone questioned conventional thinking. Someone looked at a problem everyone else accepted and imagined a completely different solution. To me, that isn't just science; it's creativity in its purest form. I carry that same mindset into my volunteer work. As a 4-H advisor, I encourage young people to ask questions before they look for answers because curiosity is where confidence begins. As the Community Outreach Coordinator for Farmher's Bounty, I work with local farmers, volunteers, and community partners to strengthen food security by connecting fresh, locally produced food with families who need it. The challenge isn't simply producing more food. It's finding creative ways to connect the resources that already exist with the people who need them most. Sometimes the greatest innovation isn't inventing something entirely new. It's seeing connections everyone else overlooked. That's why I love the idea behind Mad Genius. A cheeseburger folded into a quesadilla or chicken parmesan tucked inside an empanada isn't just a clever snack. It's proof that creativity often comes from refusing to believe that things have to stay in their own separate boxes. The ingredients never changed; someone simply imagined a different way to bring them together. I think life works the same way. The biggest breakthroughs rarely happen because someone has access to extraordinary resources. They happen because someone is willing to combine ordinary ideas in extraordinary ways. To me, a Mad Genius isn't the loudest person in the room or the one trying to be different just for the sake of standing out. A Mad Genius is someone who stays curious enough to ask better questions, brave enough to try ideas that might fail, and persistent enough to keep experimenting until something incredible happens. That's the kind of person I hope to become. Whether I'm improving animal agriculture, strengthening communities through food, or mentoring the next generation of young leaders, I never want to lose the curiosity that asks, "What if everyone else is looking at this the wrong way?" After all, every recipe worth remembering was once an idea that sounded completely ridiculous.

At nineteen, I made the difficult decision to leave college. It wasn't because I lacked ambition or stopped believing in the value of education. My family needed me, and helping raise my niece and nephew became my priority. For years, I wondered if I had missed my chance to earn a degree. Returning to school as a first-generation college student taught me something I will never forget: education is not defined by when your journey begins or how long it takes. It is defined by the doors it opens, the lives it changes, and the courage it takes to keep going. Today, I work two full-time jobs while maintaining a 4.0 GPA as an animal science major. The long hours, late nights, and sacrifices have not made me question whether earning my degree is worth it. They have reminded me why it matters. Education has given me confidence I thought I had lost, the ability to pursue a career that serves others, and the opportunity to become the kind of leader I once needed myself. As a first-generation college student, I understand what it feels like to navigate higher education without a roadmap. There were no family members who could explain financial aid, course registration, or what it meant to pursue a STEM degree. Every milestone has required learning through persistence, asking questions, and refusing to let uncertainty determine my future. Those experiences have shaped the way I lead. They have taught me that leadership is not about having all the answers. It is about making the path a little easier for the person who comes after you. That belief guides my volunteer work. As a 4-H advisor, I have watched young people discover confidence they never knew they had. As the Community Outreach Coordinator for Farmher's Bounty, I work alongside local farmers, volunteers, and community partners to strengthen food security by connecting fresh, locally produced food with families in need. Whether I am mentoring a young exhibitor or helping organize community outreach, I have learned that education extends far beyond a classroom. Every conversation is an opportunity to encourage someone, share knowledge, and help them believe they are capable of more than they imagined. Choosing animal science also means entering a field where women are historically underrepresented in leadership roles. Rather than seeing that as a barrier, I see it as an opportunity to redefine what leadership in agriculture and STEM looks like. My goal is to become a food-animal veterinarian who not only serves producers but also mentors young women who may never have considered a future in agriculture or veterinary medicine. I want them to see someone who looks like them succeeding in a field they once believed was beyond their reach. Education has changed the course of my life, but its greatest value is not the degree I will earn. It is the opportunity to create that same possibility for someone else. If I can help a young woman believe she belongs in STEM, encourage a first-generation student to stay the course, or use my education to strengthen the communities I serve, then every obstacle I overcame will have been worth it. To me, education is more than a personal achievement. It is a responsibility. It is the ability to turn perseverance into leadership, knowledge into service, and opportunity into something that can be shared. That is the LeadHer I envision, and that is the future I hope to help create for every girl who dreams of an education but wonders if she truly belongs. My answer to her will always be the same: "You do."

When most people think about community service, they picture volunteering at an event or donating to a good cause. Those things matter, but my understanding of community has always been different. Agriculture has always been part of my life, and over the years, I have realized that its greatest purpose is not simply producing food. It is bringing people together. I have learned that the people who make the biggest difference are the ones who quietly show up when someone needs help, whether that's offering encouragement, lending a hand, or making sure a family has food on the table. That belief has shaped the way I serve my community and the career I hope to build. As the Community Outreach Coordinator for Farmher's Bounty, I have the opportunity to turn that belief into action. I work alongside local farmers, volunteers, and community partners to help connect fresh, locally produced food with families who need it most. Every partnership we build, and every opportunity to provide fresh eggs, vegetables, or locally raised meats reminds me that food does much more than fill a pantry. It creates connections, restores dignity, and reminds people that they are not facing difficult times alone. Working with Farmher's Bounty has shown me that strengthening a community often begins with something as simple as neighbors helping neighbors. My commitment to service extends beyond improving food security. As a 4-H advisor, I have watched quiet, uncertain children grow into confident young leaders through agriculture. One of the moments I look forward to most is watching a young exhibitor who once doubted themselves step into the show ring with confidence because someone believed in them first. Experiences like those have taught me that mentorship and agriculture have something in common. Both require patience, consistency, and a willingness to invest in someone's future long before you see the results. Life has also shown me what community looks like during its hardest moments. When my family experienced profound loss, the murder of my nephew, neighbors, mentors, and friends quietly stepped in without being asked. They brought meals, checked on us, and reminded us that we did not have to carry everything alone. Their kindness changed my understanding of service. I realized that the strongest communities are built by ordinary people who choose to be there for one another when it matters most. Their example continues to shape the way I serve others today. As I pursue a degree in animal science and sustainable livestock management, I hope to continue building stronger communities through agriculture. I want to support livestock producers, mentor young people interested in agriculture, and improve access to safe, nutritious food in underserved communities. To me, caring for animals has always been connected to caring for people. Healthy farms support healthy families, and healthy families create stronger communities. Years from now, I hope people will not remember me simply for the degree I earned or the career I built. I hope they remember someone who was willing to show up, build relationships, and leave her community stronger than she found it. If my work helps a young person discover confidence, helps a local farmer serve their community, or helps a family put fresh food on the table, then I will know I have made a difference. That, to me, is what community is all about.

I first fell in love with watercolor through grief. In the middle of loss, when emotions felt too heavy for words, and memories seemed impossible to hold onto, watercolor became the one place where I could let everything exist honestly. Pigment spread unpredictably across paper, colors bled into one another without control, and every brushstroke seemed to mirror the fragile, unfinished nature of healing itself. What began as a way to process pain became a passion. I realized watercolor was beautiful not because it was perfect, but because it embraced imperfection, vulnerability, and emotion naturally. For me, painting is more than creating images. It is a way of preserving memory and healing in forms that words cannot fully capture. My intended career path is in large animal veterinary medicine and sustainable livestock agriculture. I have always been drawn to caring for animals because the work demands patience, compassion, resilience, and empathy. In many ways, watercolor painting and veterinary medicine are connected. Both require careful observation and the ability to look beyond what is immediately visible. Painting has strengthened the same qualities I hope to carry into my future profession: gentleness under pressure, attention to detail, and compassion even during life’s most difficult moments. The portrait watercolor was inspired by grief following the murder of my nephew. I intentionally painted the figure with unfinished edges and dissolving brushstrokes because grief itself never feels complete. Some memories remain painfully sharp, while others fade softly with time, much like watercolor spreading across wet paper. The contrast of warm earth tones and cool blues reflects the tension between sorrow and peace. More than anything, this painting became a way to give shape to emotions too heavy for words alone. The floral watercolor was inspired by resilience and transformation. Flowers are often viewed as delicate, but I see them as symbols of survival because they continue to bloom despite storms and harsh conditions. Unlike the portrait, which reflects loss and remembrance, the flower represents healing and renewal. The flowing petals and layered colors symbolize growth after hardship and the belief that beauty can still emerge from pain. Together, these paintings tell the story of who I am becoming. One reflects grief, while the other reflects healing. Both remind me that even life’s hardest moments can create something meaningful, and that true strength often reveals itself quietly through compassion, resilience, and the courage to keep growing.

Before most people are awake, my day has already begun. Some mornings start in the barn, caring for livestock before sunrise, the smell of hay and feed still clinging to my clothes as I drive to class. Other mornings begin in hospital waiting rooms, balancing coursework on my laptop while helping my mother through the lasting complications of cancer treatment. Somewhere between farm responsibilities, work, caregiving, and college, I have maintained a 4.0 GPA while pursuing a degree in Animal Science focused on sustainable livestock management and food systems. That ability to keep moving forward under pressure is what gives me an advantage over many of the people I am competing against for this scholarship. Resilience has shaped my life long before I understood the meaning of the word. Before I was born, my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 cervical cancer while pregnant with me. She delayed treatment to give me a chance at life, and I entered the world at just 1 pound, 14 ounces at 27 weeks premature. Years later, our family faced cancer again when she was diagnosed with stage 3 colon cancer. While other students were focused solely on exams and assignments, I was helping care for my mother through surgeries, infusions, and the ongoing medical complications that followed. There were nights filled with uncertainty, exhaustion, and financial stress, but those moments taught me something invaluable: difficult circumstances can either break a person or build them into someone stronger. I chose to become stronger. As a woman of color pursuing a career in agriculture and animal science, I have also learned how to succeed in spaces where very few people look like me. Agriculture, livestock production, and many STEM-related industries remain fields historically dominated by people from different backgrounds than my own. There have been moments when I felt underestimated, overlooked, or expected to prove myself twice over. Instead of allowing that to discourage me, it fueled my determination to excel academically, lead confidently, and create space for others who may one day follow a similar path. My presence in these spaces matters because representation matters. Young women and minority students deserve to see that they belong in agriculture, science, and leadership, too. What separates me from many other applicants is that I do not simply talk about determination, leadership, or hard work. I live those values every day. My passion for sustainable agriculture is not theoretical or temporary. It comes from firsthand experience working within livestock production and understanding both the responsibility and sacrifice behind feeding communities. Agriculture has taught me discipline, patience, and accountability in ways no classroom alone ever could. Caring for animals and managing responsibilities on the farm showed me early that success is earned through consistency, not convenience. At the same time, my experiences outside of agriculture have deepened my sense of purpose. Watching my family navigate illness showed me how fragile stability can be for so many people. It strengthened my desire to build systems that are sustainable not only for producers and animals, but also for communities. I want to contribute to a future where agriculture prioritizes ethical animal care, environmental responsibility, food accessibility, and long-term sustainability. My education is not just a personal achievement. It is preparation for a lifetime of meaningful impact. I have also worked to create that impact now, not someday in the future. Alongside school and work responsibilities, I dedicate time to mentoring youth, supporting my community, and advocating for responsible food systems. I believe leadership is measured by service and by the willingness to continue showing up even when circumstances are difficult. Maintaining academic excellence while balancing real-world responsibilities has required sacrifice, but it has also proven to me that I am capable of far more than I once imagined. This scholarship would not simply support a student with strong grades. It would support someone who has already learned how to persevere through adversity, carry responsibility without giving up, and transform hardship into motivation. I know I am competing against many talented applicants, but my advantage comes from the fact that I have already been tested by challenges that demanded resilience, discipline, and maturity beyond my years. Success has never been handed to me. Every achievement I have earned has been built through sacrifice, persistence, and an unwavering refusal to quit. No matter how difficult life became, I continued moving forward. That same determination is what I will carry into my education, my future career, and every life I hope to impact through agriculture, science, and service.

The first time someone laughed after I said I wanted to become a large animal veterinarian, I was still young enough to remember exactly how it felt. It was not cruel laughter, at least not intentionally. It was the kind of surprised reaction people give when something does not match the image already formed in their minds. An African American girl working with livestock, pursuing animal science, and dreaming about large animal veterinary medicine did not fit the stereotype they expected. I remember smiling awkwardly in the moment, but quietly carrying that feeling with me afterward. Over time, I realized that many STEM spaces, especially agriculture and veterinary medicine, were not places where people expected women like me to exist. That realization became one of the reasons I refused to leave them. I chose to pursue STEM because science gave meaning to the curiosity that shaped my childhood. Growing up around livestock, I was fascinated by everything: why animals behaved differently from one another, how nutrition affected growth and health, how veterinarians could diagnose illness before symptoms became severe, and how science influenced every part of agriculture. While other people saw farms as simple, I saw biology, chemistry, medicine, nutrition, environmental science, and problem-solving happening all around me every single day. That curiosity eventually grew into my passion for animal science and my goal of becoming a large animal veterinarian focused on livestock health, welfare, and sustainable agriculture. What excites me most about STEM is that it allows knowledge to become action. Veterinary medicine is not only about treating animals. It intersects with public health, food systems, sustainability, education, and community impact. Through STEM, I hope to advocate for ethical animal care, strengthen agricultural education, and help reconnect communities with the science behind the food systems they rely on every day. At the same time, being a woman in STEM has taught me resilience. There were moments when I questioned whether I truly belonged in classrooms, barns, and agricultural spaces where very few people looked like me. But instead of discouraging me, those experiences fueled me. Maintaining a 4.0 GPA while balancing outreach programs, agricultural involvement, leadership roles, and volunteer work became proof to myself that I was capable of succeeding in spaces where women, especially minority women, are still underrepresented. Some of the most meaningful moments in my STEM journey have happened outside the classroom. Through 4-H outreach and community initiatives like Roots to Table, I work with children who have never interacted with livestock or considered careers involving agriculture, science, or veterinary medicine. I still think about one little girl who hesitated to touch a calf because she had never been near a farm animal before. By the end of the event, she was bottle-feeding goats and asking me questions about becoming a veterinarian. Watching her curiosity replace fear reminded me why representation matters so deeply. Sometimes seeing someone who looks like you in a space is enough to make you believe you belong there too. As a woman pursuing STEM, I hope my impact extends beyond my own career. I want to help create a future where young women no longer feel like outsiders in science, agriculture, or veterinary medicine. I want them to walk into those spaces already believing they belong there. Years ago, someone laughed because my dream did not fit their expectations. One day, I hope girls with dreams like mine will no longer surprise anyone at all.

I spent years believing leadership belonged to people who spoke the loudest, answered the fastest, or seemed naturally confident in every room they entered. As someone with dyslexia, I often felt like the opposite of that person. Reading took me longer, processing information sometimes felt frustrating, and there were moments when I questioned my own intelligence simply because my mind worked differently than everyone around me. For a long time, I thought leadership meant never struggling. It took me years to realize that some of the strongest leaders are shaped precisely by struggle. Instead of making me give up, dyslexia forced me to become resilient. It taught me patience, discipline, and how to keep pushing forward even when things did not come easily. I learned how to adapt, how to work harder, and how to believe in myself even during moments of frustration and self-doubt. Over time, I realized leadership is not defined by perfection or ease. It is defined by perseverance, empathy, and the willingness to keep showing up when things are difficult. That mindset followed me into every part of my life. While pursuing my degree in animal science and maintaining a 4.0 GPA, I balanced academics with agricultural outreach programs, volunteer work, mentorship, and community service. Growing up around livestock taught me responsibility early, but community service taught me something equally important: leadership means using your experiences to create opportunities for others. One of the most meaningful examples of that has been helping organize **Roots to Table**, a community initiative focused on addressing food insecurity, supporting local producers, and reconnecting underserved communities with healthy food and agriculture. Through the program, families received fresh produce, eggs, and locally sourced food while children participated in livestock education activities and interactive experiences with animals. Many of the children attending had never stepped foot near farm animals before. Watching fear slowly turn into curiosity reminded me how powerful encouragement and exposure can be, especially for young people who may never have imagined themselves connected to agriculture, science, or veterinary medicine. I still think about one little boy who was too nervous to enter the petting zoo area at first. By the end of the day, he was sitting in the straw bottle-feeding a goat and asking endless questions about farming and animals. Watching his confidence grow reminded me that leadership often happens in quiet moments. Sometimes leadership looks less like standing in front of a crowd and more like helping someone believe they are capable of something they feared only hours earlier. As an African American student pursuing large animal veterinary medicine, leadership also means representation. I know what it feels like to walk into classrooms, barns, and agricultural spaces where very few people look like you. Because of that, I want younger students, especially students with learning differences or from underrepresented communities, to see someone who understands those challenges succeeding anyway. I want them to know they do not need to fit perfectly into a system to still belong within it. To me, leadership is not about recognition, titles, or authority. Real leadership is measured by impact. It is measured through the people you encourage, the opportunities you create, and the confidence you help build in others. The leaders who changed my life most were never the loudest people in the room. They were the people who quietly made others believe they mattered too. That is the kind of leader I hope to become.

Some of the strongest faith I have ever witnessed was not preached from a pulpit. It was seen in my mother sitting in a chemotherapy chair with exhaustion written across her face, yet still coming home determined to hold our family together. Even during the hardest seasons of our lives, she never let hardship harden her heart. Instead, she leaned deeper into faith. Watching that changed me. Growing up, I learned that faith is not the absence of fear, grief, or uncertainty. Faith is choosing to keep moving forward despite those things. One Bible verse became especially meaningful to me during difficult moments: “God is within her, she will not fall.” Psalm 46:5. I saw that verse reflected in my mother’s resilience, and eventually, I began carrying it with me into my own struggles. Whenever I doubted myself or questioned whether I truly belonged somewhere, my faith reminded me that strength is not always loud. Sometimes it looks like perseverance when nobody else sees the battle you are fighting. As an African American student pursuing animal science and large animal veterinary medicine, there were many moments when I felt out of place. I would walk into agricultural classrooms, barns, and industry events and immediately notice how few people looked like me. Yet faith became the reason I kept showing up anyway. It reminded me that purpose is not determined by comfort or familiarity. Sometimes God calls people into spaces specifically because change is needed there. That belief carried me through maintaining a 4.0 GPA while balancing outreach programs, volunteer work, agricultural responsibilities, and personal hardship. My faith taught me discipline, humility, and perseverance, but most importantly, it taught me that success without integrity means very little. That mindset is also the foundation behind one of my biggest dreams: building and expanding Farmher’s Bounty, a business centered around sustainable agriculture, local food systems, and reconnecting communities with where their food comes from. I envision partnering with local farmers and producers, increasing access to healthier food options in underserved communities, and creating educational experiences for children who may have never stepped foot on a farm before. I still think about one little girl at a community outreach event who hesitated to touch a calf because she had never been near a farm animal before. By the end of the day, she was bottle-feeding goats and asking endless questions about agriculture and veterinary medicine. Watching her curiosity replace fear reminded me why this work matters so much to me. Faith has taught me that serving others often begins with making people feel welcomed, valued, and seen. My faith will guide the way I run Farmher’s Bounty and approach veterinary medicine. Whether I am caring for livestock, mentoring students, or supporting families through community outreach, I want my work to reflect the values my faith instilled in me long ago: resilience, humility, compassion, and service. Years from now, I hope people remember more than my career or accomplishments. I hope they remember someone who led with integrity, served with compassion, and never lost sight of why the work mattered in the first place. If my faith has taught me anything, it is that success means very little if you reach the top alone. The life I want to build is one that lifts others with it.

I was four years old the first time I truly understood that animals could trust you. It was farrowing season, and the barn smelled like straw, feed, and heat lamps fighting against the cold Ohio winter outside. While most kids my age were asleep, I followed behind the adults in oversized chore boots, determined to help however I could. I remember stopping in front of a sow lying quietly beside her litter of newborn piglets. One piglet, much smaller than the rest, kept getting pushed away each time it tried to nurse. Eventually, it wandered close enough for me to pick it up. I still remember how warm it felt against my hands and how quickly its tiny ribs moved as it breathed. Instead of pulling away, it curled into me. A little while later, I sat in the straw with that piglet tucked inside my coat while the barn carried on around us. At some point, the piglet fell asleep against my chest, completely trusting me. That moment never left me. My passion for animals was built through years of early mornings, muddy boots, and responsibilities that became part of everyday life. It was bottle feeding weak piglets before school, checking animals during snowstorms, and learning to recognize when something was wrong before it could ever be said aloud. Growing up around livestock taught me that caring for animals is built on patience, sacrifice, and showing up every single day. Pigs became especially important to me because they are so often misunderstood. I grew up seeing how intelligent, emotional, and curious they truly are. They recognized familiar voices, sought comfort from people they trusted, and showed personalities that made them impossible not to love. Today, I am majoring in animal science with the goal of becoming a large animal veterinarian focused on livestock health and welfare. My studies involve animal nutrition, health, reproduction, and responsible livestock management while preparing me for a career dedicated to animal care. Maintaining a 4.0 GPA while balancing outreach, volunteering, and animal care has confirmed that this is exactly where I belong. I want to make a positive impact beyond the clinic itself. Through 4-H and agricultural education programs, I visit schools to teach children about livestock and where their food comes from. Many of the students I meet have never stepped foot inside a barn before. Watching their hesitation turn into curiosity reminds me of myself years ago, sitting in the straw completely captivated by the tiny life resting against my chest. I also work with foster livestock and horses connected to SPCA efforts, helping rehabilitate animals that have experienced neglect or displacement. Watching fearful animals slowly learn to trust again reinforced my belief that veterinary medicine is about more than treatment alone. It is about advocacy, compassion, and protecting vulnerable animals when they cannot protect themselves. As an African American student entering agriculture and veterinary medicine, I hope to challenge stereotypes about who belongs in these spaces. I want young students, especially minority students, to see that there is a place for them in barns, classrooms, and veterinary medicine too. Looking back, I realize that tiny piglet gave me far more than a childhood memory. It gave me purpose. Long before I understood careers or college majors, it taught me what it meant to protect something vulnerable, and that feeling has guided me ever since.

The first time I walked into a classroom carrying livestock education materials for a 4-H presentation, a student looked at me and asked, “Wait… you work with farm animals?” The surprise in his voice stayed with me long after the presentation ended. In that moment, I realized he was not just surprised by the animals. He was surprised by me. An African American student involved in livestock production, agricultural advocacy, and veterinary medicine did not fit the image he had in his mind. That moment became one of the clearest reminders of why I want to become a veterinarian and why representation within agriculture matters so deeply. I am pursuing a career in large animal veterinary medicine because I believe veterinarians have the power to do far more than treat animals. They educate communities, protect the future of agriculture, build trust between producers and consumers, and inspire the next generation to see possibilities they may have never imagined for themselves. While maintaining a 4.0 GPA in animal science, I have committed myself to becoming part of that change through advocacy, outreach, and hands-on service. Through my involvement in 4-H and agricultural education programs, I regularly visit schools to teach children about livestock, farming, and where their food comes from. Many of the students I meet have never touched straw, stepped into a barn, or interacted with large animals before. At first, some are hesitant or unsure, but that uncertainty quickly turns into curiosity. I have watched students light up while learning how pigs communicate, how farmers care for livestock, and how veterinary medicine protects both animals and people. Those moments matter because education replaces assumptions with understanding. I have also worked as a promotional speaker connected to pork producers and agricultural outreach efforts focused on rebuilding the relationship between consumers and agriculture. In today’s world, many conversations about farming happen without the voices of the people actually involved in it. I want to help change that by creating honest, transparent conversations about animal welfare, food production, and responsible livestock care. Agriculture is often misunderstood, and I believe veterinarians play an important role in bridging that divide through science, communication, and compassion. My passion for animal welfare extends beyond advocacy alone. I have also helped foster livestock and horses connected to SPCA efforts, caring for animals that have experienced neglect or displacement. Some arrived fearful and withdrawn, yet over time I watched patience and proper care completely transform them. Those experiences taught me that veterinary medicine is not only about treating illness. It is about restoring trust, improving quality of life, and giving both animals and people hope during difficult moments. As someone entering a field where minorities remain underrepresented, I want young students to see themselves reflected in agriculture and veterinary medicine in ways I rarely did growing up. Representation matters because visibility changes what people believe is possible. I want the next generation of students, especially those from urban and minority communities, to understand that agriculture, science, and veterinary medicine are spaces where they belong too. My goal is not simply to earn the title of veterinarian. I want to become the kind of veterinarian who changes perspectives, opens doors, and creates connections between people who may otherwise never understand one another. Whether I am treating livestock, mentoring students, or standing in front of a classroom challenging stereotypes, I hope my career leaves people with the same realization that student had that day: agriculture has room for all of us.

Before daylight reaches the barns, the farm is already alive. Sows shift in their pens waiting to be fed while deer move carefully along the edge of the field behind them. Some mornings, coyotes call from beyond the tree line close enough for us to hear them from the driveway. On my farm, wildlife is not distant from agriculture. It lives beside it every day. Growing up in that environment taught me something long before I ever entered college: when the balance between agriculture and nature begins to break down, both animals and people suffer. That is why I believe the most urgent issue in wildlife conservation today is the growing conflict between modern food production and the survival of wildlife ecosystems. As human populations continue expanding, agriculture is being pushed to produce more food with fewer resources. Forests are cleared, habitats become fragmented, waterways are polluted, and wildlife is forced into shrinking spaces. Wildlife loses migration routes, shelter, and food sources, pushing them closer to farms and communities because they have nowhere else to go. I have witnessed that conflict firsthand. After heavy storms, I have watched runoff carve through fields and collect near areas shared by livestock and wildlife, reminding me how quickly environmental strain can affect entire ecosystems. I have seen deer destroy crops that farmers rely on financially, and predators move closer to livestock areas as development continues replacing natural habitat. These moments changed the way I view conservation. Wildlife conservation is not only about protecting endangered species in distant forests. It is also about protecting the ecosystems that farms, animals, and communities depend on to survive. Growing up on a farm taught me that stewardship is not just a concept discussed in classrooms or policy meetings. It is practiced through daily decisions. It means understanding that healthy soil, clean water, responsible waste management, and sustainable land use matter not only for livestock production, but for surrounding wildlife and future generations as well. Agriculture showed me how deeply connected food systems and environmental health truly are. Every decision made on the land creates consequences beyond the boundaries of a farm. As a Black student pursuing a degree in Sustainable Animal Science, I also recognize how underrepresented voices are often missing from conversations surrounding conservation and sustainability. Many underserved communities experience food insecurity, environmental inequality, and limited access to sustainable food systems while having little representation in environmental decision-making. I want to help change that by bringing both lived agricultural experience and scientific education into these conversations. What frustrates me most is that conservation and agriculture are too often treated as opposing forces when they depend on one another for survival. Farmers are expected to feed growing populations while wildlife continues losing habitat at alarming rates. Neither problem can be solved independently. The future of conservation depends on whether agriculture can evolve into a system that protects biodiversity while responsibly sustaining human life. That is the work I want to dedicate my life to. I want to help create livestock and food systems that are productive without destroying ecosystems and sustainable without sacrificing farmers, wildlife, or future generations. Because once ecosystems collapse, species disappear, and land is exhausted beyond recovery, the damage cannot simply be reversed. Wildlife conservation is ultimately about more than protecting animals. It is about protecting the balance that every living thing, including humanity itself, depends on for survival.

Before I was even born, cancer had already changed my family’s life forever. When my mother was pregnant with me, she was diagnosed with stage four cervical cancer. Faced with unimaginable uncertainty, she decided to postpone treatment in order to continue her pregnancy and give me a chance at life. While carrying the weight of a life-threatening diagnosis, she chose to fight for both of us at the same time. I was eventually born prematurely at just 27 weeks, weighing only one pound and fourteen ounces. My life began surrounded by incubators, monitors, and uncertainty while my mother prepared to begin radiation and chemotherapy immediately after my birth. Before I could even understand the meaning of sacrifice or strength, my mother had already demonstrated both in ways I will spend the rest of my life trying to comprehend. Growing up, I always understood that my life began with survival, but as I got older, I began to understand the emotional and physical cost of everything my mother endured. She survived stage 4 cervical cancer while becoming a mother under circumstances most people cannot imagine. For years afterward, life slowly settled again, and we tried to move forward. Then in 2022, cancer returned to our family when my mother was diagnosed with stage three colon cancer. Hearing those words felt like watching fear walk back into our lives after we thought we had already survived the worst once before. Cancer changed every aspect of our lives. Suddenly, life revolved around surgeries, appointments, medications, scans, and uncertainty. After her surgery and ileostomy, complications continued long after treatment itself. Even now, she still attends infusions multiple times a week because her electrolytes will not stabilize. One of the hardest lessons I learned is that cancer does not simply end when treatment ends. Its effects continue physically, emotionally, mentally, and financially long afterward. When her health declined, I moved back home to help care for her while balancing school, work, family responsibilities, and my own mental health. There were moments when the emotional weight felt overwhelming. Watching someone you love suffer while feeling powerless to stop it changes you deeply. I saw firsthand how illness affects not only the patient, but the entire family surrounding them. Cancer brought exhaustion, fear, grief, and uncertainty into our home in ways that touched every part of our lives. At the same time, this experience taught me more about resilience, compassion, and love than anything else ever could. I watched my mother continue fighting through pain, exhaustion, and fear with a strength that still amazes me. Some of the strongest moments were not dramatic at all. They were quiet moments: watching her force herself to smile after difficult appointments, continuing treatments when she was exhausted, or refusing to let illness take away her hope. She taught me that courage is not the absence of fear. Courage is continuing forward despite it. Cancer also changed the way I view caregiving and service. As someone pursuing animal science with plans to become a large animal veterinarian, I have learned that compassion matters just as much as medicine itself. Caring for my mother taught me patience, empathy, and the importance of simply showing up for people during their most vulnerable moments. My life began with my mother fighting for both of us, and watching her continue that fight years later has taught me what true strength really looks like. Although cancer shaped my family through hardship and uncertainty, it also shaped me into someone who understands perseverance, compassion, and the power of never giving up on the people you love.

For a long time, I believed strength meant silence. It meant continuing forward without pause, carrying whatever I felt without letting it show. That belief shaped how I navigated the world, especially as a multiracial woman in spaces where I did not always feel like I belonged. It was reinforced by another challenge I carried quietly. As someone who is dyslexic, I learned early how to work twice as hard to meet expectations without drawing attention to the effort it required. I learned how to adapt, push forward, and succeed even when things felt difficult. For a long time, I thought that was strength. It was not until I faced loss that I realized silence is not strength. It is something that can quietly break you. When my nephew was murdered, my world shifted instantly. There was no preparation for that kind of loss, no way to make sense of something so sudden and violent. Grief came as confusion, anger, and a heaviness that made even simple tasks feel overwhelming. At the same time, I lost a close friend to cancer, a loss that unfolded slowly and forced me to witness the gradual absence of someone I cared about deeply. One loss was abrupt, the other prolonged. Together, they left me trying to hold myself together while everything inside me felt unsteady. What followed was not something easily visible. Depression and anxiety settled in quietly. It showed up in exhaustion that sleep could not fix, constant overthinking, and the pressure to keep functioning as if nothing had changed. In the African American community, mental health is often treated as something to endure rather than address. Strength is expected, and vulnerability can be misunderstood. I carried that expectation with me. I believed that acknowledging my pain meant I was failing, so I kept going, even when it felt like I was carrying more than I could hold. Despite these challenges, I remained committed to my goals and have maintained a 4.0 GPA while pursuing my degree. As a dyslexic student, that achievement represents more than academic success. It reflects resilience, discipline, and the determination to keep showing up, even on difficult days. I have learned that success is not defined by how well you hide your struggles, but by how you navigate them. Eventually, I realized that silence was not protecting me. It was isolating me. That realization forced me to rethink everything I believed about strength. I began to understand that strength is not the absence of struggle, but the willingness to acknowledge it. It is choosing to move forward while allowing yourself to feel and heal. This shift has influenced how I build relationships. I listen more closely, respond with intention, and create space for others to be honest about what they are experiencing. I understand that many people carry struggles they never speak about, and that a single moment of understanding can make a difference. My experiences with mental health have shaped my career aspirations. I am pursuing a degree in animal science with a focus on sustainable livestock production and community-based food systems, and I want to build environments that support both physical and emotional well-being. Mental health has changed how I see the world, but more importantly, how I show up in it. It has taught me that strength is not found in silence, but in honesty. I carry what I have experienced with me not as something that defines my limits, but as something that shapes my purpose.

The first time the pen disappeared, I blamed myself. I had a habit of setting it down anywhere. Counters, windowsills, the edge of my bed like it might roll somewhere important on its own. So when I reached for it and it wasn’t there, I didn’t panic. I retraced my steps, checked my bag, even looked in places it had never been before. Eventually, I found it in the fridge. I laughed, shook my head, and told myself I needed more sleep. The second time, I wasn’t laughing. I had just finished writing something I didn’t want to forget. I set the pen down, turned for half a second, and when I looked back, it was gone. Not misplaced. Gone. The desk was clear. The floor untouched. No sound, no movement. Just absence. “Okay,” I said quietly. “That’s not funny.” It showed up later that night, tucked neatly into my notebook as if it had never left. By the third time, I stopped pretending. The pen only disappeared when I hesitated. At first, the pattern was easy to ignore. I would start writing, pause over a word, question whether it sounded right, and then it would be gone. Not dropped. Not lost. Taken. I tested it. I wrote quickly, pushing through thoughts before doubt could catch up. The pen stayed. But the moment I slowed, even slightly, hovering over a sentence that felt too honest, too real, it vanished. My chest tightened every time. Not because of the pen, but because I knew exactly why it happened. I started leaving sentences unfinished. Then pages. It became easier not to write at all. Days passed. The pen stayed where I left it when I ignored it, still and patient, like it was waiting for something I refused to give. One night, I sat at my desk longer than usual. The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that presses in on you. The pen rested beside my notebook, untouched. “You’re not real,” I said. It didn’t move. I picked it up anyway. At first, I wrote safe things. Lists. Fragments. Words that didn’t matter. The pen stayed. Then, without meaning to, I wrote something true. My hand slowed. The word sat there, unfinished. My thoughts tangled, pulling back, second-guessing. My fingers tightened around the pen. I knew what would happen. I hesitated. The pen slipped from my hand and hit the desk with a soft sound. Gone. I didn’t move this time. I didn’t search for it. Instead, I stared at the unfinished sentence. The room felt heavier. My chest tightened, that familiar pressure telling me to stop, to leave it incomplete like everything else. For a moment, I almost did. Then I reached for a different pen. It felt wrong. Lighter. The ink dragged slightly against the page. But it worked. Slowly, I finished the sentence. Then another. My hand steadied. The tension loosened. The words came. Not perfect, not effortless, but real. They stayed. When I finally looked up, the room felt different. Not quieter, but clearer. I glanced down. The first pen rested beside my notebook, exactly where it had fallen. I picked it up, turning it between my fingers. Same weight. Same familiar click. For a moment, I thought about using it again. Then I set it down. Because now I understood. It was never trying to take the words. It was waiting for me to realize that something so small was never meant to decide whether my voice deserved to exist.

Sustainability in animal science is not a trend. It is a responsibility. It determines whether the systems we rely on will continue to feed communities, support farmers, and protect the land, or slowly break down under pressure. In livestock production, every decision leaves a mark. It shapes the soil, the water, and the quality of the food that reaches our tables. If sustainability is ignored, the consequences are not distant. They are visible in depleted land, strained resources, and growing gaps in food access. My commitment to this work comes from seeing both sides of that reality. Through my work with Farmher’s Bounty, I have connected families to locally raised meat, fresh produce, and thoughtfully sourced products. I remember one family opening their first box, unsure of how to prepare what was inside. By the end of our conversation, uncertainty turned into confidence. They were not just receiving food. They were gaining understanding. That moment stayed with me because it showed that the way food is produced and the way people connect to it are inseparable. When people understand their food, they begin to care about how it is raised. In animal science, sustainability must be a priority because livestock systems have a direct environmental impact. Practices like overgrazing, inefficient feed use, and poor waste management can degrade soil, contaminate water, and increase emissions. But when managed with intention, these same systems can restore and regenerate. Rotational grazing can rebuild soil health. Effective nutrient management can protect water systems. Improved feed efficiency can reduce waste. The goal is not to produce less, but to produce responsibly in a way that strengthens the land rather than depletes it. I see my future at the intersection of production, education, and community impact. As I continue my education in animal science with a focus on sustainable livestock production and management, I plan to work alongside farmers to implement practices that are both environmentally responsible and economically sustainable. Long-term change happens when producers are supported, not just informed. At the same time, meaningful impact cannot happen at the production level alone. It must extend to the people who rely on these systems every day. Through expanding Farmher’s Bounty, I plan to bring responsibly raised products into underserved communities while also creating hands-on educational opportunities. I want people to understand where their food comes from, how it is raised, and why those choices matter. Awareness creates accountability, and accountability drives change. To me, sustainability is about balance. It is about meeting today’s needs without compromising the future. It is about respecting the land, valuing the animals, and ensuring that communities have access to food they can trust. I am not just pursuing a career in animal science. I am committing to a future where agriculture restores more than it takes. A future where livestock systems strengthen ecosystems, where communities are connected to their food, and where the next generation inherits something better than what we were given. That is the responsibility I choose to carry, and the impact I am determined to make.

Legacy, to me, is not something you leave behind at the end. It is something you build in real time through what you create, who you uplift, and how you change the spaces you enter. I want my legacy to be rooted in access, representation, and transformation within agriculture and food systems. My passion for animal science and sustainable livestock production is grounded in a larger vision. I have seen how disconnected many communities are from their food, and how limited access to fresh, high-quality options shapes health and opportunity. At the same time, agriculture often lacks diversity, particularly for minority women. These gaps, in both access and representation, are where I choose to focus my work. One day, I plan to grow Farmher’s Bounty into a fully integrated, community-centered business that reflects what agriculture should look like. It will offer responsibly raised meat, fresh produce, baked goods, and clean body care products, all sourced with intention and transparency. More than a business, it will be a system that connects people directly to the land, to producers, and to the food they rely on. I will partner with local farmers and artisans, especially women and minority producers, to build a network that supports both community health and economic opportunity. Affordability will remain central to this vision. Quality food and products should not be treated as a luxury. Through Farmher’s Bounty, I plan to expand into underserved communities, creating consistent access to nourishing, ethically produced goods. At the same time, I want to build trust by ensuring people understand where their food comes from and how it is made. Education is a critical part of this work. I plan to offer hands-on workshops and community programs that teach families how to prepare fresh foods, understand ingredients, and feel confident in their choices. I have seen how a single conversation can shift someone’s perspective, when a family learns how to cook a new cut of meat or begins to understand the value behind what they are buying. Those moments turn access into empowerment. Creating a legacy also means changing who is seen and who is heard. As a minority woman in agriculture, I recognize how powerful visibility can be. I want Farmher’s Bounty to challenge the traditional image of agriculture and expand it to include voices that have historically been overlooked. Through mentorship, internships, and outreach, I will create pathways for others to enter this field and feel that they belong. The way I shine my light is through intentional action and presence. It is in the moment a young woman realizes she has a place in agriculture. It is in helping a family move from uncertainty to confidence in the kitchen. It is in building relationships that make people feel seen, valued, and included. I believe impact is created through consistent, meaningful actions that meet people where they are. Ultimately, my legacy will not be defined by a business alone, but by the impact it creates. I want to leave behind a model that continues to serve people, support producers, and reflect a more inclusive future. I want agriculture to look different because I was part of it. I want it to feel accessible, diverse, and connected. That is the legacy I am committed to building, one that feeds people, empowers communities, and reshapes what agriculture looks like for the next generation.

Strength is not something I learned from a lesson or a book. I learned it by watching my mother, and because of her, it has become a part of who I am. There are moments in life that divide everything into before and after. For my family, one of those moments was when my mom was diagnosed with cancer. I remember the silence that followed, the kind that settles in when no one knows what to say. But she broke that silence, not with fear, but with determination. She chose to fight. Every appointment, every treatment, every exhausting day, she faced it with a quiet kind of strength that never asked for recognition. And just when we thought the worst was behind us, she had to fight again. Becoming a two-time cancer survivor did not just show her resilience. It showed me what it means to face life when it does not go as planned and still refuse to give up. But even that was not the hardest thing she would endure. The day we lost her grandson, my nephew, everything changed. There are no words that can fully describe that kind of loss. It was sudden, devastating, and permanent. Grief filled every part of our lives. It could have broken us. It should have broken us. But it did not, because of her. In the midst of her own heartbreak, my mother became the one who held us together. She called each of us, one by one, making sure no one was facing that grief alone. Even while carrying her own pain, she never allowed us to feel alone in ours. I watched her carry a weight that no one should have to carry and still find the strength to be there for everyone else. In that moment, I realized that if she could keep going through that, then so could I. That is when I truly understood what strength looks like. Because of her, I have learned that strength is not loud or attention-seeking. It is the quiet decision to keep going when everything feels impossible. It is choosing to show up, to support others, and to move forward even when your heart is heavy. Her example has shaped how I respond to challenges in my own life. When I face obstacles, I do not look for a way out. I look for a way through. I have learned to remain grounded, to keep perspective, and to continue working toward my goals even when circumstances are difficult. My mother has also shaped the way I treat others. She leads with compassion, even when she is hurting, and that has taught me to do the same. I have learned to be more patient, more understanding, and more present for the people around me. Whether it is supporting my family, mentoring others, or simply being there for someone who is struggling, I carry her example with me. She has shown me that being strong is not just about surviving. It is about being someone others can rely on. Her impact on my life is the reason I am the person I am today. She has instilled in me resilience, empathy, and a deep sense of responsibility to others. She has shown me that no matter how difficult life becomes, you still have a choice in how you respond. My mother did not just show me how to endure life’s hardest moments. She showed me how to rise through them. Because of her, I am not just someone who faces challenges. I am someone who stands firm in them.