I have always known I wanted to help people, though for a long time I didn’t know how. Growing up, I struggled with depression, anxiety, body dysmorphia, and the painful belief that I wasn’t enough. I often wished for someone I could talk to without fear—someone who would listen without judgment and help me make sense of my thoughts. That person didn’t exist for me, but over time, I became that person for others. In high school, I began supporting my peers through their own challenges. I listened closely, offered advice, and made sure they felt heard. These experiences revealed my calling: to become a counseling psychologist. Helping others through their pain allowed me to reflect on my own, and I realized my struggles were not just obstacles but lessons. They gave me empathy, patience, and a deep desire to help people heal. I believe healing is not only about solving problems—it is about creating space where people feel safe enough to speak freely and be themselves. I want to be the kind of therapist I needed when I was younger: someone who understands quiet battles and offers care that is gentle, honest, and real. My leadership roles have strengthened this vision. As Vice President and Section Leader in Choir, President of Spanish Club, and Secretary of Interact Club, I learned that leadership is not about authority but about service. Whether guiding a rehearsal or organizing a service project, I strive to make sure everyone feels included and valued. These experiences taught me how to build community, a skill I will carry into my future practice. Creative expression has also been central to my journey. Singing, writing poetry, and reflecting through essays have helped me process emotions and connect with others who feel alone. Sharing my story has shown me that vulnerability can be powerful—it can remind people they are not isolated in their struggles. My art is another way I hope to reach those who may be suffering in silence. Looking ahead, I plan to earn my Master’s and Doctorate in Psychology and open a private clinic that serves underrepresented communities. My goal is to create a space where people feel safe enough to speak, cry, and heal. I want to help individuals stop believing they must be perfect to be loved and remind them that they are already enough. One social issue I am committed to addressing is the pressure placed on women, especially women of color, to be endlessly strong without being given room to rest or recover. Society praises resilience but rarely provides space for restoration. Through culturally informed, compassionate therapy, I want to help people unlearn the idea that love must be earned through performance and instead find peace within themselves. My experiences, leadership, and creative expression have shaped my belief that mental health care should be accessible, empathetic, and transformative. I am determined to use my career to uplift others, build safe spaces, and make a lasting impact on my community.

I’ve always known I wanted to help people. I just didn’t know how. As a child, I struggled with depression, anxiety, body dysmorphia, and a deep feeling that I wasn’t enough. I often wished for someone I could talk to without fear—someone who would listen without judgment and help me understand my thoughts. That person didn’t exist for me growing up, but I became that person for others. In high school, I started helping my peers with their problems. I listened closely, gave advice, and made sure they felt heard. These moments helped me realize that I want to become a counseling psychologist. Helping others through their pain made me reflect on my own. I began to see that my experiences weren’t just struggles—they were lessons. They gave me empathy, patience, and a strong desire to help people heal. I’ve learned that healing is not just about solving problems. It’s about creating space for people to feel safe, to speak freely, and to be themselves. I want to be the kind of therapist I needed when I was younger. Someone who understands quiet battles and offers care that is gentle, honest, and real. My leadership roles in school have helped me grow into this vision. I’ve served as Vice President and Section Leader in Choir, President of Spanish Club, and Secretary of Interact Club. These roles taught me how to guide others, organize service projects, and build community. I’ve learned that leadership is not just about being in charge. It’s about being present, being supportive, and being willing to serve. Whether I’m leading a choir rehearsal or planning a club event, I try to make sure everyone feels included and valued. Creative expression has also helped me heal. I sing, write poetry, and reflect through essays. These outlets help me process emotions and connect with others who feel alone. I’ve learned that sharing my story can help others feel less isolated. My writing and music are ways I express what words sometimes can’t. They allow me to reach people who might be struggling in silence. I plan to earn my Master’s and Doctorate in Psychology so I can open a private clinic that serves underrepresented communities. I want to create a space where people feel safe enough to speak, cry, and heal. I want to help people stop believing they have to be perfect to be loved. I want to remind them they are already enough. Too many women, especially women of color, are taught to be strong but not how to rest or recover. We are praised for our resilience but rarely given room to breathe. I want to change that. I want to offer therapy that is culturally informed, emotionally safe, and deeply compassionate. I want to help people unlearn the idea that love must be earned through performance. I want to help them find peace in their own minds.

Some teachers change your life with kindness. Others do it with challenge. Mrs. Epson, my Honors African American Literature teacher, did both—though not in the way I expected. Her class was the hardest I’ve ever taken, and the lessons I learned from her continue to shape how I approach life, failure, and growth. From the first day of junior year, Mrs. Epson made it clear that her expectations were high. Her no-late-work policy, verbal quizzes, Socratic seminars, and constant writing assignments created a pressure cooker of academic rigor. Every day, I walked into her 8th-period class with a tight chest, worried that one misstep would ruin my grade. That fear of failure pushed me to work harder than I ever had before. I didn’t just want to survive her class—I wanted to excel. But even my best efforts weren’t always enough. On the second-to-last day of the first quarter, she gave us a verbal quiz. I had studied thoroughly, but the question I received was far more difficult than those given to my classmates. I answered incorrectly and received a zero. At first, I wasn’t too worried—I had a 95% overall. But then I learned she had counted the quiz as a test grade. My average dropped to a 90, which is a B at Southland. That single grade cost me the Golden Apple award, which requires straight A’s for the first semester. I was devastated. When I asked Mrs. Epson about it, she told me the quiz was meant to boost grades and that “a B wouldn’t kill me.” Her response felt dismissive, and I struggled to accept that something so unfair could have such a lasting impact. But over time, I realized that life is full of setbacks that don’t come with explanations or second chances. Her class taught me that resilience isn’t just about bouncing back—it’s about pushing forward even when the outcome feels unjust. Instead of giving up, I doubled down. I earned an A for the next three quarters, not just to prove something to her, but to prove something to myself. I learned how to advocate for my own success, how to manage stress, and how to turn disappointment into motivation. Mrs. Epson’s class didn’t just teach me literature—it taught me grit, discipline, and the power of perseverance. Now, when I face challenges, I remember that moment in her classroom. I remember the sting of that B and the strength it took to rise above it. Mrs. Epson may not have comforted me, but she prepared me for the real world—where effort doesn’t always guarantee reward, and where character is built in the face of adversity. Her influence helped me redefine success—not as perfection, but as growth. And for that, I’m grateful.

My mom is the kind of woman whose strength doesn’t need to be announced. You just feel it. I grew up watching her carry the weight of our world with grace. She handled bills, work, and motherhood, all while still asking how my day was. She never let me forget that I was loved, even when life got loud and heavy. Being her only child meant I had a front-row seat to her resilience. It also meant the house was quiet. Too quiet sometimes. I used to wish for siblings, someone to fill the silence. But over time, I learned to fill it myself. I sang to the walls, wrote poetry in the corners of my notebook, and found comfort in my own company. That solitude didn’t make me lonely. It made me creative. It gave me space to dream. School was never just about learning. It was about proving that her sacrifices mattered. Every grade, every leadership role, every late night spent studying felt like a way to say thank you. I pushed myself hard, not just to succeed, but to make her proud. I thought if I did everything right, academically, socially, and emotionally, I could somehow repay her. I used to believe that love had to be earned. I used to measure love by how much I could give, how well I could perform, how perfectly I could show up. Now I understand love as something steady. My mother taught me that. She showed up when the world felt heavy. She stayed present when I didn’t know how to ask for help. Her tired eyes still looked for mine. Her voice still asked about my day. That kind of love doesn’t need applause. It just needs consistency. I carry that with me now. I don’t chase approval anymore. I follow what feels meaningful. I choose paths that reflect who I am, not who I think I need to be. Now I lead choirs, mentor younger students, and serve in clubs that let me give back. I write. I sing. I serve. And through it all, I carry her with me. Her story is stitched into mine. One day, I’ll open a therapy clinic that uplifts communities like ours. I’ll earn my degrees, build safe spaces, and help others find the strength I found in her. She gave me everything. I carry that with me. I want to build places where people feel safe enough to speak freely, cry if they need to, and feel seen without having to explain themselves. I want to listen to stories that haven’t been told yet and help people find peace in their own minds. I want to create a clinic where healing feels like home. I plan to earn my Master’s and Doctorate in Psychology. This isn’t just for the degree, but for the tools to make real change. I want to serve underrepresented communities, especially those who’ve been taught to stay strong but never shown how to heal. I want to offer care that’s gentle, honest, and rooted in understanding. Her love taught me how to care. Her strength taught me how to lead. I’m walking forward with both.

When I was six, my parents divorced. Most of my life, my mother raised me alone. She worked long hours, stretched every dollar, and still made time to ask about my day. Her strength shaped me. I learned how to carry responsibility, how to stay grounded, and how to keep going when things felt uncertain. We moved from Des Moines to Englewood, a neighborhood in Chicago filled with sound, movement, and culture. I arrived speaking differently, feeling out of place. Over time, I adjusted. I learned the dances, the slang, the rhythm of the streets. I found pride in my identity and confidence in my voice. I spent a lot of time alone. No siblings. No distractions. Just me, my thoughts, and the quiet. I filled that space with poetry, music, and reflection. I became my own company. That solitude taught me how to listen to myself and how to grow from within. I lead in my school. I serve in my community. I write, sing, and speak with purpose. I am preparing for college, applying for scholarships, and building the foundation for a career in therapy. I want to create a clinic that welcomes people who feel unseen. I want to help others heal. My experiences taught me how to adapt, how to persevere, and how to lead with empathy. I carry those lessons into every space I enter. I am working toward my goals with intention and heart. This scholarship would support that journey and help me continue building a life of impact.

I plan to pursue a career in psychology, with the ultimate goal of becoming a licensed therapist. My dream is to create safe and welcoming environments where people can face their inner battles without fear or shame. I want to be a calm voice in the storm—the person who reminds others of their worth when they feel unseen, unheard, or overwhelmed. Whether serving in a school setting, a local clinic, or private practice, I envision myself walking beside individuals as they journey from brokenness to wholeness, helping them uncover the strength that was within them all along. This goal is deeply personal. I know what it feels like to question your value and wonder if you're truly enough. For years, I allowed my self-worth to be shaped by the opinions of others. I believed I had to earn love, attention, or approval to be valuable. That mindset created a constant inner conflict—a battle between who I truly was and who I thought I had to be. I prioritized the needs and expectations of others to the point that I lost touch with my own, including my spiritual foundation. My relationship with God faded into the background as I chased external validation. But in the middle of that emptiness, I found grace. Through prayer, reflection, and spiritual growth, I began to rediscover my identity—one rooted not in performance, but in purpose. That process of rebuilding changed me. It helped me see how important it is to have someone who listens with empathy and reminds you of your light when everything feels dark. It showed me how impactful it can be to receive guidance from someone who truly cares. That’s why I chose psychology. I want to be the person who helps others find peace where there was pain, and confidence where there was uncertainty. I want to meet people where they are, validate their feelings, and empower them to move forward. For many, the first step toward healing starts with being seen—and I intend to offer that presence. The Bright Lights Scholarship would be more than financial aid—it would be confirmation that my journey matters and that healing is worth pursuing, not just for myself, but for the countless individuals I hope to serve. As a first-generation college student, stepping into higher education comes with excitement, but also significant financial pressure. This scholarship would lift a major burden and allow me to concentrate fully on building the knowledge, skills, and credentials needed to become the therapist I once needed. It would create space for me to pursue internships, specialized training, and hands-on experience—all without being held back by financial limitations. With your support, I move forward not just with ambition, but with deep resolve. I am ready to build a career rooted in compassion, purpose, and impact—to become a healing presence in the lives of others and help them rediscover the strength they’ve always carried.

For much of my life, I struggled with an unhealthy view of myself. I allowed others’ opinions to define my worth, believing I had to be liked or praised to feel valuable. Their approval became my mirror—if someone didn’t affirm me, I questioned whether I was enough. I tried to mold myself into whatever version I thought would be most accepted—quiet when I had something to say, smiling when I felt sadness, overachieving so I wouldn’t feel invisible. Over time, this created a silence within me so loud I could barely hear my own thoughts. But things began to change when I started seeking stillness and leaning into my faith. I asked harder questions about who I was and why I was living according to someone else’s standards. I realized worth shouldn’t be conditional, especially not based on opinions that constantly shift. Slowly, I began to unlearn the idea that validation equals value and replaced it with something more lasting—grace, truth, and a growing sense of self-love. Vulnerability stopped feeling like weakness and started looking like strength. I saw courage in showing up authentically and discovered the power of having even one person truly listen. That personal growth is what led me to psychology. I know firsthand how quiet battles—especially the ones in your own mind—can shape your view of yourself and the world. I’ve lived through the disconnect of not knowing your own worth, and I’ve felt how life-changing it is to finally see yourself clearly. I want to become a therapist because I understand what it’s like to feel lost in self-doubt, and I want to be the kind of person who helps others find their way back to truth. My goal is to offer support, understanding, and healing to those who need someone in their corner—just like I once did. Alongside academic dedication, I’ve poured my heart into activities that allow me to connect and uplift others—especially through choir, where I’ve found both community and expression. Balancing these passions with rigorous coursework has taught me discipline and reminded me of the importance of emotional connection. Psychology speaks to both my drive and my heart, and I’m committed to pursuing it with intention and purpose. Receiving the Kayla Nicole Monk Memorial Scholarship would be more than financial help—it would be a milestone in a journey of transformation. Kayla’s legacy reminds me that strength and compassion go hand in hand. Her story shows how someone can face adversity and still shine, still dream, still pour into others. That’s the kind of therapist I hope to become: one who guides others with light, especially when their own path feels dark. This scholarship would support me as I continue working hard toward college and my long-term goal of becoming a licensed therapist. It would remind me that the healing I’ve done is part of something bigger—that by choosing this path, I can help others rewrite their own narratives of worth and belonging.

I used to think strength was loud—clapping during church, shouting prayers, and striving to be noticed. But in December of 2024, I found strength not in noise, but in surrender. I had hit emotional rock bottom, lonely in my spirit and distant from God. Despite growing up in a household filled with prayer—my mother still prays for us daily—I felt hollow. I believed that having a boyfriend would fix everything, so I chased love instead of seeking peace in God. What I didn’t see then was that I was trying to fill a spiritual void with temporary comfort. I began to fall away from my faith, only turning to God when I was in need. I wasn’t praying consistently, and my Bible remained closed. I felt trapped in cycles of emotional highs and lows, joy one day and isolation the next. I thought my relationship with God had faded—but that’s when He reminded me that I wasn’t alone. My mother signed me up for spiritual gift classes. One day, we were asked to prophesy over one another. I was terrified. I doubted that God would speak through me, and I almost stayed silent. But then I heard Him whisper, “It’s ok, just trust Me.” I stepped forward, trembling, and shared what I felt with a stranger. Her reaction told me everything: I was still connected to God. My gift hadn’t disappeared—it had been waiting for me to rediscover it. That moment redefined what I saw in myself. I am not just a quiet girl raised by a single mother. I am a listener, a vessel, and someone who can uplift others through faith. That realization sparked my passion to become a therapist and counselor—someone who can speak life into people during their valleys, just as I needed someone during mine. Today, I lead by creating safety. I serve with empathy, listen with intention, and give space to those who need healing. I understand now that leadership isn’t always loud—it’s often in the quiet, in the trust, and in the love we extend when others least expect it.