“Chowdapanadas” with Kelp Dust (New England Clam Chowder Empanadas) My mashup started as a very practical problem: chowder is perfect… until you try to eat it on a windy dock. I’ve spent four summers working on the water around Martha’s Vineyard—running the pump-out boat, tying lines, grabbing a bite between calls—and I’ve watched more than one paper cup of clam chowder lose a battle with a gust. So I asked myself: how do you keep the soul of New England clam chowder—creamy clams, potato, onion, that briny comfort—but make it portable, snackable, and zero-spill? “Chowdapanadas” is my answer: classic chowder flavors tucked inside a golden, hand-held empanada, finished with a sprinkle of toasted kelp dust for ocean umami and a squeeze of lemon. It’s a mashup of two comfort icons—New England chowder and Latin American empanadas—that turns a sit-down soup into a grab-and-go snack you can eat on a pier, at a game, or straight from an air fryer. My thought process was threefold: Keep the flavor map; change the format. I reduce a simple chowder base (clam liquor, sautéed onion/celery, a little dairy) and fold it into mashed potato so the filling sets and doesn’t run. Chopped quahogs (or canned chopped clams), parsley, and a pinch of smoked paprika keep the profile familiar but bolder. It’s chowder you can hold. Honor place with smart sourcing. I grew up around shellfish and care a lot about clean water and sustainable harvests. This recipe works with responsibly sourced clams, but it also has a killer oyster-mushroom version for anyone who’s plant-forward—mushrooms marinated in a splash of kombu/kelp broth for that ocean edge. The kelp dust (toasted, blitzed seaweed flakes) nods to regenerative aquaculture and adds a salty-savory finish that tastes like the shoreline at low tide—in a good way. Make it truly snackable. I crimp the empanadas small—two-bite size—then bake or air-fry for a crisp shell without deep-frying. A quick lemon-dill dip (think thinner tartar sauce) gives the same bright lift you’d get from a squeeze of lemon over a cup of chowder. The goal isn’t “gourmet”; it’s craveable, repeatable, and easy to batch. Why this fits me: I’m a finance major with an environmental science minor who thinks a lot about systems—how to take something people love and make it more efficient and more accessible without losing what makes it special. “Chowdapanadas” is that mindset on a plate: a familiar flavor system redesigned for real life. It’s also the kind of food I’d film in quick, vertical clips for local businesses—steam hits cold air, kelp dust sprinkles in slow motion, a clean bite shows the creamy cross-section—because great ideas deserve great storytelling. In short, it’s chowder that learned to travel. Same comfort. New format. A little mad—in the best way.

The first time EDM really clicked for me wasn’t at a festival—it was in a dorm common room, two budget speakers, and FL Studio open at 1 a.m. I’d made rap beats in high school, but college is when I fell down the rabbit hole: sidechain compression, layering pads under a muted piano, chasing the kind of build that makes a room breathe together. Somewhere between the kick and the hi-hat, I realized what people mean by PLUR. Peace, Love, Unity, Respect isn’t a slogan; it’s a way to hold space so strangers become a crowd and a crowd becomes a community. Peace for me looks practical. At parties I’m the guy who lowers the volume after quiet hours, brings extra earplugs, and defuses small stuff before it turns big—“hey, let’s get water,” “give each other room.” Love is hype without ego: making playlists around other people’s favorite subgenres, celebrating the friend who finally nails a shuffle step, sharing the aux so the night feels like ours, not mine. Unity is intentional—mixing Afrobeats into house, sneaking a trance breakdown between Jersey club edits—so different circles hear themselves in the set. And Respect is the non-negotiable: consent on the floor, no shaming beginners, no one left walking home alone. I’ve never been to a major festival yet, but I want my first to be Night Nation Run. It blends two things that keep me grounded—movement and music—and I’d love to experience a start line that feels like a pre-drop. If I’m there, I’ll be the one handing out water, organizing a “no one runs alone” pace group, and swapping tracks with people in line after. I came across a study claiming dance music keeps you feeling younger; I don’t know about the science, but I do know that when the beat is right, people lift their heads, and everything feels possible again. Producing has changed how I carry PLUR off the dance floor. FL Studio taught me patience and humility; fixes happen one dB at a time. I host tiny “drop labs” in my apartment—three friends, one laptop, thirty minutes each to try a hook. Everyone leaves with a stem and a compliment they earned. It’s small, but that’s the point: culture grows track by track, person by person. I’m also building short-form videos for local marine and food businesses—thirty seconds that book a tour or sell out a pop-up. The same thing I love in a great drop (clarity, timing, intention) is what makes a story convert in the real world. I’m paying for school out of pocket, so I’ve learned to be resourceful: free campus rooms for community sessions, donated speakers, open-source sample packs we trade on Google Drive. The scholarship would help cover tuition and let me scale what I’m already doing—weekly open FL workshops, a campus “water + wellness” table at every party, and a by-semester showcase where beginner producers and student dancers collaborate on a live set. If I make it to Night Nation Run, I’ll bring that same spirit: volunteer first, dance second, connect always. PLUR isn’t abstract to me. It’s filling water bottles between songs. It’s asking the quiet kid what they’re listening to and building a transition around it. It’s walking two blocks with a friend at 2 a.m. because getting home safe is part of the set. EDM gave me a language to make rooms kinder and nights memorable for the right reasons. I’m still chasing the perfect drop, but the best part is what happens before and after: the way we treat each other while the music’s playing.

Below is a passage I’ve selected from an ancient philosophy text, followed by my close reading. I quote from Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations (Book 5, §1), in George Long’s public-domain translation: “In the morning when thou risest unwillingly, let this thought be present; I am rising to the work of a human being. Why then am I dissatisfied if I am going to do the things for which I exist and for which I was brought into the world? Or have I been made for this, to lie in the bed-clothes and keep myself warm?—But this is more pleasant.—Dost thou exist then to take thy pleasure, and not at all for action or exertion? Dost thou not see the little plants, the little birds, the ants, the spiders, the bees working together to put in order their several parts of the universe? and art thou unwilling to do the work of a human being, and dost thou not make haste to do that which is according to thy nature?—But it is necessary to take rest also.—It is necessary: however nature has fixed bounds to this too: she has fixed bounds both to eating and drinking, and yet thou goest beyond these bounds, beyond what is sufficient; yet in thy acts it is not so, but thou stoppest short of what thou canst do. So thou lovest not thyself; for if thou didst, thou wouldst love thy nature and her will.” Thesis Marcus Aurelius reframes motivation by redefining self-love as fidelity to one’s nature and function. The paragraph argues that freedom and contentment come not from indulging comfort but from consenting to the “work of a human being”—rational, purposeful, and cooperative activity within a larger order. The rhetorical dialogue exposes the error at the root of sluggishness: mistaking pleasure for self-care, when true self-care is living up to what one is. How the passage works 1) A morning argument with the self. The emperor stages an inner courtroom. He anticipates and answers excuses (“this is more pleasant,” “it is necessary to rest”), making the paragraph a script for cognitive discipline. The opening imperative—“let this thought be present”—asks for a pre-commitment: before feeling takes the floor, seat reason in the judge’s chair. 2) The key refrain: “the work of a human being.” Marcus doesn’t say “my work” but “the work of a human being.” The indefinite article turns a private complaint into a universal vocation. “Work” here means more than employment. In Stoic terms, it is the ergon—the activity appropriate to a thing’s nature. For humans, that is rational action ordered to the common good. Motivation thus shifts from mood (“I feel like getting up”) to identity (“I am the kind of being who does this”). 3) Pleasure vs. purpose: a redefinition of self-love. Marcus grants the tug of comfort (“this is more pleasant”) but counters with a deeper question: “Dost thou exist then to take thy pleasure…?” The verb exist raises the stakes from a momentary choice to a teleological one: What are you for? The striking conclusion—“So thou lovest not thyself”—reverses modern intuitions. Hitting snooze looks like self-care; Marcus calls it self-neglect if it betrays one’s nature. To love yourself is to love your design—and to do what fulfills it. 4) Nature as tutor: the “little” workers. The diminutives—“little plants… little birds”—carry gentle shame. Even tiny creatures “work together” to keep their portion of the cosmos in order. The point isn’t productivity worship; it’s proportion. If beings with less rational power contribute reliably, how can the rational animal refuse his part? The phrase “working together” widens the frame: human work is social by nature. Our diligence is not only personal virtue; it is citizenship in a shared order. 5) The boundary principle. Marcus concedes rest but insists on “bounds.” Nature has set limits on eating, drinking, sleeping—areas where indulgence expands quietly. Notice his asymmetry: we exceed the bounds of intake (“beyond what is sufficient”) but “stop short” in our acts. The diagnosis is not cruelty; it’s calibration. He invites the reader to adjust the dials: less surplus comfort, more completed duty. Measure, not austerity, is the medicine. 6) Syntax that disciplines feeling. Form and meaning cooperate. The paragraph is braided with balanced questions (“Dost thou exist…?” / “Dost thou not see…?”), each tightening the thread from excuse to principle. The repeated second person—“thou”—personalizes the summons. Even the quick dashes mimic a mind catching itself, then correcting. Stylistically, he rehearses the very work he recommends: orderly thought driving ordered action. The underlying meaning At bottom, the paragraph offers a Stoic solution to a modern problem: how to move from intention to action without relying on willpower theatrics. The answer is identity alignment. If I act because I “should,” I enter a private tug-of-war with comfort. If I act because doing so expresses what I am, duty becomes dignity. The bees and ants aren’t shaming props; they are mirrors. They obey what they are and are at peace. So can we. The deeper provocation is Marcus’s definition of freedom. Freedom is not doing what feels good; it is willing what is good for the kind of being you are. That is why the last sentence lands so hard. He doesn’t scold you for breaking rules; he grieves that you are unfaithful to yourself. Love your nature, he says, and you will love the will that flows from it. Why this matters (and travels) Read this way, the passage is not a pep talk about waking up early. It is a manual for reconciling ambition with equanimity. When I tell myself “rise to the work of a human being,” I’m not bullying myself into effort; I’m remembering that my best days are the ones where reason, craft, and service line up. In practice, that has meant choosing tasks that contribute to a shared good (teamwork, public-facing roles), setting humane bounds on comfort, and treating discipline as a form of respect—for myself and for others. The paragraph also travels well across domains. In study, it reframes attention as a civic act within an intellectual community: do your part to “put in order” your share of the whole. In work, it argues that reliable execution is not drudgery but the daily shape of self-respect. In community life, it insists that small, steady acts—like those of “little” creatures—can preserve a harbor, a classroom, even a culture. Conclusion Marcus Aurelius turns a sleepy morning into a philosophical hinge. By recasting self-love as fidelity to nature and function, he dissolves the false choice between comfort and care. The “work of a human being” is not a burden laid on us from outside; it is the honorable expression of what we are. Agree to that, and getting out of bed is no longer a defeat of pleasure—it is the first cheerful act of freedom.

Faith, for me, has always been less about words and more about action. It’s how you treat people when no one’s watching, how you show up for family and community even when you’re tired, and how you trust that what you give will come back around in ways you can’t always see. My faith has been my quiet compass—steadying me through change, keeping me grateful in hardship, and reminding me that real strength often looks like humility and service. When I was younger, I thought faith was something you practiced mainly in church. But as I got older, I realized it’s something you live everywhere. On Martha’s Vineyard, where I’ve spent my summers working for the Vineyard Haven Harbor Master, faith often meant being calm under pressure—helping tie up boats in storms, responding to emergencies on the water, and serving the public with patience and respect. Out there, I felt my faith most when I was serving others—doing what needed to be done, even when no one would ever know who helped. I learned that you don’t need a pulpit to live your beliefs. Sometimes it’s just you, a task that matters, and the quiet conviction to do it well. That conviction is also what drives my volunteering. Through Meals on Wheels and Rise Against Hunger, I’ve packed and delivered meals to seniors and families who rely on that support. I’ve seen firsthand how something as small as a warm meal or a smile at the door can change a person’s day. It’s humbling to realize how powerful compassion can be when you act on it instead of just talking about it. I volunteer not out of obligation but out of gratitude—because I’ve been shown kindness in my own life, and it feels right to pass that forward. Faith has also taught me generosity of spirit—giving time, encouragement, or help without expecting anything back. I try to practice that in small ways every day, whether it’s helping classmates through a tough assignment, supporting teammates in club projects, or checking in on friends who are struggling. When I worked at Cottage City Oysters, I saw how a community thrives when everyone gives a little extra—when people share knowledge, lend hands, and care about the same purpose. I’ve carried that into my life at UMass Amherst, where I’m active in clubs like the Isenberg Sustainability Club and Investment Club. To me, leadership isn’t about being in charge; it’s about helping others find their footing, the same way mentors have done for me. Family is the heart of everything I do. My parents have always modeled the values this scholarship honors—faith, compassion, and joy. My mom is a middle school teacher who sees every student as someone worth believing in. My dad works in food service, making sure that hospital employees, patients, and seniors are fed with care and dignity. My brother is an environmental scientist who works to keep our island’s ponds clean. They’ve each shown me that faith isn’t about grand gestures—it’s about steady devotion to your work, your people, and your principles. My family’s example has shaped not only who I am, but what I want to build. As a Finance major with a minor in Environmental Science, my dream is to create businesses that serve both people and the planet—to prove that profit and purpose can grow together. Faith motivates that vision: a belief that good work is service, that creation is a sacred act, and that generosity isn’t weakness but strength in its purest form. Through everything—studying, volunteering, working, and supporting my family financially—I’ve learned that joy is also a choice. Life can be hard, and there are times when pressure feels heavy, but joy is faith in action too. For me, joy comes through simple things: fishing off the dock with my brother, playing basketball with friends, listening to music after a long day, or just laughing with family over dinner. Those moments keep me balanced and remind me that faith and happiness can coexist—that gratitude fuels perseverance. This scholarship would not only help me continue my education but would allow me to honor Ed and Aline Patane by living the values they embodied. Their lives represent the kind of faith I strive for—one that’s generous, joyful, and deeply rooted in caring for others. With your support, I can continue to serve my community, support my family, and live out those values in everything I do. Faith in action, compassion in service, and joy in the journey—that’s how I hope to carry forward their legacy.

The first thing I ever sold was a polished rock. I was in elementary school, sitting on the curb with my best friend, convinced that if we cleaned something well enough and told a good story about it, someone would see the value. It sounds small, but that day taught me the kernel of entrepreneurship: create value people can feel, then stand behind it. Since then, my classroom has mostly been the water. For four summers on Martha’s Vineyard, I worked for the Vineyard Haven Harbor Master—tying up boats, helping in emergencies, and, most days, operating the pump-out boat. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it was honest and technical: navigating tight harbors, reading tide charts, communicating clearly under pressure. More than anything, it made me pay attention to systems—how a clean harbor supports shellfish, how healthy shellfish support the local economy, and how it all depends on the quiet, daily decisions of people who care. That’s where entrepreneurship clicked for me: it’s the place where paying attention turns into building something useful. What excites me most is the full-stack responsibility. If I see a problem, I don’t wait for permission—I can prototype, ship, and iterate in real life. At Cottage City Oysters, where I worked as a farmer and shucker, I watched how small operational decisions ripple through quality, margins, and brand. It made me want to build ventures that do two things at once: make money and leave the water healthier than we found it. That’s why I’m majoring in Finance with a minor in Environmental Science at UMass Amherst. Finance gives me the language of cash flow, risk, and disciplined execution; environmental science keeps me honest about constraints and outcomes. Together, they give me a way to design businesses that are both resilient and right. I also love the feedback loop. In Introduction to Business Information Systems, I learned how data turns into decisions. On the side, I’ve been creating short-form digital marketing for local marine and food businesses—thirty seconds of video that actually converts bookings or farm tours. When you hit publish and see real customers show up, it’s addictive in the best way: proof of concept, in public. Who inspired me? My family, first. My mom is a middle school teacher; my dad makes good food affordable for hospital staff, patients, and seniors. They practice service without speeches. My brother works as an environmental scientist testing island ponds for cyanobacteria; he taught me to look at the water and ask better questions. On the job, mentors like the Harbor Master and the team at Cottage City lived the habits I admire—calm under pressure, straight talk, and respect for craft. I’m paying for school out of pocket, so the stakes are real. That pressure has been clarifying. It’s made me bolder about applying for scholarships, taking work I can learn from, and building projects that could one day cover tuition for someone else. Entrepreneurship, to me, isn’t about chasing the next big thing; it’s about designing reliable value—whether that’s a micro-agency helping local businesses tell their story or an aquaculture venture that pairs oysters and kelp to improve water quality and diversify revenue for coastal communities. The path ahead is simple to say and hard to do: keep learning the numbers, keep respecting the science, and keep building things that make life better for real people. That mix is what excites me about being an entrepreneur. Entrepreneurship has no limits. A job requires you to work for someone else, but being an entrepreneur lets you expand what you do, who you help, and who you can inspire.

Leadership, to me, has never been about the loudest voice in the room — it’s about showing up, taking responsibility, and earning trust through consistency. I’ve learned this most clearly on the water. Working for the Vineyard Haven Harbor Master over four summers, I operated the pump-out boat, maintained docks, and assisted in emergencies. That job wasn’t glamorous, but it taught me more about leadership than any classroom could. When you’re out on the harbor, decisions matter — hesitation can cost safety, and clear communication keeps everyone secure. I learned to stay calm, listen first, and lead by example. Those lessons shape how I approach every challenge I face today. Strong leadership and communication skills start with respect — for your team, your mission, and your environment. Whether I’m coordinating docking procedures in rough conditions or collaborating with classmates in the Isenberg Sustainability Club, I make it a point to communicate clearly, stay composed, and earn confidence through my actions. Leadership isn’t commanding others; it’s understanding them and helping them bring their best forward. Resilience has been my anchor. Paying for my own education at UMass Amherst has tested that resilience in real time. Balancing full-time coursework, on-campus involvement, and financial pressure has forced me to adapt, plan, and persevere. I’ve faced days where tuition deadlines loomed and stress felt overwhelming — but every obstacle has strengthened my determination. Like Tony Thomas, who faced hardship with courage and faith, I’ve learned that resilience isn’t just endurance; it’s the quiet decision to keep showing up with integrity no matter how difficult things get. Selflessness isn’t a word I use lightly. I’ve seen firsthand how small acts of service can ripple through a community — from volunteering with Meals on Wheels to helping distribute food with Rise Against Hunger. Those experiences taught me that leadership often happens in the background, through service, empathy, and small moments of support. Working with my local aquaculture company, Cottage City Oysters, I learned that caring for the environment is its own form of selflessness — preserving the waters that sustain others. Focus and determination guide everything I do. As a finance major and environmental science minor, I’m pursuing what might seem like two separate fields — but to me, they’re connected by one purpose: building a sustainable economy that values both profit and preservation. My goal is to launch a sustainable finance firm that supports environmental innovation while providing fair opportunity and growth for others. To reach that point, I hold myself accountable daily — balancing classes, scholarships, and side projects with discipline and focus. Finally, a strong work ethic is the foundation of everything I believe in. I don’t come from a place of privilege; every tuition payment, every grade, every opportunity has come from effort. I’ve spent summers working forty-hour weeks on the harbor, doing physical, demanding labor that taught me humility and grit. I’ve carried that same ethic into my academics — earning Dean’s List honors and continuing to seek growth in every area of life. Leadership, to me, means responsibility. It means choosing the harder right over the easier wrong. It means setting an example, not just for recognition, but because people depend on you. The legacy of Antonie Bernard Thomas reminds me that real leaders don’t seek the spotlight — they create stability, hope, and direction for others. My goal is to carry that same spirit into everything I do — to lead with purpose, work with humility, and serve with heart.

Sabrina Carpenter didn’t just land on my playlist; she slipped into the background of my life and then kept earning the foreground. I first knew her as Maya Hart—smart, quick, and a little fearless. Years later, studying finance with an environmental science minor at UMass Amherst, I watched her turn sharp writing and stage charisma into a full creative identity. That evolution matters to me. I’m trying to stitch together two worlds—spreadsheets and seawater—so seeing her blend humor, craft, and discipline into something unmistakably hers gave me permission to build a path that looks like me, not a template. What I love about Sabrina is the way the songs work on two levels. They’re fun—sticky hooks, crisp phrasing, playful winks—but they’re also strategic. “Espresso” isn’t only a summer anthem; it’s a masterclass in voice. Every beat says: know what you are, deliver it clean, then leave people wanting more. That’s how I approach my own projects now, whether I’m editing a 30-second vertical for a local oyster farm or pitching a sustainability idea to a club: one hook, one promise, and zero wasted motion. “Please, Please, Please” taught me another lesson—standards are not meanness. Setting boundaries is part of growth. That’s been huge for me while paying for school out of pocket, taking on work, and learning when to say no so the right yes can happen. Her humor is its own kind of courage. The improvised “Nonsense” outros look easy, but improvisation is craft under pressure. I think about that when I’m out on Martha’s Vineyard running a pump-out route in choppy weather or troubleshooting a last-minute logistics change for a small business. You keep your tone light, your mind sharp, and you solve the problem in front of you. “Feather” landed at just the right time too; letting go—of old habits, of the fear of not being perfect—made room for better work and steadier grades. Sabrina’s arc—from Disney to charting her own lane—also reshaped how I think about audience. She doesn’t chase every crowd; she talks to hers with clarity and respect. That’s the model for the kind of entrepreneur I want to be: build something useful and joyful for a real community. For me, that looks like clean-water projects at school, micro-campaigns that help local businesses tell their story honestly, and a long-term plan to scale sustainable aquaculture that strengthens coastal economies. Her approach—tight craft, playful confidence, zero apology—translates directly to that work. Most of all, Sabrina’s career reminds me that ambition doesn’t have to feel brittle. It can be bright, generous, and a little mischievous. When I’m up late balancing coursework with a side project, her songs make the room feel less heavy and the goal more possible. I’m a fan because she turns effort into ease and intention into joy. That’s the energy I try to carry into my classes, my jobs on the water, and the life I’m building: precise, playful, and fully mine.

If there’s one Taylor Swift performance that felt like a collective heartbeat, it’s her live performance of “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” on Saturday Night Live in 2021. It wasn’t just a song—it was a reclamation, an exhale ten years in the making. Watching her perform it live, red lights glowing, hair blowing, and every lyric sharpened by time, felt like witnessing an artist refuse to be defined by anyone else’s narrative ever again. Taylor didn’t sing “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” like someone remembering heartbreak. She sang it like someone reclaiming ownership of her own story. The way her voice cracked on “maybe we got lost in translation” and steadied again on “I was there” felt like the transformation of grief into something sacred. For fans who have followed her journey—through the re-recordings, the industry battles, the eras of reinvention—this performance was a moment of victory disguised as vulnerability. It wasn’t just catharsis for her; it was catharsis for anyone who has ever been underestimated, dismissed, or told that their emotions were too much. What makes this performance unforgettable is how it distilled everything that defines Taylor Swift: her emotional intelligence, her self-awareness, her meticulous storytelling, and her ability to take personal pain and turn it into collective empowerment. In that ten-minute performance, she didn’t need pyrotechnics or backup dancers. The stage was stripped down to her, her guitar, and a decade of lived experience. She made silence feel louder than sound. That’s artistry. Personally, watching that performance felt like the first time someone put words to emotions I didn’t know how to explain. I was in my dorm room, lights off, laptop open, and by the time she reached “you kept me like a secret, but I kept you like an oath,” I realized that heartbreak, loss, and self-respect aren’t opposites—they coexist. It changed how I think about resilience. Swift taught me that healing doesn’t always mean forgetting; sometimes it means remembering with power instead of pain. Beyond the music, that moment also symbolized a major cultural shift. It reminded me how women’s emotions—especially anger and sadness—are often dismissed as overreactions. But Taylor’s performance made them impossible to ignore. Her artistry gave weight to feelings that are usually silenced. She didn’t just sing about heartbreak; she made it art, and in doing so, gave every listener permission to feel fully and unapologetically. That’s what separates her from most artists—she doesn’t just write songs; she rewrites emotional language. What’s remarkable about “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” is how it turned one woman’s heartbreak into a shared history. Fans across generations, genders, and cultures saw themselves in that performance. It’s why Red (Taylor’s Version) wasn’t just a re-record—it was a redefinition of ownership and identity. Watching her perform it live felt like watching her take the pen back from everyone who ever wrote her story for her. Taylor Swift has had dozens of iconic performances—the reputation stadium opener, the Folklore sessions, the Eras Tour acoustic sets—but this one remains her most powerful because it was the moment she stopped defending herself and simply existed as an artist in full command of her craft. It was raw, cinematic, and entirely hers. For me, that performance wasn’t just about music. It was about what it means to survive, to rebuild, and to tell your story before anyone else can. Taylor sang, “I was there,” and for every fan who’s ever felt invisible, she reminded us—we were too.

Every season of Love Island tests loyalty, chemistry, and chaos — but nothing reveals true connection like the Loyalty Lock-In Challenge. This new challenge pushes couples past surface-level attraction and into real trust territory, combining emotional vulnerability, strategy, and a splash of classic villa drama. Here’s how it works: Each couple is “locked in” together for 12 hours — but not in a literal room. They’re emotionally and mentally “locked” through three interactive rounds that blend temptation, teamwork, and transparency. The twist? Viewers decide the conditions for each round in real time through the Love Island app, making it the most interactive challenge in show history. Round One – Temptation Texts: Islanders are handed phones with unseen messages from exes, friends, or even anonymous viewers. Each partner chooses whether to open and read their message or delete it unseen — but if they delete, they lose the chance to respond to a fan question later in the challenge. The test here is simple: will curiosity or trust win? Round Two – Truth or Trust: Couples face a live villa audience (their fellow Islanders) who ask personal questions — some deep, some messy. Each couple must agree beforehand on a “safe word.” If a question crosses the line, either partner can call “Lock-In,” ending the round — but that automatically deducts points from their score. The couple that answers honestly and calmly gains major respect from their peers — and earns a surprise reward, like a private spa evening or dinner under the stars. Round Three – The Confession Corner: Each Islander privately records a short video answering one question: “What scares you most about your relationship?” The next morning, these videos play for the villa. It’s emotional, raw, and guaranteed to shake things up — but it also leads to genuine conversations and vulnerability that fans crave in later episodes. The Outcome: After all rounds, couples are scored by their peers and the public. The highest-scoring pair wins a “Golden Heart” — a rare advantage that protects them from the next recoupling — while the lowest-scoring duo faces immediate risk of being dumped from the island. The Loyalty Lock-In Challenge adds excitement because it hits every reason fans love Love Island: tension, romance, emotional honesty, and unpredictability. It’s not just about who’s “fit” — it’s about who’s real. The mix of audience involvement, relationship psychology, and classic villa pressure makes it unforgettable TV. As a longtime fan, I’ve always believed the best Love Island moments are when entertainment meets authenticity — when Islanders drop the performances and actually connect. The Loyalty Lock-In Challenge captures that exact magic: truth, temptation, and transparency in one perfectly “mad” experiment. It would be the kind of challenge fans talk about for seasons to come — part emotional therapy, part chaos, and all Love Island.

Wicked hooked me the first time I heard the cast album on a late-night study break. I didn’t know the whole plot yet, but Elphaba’s voice felt like someone saying, “Be stubborn about what matters.” As a finance major with an environmental science minor, I’ve sometimes felt out of place—trying to blend spreadsheets with salt water, numbers with clean harbors. Wicked made that mix feel not just possible, but necessary. What I love most is that the show isn’t really about villains or halos—it’s about perspective, courage, and choosing your own center. “It’s time to try defying gravity” is more than a lyric to me; it’s a line I hear when I’m paying tuition out of pocket, taking extra shifts, or pushing through another lab and late-night spreadsheet. Elphaba’s stubborn compassion—the way she keeps acting even when the story labels her “wicked”—is the kind of stubbornness I want for my life: keep the water clean, keep people safe, keep going. Wicked also reframed what influence looks like. “Popular” isn’t just comic; it’s a reminder that popularity and impact aren’t the same thing. On Martha’s Vineyard, I’ve learned that real influence is quiet and local: running the pump-out boat so kids can swim in clean water; helping a small oyster farm tell its story; starting a simple dorm water-quality effort so our community can act on data, not guesses. That’s Glinda’s lesson, too—learning the difference between being admired and being useful. “For Good” is the part that stays with me after the music fades. I’ve had mentors who changed my direction—a Harbor Master who trusted me with responsibility, a dietitian who taught me how to fuel my days, professors who showed me how finance can support sustainability instead of fighting it. I want to return that favor: mentor younger students, support small businesses with honest digital storytelling, and design ventures that make coastal communities stronger. If I do my work right, people won’t know my name—they’ll just notice cleaner water, steadier local shops, and clearer choices. With the film on the way—Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo bringing these roles to new audiences—I’m excited that more people will meet Elphaba and Glinda not as symbols, but as complicated friends who change each other. That’s the heart of Wicked to me: friendship that demands growth, and conviction that refuses to shrink. I’m a fan because Wicked doesn’t ask me to be perfect; it asks me to be brave. It tells me that the labels don’t matter as much as the work, that the right choice is often the unpopular one, and that changing your corner of the world still counts. That’s the story I carry into my classes, my jobs on the water, and the life I’m building—one steady act of courage at a time.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from paying for my own college education, it’s that ambition isn’t a trait — it’s a decision you have to make every single day. I’m a sophomore at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, majoring in Finance and minoring in Environmental Science. I’ve spent the past few years learning how to turn that decision into progress, even when resources are limited. My goal is simple but deeply personal: to build a career that uses finance and sustainability to create measurable good — for people, businesses, and the planet. I grew up on Martha’s Vineyard, where community and hard work go hand in hand. Every summer, I worked full-time on the harbor — running the pump-out boat, co-captaining charters, and assisting the Harbor Master with everything from emergencies to permits. That job shaped my character more than any classroom could. The early mornings, long hours, and unpredictable weather taught me to stay steady, adapt quickly, and find solutions under pressure. It also made me realize how economic and environmental health are inseparable — clean water means a strong economy and a thriving community. Those lessons have fueled everything I’m doing now. At UMass Amherst, I’ve found my passion for connecting environmental sustainability with business. My finance coursework has shown me how capital can drive change, and my environmental studies have grounded that ambition in purpose. I’ve joined the Isenberg Sustainability Club, the Investment Club, and the Entrepreneurship Club, where I collaborate with peers who share the same drive to use innovation for impact. Together, we explore how technology, finance, and social responsibility can intersect to solve real problems. This year, I’ve been developing a small-scale project to improve campus water quality testing — a local step toward the larger sustainability work I hope to lead someday. What gives me an advantage is that I’ve never had the luxury to treat education as an abstract idea. Every class, every opportunity, and every connection I make has to matter because I’m paying for it myself. Due to recent financial circumstances, I can no longer afford next semester without outside support. That reality has taught me a kind of focus that can’t be taught — the ability to treat every hour as an investment. I’ve learned how to balance jobs, clubs, and academics while keeping a 3.83 GPA and continuing to grow as both a student and a person. I don’t take shortcuts. I take the long way and make it count. Beyond academics, I’ve always thought like an entrepreneur. Even as a kid, I was running small ventures — from selling polished rocks to helping local businesses market themselves online. Lately, I’ve been exploring how AI and digital marketing tools can help small businesses, especially local or sustainability-focused ones, grow efficiently without large budgets. My approach blends creativity with analytics, showing that you don’t need millions to make an impact — just resourcefulness, empathy, and follow-through. That mindset — using what I have to create what’s missing — defines who I am. I don’t just want this scholarship to cover tuition; I want it to help me keep building momentum. Every dollar I receive turns into opportunity: a class I can take, a project I can finish, a step closer to becoming the kind of leader who gives back more than he takes. I’ve learned that impact starts with small wins — cleaner harbors, stronger small businesses, better habits — and grows from there. What sets me apart isn’t just ambition; it’s direction. I know exactly why I’m working this hard, and I know how I’ll use every opportunity I earn. I’m not asking for help to get ahead — I’m asking for the chance to keep going.

I’m a finance major with a minor in environmental science at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, and my focus sits where technology, storytelling, and sustainability overlap. Growing up on Martha’s Vineyard, I saw how one strong season could make a small business thrive—and how one bad month could undo it. Working summers on the harbor as a pump-out boat operator, co-captain, and later with Cottage City Oysters, I learned that every interaction and every story matters. Those experiences made me realize how powerful digital marketing and technology can be in helping small, purpose-driven businesses survive and grow. At UMass, I’m building that vision through coursework and clubs. My finance studies teach me how to make data-driven business decisions, while classes like OIM 210 – Introduction to Business Information Systems showed me how analytics and automation shape real outcomes. I’m an active member of the Isenberg Sustainability Club, Investment Club, and Entrepreneurship Club, where I collaborate with students driven by innovation and purpose. Together, we explore how digital tools and AI can make entrepreneurship more accessible for people without big budgets or teams. Recently, I’ve been exploring how AI and digital marketing tools can give small businesses the same opportunities large companies have. I’ve tested AI for ad copy, SEO, and audience insights—using it to simplify, not complicate, marketing. I believe AI shouldn’t replace creativity; it should amplify human ideas. I plan to build a small consulting venture that uses these tools to help local businesses tell better stories online and make marketing decisions based on real data, not guesswork. This winter, I’m launching two pilot campaigns for Vineyard businesses—a marine service company and a local food producer. The goal is simple: measure what matters. I’ll produce short, story-based videos and track engagement, reach, and conversion. Success won’t be about going viral—it’ll be about real community connection and measurable growth. Every job I’ve had has reinforced that mindset. On the water, a small mistake in timing or route could waste fuel and time. In business, the same principle applies: every click and customer interaction counts. Those experiences trained me to think like an operator—organized, adaptive, and results-oriented. Because I’m paying for school out of pocket and can no longer afford next semester without help, I’ve had to stay disciplined and purposeful. Every project I take on, every class I choose, has to move me closer to a meaningful goal. That’s why Brandon Repola’s story resonates with me so strongly. He wasn’t just a talented creator—he was a builder. He believed that passion, persistence, and curiosity could truly “change the world.” That’s exactly what I want to do. I want to use my skills in videography, finance, and AI-driven digital marketing to lift small entrepreneurs—the kind of people I grew up around—so they can thrive in an increasingly digital economy. Winning this scholarship would help me expand my work, take on more community projects, and continue learning how to combine creativity with technology to drive change. More than financial relief, it would be a reminder that ambition, innovation, and purpose are still recognized and supported. Like Brandon, I want to use what I know to inspire others—to prove that with persistence and imagination, you can create something that truly lasts.

If we were having coffee, I’d tell you that my goal isn’t just to understand cybersecurity—it’s to use it to protect the kinds of small communities I grew up in. On Martha’s Vineyard, I’ve seen how vulnerable local businesses and organizations can be to digital threats they barely understand. I want to help build systems that keep their data, customers, and livelihoods safe while teaching others how to protect themselves. As a finance major with a strong interest in technology, I see cybersecurity as the bridge between trust and progress. To me, uplifting my community means giving it the tools to stay safe in a world that’s becoming more digital every day.

Lighting My Path: How TOMORROW X TOGETHER Inspired My Journey The first time I heard “Blue Hour”, I was sitting alone at my desk during the pandemic, unsure of who I was becoming. Everything felt paused — school, friendships, even my sense of direction. But as TXT sang “You and I, our shining moment,” I suddenly felt like someone understood. Their words weren’t just comforting; they were a lifeline. For the first time in months, I believed things could get better if I kept going. Sometimes I laugh thinking how a K-pop group ended up shaping my college path — but they really did. My name is Charlie Porterfield, and I’m a Finance major at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, with a minor in Environmental Science. I’m paying for school entirely on my own, working every summer and saving what I can, but recent financial setbacks have made it difficult to afford next semester. I’m applying for this scholarship because TXT’s music taught me that even when life feels uncertain, persistence and hope can turn struggle into strength — and I want to live that lesson by creating good in the world. I became a MOA in 2020, during a time when I needed connection most. What drew me to TOMORROW X TOGETHER wasn’t just their sound — it was their honesty. In songs like “Maze in the Mirror” and “Trust Fund Baby”, they captured feelings I couldn’t put into words: self-doubt, pressure, and trying to find purpose in chaos. Yet they always leave a thread of light. Their music doesn’t deny hardship — it transforms it. Each member represents a piece of what I strive to be: Soobin, with his quiet strength and empathy, shows me that leadership starts with kindness. Yeonjun’s courage reminds me to take bold steps even when I’m unsure. Beomgyu’s creativity makes me pause to see meaning in small things. Taehyun’s precision reflects the discipline I need to grow. And Hueningkai, with his curiosity and light, reminds me to stay joyful through it all. One of my favorite TXT moments came in TO DO Ep. 90, when the members wrote letters to their future selves. Soobin said he hoped they’d still be working hard and staying true to their purpose. That line stuck with me. I started writing my own notes before big exams or tough weeks — not reminders of grades, but of who I want to be: kind, patient, determined. TXT made me realize success means staying true to your heart while moving forward. Their influence shaped my purpose. I’m combining finance and sustainability to create systems that support clean energy and resilient communities. Just like TXT’s message of “Tomorrow by Together,” I want my work to help others rise too. My jobs on Martha’s Vineyard taught me this firsthand. As a pump-out boat operator, I coordinated routes to keep local waters clean. At Cottage City Oysters, I helped balance harvest schedules with weather and deliveries — a real-world lesson in logistics and adaptability. These roles showed me that small, steady efforts create lasting impact — the same message TXT lives by. Financially, I’ve stretched every dollar, but I’m at a crossroads. This scholarship would let me stay in school, deepen my studies, and keep building toward a career that blends numbers with meaning — just as TXT blends realism with hope. TXT’s journey taught me that uncertainty doesn’t erase potential — it reveals it. Their world in “Eternally” reminds me that even in chaos, there’s beauty worth protecting. I carry that message with me every day. And with your support, I’ll keep turning that hope into action — one tomorrow at a time.