My academics are a priority for these long New England seasons. Summer is the time of year that I look forward to; the weather, the beaches, and the time spent making full-time paychecks and partying with friends and family on hot summer days and nights are my reward. On Sunday mornings, you will find me walking down the street in my neighborhood; whether it is pouring rain or a scorching burn, I am heading to work at the nursing home. This walk gave me time to think about everything I would learn throughout the workday. Upon my arrival, the smiles of the residents greeted me. Volunteering at the nursing home was my best decision; the work and the patients filled my soul. The experience of connecting with the residents allowed me to appreciate the wisdom they provided. The residents were people who came from different backgrounds. One of them, in particular, was a fashion designer who told me “not to live life for others, but yourself.” These words stuck with me. Every Sunday, when engaging with the residents, I learned new things to implement in my way of living. This wisdom offered valuable lessons about perseverance and companionship. Most importantly, it confirmed my decision to go into nursing. Coming to the nursing home helped me gain hands-on experience engaging with people and developing caregiving skills. I was responsible for each resident being well-fed, taken to use the bathroom, and engaged in activities. If not, I needed to understand why they were not engaged. This would lead to questions like “How was your day?” “How are you feeling?” Their answers helped me infer why they were acting a specific way. This was exercising my critical thinking skills. Gaining insight helped me understand the holistic care that patients require; not only did communicating and understanding the residents help me, but observing my surroundings as well. The nurses would administer medicine; even if the residents were too stubborn to take it, they were patient. They would also regularly check vitals, manage wounds, and make care plans. This often would remind me of the care I did when my father had cancer. I was honored to serve him, from creating a new diet, advocating for him as he struggled with the English language (feeling voiceless and unheard), and routinely cleaning the wound created by the removal of the cancerous tumor on his foot. The Nurses who cared for my dad and my family were the unsung heroes in the background of our experience, as well as the residents of the nursing home. I knew Nursing was what I was called to do. The nurses were always open to answering questions that I had. If the AC broke that day or the staff was short, the nurses still smiled, and I was proud to smile beside them. Ultimately, volunteering at the nursing home helped me build a foundation in the healthcare field and a deeper understanding of caregiving, ensuring I am heading in the right direction. With the hands-on experience volunteering at the nursing home, I will excel in my nursing career.

Music, an art form crafted through sound and rhythm, is a universal bridge between the mind and the soul. Music's interpretative nature allows for a diverse and personal connection regardless of the listener's perspective. I prefer to immerse myself in its depths using a humble pair of over-the-head headphones, which offer liberation from the constraints of wires and modern tech like Airpods. Music comes in different genres: hip-hop, rock and roll, R&B, country, gospel, jazz, soul, and more. While hip-hop resonates with me the most, I resist confining myself to a single genre, recognizing each genre as a unique narrative, much like annotating an article. In the hip-hop genre, where societal judgments are prevalent, particularly against black women, artists like the City Girls challenge stereotypes and inspire me to embrace my identity proudly. My identity is a Black female of Ugandan descent shaped by the music that mirrors my culture. American music became a bridge connecting me to my American side, facilitating my language acquisition process through the songs. Amidst the challenges of growing up with immigrant parents occupied with work, Ugandan songs became a medium through which I reclaimed my native language, Luganda. A poignant memory in my mind revolves around Alicia Keys' "No One." At the age of six, facing my parents' separation, my mother played this song to soothe my anxiety. The lyrics, "You and me together, Through the days and nights, I don't worry 'cause, Everything's gonna be alright," provided comfort, shaping my understanding of resilience. My mother, now a single mother, could not afford the expense of dance classes that I desired. Whether it was dancing at church, local competitions, or in my room, I took the opportunity to showcase my art...dance. As I got older, the music I danced to told stories of my life. My affinity for dancing found expression in various settings, with each move imitating a journey. The art of hip-hop is music that tells my story, running up and down yet somehow cohesive. Music is an enduring source of gratitude for me, a companion through joy and darkness. It transcends mere entertainment; it is a tool for self-discovery and personal growth. I take each lyric I listen to as a lesson, embodying a new trait added to my personality. Music has been intertwined with my life leading up to now. My interest in music is a love I want to share when I go to university.

When I was thirteen, I told my African parents, “I want to become a hairstylist.” This undeniably landed on deaf ears. Years ago, I learned how to care for my hair, and along the way, I found love for myself, Black girls, and Black hair. Black hair must be respected, fed, hydrated, and set free. Black hair is a love map entangling the scalp, where strands reflect who we are, where we have been, and who we have yet to become. Black hair is a metaphor for how a Black girl feels and chooses to show up in her world. Black hair is so many things: its identity, how Black girls are perceived, how they present themselves for representation, and the different versions of who they have been. Black hair is how Black girls come to themselves: Locs, coils, braids, and big chops. Black hair has to sometimes fight for its life. Hair texture holds its sense of self in its grandeur and strength. The identity of Black hair is evolving. It shows up and shows out, not being manipulated by standards other than the crown it is. On my thirteenth birthday, I realized I needed to save for college. I needed a hustle, and my speedy fingers and well-branded hair care regimen were the birth of great things for me and the Black girls in my community. The days anticipating braiding hair and new clients were grueling. School always holds the first bid, and my chores are just as crucial in my Ugandan household. Before long, I had girls and women from everywhere coming to sit in my chair for unique styles that required a considerable amount of technique and time. My chair holds the magic sauce. Black girls and women willingly discuss family, relationships, and mental health challenges that plague them. The comfortability of the salon space is familiar across the Black Diaspora. I understand that my work— tending the coils of my clients and providing care without judgment or unsolicited advice—makes women feel beautiful. In my soul, I know that I am appointed to hold compassion for women. This compassion drives my fascination with STEM. Psychology, anatomy, biology, and, most importantly, Black hair prompts me to not only untangle hair, but the minds of other Black girls and women. Now, at seventeen, I announced to my African parents, “I want to become a Nurse.” Those same African parents are smiling pretty now. Black hair, girls, and women are the excitement and motivation I fly with each day as I prepare for my college experience and professional aspirations. I know that I am called to the Ministry of Nursing and, in particular, Mental Health Nursing - Psychiatric Nursing, a specialized field of practice that involves the intricate care of patients with mental disorders. I want to be a part of the process that supports recovery towards a quality of life. I aspire to be a Nurse who not only provides excellent care but also champions my patients, giving address to their concerns, wellness, and rights.

Summer is the time of year that I look forward to; the weather, the beaches, and the time spent making full-time paychecks and partying with friends and family on hot summer days and nights are my reward. But, on Sunday mornings, you will find me walking down the street in my neighborhood; whether it’s pouring rain or scorching, I’m heading to volunteer at the nursing home. The walk there would give me time to think about everything I would learn throughout the day. Upon my arrival, the smiles of the residents would greet me. Volunteering at a nursing home was the best decision I made; the work and the patients filled my soul. The experience of connecting with the residents allowed me to appreciate the wisdom they provided. The residents were people who came from different backgrounds. One of them, in particular, was a fashion designer who told me “not to live life for others, but yourself.” These words stuck with me. Every Sunday, when engaging with the residents, I learned new things to implement in my way of living. This wisdom offered valuable lessons about perseverance and companionship. Most importantly, it confirmed my decision to go into nursing. Coming to the nursing home helped me gain hands-on experience engaging with people and developing caregiving skills. It was my responsibility that each resident was well fed, taken to use the bathroom, and engaged in activities. If not, I needed to understand why they were not engaged. This would lead to questions like “How was your day?” “How are you feeling?” Their answers helped me infer why they were acting a specific way. Gaining insight helped me understand the holistic care that patients require; not only did communicating and understanding the residents help me, but observing my surroundings as well. The Nurses would administer medicine; even if the residents were too stubborn to take it, they were patient. They would also regularly check vitals, manage wounds, and make care plans. This often would remind me of the care I did when my father had cancer. I was honored to serve him, from creating a new diet, advocating for him as he struggled with the English language, and routinely cleaning the wound created by the removal of the cancerous tumor on his foot. I knew Nursing was what I was called to do. The Nurses were always open to answering questions that I had. If the AC broke that day or the staff was short, the Nurses still smiled, and I was proud to smile beside them. Ultimately, volunteering at the nursing home helped me build a foundation in healthcare and a deeper understanding of the caregiving aspects, ensuring I am heading in the right direction. I am deeply committed to my calling to Nursing, knowing that the studies and the practice will be challenging, rewarding, and, above all, meaningful.

When I was thirteen, I told my African parents, “I want to become a hairstylist.” This undeniably landed on deaf ears. Years ago, I learned how to care for my hair, and along the way, I found love for myself, Black girls, and Black hair. Black hair must be respected, fed, hydrated, and set free. Black hair is a love map entangling the scalp, where strands reflect who we are, where we have been, and who we have yet to become. In my predominantly white elementary school, unsure of my identity, I did not understand that the flowing, straight strands that cascaded over my shoulders were chemically altered. I was insecure with my Black hair, frying it, not feeling like it was a reflection of who I was showing up as, but a reflection of how I was treated. Some days, my mom pulled my bun back so tight that I could feel my hair follicles tugging on my nerves. In my predominantly black middle school, the Black girls questioned me, “Why does your hair look like that?” I realized that I had been uncomfortably comfortable. I gave energy to my natural hair; I cut that perm poison out and allowed my coils to flourish with proper hair care. My hair found glory in its coarse natural state. It was meaningful for me to be accepted by and look like all the other Black girls in the halls. In high school, my Black hair brushed the sky like a cloud, big and beautiful, reminding me that I am the only one who can block my sunlight. Black hair is a metaphor for how a Black girl feels and chooses to show up in her world. Black hair is so many things: its identity, how Black girls are perceived, how they present themselves for representation, and the different versions of who they have been. Black hair has to sometimes fight for its life. Hair texture holds its sense of self in its grandeur and strength. The identity of Black hair is evolving. It shows up and shows out, not being manipulated by standards other than the crown it is. On my thirteenth birthday, I realized I needed to save for college. I needed a hustle, and my speedy fingers and well-branded hair care regimen were the birth of great things for me and the Black girls in my community. The days anticipating braiding hair and new clients were grueling. School always holds the first bid, and my chores are just as crucial in my Ugandan household. Before long, I had girls and women from everywhere coming to sit in my chair for unique styles that required a considerable amount of technique and time. My chair holds the magic sauce. Black girls and women willingly discuss family, relationships, and mental health challenges that plague them. I understand that my work— tending the coils of my clients and providing care without judgment or unsolicited advice—makes women feel beautiful. In my soul, I know that I am appointed to hold compassion for women. This compassion drives my fascination with STEM (Science, technology, Engineering, Mathematics). Psychology, anatomy, biology, and, most importantly, Black hair prompts me to not only untangle hair, but the minds of other Black girls and women. Now, at seventeen, I announced to my African parents, “I want to become a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner.” Those same African parents are smiling pretty now. Black hair, girls, and women are the excitement and motivation I fly with each day as I prepare for my college experience and professional aspirations.

Years ago, I learned how to care for my hair, and along the way, I found love for myself, Black girls, and Black hair. Black hair must be respected, fed, hydrated, and set free. Black hair is a love map entangling the scalp, where strands reflect who we are, where we have been, and who we have yet to become. In my predominantly white elementary school, unsure of my identity, I did not understand that the flowing, straight strands that cascaded over my shoulders were chemically altered. I was insecure with my Black hair, frying it, not feeling like it was a reflection of who I was showing up as, but a reflection of how I was treated. Some days, my mom pulled my bun back so tight that I could feel my hair follicles tugging on my nerves. In my predominantly black middle school, the Black girls questioned me, “Why does your hair look like that?” I realized that I had been uncomfortably comfortable. I gave energy to my natural hair; I cut that perm poison out and allowed my coils to flourish with proper hair care. My hair found glory in its coarse natural state. It was meaningful for me to be accepted by and look like all the other Black girls in the halls. In high school, my Black hair brushed the sky like a cloud, big and beautiful, reminding me that I am the only one who can block my sunlight. Black hair is a metaphor for how a Black girl feels and chooses to show up in her world. Black hair is so many things: its identity, how Black girls are perceived, how they present themselves for representation, and the different versions of who they have been. Black hair is how Black girls come to themselves: Locs, coils, braids, and big chops. Black hair has to sometimes fight for its life. Hair texture holds its sense of self in its grandeur and strength. The identity of Black hair is evolving. It shows up and shows out, not being manipulated by standards other than the crown it is. On my thirteenth birthday, I realized I needed to save for college. I needed a hustle, and my speedy fingers and well-branded hair care regimen were the birth of great things for me and the Black girls in my community. The days anticipating braiding hair and new clients were grueling. School always holds the first bid, and my chores are just as crucial in my Ugandan household. Before long, I had girls and women from everywhere coming to sit in my chair for unique styles that required a considerable amount of technique and time. My chair holds the magic sauce. Black girls and women willingly discuss family, relationships, and mental health challenges that plague them. The comfortability of the salon space is familiar across the Black Diaspora. I understand that my work— tending the coils of my clients and providing care without judgment or unsolicited advice—makes women feel beautiful. In my soul, I know that I am appointed to hold compassion for women. This compassion drives my fascination with STEM (Science, technology, Engineering, Mathematics). Psychology, anatomy, biology, and, most importantly, Black hair prompts me to not only untangle hair, but the minds of other Black girls and women. Black hair, girls, and women are the excitement and motivation I fly with each day as I prepare for my college experience and professional aspirations.

Years ago, I learned how to care for my hair, and along the way, I found love for myself, Black girls, and Black hair. Black hair must be respected, fed, hydrated, and set free. Black hair is a love map entangling the scalp, where strands reflect who we are, where we have been, and who we have yet to become. In my predominantly white elementary school, unsure of my identity, I did not understand that the flowing, straight strands that cascaded over my shoulders were chemically altered. I was insecure with my Black hair, frying it, not feeling like it was a reflection of who I was showing up as, but a reflection of how I was treated. Some days, my mom pulled my bun back so tight that I could feel my hair follicles tugging on my nerves. In my predominantly black middle school, the Black girls questioned me, “Why does your hair look like that?” I realized that I had been uncomfortably comfortable. I gave energy to my natural hair; I cut that perm poison out and allowed my coils to flourish with proper hair care. My hair found glory in its coarse natural state. It was meaningful for me to be accepted by and look like all the other Black girls in the halls. In high school, my Black hair brushed the sky like a cloud, big and beautiful, reminding me that I am the only one who can block my sunlight. Black hair is a metaphor for how a Black girl feels and chooses to show up in her world. Black hair is so many things: its identity, how Black girls are perceived, how they present themselves for representation, and the different versions of who they have been. Black hair is how Black girls come to themselves: Locs, coils, braids, and big chops. Black hair has to sometimes fight for its life. Hair texture holds its sense of self in its grandeur and strength. The identity of Black hair is evolving. It shows up and shows out, not being manipulated by standards other than the crown it is. On my thirteenth birthday, I realized I needed to save for college. I needed a hustle, and my speedy fingers and well-branded hair care regimen were the birth of great things for me and the Black girls in my community. The days anticipating braiding hair and new clients were grueling. School always holds the first bid, and my chores are just as crucial in my Ugandan household. Before long, I had girls and women from everywhere coming to sit in my chair for unique styles that required a considerable amount of technique and time. My chair holds the magic sauce. Black girls and women willingly discuss family, relationships, and mental health challenges that plague them. The comfortability of the salon space is familiar across the Black Diaspora. I understand that my work— tending the coils of my clients and providing care without judgment or unsolicited advice—makes women feel beautiful. In my soul, I know that I am appointed to hold compassion for women. This compassion drives my fascination with STEM (Science, technology, Engineering, Mathematics). Psychology, anatomy, biology, and, most importantly, Black hair prompts me to not only untangle hair, but the minds of other Black girls and women. Black hair, girls, and women are the excitement and motivation I fly with each day as I prepare for my college experience and professional aspirations.

Years ago, I learned how to care for my hair, and along the way, I found love for myself, Black girls, and Black hair. Black hair must be respected, fed, hydrated, and set free. Black hair is a love map entangling the scalp, where strands reflect who we are, where we have been, and who we have yet to become. In my predominantly white elementary school, unsure of my identity, I did not understand that the flowing, straight strands that cascaded over my shoulders were chemically altered. I was insecure with my Black hair, frying it, not feeling like it was a reflection of who I was showing up as, but a reflection of how I was treated. Some days, my mom pulled my bun back so tight that I could feel my hair follicles tugging on my nerves. In my predominantly black middle school, the Black girls questioned me, “Why does your hair look like that?” I realized that I had been uncomfortably comfortable. I gave energy to my natural hair; I cut that perm poison out and allowed my coils to flourish with proper hair care. My hair found glory in its coarse natural state. It was meaningful for me to be accepted by and look like all the other Black girls in the halls. In high school, my Black hair brushed the sky like a cloud, big and beautiful, reminding me that I am the only one who can block my sunlight. Black hair is a metaphor for how a Black girl feels and chooses to show up in her world. Black hair is so many things: its identity, how Black girls are perceived, how they present themselves for representation, and the different versions of who they have been. Black hair is how Black girls come to themselves: Locs, coils, braids, and big chops. Black hair has to sometimes fight for its life. Hair texture holds its sense of self in its grandeur and strength. The identity of Black hair is evolving. It shows up and shows out, not being manipulated by standards other than the crown it is. On my thirteenth birthday, I realized I needed to save for college. I needed a hustle, and my speedy fingers and well-branded hair care regimen were the birth of great things for me and the Black girls in my community. The days anticipating braiding hair and new clients were grueling. School always holds the first bid, and my chores are just as crucial in my Ugandan household. Before long, I had girls and women from everywhere coming to sit in my chair for unique styles that required a considerable amount of technique and time. My chair holds the magic sauce. Black girls and women willingly discuss family, relationships, and mental health challenges that plague them. The comfortability of the salon space is familiar across the Black Diaspora. I understand that my work— tending the coils of my clients and providing care without judgment or unsolicited advice—makes women feel beautiful. In my soul, I know that I am appointed to hold compassion for women. This compassion drives my fascination with STEM (Science, technology, Engineering, Mathematics). Psychology, anatomy, biology, and, most importantly, Black hair prompts me to not only untangle hair, but the minds of other Black girls and women. Black hair, girls, and women are the excitement and motivation I fly with each day as I prepare for my college experience and professional aspirations.

Years ago, I learned how to care for my hair, and along the way, I found love for myself, Black girls, and Black hair. Black hair must be respected, fed, hydrated, and set free. Black hair is a love map entangling the scalp, where strands reflect who we are, where we have been, and who we have yet to become. In my predominantly white elementary school, unsure of my identity, I did not understand that the flowing, straight strands that cascaded over my shoulders were chemically altered. I was insecure with my Black hair, frying it, not feeling like it was a reflection of who I was showing up as, but a reflection of how I was treated. Some days, my mom pulled my bun back so tight that I could feel my hair follicles tugging on my nerves. In my predominantly black middle school, the Black girls questioned me, “Why does your hair look like that?” I realized that I had been uncomfortably comfortable. I gave energy to my natural hair; I cut that perm poison out and allowed my coils to flourish with proper hair care. My hair found glory in its coarse natural state. It was meaningful for me to be accepted by and look like all the other Black girls in the halls. In high school, my Black hair brushed the sky like a cloud, big and beautiful, reminding me that I am the only one who can block my sunlight. Black hair is a metaphor for how a Black girl feels and chooses to show up in her world. Black hair is so many things: its identity, how Black girls are perceived, how they present themselves for representation, and the different versions of who they have been. Black hair is how Black girls come to themselves: Locs, coils, braids, and big chops. Black hair has to sometimes fight for its life. Hair texture holds its sense of self in its grandeur and strength. The identity of Black hair is evolving. It shows up and shows out, not being manipulated by standards other than the crown it is. On my thirteenth birthday, I realized I needed to save for college. I needed a hustle, and my speedy fingers and well-branded hair care regimen were the birth of great things for me and the Black girls in my community. The days anticipating braiding hair and new clients were grueling. School always holds the first bid, and my chores are just as crucial in my Ugandan household. Before long, I had girls and women from everywhere coming to sit in my chair for unique styles that required a considerable amount of technique and time. My chair holds the magic sauce. Black girls and women willingly discuss family, relationships, and mental health challenges that plague them. The comfortability of the salon space is familiar across the Black Diaspora. I understand that my work— tending the coils of my clients and providing care without judgment or unsolicited advice—makes women feel beautiful. In my soul, I know that I am appointed to hold compassion for women. This compassion drives my fascination with STEM (Science, technology, Engineering, Mathematics). Psychology, anatomy, biology, and, most importantly, Black hair prompts me to not only untangle hair, but the minds of other Black girls and women. The switch of schools opened my ming. Black hair, girls, and women are the excitement and motivation I fly with each day as I prepare for my college experience and professional aspirations.

As kids, we are told not to eat chalk; we can only eat it when doctors prescribe it. It was Haitian Flag Day. I had been contemplating whether I should listen to the voices in my head. I had heard from them before, once in 7th grade, but after that, never again. When I did listen, the voices seemed to calm down and disappear, almost like an addiction. When I would take chalk, I wouldn't just take one. I'd take as many that could fit in my mouth. This day, Haitian Flag Day, it wasn't just 50 white circular pieces that could fit in my mouth- it was the whole bottle. As I chugged down the bottle, my eyes became heavier, and my view of the world before me had decreased to half. To me, that meant I must say goodbye to all the things I love and appreciate before I changed my name to Princess Aurora. I first said goodbye to my phone, and my phone was the most valuable treasure I had. When I saw the home screen, it would light something in me. I always felt away in my happy place when I was on my phone, whether on social media, listening to music, or playing games. My happy place was quiet, alone, with nobody around to pressure me, just me, which was quite different from my surroundings. Next, I said goodbye to my face, everyone’s is unique. In times when I would cry, I'd look at myself and remind myself how beautiful I am and that it would take me places. Not only was my face beautiful, but also my mind. Even though I couldn't see my mind, I imagined it was full of color that eventually turned black due to the voices that overpowered it. Before I could say goodbye to my bed, I fell asleep. The deep sleep was so rejuvenating I believed the chalk had done its job. The chalk used by many children to write & draw wishes had granted mine by taking away my ability to write & draw forever. Even as an AP biology student, my mind couldn't comprehend that my body would fight for me even if I didn't want to fight for myself. That night, I threw up all the chalk I had taken. My throw-up was intertwined with blood. Once I saw the blood, I realized it was time to face the facts: I was suicidal. I was suicidal, but how could it be? I came to school daily happy and occasionally had my downs like any regular person. Except it was all fake. I had been dealing with mental health issues with no one I felt comfortable talking to. But, then, an angel I'd like to call her, my teacher asked, "Are you okay." Those three simple words changed me as I realized I was not alone. This mental health obstacle was not a hurdle I had to jump on my own but instead with my teacher and, later on, friends. Ever since that event, I realized I wanted to help people with their mental health. As a psychiatric nurse practitioner, I can help others deal with the same things I used to battle. I would never take back what I felt that night, as it made me realize who I wanted to become. In just a year after this suicide attempt, I've focused on my academics to better my resume, volunteered at a nursing home to spread joy, and run a business. I believe everyone around me should have a better chance for mental health.