Growing up, I learned early what it meant to carry more weight than my age could justify. My mother worked very late nights and the responsibility of home naturally slid onto my shoulders before I even understood what responsibility meant. By seven, I already knew the quiet of our home at 2 a.m., waiting for the sound of the door and the tired slump of my mother’s body as she walked in. I learned to warm bottles, braid tiny ponytails, and keep the peace between siblings who were just too young to understand why things felt so heavy. And even now, as a freshman in college, that part of my reality hasn’t truly gone away. When my mom needs the extra help, I board a Greyhound bus traveling hours back home to step into the same shoes I filled as a child. People look at me and see “independent”, but what they don’t see is that independence wasn’t a choice. It was survival. And that is the foundation of my non-traditional journey. But even with all that going on at home, there was another kind of weight I carried. The kind that followed me everywhere. For most of my life, I felt like my body walked into the room before I did. Being tall and overweight made me a target long before I understood why. And every joke, every stare, every whispered comment pushed me further into myself. I spoke less. I volunteered less. I tried to make myself smaller in every way I could, except the ways I couldn’t. Good grades became my hiding place, and “maturity” became my armor. But living that quiet takes something out of you. It protects you in the moment, but slowly, it steals pieces of you that were meant to breathe. Near the end of high school, I got tired of watching life happen around me instead of with me. I wanted to feel truly proud of myself for once. That’s why I thought about running for senior class president. At first, the idea felt exciting. But the second I started walking toward the interest meeting, every old insult and every lie I’d told myself about being unworthy hit me at once. I froze. I turned around, and I walked all the way out the school like I didn’t even belong on campus. And for a moment, I genuinely believed I didn’t. But something told me to go back. So I did, and it changed the entire trajectory of my life. That was the first time I truly counted myself in. It’s what helped me reclaim my voice, and it’s why I now want to pursue broadcast media. Using my voice isn’t just a career goal for me. It’s a privilege I had to fight to believe I deserved. There was a time when I couldn’t speak up for myself, so now I want to speak in a way that reaches others who feel small, overlooked, or unsure they matter at all. I want to become the voice I once needed, and the voice I know so many young people still need today. Being a non-traditional student isn’t just about my responsibilities at home or the adversity I’ve faced. It’s about the way all these experiences have stretched me, how they’ve built a kind of resilience that can’t be taught by a perfect childhood or a predictable path. I know what it feels like to be the underdog. I know what it means to carry more than people think you do, and to try anyway. And because of that, kindness is not something I practice in theory, it’s something I offer because I understand its absence. Perseverance isn’t a word on paper, it’s the bus rides home, the nights spent awake helping my siblings, and the moments I push past fear just to show up for myself. And it’s in that same spirit that I feel connected to Andrea Worden, because she believed in people like me. People whose strength doesn’t always appear on paper but is felt in the way we keep going. People who grow in the cracks. People who turn hardship into heart. If given the chance, I hope to continue her legacy not just through my achievements, but through reminding others to count themselves in.

For a long time, I became an expert at pretending. I smiled when I was supposed to. I spoke when I needed to. I got the grades. I showed up. On the outside, I looked fine. But inside, I was drowning in depression and tangled up in an eating disorder I didn’t have the words for. I was hurting, but I made sure no one could tell. I thought that if I could just keep performing, keep being "mature", keep being dependable, and keep being strong, then maybe the pain would fade into the background. Looking back, I know that part of me believed I was worthless. I couldn’t see a future. I couldn’t see myself as someone who mattered. But now, standing on the other side of it, I know better. I know that anyone can be going through something without showing a single crack. That realization has changed how I move through the world, how I see people, how I treat them, and how I plan to use my career to make a difference. I’m pursuing a path in design and advertising because I want to change the industry with work that stops people in their tracks, but not just because it’s clever or beautiful. I want to create branding that makes people feel seen and heard. Work that affirms. Work that reminds the overlooked, the insecure, the exhausted, the struggling that they are not alone. But even deeper than that, this career will serve as the funding behind something bigger. My true purpose is rooted in community and philanthropy. I want to pour into the lives of the people I once saw in the mirror. The depressed girl, the fat girl, the Black girl. I want to build programs that will stop at nothing to help them. That desire comes from what I’ve walked through, but also from what I’ve learned about who Jesus is to me. I used to seek love and validation in everything and everyone else. I thought I had to earn worth. But I’ve learned that Jesus already defined it. He showed me that my identity isn’t tied to how perfect I perform, how skinny I am, or how much I take on without asking for help. My worth comes from Him. And without Him, I am nothing. Sometimes, I still struggle with the instinct to carry everything alone. That old voice that says I have to handle it all by myself and keep it together still creeps in. But now, I recognize it for what it is: fear disguised as strength. When those moments hit, I fight back with truth. I remind myself of how far I’ve come and who God has called me to be. And if I start to feel like I’m truly slipping, I don’t wait for it to get worse, I speak up. That’s how I know I’m healing. I’m not hiding anymore. My journey with mental health didn’t break me. It built me. It shaped my vision and my faith. And now, I get to use all of it to build something beautiful for others and for the girl I used to be.

My pro-life beliefs come from my faith in Jesus and the way He sees people. Every single one of us, from the unborn to the elderly, the innocent to the guilty, is created in the image of God and has inherent worth. Life isn’t valuable because of what someone can do or how much they contribute. It’s valuable because God made it. That truth has shaped the way I view not only abortion, but also justice, mercy, and the way we treat each other as human beings. To me, being pro-life is about much more than a political position or a slogan. It’s a lens through which I try to see the world, through the eyes of Jesus, who consistently protected and uplifted the most vulnerable. It means defending the unborn, absolutely, but also remembering that their mothers matter too. It means caring about the baby after birth as much as before. It means standing up for life even when it’s uncomfortable, inconvenient, or unpopular. It also means opposing capital punishment. That’s a part of the conversation that often gets left out, but to me, it’s just as important. I don’t support capital punishment for the same reason I’m pro-life: I believe only God has the right to give and take life. Even for people who’ve committed terrible crimes, I believe there’s a kind of dignity in letting them live. Not to avoid consequences, but because every day alive is another chance to reflect, to feel remorse, or even to change. And even if they never turn to God, I still think they should live with what they’ve done rather than die and feel nothing. Death closes the door to growth, to grace, to the possibility of redemption. Life, even a hard life, keeps that door cracked open. Because of these convictions, I’ve looked for ways to live out what I believe. I support organizations that offer real solutions: housing for pregnant women, adoption support, foster care reform, and resources for post-abortive healing. I believe being pro-life means showing up for people at every stage of life, not just before they're born. It means building a culture that makes it easier to choose life. Not just by changing laws, but by changing hearts. At the end of the day, my beliefs come down to this: life is sacred, no matter what. That’s not just something I believe in my head, it’s something I try to live out with my hands, my heart, and my time. I want to reflect the heart of Jesus: to stand up for the voiceless, extend mercy to the broken, and treat every person, born or unborn, free or imprisoned, as someone who matters deeply to God.

For a long time, I became an expert at pretending. I smiled when I was supposed to. I spoke when I needed to. I got the grades. I showed up. On the outside, I looked fine. But inside, I was drowning in depression and tangled up in an eating disorder I didn’t yet have the words for. I was hurting, but I made sure no one could tell. And growing up as one of five children raised by a single mother, I really didn’t have the option to fall apart. With my mom working late nights to keep our family afloat, I became the second parent. Doing hair, helping with homework, making dinner, and holding in my own tears so I could wipe someone else’s. I used to think that if I just kept performing then maybe the pain would fade into the background. But it didn’t. And because mental health wasn’t something we talked about, I convinced myself that asking for help was weakness. Looking back, I know that part of me believed I was worthless. I couldn’t see a future. I couldn’t see myself as someone who mattered. But now, standing on the other side, I know better. I know that true strength isn’t about carrying everything alone, it’s about having the courage to heal and to let others in. That realization changed everything. My journey with mental health didn’t break me, it built me. It made me more compassionate. It made me stronger. It made me a visionary. Today, I’m confidently pursuing a career as a news anchor. I want to be the face on someone’s screen who reminds them that beauty, power, and worth aren’t confined to one mold. I want to show tall, Black, unconventionally attractive girls that they belong in front of the camera. That they don’t have to shrink, starve, or pretend their way into the spotlight. This career path is more than just a dream, it’s a calling. I’ve always had a passion for asking meaningful questions and connecting with people. Whether I’m having a conversation with a stranger or leading a crowd, I light up when I get to make others feel seen and understood. My time as class president and as part of my school’s news media team gave me the platform to do just that. I discovered that I’m not only good at meeting new people, I thrive in it. I’m energized by solving problems, telling stories, and being the bridge that connects people to truth and to one another. And through it all, the foundation of who I am is my faith. My relationship with Jesus Christ is what truly saved me. I used to chase love and validation through perfectionism. But now, I know that my identity and worth come from Him. Without Him, I am nothing and with Him, I have everything I need. And the best thing is, I know His vision doesn’t end with me on screen. I want to pour into the lives of the people I once saw in the mirror: the depressed girl, the fat girl, or the Black girl. I want to build programs for girls like her, especially those growing up in underprivileged communities like mine. I want to be the person I needed. Because now, I know: I’ve always mattered. And I’m ready to make sure others know they do too.

I think there comes a time in every Black-American’s life when you truly realize you are the minority. For me, it was when I was surveying which colleges to apply to. I am a creative, and my medium is graphic design. So, I needed schools that offered the best creative opportunities for me. However, it was as I was making my list of prospects that I realized just how scarce my community is at these universities. This lack of representation in higher education and the arts speaks volumes about the barriers people in my community face. It isn’t just about being physically present in a classroom. It's about being seen, heard, and supported in a system that was not designed with our needs in mind. However, as frustrating as this all may be, I don’t plan to wait for someone else to do something about this. After all, trailblazing and pioneering is in our DNA. My plan to continue to open doors for my Black creative community lies in 2 areas: mentorship and education accessibility. Firstly, mentorship. One of my favorite quotes is by J Loren Norris, "If you cannot see where you are going, ask someone who has been there before." The strongest resource that has gotten me to where I am today intellectually and creatively is mentorship. Whether from my mom, teachers, professional mentors, or pastors, I have had people guiding me, advising me, and helping me believe in myself when I felt uncertain. These experiences have shaped me, and I know that I wouldn’t be where I am today without the counsel of others who have walked this path before me. I’m committed to paying that forward. I want to start a nonprofit organization that will mentor children and provide them with all the resources they need to develop their skills in the arts, from graphic design to music. Children and teens are incredibly imaginative and creative, yet too often, their potential gets stifled because they lack someone who can show them how to nurture and use their skills to move forward. This organization will not only teach them the technical aspects of art but also encourage them to embrace their creativity, to keep pushing boundaries, and to see the value in their own voices. We will also focus on helping them build strong ties to their community, with the aim of creating a cycle of raising the next generation of creatives. In addition to mentorship, one of my primary goals is to tackle the issue of education accessibility. As a designer, I know how expensive the tools and resources required to succeed in this field can be. One of my dreams is to open a design school specifically for individuals who cannot afford the high costs of premium design software and equipment. I want to provide a space where students, regardless of their financial background, can explore their potential without the burden of financial stress standing in their way. This is deeply personal to me because I understand what it’s like to worry about whether you’ll ever be able to make an impact simply because you lack the resources. I know what it feels like to have a dream but not the means to chase it. I want the generation that follows me to have ten times the resources I had, to be able to step into their passions without feeling like they have to make a choice between pursuing their dreams and surviving.

For a long time, I became an expert at pretending. I smiled when I was supposed to. I spoke when I needed to. I got the grades. I showed up. On the outside, I looked fine. But inside, I was drowning in depression and tangled up in an eating disorder I didn’t yet have the words for. I was hurting, but I made sure no one could tell. Growing up as one of five children raised by a single mother, I didn’t have the option to fall apart. With my mom working late nights to keep our family afloat, I became the second parent. Doing hair, helping with homework, making dinner, and holding in my own tears so I could wipe someone else’s. From a young age, I was told I was “so mature for my age”, and for a while, I wore that as a badge of honor. But behind the maturity was exhaustion far too heavy for a child to carry. I used to think that if I just kept performing, kept being dependable and strong, then maybe the pain would fade into the background. But it didn’t. And because mental health was never something we talked about, I convinced myself that asking for help was weakness. Looking back, I know that part of me believed I was worthless. I couldn’t see a future. I couldn’t see myself as someone who mattered. But now, standing on the other side of it, I know better. I know that strength isn’t about carrying everything alone. It’s about the courage to heal and to let people in. This realization has shaped everything since. I’m pursuing a path in design and advertising because I want to change the industry with work that stops people in their tracks, but not just because it’s clever or beautiful. I want to create branding that makes people feel seen and heard. Work that affirms. Work that reminds the overlooked, the insecure, the exhausted, the struggling that they are not alone. But even deeper than that, this career will serve as the funding behind something bigger. My true purpose is philanthropy. I want to pour into the lives of the people I once saw in the mirror: the depressed girl, the fat girl, or the Black girl. I want to build programs for girls like her, especially those growing up in underprivileged communities like mine. I want to be the person I needed. This desire comes from what I’ve walked through, but also from what I’ve learned about who Jesus is to me. I used to seek love and validation in everything and everyone else. I thought I had to earn worth. But I’ve learned that my identity and worth comes from Him. And without Him, I am nothing. Sometimes, I still struggle with the instinct to suffer alone. That old voice still whispers that I have to keep it together, no matter what. But now I recognize it for what it is: fear disguised as strength. And when it shows up, I fight back with truth. I speak up. I ask for help. That’s how I know I’m healing. My journey with mental health didn’t break me, it built me. It made me more compassionate. It made me stronger. It made me a visionary. And now, I get to use all of it to build something beautiful. Not just for myself, but for others like me.

For a long time, I became an expert at pretending. I smiled when I was supposed to. I spoke when I needed to. I got the grades. I showed up. On the outside, I looked fine. But inside, I was drowning in depression and tangled up in an eating disorder I didn’t yet have the words for. I was hurting, but I made sure no one could tell. Growing up as one of five children raised by a single mother, I didn’t have the option to fall apart. With my mom working late nights to keep our family afloat, I became the second parent. Doing hair, helping with homework, making dinner, and holding in my own tears so I could wipe someone else’s. From a young age, I was told I was “so mature for my age”, and for a while, I wore that as a badge of honor. But behind the maturity was exhaustion far too heavy for a child to carry. I used to think that if I just kept performing, kept being dependable and strong, then maybe the pain would fade into the background. But it didn’t. And because mental health was never something we talked about, I convinced myself that asking for help was weakness. Looking back, I know that part of me believed I was worthless. I couldn’t see a future. I couldn’t see myself as someone who mattered. But now, standing on the other side of it, I know better. I know that strength isn’t about carrying everything alone. It’s about the courage to heal and to let people in. This realization has shaped everything since. I’m pursuing a path in design and advertising because I want to change the industry with work that stops people in their tracks, but not just because it’s clever or beautiful. I want to create branding that makes people feel seen and heard. Work that affirms. Work that reminds the overlooked, the insecure, the exhausted, the struggling that they are not alone. But even deeper than that, this career will serve as the funding behind something bigger. My true purpose is philanthropy. I want to pour into the lives of the people I once saw in the mirror: the depressed girl, the fat girl, or the Black girl. I want to build programs for girls like her, especially those growing up in underprivileged communities like mine. I want to be the person I needed. This desire comes from what I’ve walked through, but also from what I’ve learned about who Jesus is to me. I used to seek love and validation in everything and everyone else. I thought I had to earn worth. But I’ve learned that my identity and worth comes from Him. And without Him, I am nothing. Sometimes, I still struggle with the instinct to suffer alone. That old voice still whispers that I have to keep it together, no matter what. But now I recognize it for what it is: fear disguised as strength. And when it shows up, I fight back with truth. I speak up. I ask for help. That’s how I know I’m healing. My journey with mental health didn’t break me, it built me. It made me more compassionate. It made me stronger. It made me a visionary. And now, I get to use all of it to build something beautiful. Not just for myself, but for others like me.

In the short term, my goal is to pursue a career as a graphic designer for advertising campaigns. This is important to me because, while I build my portfolio by creating brand identities, I always feel dissatisfied at the end of each project, knowing that these brands aren't real and I can't take them to greater heights through advertising. I want to be the bridge between a concept and a finished product, whether that be a billboard, commercial, or social media post. I also plan on going back to school after 1-2 years in my career to get my master's in graphic design or advertising because I want to continue learning how to perfect my craft. I want to explore new methods and stay on top of design trends, and being in a learning space with individuals who have the same mindset is where I thrive! My plan to continue to open doors for my community lies in 2 areas: mentorship and education accessibility. Firstly, mentorship. One of my favorite quotes is by J Loren Norris, "If you cannot see where you are going, ask someone who has been there before." The strongest resource that has gotten me to where I am today intellectually and creatively is mentorship. Whether from my mom, teachers, professional mentors, or pastors, I have had people guiding me, advising me, and helping me believe in myself when I felt uncertain. These experiences have shaped me, and I know that I wouldn’t be where I am today without the counsel of others who have walked this path before me. I’m committed to paying that forward. I want to start a nonprofit organization that will mentor children and provide them with all the resources they need to develop their skills in the arts, from graphic design to music. Children and teens are incredibly imaginative and creative, yet too often, their potential gets stifled because they lack someone who can show them how to nurture and use their skills to move forward. This organization will not only teach them the technical aspects of art but also encourage them to embrace their creativity, to keep pushing boundaries, and to see the value in their own voices. We will also focus on helping them build strong ties to their community, with the aim of creating a cycle of raising the next generation of creatives. In addition to mentorship, one of my primary goals is to tackle the issue of education accessibility. As a designer, I know how expensive the tools and resources required to succeed in this field can be. One of my dreams is to open a design school specifically for individuals who cannot afford the high costs of premium design software and equipment. I want to provide a space where students, regardless of their financial background, can explore their potential without the burden of financial stress standing in their way. This is deeply personal to me because I understand what it’s like to worry about whether you’ll ever be able to make an impact simply because you lack the resources. I know what it feels like to have a dream but not the means to chase it. I want the generation that follows me to have ten times the resources I had, to be able to step into their passions without feeling like they have to make a choice between pursuing their dreams and surviving.

I got my first phone at 9, and with it, a newfound obsession with graphic design. I began with PicsArt, and while my "edits" at the time were more charming than polished, they brought me undeniable joy. Since then, I’ve graduated to the big-league applications such as Photoshop and After Effects, and each project ends with me having learned new skills and a reinforcement of why I want to do this for the rest of my life. For example, recently, I’ve been doing a lot of brand identity designing to broaden my portfolio, and in this process, I take a brand from just a name to a collection of its “DNA,” from the mission statement to merchandise. It requires me to look at my work from both a designer’s and a consumer’s perspective. I have to ask myself stimulating questions that a consumer subconsciously asks themselves when viewing a brand’s advertising campaigns for the first time. What is the brand trying to communicate? What emotions does it invoke? Does it stand out in the crowded market? The constant questions and experimenting with new styles are what keep me falling in love with graphic design all over again every day. In the short term, my goal is to pursue a career as a graphic designer for advertising campaigns. This is important to me because, while I build my portfolio by creating brand identities, I always feel dissatisfaction at the end of each project, knowing that these brands aren't real and I can't take them to greater heights through advertising. I want to be the bridge between a concept and a finished product, whether that be a billboard, commercial, or social media post. I also plan on going back to school after 1-2 years in my career to get my master's in graphic design or advertising because I want to continue learning how to perfect my craft. I want to explore new methods and stay on top of design trends, and being in a learning space with individuals who have the same mindset is where I thrive! In the long term, I want to move up from being a graphic designer to being the senior creative director of a team. The best way to be a leader is to be a follower first, so I’m confident that my time as a graphic designer will shape me well for a higher position. I look forward to gaining experience in leading projects and collaborating with talented individuals from different creative disciplines. Lastly, I want to open up a design school aimed at those who can’t afford an education at expensive universities. This aspiration is especially important to me because I believe dreams shouldn’t be suppressed because of things like lack of money and resources. I know what it’s like to worry if you’ll be able to make an impact because you may not have it all, but I want the generation that comes after me to have 10 times the resources I have. Education, in whatever form, is the key to success, and everyone should have equal access to it, regardless of their financial background.

I think there comes a time in every Black person’s life when you truly realize you are the minority. For some, it’s when they watch television and subtly pick up on the lack of melanated characters across multiple shows, or when the leaders in your industry seem to share a uniform look that doesn’t quite match yours. For me, it was when I was surveying which colleges to apply to. I am a creative, and my medium is graphic design. So, I needed schools that offered the best learning opportunities for me, and it wasn’t until I was making my list of prospects that I realized just how scarce my community is at these universities. This realization was jarring. As someone who has always been passionate about the arts, I had spent years honing my skills, but it became clear that finding a space where I could thrive as a Black creative was going to be more challenging than I had anticipated. This lack of representation in higher education and the arts speaks volumes about the barriers underrepresented communities face. It isn’t just about being physically present in a classroom. It's about being seen, heard, and supported in a system that was not designed with our needs in mind. At Florida Gulf Coast University, I plan to not only further my own creative journey but to begin building the foundation for a future where young Black creatives, regardless of their financial circumstances, have access to the tools and opportunities they deserve. One of my primary goals is to open a design school specifically for individuals who cannot afford the high costs of premium design software and equipment. I want to provide a space where these students can explore their potential without the burden of financial stress standing in their way. This is deeply personal to me because I understand what it’s like to worry about whether you’ll ever be able to make an impact simply because you lack resources. I know the feeling of having a dream but not the means to chase it, and I want the generation that follows me to have ten times the resources I had. Supporting underrepresented communities is important to me because I want those who look like me to know it is possible for them, no matter where they come from. It is also important because the idea that success is limited and must be earned at the expense of others is a mentality that has held many of us back for far too long. This belief, which is rooted in centuries of oppression, has made toxic competition within our communities, where people fear that someone else’s success means there’s less room for their own. But success is not a pie. It’s not finite. It grows when we work together. In the end, it’s not enough to just chase our own dreams. We must also work to make sure that others can chase theirs too. By lifting each other up, we all rise together. And that’s the kind of difference I want to make.