I am completing a Master of Social Work at SUNY Binghamton through their part-time online program, with an expected graduation in 2028. I am also pursuing a low-residency MFA in creative nonfiction. I currently hold a 3.9 GPA. Both programs are part-time because I live with chronic illness that does not allow me to work or study full-time. Both are necessary because the career I am building requires both sets of credentials.I am Christa Lei, a queer nonbinary disabled Filipine-American writer and graduate student living in New York City. I came to graduate school the long way around. I earned my BA in Psychology summa cum laude from DePaul University. I completed a post-baccalaureate pre-medicine certificate at Mills College in Oakland. I spent a decade as a clinical research coordinator at Columbia University Irving Medical Center, NYU Langone Health, and IQVIA, managing cancer trials, cardiology trials, and rare disease trials. That work taught me to translate between physicians and patients, to read scans, to advocate inside hospital systems that were not built for people like me. It also taught me that the people most affected by those systems were almost never the ones writing about them, treating in them, or designing them.That realization is what brought me to social work and to writing. I want to be on the patient's side of the table.My academic record reflects sustained effort across years and disciplines. Beyond the 3.9 GPA at Binghamton, I have completed certifications that support the clinical work I want to do. I am a certified end-of-life doula, trained twice through Going with Grace and Lifespan Doulas. I hold a Psychological First Aid certificate from the National Child Traumatic Stress Network. I completed a Code Foundations certificate from Codecademy in 2025 because my work increasingly intersects with digital accessibility. I speak intermediate-high Spanish and Dutch and intermediate Tagalog, which I am working to deepen.My extracurricular work has been the through-line of everything I do. I run You are Here Consulting LLC, a small business offering grief workshops, accessibility trainings, and writing coaching to QTBIPOC clients at sliding-scale rates. I have facilitated workshops at Southwest Love Fest, Midwest Love Fest, and the Queer Joy Summit on disability justice in relational spaces, accountability practices, and decolonized care. I volunteer with Vibrant Emotional Health's crisis emotional care team, taking calls from strangers having the worst night of their lives. I mentor with Q-Wave and APICHA Community Health Center. I volunteer-edit at 826NYC and 826CHI, working with kids whose stories deserve more attention than they have been given.My writing is the other half of my professional life. I am the Community Curator at Anodyne Magazine, the Creative Nonfiction Editor at Blood Tree Literature, and a Poetry and Nonfiction Prose Reader at Epiphany Literary Journal. I publish essays on chronic illness, medical neglect, grief, and queer embodiment in literary magazines including Vast Chasm Magazine, HerStry, Matador Network, Breadfruit Magazine, and The Seventh Wave anthology. My essay "Capturing a Real Live Black Hole in HD" was nominated for Best American Essays 2025. My byline has appeared in The New York Times. I have been a fellow at DISQUIET International Literary Program in Lisbon and the Southampton Writers Conference. I have been mentored by Esmé Weijun Wang in nonfiction and am working with Chloé Cooper Jones on a memoir manuscript that is about forty percent complete.I want to be honest about what kind of financial need I have, because I think honesty matters more than performance. I am not a student in financial crisis. My family has resources, and I am married to someone whose income is stable. What I am is a disabled person who has chosen a career path that does not pay well, in fields that punish people for prioritizing community work over commercial success. The only reason I can pursue an MSW and a low-residency MFA at the same time is because I am working continuously alongside my studies, in a body that is often telling me to stop. I have already received some scholarship funding. It is not enough to cover the travel costs of low-residency programs, which require multiple in-person intensives per year, often in cities that require flights, hotels, and meals on a graduate student timeline.The reason I am asking for support is not because I have no other options. It is because every dollar of outside funding is a dollar I do not have to earn during a flare-up, a dollar I do not have to take from work that I am paid badly for, a dollar that lets me protect my health while finishing the credentials that will let me serve communities that have far less than I do. The mental health field has a serious access problem. Most therapists who take insurance have waitlists six months long. Most queer and trans clients of color cannot afford private pay. After my MSW, I will pursue clinical licensure as an LCSW and open a sliding-scale practice in New York that takes Medicaid alongside private pay, so that the people who need this care most are not the ones priced out of it.I am worth the investment because I have been investing in this work, in some form, for over a decade. The privilege I was born into is exactly why I am responsible for using it to build infrastructure for people who were not. This scholarship would help me do that with less wear on a body that has already given up too much.

I am Christa Lei, a queer nonbinary disabled Filipine-American writer and social work graduate student in New York City. I am completing my Master of Social Work at SUNY Binghamton, expected graduation 2028, and I currently hold a 3.9 GPA. I live with chronic pelvic pain and dysautonomia. I was undiagnosed for nearly a decade. The leadership I practice now grew directly out of those years, and out of the realization that the people I needed when I was at my sickest almost never had titles either. What makes me a leader is that I stay. I stay in rooms most people leave. I sat with my dying clients as a certified end-of-life doula trained through Going with Grace and Lifespan Doulas. I sat with their families afterward, in the strange flat air after someone has gone. I sit on the phone now as a volunteer with Vibrant Emotional Health's crisis emotional care team, talking to strangers having the worst night of their lives. I do not fix anything in those calls. I stay on the line. I lead by building what I needed and could not find. I run You are Here Consulting LLC, a small business that offers grief workshops, accessibility trainings, and writing coaching at sliding-scale rates to QTBIPOC clients. I have facilitated workshops at Southwest Love Fest, Midwest Love Fest, and the Queer Joy Summit on disability justice in relational spaces, on accountability in polyamory, on decolonized care. I have edited more than a hundred medical school applications for students whose bodies and identities were never imagined inside the white coat. I mentor with Q-Wave and APICHA Community Health Center. I volunteer-edit at 826NYC and 826CHI, working with kids who have been told their stories do not matter. I lead through writing, which is its own form of staying. I publish essays on chronic illness, medical neglect, and grief in places like Vast Chasm Magazine, HerStry, Matador Network, and The Seventh Wave anthology. One was nominated for Best American Essays 2025. Every essay is a refusal to let what happened to me happen quietly. Other disabled and chronically ill readers find those pieces and write back. They tell me they showed the writing to their doctor, their family, their boss. They tell me they felt less alone. That is leadership too. It does not show up on a resume the way a title does, but it changes things. I lead because disability taught me how. Chronic illness strips away the version of leadership that depends on output, on overwork, on never showing weakness. What is left is the version that depends on attention, on follow-through, on caring more about the work than about being recognized for it. That is the leader my younger self needed. That is the leader I keep training to become. I will be the first social worker in my immediate family. I will be one of very few disabled queer Filipine-American clinicians in the field when I get there. I plan to use that position to keep building care infrastructure for the communities that raised me. The work is slow. The work is unfinished. I am staying with it anyway.

Working with a child who has a rare disorder begins with listening—even if they’re non-verbal. Communication is more than words; it’s gestures, sounds, rhythm, gaze, energy. One of the first things I would do is take time to observe how that child expresses preference, comfort, or distress. Before introducing goals or interventions, I would want to understand who they are and what lights them up—what brings them joy, what soothes them, what frustrates them. Children with rare disorders are often overlooked or misunderstood by systems that expect uniformity. I don’t believe in one-size-fits-all programming. I believe in building relationships first. That could look like integrating sensory tools, play-based communication, or AAC (augmentative and alternative communication) into daily routines. If a child communicates more with sound than sign, or responds to rhythm and music more than visual prompts, we work with that. I would collaborate with other professionals and the child’s support team to build a care plan that fits them, not the other way around. As a future social worker with a focus on disability justice and pediatric care, I’m interested in co-creating care—not forcing someone into a system that doesn’t fit, but adapting the system to match the person. This means validating all forms of communication. It means celebrating the child’s personality, even (especially) when it doesn’t conform to what we’ve been taught to expect. I would also advocate for interdisciplinary communication among educators, therapists, and caregivers so the child isn’t reduced to their file or diagnosis. Family is essential to all of this. No one understands a disabled child’s rhythms and signals more intimately than the people who’ve been by their side through it all. I would prioritize open dialogue with families—understanding not just their hopes and challenges, but their routines, cultural values, and the kind of support that feels truly helpful to them. I see families as co-educators, co-strategists, and sources of vital knowledge. Their insights would guide any care plan I helped develop. When you work with a child like Rebecca, the goal isn’t just to teach—it’s to connect. It’s to build trust, spark curiosity, and create a space where they feel safe enough to thrive. Every child wants to be seen. My role is to make sure they are—through care that’s flexible, joyful, and rooted in real understanding. That understanding doesn’t come from textbooks alone. It comes from being present. From slowing down. From trial and error, and from trusting that every child has a language, even if we haven’t learned how to speak it yet. I believe in showing up with humility, humor, and patience. That’s how real connection begins—and how learning becomes possible.

I’ve never seen service as something separate from the rest of life. For me, it’s baked into the way I move through the world. I give back because I know what it feels like to be left behind. I know what it means to fall through the cracks, to go unheard, to need help and not know where to turn. So I do what I can, where I can, even when no one’s watching. I’ve worked in nonprofit settings, hospitals, research centers, and community spaces that didn’t always have a formal name. As a clinical researcher, I advocated for participants—especially those who were disabled, undocumented, or marginalized—to be treated with care, not suspicion. As a death doula, I’ve held vigil with people who had no family. I’ve sat with folks as they took their last breath, and helped strangers plan funerals, vigils, and end-of-life documents when no one else stepped in. I didn’t do this for a title. I did it because I could, and because someone needed to. During the early years of the pandemic, I became a full-time caregiver to a loved one with severe health needs. I managed their medications, coordinated their care team, and held both of us together through periods of collapse. At the same time, I was helping friends navigate housing instability, editing essays for first-gen college applicants, and organizing mutual aid for disabled and chronically ill folks who couldn’t safely leave home. These acts weren’t grand. They were daily. But they added up. I also lead grief workshops, support accessible relationship education, and create spaces where disabled, queer, and BIPOC communities can gather without having to explain ourselves first. I don’t see care as a one-time offering. It’s ongoing. It takes energy, intention, and a refusal to look away when things get hard. Now, as a graduate student in social work, I’m continuing this work in new ways—with more structure and long-term vision. I plan to work in community health and mental health access, especially for those failed by traditional institutions: disabled people, immigrants, queer and trans survivors. I want to help build sustainable, culturally safe care models that don’t rely on emergency room visits or endless paperwork to qualify for help. Systems shouldn’t require people to break before offering support. I give back because I believe it’s possible to build a different kind of world. I just need help staying resourced while I do it.

Being diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes at 20 was a moment of reckoning. After years of being told I was “borderline,” that my labs were “something to watch,” the reality of a chronic diagnosis hit hard. Suddenly, my body became something to manage, something medicalized, something that demanded constant attention. What people don’t talk about enough is the grief of chronic illness—the way it reshapes your identity, your relationships, your daily life. The mental toll is just as heavy as the physical one, but too often, healthcare treats them as separate things. They aren’t. This understanding is why I am pursuing a Master of Social Work (MSW). My goal is to help others struggling with chronic autoimmune conditions—particularly those navigating new diagnoses—by addressing the mental and emotional weight of these illnesses alongside the physical. Chronic disease is more than a set of lab values or medications; it is an ongoing, life-altering experience that requires care beyond prescriptions. Depression, anxiety, and medical trauma are deeply intertwined with illness, yet they remain secondary concerns in most treatment plans. I want to change that by working at the intersection of healthcare and social work, ensuring that mental health support is not an afterthought but an essential part of chronic disease management. I know firsthand how overwhelming it is to receive a diagnosis that fundamentally shifts the way you move through the world. I remember the shame, the isolation, the frustration of being told to “just change my lifestyle” as if that were an easy, one-step solution. I remember how little guidance was offered outside of diet changes and medication adjustments—no one prepared me for the emotional labor of being chronically ill. I want to be the kind of support that I wish I had at that time: someone who understands the mental exhaustion of constant symptom management, the weight of navigating an often-fatphobic and ableist medical system, and the difficulty of advocating for yourself when you’re already so tired. In my professional career, I have worked extensively in patient advocacy, healthcare consulting, and community-based care. I have seen how social determinants—race, gender, disability, class—impact access to treatment, and how medical professionals often overlook or dismiss the concerns of those most affected by chronic conditions. As a social worker, I plan to provide trauma-informed, accessible, and culturally competent care that prioritizes the lived experiences of those with chronic illnesses. Whether through direct counseling, support groups, or policy advocacy, my mission is to ensure that no one feels as lost or unsupported as I once did. Earning this scholarship would alleviate financial barriers and allow me to focus fully on my education and fieldwork. It would provide the support I need to gain the credentials necessary to integrate mental health services into chronic illness care, bridging the gap between medical and emotional support systems. More than that, it would affirm the importance of lived experience in shaping the future of healthcare. I know what it is like to feel powerless in the face of a diagnosis. But I also know that healing—both mental and physical—requires care, patience, and community. With this scholarship, I will continue my work in making chronic illness care more holistic, compassionate, and accessible for those who need it most.

Disability is often framed as an obstacle—something to overcome, to push through, to be made invisible. But my experience with disability has shown me that it is not something to conquer; rather, it is a way of moving through the world that demands adaptation, creativity, and, most importantly, community. Living with a chronic condition has shaped every part of my life—my beliefs, my relationships, and my career aspirations. It has made me intimately familiar with systemic failures, from inaccessible healthcare to social services that prioritize efficiency over human dignity. At the same time, it has connected me to disability justice frameworks that center collective care, interdependence, and radical accessibility. I have built my career around these principles. As a consultant, patient advocate, and educator, I work to address the gaps in care that disproportionately impact disabled, chronically ill, and marginalized communities. I have led workshops on crisis planning, medical self-advocacy, and decolonized models of community care, ensuring that disabled voices are not just included but prioritized in conversations about policy and social change. My leadership has extended to organizing community events focused on accessible healthcare navigation, including a partnership with local organizations to provide free STI/HIV testing and trans-affirming care. In these spaces, I have seen firsthand how disability is not just a medical designation but a political identity—one that requires ongoing resistance against systems that were never built for us. My relationships have also been shaped by this understanding. Disability has taught me the value of interdependence, of asking for help and showing up for others in ways that challenge individualistic, capitalist notions of worth. In my personal life, I prioritize relationships that honor care as a reciprocal act, whether that means coordinating mutual aid efforts, checking in on friends during flare-ups, or redefining success outside of productivity. This perspective deeply informs my career aspirations. I am committed to work that acknowledges the structural nature of disability discrimination and seeks to dismantle it, rather than forcing individuals to navigate an inherently ableist system alone. This is why I am pursuing a Master of Social Work (MSW). My goal is to bridge the micro-level work of direct support with macro-level policy advocacy, ensuring that disabled individuals—especially QTBIPOC and low-income communities—have access to the resources they need to survive and thrive. I want to continue leading efforts to integrate disability justice into social work, healthcare, and public policy, using my lived experience as both a guide and a source of expertise. An MSW will give me the credentials and institutional backing to push for change in spaces that often exclude disabled voices, while also expanding my ability to provide direct care and support. Earning this scholarship would help alleviate the financial barriers that often prevent disabled individuals from accessing higher education. It would allow me to focus on my studies without compromising my health or sacrificing the community work that is essential to my mission. More than that, it would serve as a recognition that disabled leadership is valuable, that our experiences are not just challenges to be overcome but sources of knowledge and innovation. My work is rooted in the belief that no one should have to fight alone for the care they deserve. With this support, I will continue to ensure that disability justice is not an afterthought, but a central tenet of my career, my leadership, and the future I am working to build.

My experiences navigating chronic illnesses such as endometriosis, adenomyosis, diabetes, and NASH (non-alcoholic fatty liver disease), alongside mental health challenges like ADHD, anxiety, hypochondria, and panic attacks, have taught me that wellness is not a luxury but a necessity. For me, prioritizing health is a radical act of self-preservation in a world that often makes people like me feel invisible. It’s a way of reclaiming my body and mind as valuable, even when societal pressures and systemic barriers suggest otherwise. Wellness allows me to show up for the work I care about most—creating resources and spaces for QTBIPOC (queer, trans, Black, Indigenous, people of color) individuals to feel seen, supported, and empowered. Whether through writing my memoir on navigating chronic illness and queerness, or facilitating workshops on crisis planning, grief transitions, and mutual care, my ability to care for others is directly tied to my ability to care for myself. However, maintaining wellness as a student and community organizer comes with its challenges. As someone managing chronic pain and fatigue, I often have to navigate healthcare systems that are riddled with inequities, especially for LGBTQ+ and BIPOC individuals. Finding providers who understand the intersections of my identity and health needs can feel like a full-time job. Beyond access, the financial burden of regular medical appointments, therapies, and medications is a constant stressor, especially as someone who is often under-resourced. Balancing academic and creative work with these health needs is another layer of complexity. The expectations of productivity within academia and society often conflict with the slower pace my body requires. On days when chronic pain flares or mental health challenges feel overwhelming, it can be difficult to meet deadlines or even take care of basic needs. The guilt of “falling behind” can compound existing stress, making it even harder to prioritize wellness. The stigma surrounding mental health in both academic and personal spaces also creates barriers. While I’m open about my struggles with anxiety and panic attacks, I’ve often encountered skepticism or dismissal when explaining how these conditions impact my work. This can make advocating for accommodations an exhausting and disheartening process. Despite these challenges, I remain committed to prioritizing wellness. My approach includes regular therapy, somatic check-ins, and mindfulness practices such as meditation. I’ve learned to set boundaries that protect my time and energy, resist the societal pressure to overwork, and embrace rest as a radical act. I also find immense joy and grounding through slow, intentional practices like taking gentle walks with my dogs or greeting the flora and fauna in my neighborhood—small acts of connection that remind me to be present in my body and the world around me. As an LGBTQ+ individual, I know that wellness is deeply tied to advocacy. I aim to model for my peers what it means to center health as a form of resistance against systems that devalue our lives. By pursuing my own wellness, I’m better equipped to advocate for inclusive healthcare and create resources that help others do the same. This scholarship would allow me to continue managing my mental and physical health while pursuing the work I’m passionate about, ensuring that I can keep building spaces where wellness and care are accessible to all.

In many ways, my life has been defined by the challenges I’ve faced and the ways I’ve learned to live through them—not just survive, but live with intention, care, and community. As someone who has navigated ADHD, anxiety, hypochondria, panic attacks, and alcoholism, I understand the depth of what it means to fight battles that no one else can see. These experiences shaped not only who I am but also how I approach my academic and personal goals. They’ve taught me resilience, self-awareness, and the value of choosing to show up for myself every day, even when it feels impossibly hard. During my undergraduate years, I used alcohol as a way to cope with the overwhelming pressures of life and school. It became a way to numb the anxiety and silence the voice of perfectionism that never seemed satisfied. But what began as a coping mechanism spiraled into something far more destructive. Eventually, I was diagnosed with fatty liver disease and type 2 diabetes, health conditions that forced me to confront the damage I was doing to my body. The choice was stark: continue on this path and risk losing my health entirely, or stop and begin the long, messy work of recovery. Sobriety wasn’t easy. It required unlearning the habits I’d built to shield myself from pain and replacing them with healthier, more sustainable ways of coping. Therapy became a cornerstone of my recovery, helping me address the root causes of my mental health challenges and substance use. I also began incorporating mindfulness practices into my daily routine, including meditation and somatic check-ins, which grounded me in the present moment and helped me build a more compassionate relationship with my body. Recovery, for me, became about more than just abstaining from alcohol—it became about learning how to live fully and authentically, even when life feels uncertain or overwhelming. These experiences deeply inform my academic goals. I am currently pursuing work that centers QTBIPOC (queer, trans, Black, Indigenous, people of color) individuals, particularly those navigating chronic illness, disability, and mental health challenges. My goal is to write a memoir and book of essays about my own journey, using storytelling as a tool to empower others to reclaim their narratives. Through my writing, I want to provide a roadmap for those who feel like their identities and experiences make them invisible, showing that it’s possible to carve out space for ourselves even in systems that often work against us. In addition to writing, I am committed to expanding the workshops I currently facilitate on topics like crisis planning, grief transitions, and access needs. These workshops provide practical tools for resource-building and self-advocacy, particularly for those in marginalized communities. My vision is to create a digital library of accessible resources that can serve as a lifeline for individuals navigating similar struggles. Recovery remains an ongoing process. I manage my mental health through a combination of therapy, mindfulness practices, and setting boundaries that protect my time and energy. I’ve learned to prioritize rest and slowness, resisting the societal pressure to always be productive. Instead, I measure success by how present I can be—for myself, for my loved ones, and for the communities I serve. I also stay deeply connected to my support system, which includes friends, chosen family, and mentors who remind me that it’s okay to ask for help. Ella’s story resonates with me because it reflects the kind of fighting spirit I see in myself and in the people I work with. Her determination to “do better” mirrors my own commitment to continue growing—not just academically but as a person who believes in the transformative power of care, both for ourselves and for each other. This scholarship would allow me to further my goals by supporting my writing and workshops, providing me with the resources I need to continue my recovery while giving back to others. My journey has taught me that resilience isn’t about never falling—it’s about getting back up, again and again, no matter how hard it feels. It’s about holding space for growth, even when it’s uncomfortable or slow. And it’s about learning to carry both joy and pain in the same hands, knowing that neither defines us entirely but both shape who we are. Thank you for considering my story and for honoring Ella’s legacy by supporting those of us who are still fighting to live fully, fiercely, and authentically.

My name is Christa Lei, and I’m a writer, educator, and community organizer deeply invested in creating resources and narratives that empower QTBIPOC (queer, trans, Black, Indigenous, people of color) individuals. My goal is to write a memoir and collection of essays that explore the intersections of chronic illness, queerness, and community care, while simultaneously expanding my workshops to provide accessible tools for resource-building and mutual care. These projects are about showing that, even in the face of systemic oppression and limited resources, we can create meaningful, sustainable lives. My Goals My primary goal is to complete and publish a memoir and book of essays that document my experiences living with endometriosis, adenomyosis, diabetes, and chronic pain as a QTBIPOC individual. This work will not only share my personal journey but also serve as a guidepost for others navigating similar challenges. Alongside this, I aim to build a digital resource library for QTBIPOC individuals, offering workshops and materials on crisis planning, pod mapping, and grief transitions. These resources will help others develop tools for navigating access needs and building support systems, especially within communities that often face systemic barriers. The Plan I’ve adopted Joe Gilroy’s philosophy of "Plan Your Work, Work Your Plan," breaking my goals into actionable steps with clear timelines and resources: Writing the Memoir and Essays: Timeline: I plan to complete a first draft within 12 months, dedicating consistent weekly blocks to writing. Resources: Writing software (Scrivener), mentorship sessions with experienced authors, and sensitivity readers to ensure my work resonates with the communities I aim to serve. Metrics: Monthly word count goals, biannual writing workshop participation, and a completed manuscript draft by the end of next year. Expanding Workshops and Building a Resource Library: Timeline: Over the next six months, I’ll update my existing workshop materials and create new ones tailored for QTBIPOC audiences. Within 12 months, I aim to launch a virtual library offering downloadable resources, such as templates for crisis planning and accessibility guides. Resources: Collaboration with other educators, virtual platforms (Zoom, Canva), and tools like Trello for project management. Metrics: Attendance tracking for workshops, participant feedback surveys, and the successful publication of at least five digital resources in the library. Financial Planning: This scholarship would directly support the writing process by funding mentorship, software, and time to focus on my craft. For workshops, the funding will cover materials development and platform fees. These funds will allow me to dedicate energy to both projects without overextending myself or compromising my health. Experience and Vision: My background equips me to execute this plan effectively. I’ve worked as a consultant and educator, organizing workshops on topics such as crisis care and grief transition. I’ve also written professionally, editing academic and creative content with a focus on clarity and narrative impact. My lived experience as a disabled, queer person of color informs every aspect of my work, grounding my projects in authenticity and a deep understanding of my community’s needs. Paths to Success Success for me means creating resources and stories that make QTBIPOC individuals feel seen, supported, and capable of advocating for themselves. With a structured plan and the financial support of this scholarship, I can transform these goals into tangible outcomes that align with Joe Gilroy’s legacy of hard work, careful planning, and dedication to making a difference.

My name is Christa Lei (they/them) and I am a queer, disabled, non-binary second-generation Filipino-American who believes in the power of storytelling and community care. My life is shaped by the intersections of my identity, and my passion lies in creating spaces where LGBTQIA+ individuals can feel seen, heard, and supported. As someone who navigates the world with endometriosis, adenomyosis, diabetes, and chronic pain, I’ve learned firsthand how creativity and connection can be lifelines. I’ve built my life around this belief—cultivating resources, facilitating workshops, and writing my truth in the hope of helping others discover their own. Coco’s legacy speaks to me. Her vibrant spirit and advocacy mirror my own goals: to build a world where queer and trans people, especially those of color, can thrive despite systemic barriers. If awarded this scholarship, I would use the funding to continue this work by investing in my memoir, a book that intertwines personal narrative with community resilience. This project is as much about me as it as about those like me: Those who feel their stories are too messy, their pain too great, or their resources too limited to make an impact. Through my writing, I want to show that even in the face of chronic illness, marginalization, and resistance, we can still create beauty, find joy, and build collective care. In addition to writing, I would use the funding to expand my workshops, which focus on navigating hard things—crisis planning, access check-ins, and grief transitions. These workshops are designed to empower QTBIPOC individuals with tools for self-advocacy and mutual aid. These offerings are inspired by my own experiences navigating healthcare and community care as a disabled queer person. My dream is to cultivate a library of resources that can live beyond me—guides, templates, and creative prompts that help others build the kind of support systems Coco championed. As a queer person, my identity has profoundly shaped my goals and dreams. Being part of the LGBTQIA+ community has taught me resilience in the face of systems designed to erase. I've been given the gift of chosen family, a collective determination to create safety where none exists, and an unshakable commitment to joy as resistance. This scholarship would not only honor Coco’s legacy but also allow me to carry it forward in my own way—through storytelling, resource-building, and holding space for others to feel seen and valued. Like Coco, I want to leave a mark that reminds people of their worth and shows them that even in the face of pain, there is power in creating. Together, we can carry her light forward, ensuring that her spirit continues to shine in every safe space we build, every story we tell, and every connection we nurture.