I didn’t grow up coding. I got interested in computer science by accident, through a problem I couldn’t ignore. While volunteering at a local aid desk, I kept seeing people get stuck in loops: they needed an ID to access services, but needed an address to get an ID, and needed services to get an address. Information about help existed, but it lived in outdated PDFs, Facebook posts, and word-of-mouth. I started with a spreadsheet to track resources. Then I taught myself HTML and CSS to turn it into a simple website with filters for hours, requirements, and location. The first time someone used it to find a meal and a warming center before close, something clicked. Code wasn’t just syntax. It was leverage. One small tool could answer the same question for hundreds of people, without making them retell their story each time. That’s when I decided to pursue a computer science degree, to learn how to build systems that remove friction from people’s lives. My goal after graduating is to work in civic or public interest technology. I want to design and maintain digital services for government and nonprofits: benefits applications that work on prepaid phones, intake systems that don’t re-traumatize users, databases that handle chosen names correctly, and data pipelines that show where services aren’t reaching. My dream job is on a product team for a city or state digital service group, shipping tools that are boring, reliable, and accessible. Success for me looks like fewer dropped applications, shorter wait times, and services that work the first time for the people who have the least room for error. I believe I’m the best candidate for this scholarship because I’m already doing the work, and I’m committed to doing it at scale. I’m not just interested in tech in the abstract. I’ve spent two years maintaining a live resource finder that people depend on. I’ve learned to write code, but also to test with screen readers, to verify information weekly, and to take feedback from users who don’t have time for bugs. That experience taught me three things scholarships can’t teach but can support: persistence, user empathy, and the discipline to maintain something after the “fun” building part is over. Financially, this scholarship would let me reduce work hours and take courses in databases, human computer interaction, and security that directly apply to public interest projects. Without it, I’ll still finish, but slower, and with less time to contribute to the kinds of tools I want to build. With it, I can go all in on the skills that make government services work better. Computer science gave me a way to turn frustration into function. This scholarship would help me turn that function into a career spent making systems fairer, simpler, and more humane. I’m ready to put in the work, and I’ve already started.

The project that pulled me in the most was building a community resource finder, a simple web tool that helps people locate free meals, warming centers, ID replacement services, and public restrooms in my city. It started as a spreadsheet I kept for myself. I was volunteering at a local aid desk and noticed the same questions coming up every day: “Where can I get a new ID?” “Is there a place open after 6 p.m.?” “Which shelters allow pets?” Answers were scattered across PDFs, Facebook posts, and word of mouth. If you didn’t already know where to look, you were out of luck. I’m not a professional developer. I started with basic HTML and CSS, then taught myself enough JavaScript to make the list searchable and filterable by hours, location, and requirements. The first version was ugly. Buttons didn’t line up, the map lagged on phones, and I had to manually update hours every week. But people used it. The first time I watched someone at the aid desk pull it up on their phone, filter for “open now” and “no ID required,” and walk out with a plan, I understood why technology hooks me: it scales help. One small tool can do the work of a hundred repeated conversations. I got obsessed with the details because the details mattered. I added a “last verified” timestamp so users could trust the info. I built a simple form so outreach workers could submit updates without emailing me. I learned about accessibility the hard way when a screen reader couldn’t parse my original layout, so I rebuilt it with semantic HTML and proper labels. Each fix wasn’t just code. It was one less barrier between a person and a meal, a shower, or a safe place to sleep. That project changed how I see technology. It’s not just apps and startups. It’s leverage. A well designed form can save someone from explaining their situation three times. A database that syncs chosen names to IDs can prevent a humiliating interaction at a clinic. An automated text reminder can keep a housing application from being rejected for a missed deadline. Technology, at its best, removes friction from people’s lives. It takes the burden off the individual and puts it on the system, where it belongs. Working in technology inspires me because it combines two things I care about: building and fairness. I like making things that work. I like the moment when a bug is fixed and a feature clicks into place. But I’m more motivated by what that working thing does for someone else. You ship an update, and suddenly the map loads faster on a prepaid phone. You simplify a form, and more applications get completed. You automate a check, and fewer people fall through the cracks. My plan is to keep building in that direction. I’m studying information systems and public interest tech because I want to work where code meets community needs, as well as civic tech, nonprofit platforms, government digital services. I’m drawn to problems that are unglamorous but high impact: making benefit applications mobile friendly, designing intake systems that don’t re-traumatize people, using data to find where services aren’t reaching. I want to help build things that may be boring, but are reliable and useful. Technology inspires me because it gives me a way to turn frustration into function, and function into access. When the system works better, people have more time and energy for everything else. That’s the kind of impact I want to spend my time on.

My understanding of activism used to be limited to headlines and hashtags. I supported LGBTQIA+ rights, voted accordingly, and figured that was enough. That changed when I started volunteering at a local community center that offers free ID and document assistance. The work was straightforward: help people update paperwork, replace lost records, and navigate public systems. It was there that I saw how policy and design decisions play out in daily life for LGBTQIA+ people, and how much friction exists in places most of us never notice. The first thing I noticed was forms. Nearly every city, state, and healthcare form defaulted to a binary gender field with no option to decline. Legal name versus chosen name was another gap. If the two didn’t match, the process stalled. I watched people get misgendered by automated systems, turned away because an ID photo didn’t “match” anymore, or forced to explain private medical history just to correct a document. None of it was theoretical. It was hours lost, appointments missed, and dignity chipped away in waiting rooms and at service counters. That experience affected me because it exposed the distance between my values and my awareness. I had to confront the fact that I moved through those same systems easily. My ID matched my presentation, my name matched my paperwork, and no one questioned it. Recognizing that difference didn’t give me guilt. It gave me responsibility. If I could navigate those systems without friction, I had capacity to help change them. So I shifted how I define activism. I started with the unglamorous work: auditing public forms used by the city and county, comparing them to best practices from advocacy organizations, and writing short memos for the center’s director to use in meetings with local agencies. I learned how municipal databases store identity fields, why “legal name” and “display name” need to be separate, and how a single checkbox for “decline to state” reduces unnecessary disclosures. I helped map which public buildings had all-gender restrooms and which didn’t, because access isn’t just about law, it’s about infrastructure. That work reshaped my future plans. I’m now pursuing a career in public administration and operations, specifically focused on service design for government and nonprofits. My goal is to be in the rooms where forms are created, where software is procured, and where “default settings” are decided. I want to build systems that don’t require people to self-advocate just to be recognized. That means pushing for data standards that include nonbinary options, training that’s built into staff onboarding rather than treated as optional, and budget proposals that fund practical changes like updated intake software and facility signage. Being affected by LGBTQIA+ experiences taught me that activism isn’t only about visibility. It’s about removal of barriers. It’s about making sure a person can renew a driver’s license, access healthcare, or apply for housing without having to educate every clerk they meet. The most lasting change I can make won’t be on a poster. It will be in the backend of a database, the layout of a form, and the policies that let people live without having to fight for basic recognition. That’s the work I’m committing to. It’s quiet, technical, and slow. It’s also where I can have the most impact, because systems touch everyone. My activism now lives in process improvement, plain language, and inclusive design, so that the next person who walks into that community center spends less time explaining and more time living.

I didn’t have the words for it in high school. I just knew some days felt heavier than others. Getting out of bed was a negotiation, deadlines felt like walls, and the smallest criticism echoed for days. I thought I was “bad at stress” while everyone else seemed to be handling AP classes, part-time jobs, and college applications without falling apart. It wasn’t until my sophomore year of college, after a semester where my grades slipped and I stopped answering texts, that I learned the name for what I was carrying: anxiety and depression. The impact on my education was immediate and practical. I missed classes not because I didn’t care, but because my brain told me I’d failed before I even walked in. I’d stare at a blank document for three hours, convinced anything I wrote would be wrong. I turned in work late, then avoided email because I was ashamed. For a while I thought I wasn’t “cut out” for school. The truth was, I was trying to do college without any tools for my mental health, like trying to run a marathon with a sprained ankle and wondering why I kept falling behind. Two things changed the trajectory. First, I reached out to the campus counseling center after a professor I trusted noticed I’d gone quiet and sent a simple email: “You missed the last two labs. Are you okay? Let’s talk.” That one check-in broke through the idea that I had to hide it. Second, I started treatment. Therapy gave me language for what was happening, and small, concrete strategies: breaking assignments into 25-minute chunks, emailing professors before I spiraled instead of after, using campus accommodations so a bad week didn’t tank my whole GPA. The shift wasn’t instant, but it was measurable. I went from avoiding group projects because I was terrified of letting people down, to actually leading one, because I could now tell my team, “I might need to step away if I get overwhelmed, but I’ll communicate and I will get my part done.” I learned to separate my worth from my productivity. My grades recovered, but more importantly, I stopped seeing myself as a problem to be solved. That experience now shapes how I move through school and how I want to show up for others. I became a peer mentor in our student wellness program. I don’t give advice; I listen, I share resources, and I tell new students where the quiet study rooms are and how to book a counseling appointment without having to call. I’ve learned that a lot of people are carrying something invisible, and the smallest acknowledgment can interrupt the isolation. In the future, I want to work in higher ed administration or HR, building systems that assume mental health is part of the equation, not an exception. That means clear absence policies, training for faculty on how to respond when a student disappears, and normalizing accommodations the way we normalize office hours. My goal isn’t to be the “inspirational story.” It’s to help remove the barriers I ran into, so the next student doesn’t have to lose a semester before they get support. Mental health impacted my education by slowing me down, but it also taught me to build a pace I can actually sustain. It forced me to ask for help, and in doing that, I found out how many people are willing to give it. That’s the lesson I carry forward: none of us does this alone, and we shouldn’t have to.

Growing up in a single parent household didn’t just shape my schedule or my budget. It shaped the way I approach education, responsibility, and community. With only one adult at home, I learned early that time, money, and energy are finite resources. That reality pushed me to become self reliant, but it also showed me how much a strong support system matters. Both of those lessons have defined my educational journey and now guide how I want to give back. In practical terms, a single parent home meant I had to grow up fast. My parent worked long shifts, so I became the one making sure homework was done, dinner was started, and younger siblings were helped with reading. At first, that felt like a burden. I missed after-school clubs because I had to be home. I did assignments at the kitchen table while timing laundry loads. But over time, those responsibilities built skills I now rely on in school: time management, prioritization, and problem solving without someone standing over my shoulder. When a professor assigns a big project with little direction, I don’t panic. I break it down, set mini deadlines, and execute. That habit came from years of figuring things out because I had to. At the same time, I wouldn’t be where I am without community support. Teachers who stayed after class to explain a concept, a neighbor who drove me to after school programs when my parent couldn’t get off work, and nonprofit programs that provided free school supplies all filled gaps a single income couldn’t cover. Those acts showed me that “giving back” isn’t abstract. It’s specific, local, and often quiet. It’s one person making it easier for the next person to keep going. That’s the model I plan to follow. In the near term, I want to volunteer with after school programs that offer homework help and meals, because I know what it means to try to study while hungry or distracted. I’ve already started tutoring middle school students in math and writing, and I see how much it helps when someone just sits down and says, “Let’s work through this together.” Longer term, my career goal is to work in business operations or nonprofit management. I want to help organizations run efficiently so they can direct more resources to families like mine. Whether that’s streamlining a food bank’s inventory system or writing grants that fund scholarships for kids from single parent homes, I want my skill set to remove barriers. Coming from a single parent household taught me resilience, but it also taught me independence. I learned to carry my own weight, and I learned to accept help without shame. My education has been shaped by the discipline of doing it myself and by the generosity of people who stepped in. Giving back, for me, means becoming that person for someone else. If I can lighten a student’s load, simplify a process for a struggling family, or create one more opportunity that didn’t exist before, then the challenges my family faced will have served a larger purpose. That’s the return I want my education to deliver, not just for me, but for my community.

A good education is more than a diploma. It’s a set of tools that lets you see a problem clearly and do something about it. I’m pursuing a degree in computer science because I want to build tools that give people back the one thing none of us can make more of: time. The project I want to build is called CommunityQueue. It’s a simple, free scheduling and resource matching platform for small nonprofits, after school programs, and mutual aid groups. Right now, many of these organizations run on paper sign-ups, text threads, and one overworked volunteer with a spreadsheet. A kid misses tutoring because a slot got double booked. A food pantry runs out of volunteers on Saturday because no one saw the gap. These aren’t technology problems, but technology can solve them. CommunityQueue would let an organization post what it needs volunteers, donations, space and let community members claim a slot from their phone in under a minute. It would send automatic reminders, track who showed up, and generate basic reports so groups can show funders exactly how they helped. No ads, no data selling, no complex setup. If you can use a calendar, you can use it. This idea comes from watching my neighborhood try to take care of each other. My younger cousin’s literacy program almost shut down last year because the coordinator burned out juggling emails and no shows. I helped move their sign ups to a free form, and attendance jumped 40% in a month. That wasn’t magic. It was five fewer clicks for a parent getting off a bus at 6 p.m. I realized that “user friendly” isn’t a feature. For busy families, it’s the whole product. For me, this scholarship eases the debt that comes with choosing a public interest path. Building for nonprofits won’t make me rich, but it will let me work on problems I actually see. My education is giving me algorithms, databases, and security fundamentals. I want to use them to make sure a single mom doesn’t have to re-enter her information three times to get help, or a student doesn’t lose a mentor because scheduling broke. For my community, CommunityQueue means more tutoring sessions happen, more meals get packed, and more volunteers keep showing up because the system respects their time. If we can remove the administrative friction from helping, more people will help. That’s the change I want to create: not a new app for its own sake, but fewer empty chairs in rooms where people are trying to learn, eat, and be safe. Education opened this window for me. With support, I’ll use it to hold the window open for others. That’s what I plan to build, and that’s how I hope to pay it back.

I didn’t grow up in a library, but I might as well have. The first room I’d run to after school was the one with the torn spine of Charlotte’s Web and the smell of old paper. I wasn’t looking for quiet. I was looking for proof that other people had felt what I felt before I had words for it. Barbara spent her life giving young readers that same proof, and it’s why this scholarship named for her matters to me. The books I’ve read didn’t just entertain me. They told me who I wanted to become and what kind of work is worth a lifetime. From The House on Mango Street, I learned that stories belong to everyone, not just the people who already see themselves on shelves. Esperanza’s small, sharp observations taught me that a single sentence can carry a whole neighborhood. That book is the reason I started volunteering at my city’s library literacy program. Every Saturday, I sit with kids who are convinced they’re “bad at reading” because they stumble over words. I think of Esperanza, and we read out loud together. We laugh at the hard words. We write our own one-sentence stories about our blocks, our families, our dogs. The goal isn’t perfect fluency. It’s showing them that their lives are worth recording. Barbara knew that. A library isn’t a warehouse for books. It’s a place where readers become writers. The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin taught me something else: access is everything. Le Guin’s physicist lives on a planet with no private property, and the whole novel wrestles with what people do when knowledge isn’t locked behind cost or status. I read it right when I was deciding whether to apply for college as a first-generation student. Tuition numbers felt like a locked door. But Le Guin’s world insisted that ideas should be common ground. That’s what a public library is. It’s the only place in a city where you don’t need a reason, a purchase, or permission to belong. Barbara devoted her career to that idea. Because of her, and librarians like her, I had free SAT prep books, a printer for scholarship essays, and a librarian who showed me how to request interlibrary loans when our branch didn’t have the title I needed. My goal now is to do that for someone else. I’m studying information science because I want to become a librarian who makes sure no kid thinks knowledge is “not for them.” Barbara loved books by being surrounded by them, but she made a difference by putting them into kids’ hands. The books I’ve read taught me that stories create witnesses, that access creates equity, and that knowledge creates responsibility. They shaped my goal into something simple: become the person in the library who notices when a kid lingers by the graphic novels, unsure if they’re allowed to sit and read without checking anything out. I want to be the one who says, “Stay as long as you want. These are yours too.”

My understanding of women’s empowerment started with community meals. Through a local non-profit’s outreach program, I began coordinating monthly dinners for women transitioning out of shelters. At first my role was simple: set up tables, portion food, and listen. But I noticed the same pattern every month. The women would help each other with job applications, share childcare tips, and pass along leads for housing. They didn’t need someone to “rescue” them. They needed a space where their resourcefulness was recognized. So I worked with the non-profit to expand those dinners into skill-share workshops. We brought in volunteers to review resumes, explain tenant rights, and host budgeting circles led by women from the neighborhood. I wasn’t the expert in the room. My effect was building the room itself. That experience shaped how I approach empowerment through my ongoing volunteer work with a community mutual aid collective. Many of the women we support are balancing work, caregiving, and the pressure to be “the strong one” at home. The biggest barrier isn’t ambition, it’s isolation. I helped organize a resource exchange where we share professional clothing, swap tips on navigating city services, and cover each other’s needs during tough weeks. Last winter, a member told the group she was going to lose her apartment because she couldn’t cover a utility deposit after a layoff. Five other women pooled together funds and resources so she could stay housed. She’s now in a stable job and mentors new members. Empowerment, I’ve learned, happens when we replace “you should be stronger” with “let me hold this with you.” Charlene K. Howard spent her career opening doors in education because she knew what a difference one open door makes. I try to honor that by doing the same in every space I enter. I don’t measure my impact by how many people I’ve led. I measure it by how many women felt safe enough to lead themselves after we worked together. My non-profit time has taught me that empowerment isn’t a speech or a title. It’s answering the text at 11 p.m. that says “I don’t think I can do this,” and helping find a way anyway. It’s making sure the next woman who walks in doesn’t have to start from scratch. If Ms. Howard’s legacy is proof that education changes trajectories, then my role is to make sure no one has to walk that new path alone.

Taylor Swift’s twelfth studio album, “The Life of A Showgirl,” celebrates what it means to live your life under the glare of stadium lights. So it feels fitting that the performance I find most moving is one where she deliberately turned the lights down. On November 11, 2021, Taylor played “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” on Saturday Night Live. That performance didn’t have Eras Tour fireworks or a 16-piece band. It was just her, a guitar, and ten minutes of unfiltered storytelling. And it wrecked me in the best way. Watching her on SNL, she wasn’t performing at us, she was confessing with us. The camera stayed tight on her face. No dancers, no costume changes, no stadium to hide behind. When she sang “you kept me like a secret, but I kept you like an oath,” her voice cracked, and she didn’t try to cover it. That crack was the whole point. For years, the original five-minute version had been the track Swifties begged for. We thought we wanted it because it was a lost epic. But watching her finally give it to us, I realized we wanted it because we needed permission to grieve the details. The ones that don’t fit into a radio edit. The scarf on the drawer. The refrigerator light. The things that feel too small to mourn, until someone else says them out loud. That performance mattered because it redefined what strength could look like for me. Before that night, I thought moving on meant minimizing. If I admitted how much the small memories hurt, maybe I was being dramatic. But Taylor sat on that SNL stage and treated every line like it deserved to be remembered. She didn’t speed through the bridge. She didn’t soften the anger. She let it be messy and long and feminine and furious. She showed that you can be the showgirl and still be the girl crying in her bedroom. One doesn’t cancel the other out. “The Life of A Showgirl” is about the cost and power of being seen for decades. The SNL “All Too Well” is the moment she showed us the cost doesn’t disappear when the tour ends. The audience was quiet in a way you don’t expect from live TV. No one clapped until it was over, because it felt wrong to interrupt. That’s when I understood why millions of us hand over our most private moments to her songs. She takes the memories we’re embarrassed to still care about and puts them on a stage. I’m preparing for my next chapter now, and I still think about that performance when I’m scared to take up space. Taylor spent ten minutes refusing to edit herself for anyone’s comfort. Because of that, I’ve learned to stop apologizing for the length of my own feelings. The most moving performances aren’t always the biggest. Sometimes they’re the ones that whisper, “me too,” and mean it. For me, that night on SNL was Taylor at her most powerful. Not because she was a showgirl, but because she let herself be a person.

Community kept me alive when I had no home. I have been homeless since I was 12 and I am working to leave an abusive relationship. The library gave me wifi and a place to charge my phone. The bus driver let me ride when I was short on fare. A domestic violence advocate met me at diner tables to safety plan. I learned early that compassionate service is not charity. It is infrastructure. So I built my wig business to be that kind of infrastructure. I serve women who have lost their hair to illness or violence. I do not have a car or a storefront, so I meet clients on buses, at library tables, and in shelters. Every wig order includes handwritten cards with local shelter, counseling, and crisis hotline numbers. I keep a digital list of sliding-scale therapists, legal aid clinics, and food banks on my phone and share it with anyone who needs it. That is deliberate service. I cannot give money, but I can give access. My strongest community work happens through my school. I serve on my campus’s basic needs task force, where I pushed for locker storage and extended library hours for unhoused students. Too many students fail classes because they have nowhere to keep books or nowhere safe to study after dark. Policy is service. I also mentor younger students who are first-generation or coming from foster care. I teach them how to fill out FAFSA forms, how to store coursework in the cloud so losing a phone does not erase a semester, and how to use the counseling center before trauma derails them. My best friend Jed taught me that. He lost both his legs to heroin addiction, lived on the streets, and still graduated near the top of his computer science program before sepsis took him. He tutored other students from his wheelchair and always said, “No one makes it alone.” I mentor because Jed mentored me. J&Y Law believes compassionate service builds the strongest communities. I believe it because I live it. My goal is to open a wig studio that doubles as a resource hub where a woman can leave with both a new look and a therapist’s number or a restraining order filing date. This scholarship helps me stay in school to learn the business and policy skills to make that real. Service is not what I do after I am stable. It is how I am becoming stable. I help people in need because I am still in need, and I know exactly what helps. Strong neighborhoods are built by people who remember what it feels like to have no door to lock. I remember. So I keep building doors for others.

I belong in STEM because STEM is how I survived. I have been homeless since I was 12 and I am working to leave an abusive relationship. I started a wig business with no car, no storefront, and no family safety net, serving women who have lost their hair to illness or violence. Every part of that business is STEM. I use geometry to measure and cut lace for custom units so there is no waste. I use chemistry to mix adhesives and color formulas that are safe for chemo patients. I use data to track inventory, profit margins, and client retention from my prepaid phone. I taught myself spreadsheet functions to calculate how many orders I need to ship to afford tuition. STEM is not abstract for me. It is the difference between eating and not eating. It is the system I built when no other system would hold me. My curiosity is driven by necessity. I am a first-generation college student studying to expand what I already practice. I want to learn advanced materials science to develop lighter, breathable wig bases for radiation patients. I want to study computer science like my best friend Jed, who was months from his master’s degree before sepsis took him. Jed lost both his legs to heroin addiction, lived on the streets, and still taught himself to code. He showed me that technology can rebuild a life. I plan to build software that connects survivors to resources: a platform that matches clients with sliding-scale therapists, shelters, and legal aid based on their location and need. Right now I keep those lists in my phone and handwritten in my backpack. STEM will let me scale that. I am driven to contribute because I know what it feels like to be invisible to systems. I want to design systems that see women like me. This scholarship empowers me to stay in the field. As an unhoused student, I choose between bus fare and class attendance. I turn in assignments from library computers and 24-hour diners. I serve on my campus’s basic needs task force to push for locker storage and extended library hours because time and access are STEM problems too. This scholarship means fewer nights deciding between a meal and a wifi hotspot. It means I can buy the textbooks instead of pirating PDFs. It means I can finish my degree and open a wig studio that doubles as a tech-driven resource hub. Women in STEM are not just in labs. We are on buses, in shelters, coding from wheelchairs, mixing color in kitchen sinks. We are empowered by knowledge because we had no choice but to learn. I am ready to contribute. Fund me, and I will build.

Selflessness, to me, is choosing to see someone else’s need even when your own has not been met. I have been homeless since I was 12 and I am working to leave an abusive relationship. I run a wig business out of a backpack with no car, no storefront, and no family safety net. On paper, I do not have extra to give. But I learned from my best friend Jed, who lost both his legs to heroin addiction and still rebuilt his life, that you do not wait until you are healed to help someone else heal. Selflessness is not martyrdom. It is refusing to let your pain make you blind. It is carrying two things at once: your survival, and someone else’s dignity. One thing I did for someone in need happened on a city bus. A woman sat next to me, crying quietly, wearing a scarf pulled low over her head. She had just left chemo. I recognized the look because most of my wig clients are cancer patients or domestic violence survivors. I did not have a studio to invite her to. I did not have money to give her. But I had a free consultation card in my backpack and a list of sliding-scale therapists and shelters in my phone. I gave her both. Then I took off my own wig and showed her how to adjust the cap so it would not slip. We missed my stop because I spent 20 minutes walking her through options, writing down the name of a domestic violence advocate who meets at the library. She did not buy anything. She did not need to. She left that bus standing taller. I got off three miles late, but I had inventory to carry anyway. That moment shapes how I run my business and my life. Every wig order includes local shelter, counseling, and crisis hotline resources, because clients are not just buying hair. They are buying control back. I offer free consultations to clients who cannot pay, and I do not rush them. I serve on my campus’s basic needs task force to push for locker storage and extended library hours because I know what it feels like to study with nowhere to keep your books. Selflessness taught me that you do not need to be safe to make someone else feel safe. You do not need to be whole to help someone remember they are whole. A good friend of mine, Jed, used to say, “No one makes it alone.” He was right. I am proof. So I keep passing it on, one bus ride, one library table, one handwritten note at a time.

I am seeking a second chance at higher education because my first chance was taken by circumstances I could not control. I have been homeless since I was 12. I am working to leave an abusive relationship. For years, “college” meant logging into class from a library computer before it closed, or writing papers in 24-hour diners because I had nowhere safe to sleep. I started a wig business with no car, no storefront, and no family safety net, serving women who have lost their hair to illness or violence. I carried inventory in a backpack and took client calls on a prepaid phone. My grades suffered when I had to choose between bus fare and attendance, or when anxiety kept me awake clutching my laptop so it would not be stolen. That was not failure. That was survival. What motivates me now is proof. I have seen what happens when a woman puts on a wig I styled and whispers, “I remember who I am.” Dignity is not a luxury. Education is how I scale that dignity. My academic goal is to finish my degree. My career goal is to open a wig studio that doubles as a resource hub where a woman can leave with both a new look and a therapist’s number. To get there, I need the stability that a second chance provides. I plan to ensure success this time with systems I built from necessity. I use the college counseling center and keep a safety plan with my advocate that covers inventory, classes, and sleep. I store records in the cloud so losing my phone does not erase my life. I serve on my campus’s basic needs task force, where I pushed for extended library hours and locker storage for unhoused students. I track wins: every order shipped, every class passed, every night I do not go back. This scholarship would cover tuition and basic needs so I do not have to choose between textbooks and a safe place to study. I am not asking for a handout. I am asking for the chance to stop surviving and start finishing what I start. Response to Prompt #2: What has changed since your previous academic struggles? What changed is that I stopped waiting for perfect conditions. My previous academic struggles were not about ability. They were about access. I was homeless, leaving abuse, and running a business without shelter. I failed classes when I had no place to charge a laptop. I withdrew when safety came first. I am better equipped now because I built support systems. I use FAFSA and scholarships to pay for classes, food, and places to stay. I have a safety plan with a domestic violence advocate. I store all coursework in the cloud. I use the college counseling center to manage trauma so it does not manage me. I serve on my campus’s basic needs task force because I know policy changes help students like me stay enrolled. I also have proof of concept: my wig business. I started it with nothing and turned it into income, community, and purpose. If I can do that from a backpack, I can finish a degree with support. The biggest change is mindset. I used to think I had to hide my reality to belong in college. Now I speak up in classes about mental health, not as an expert, but as someone living it. Depression looks like choosing between a meal and bus fare. I know that now, and I know how to ask for help before I drown. A second chance does not erase the past. It leverages it. I am ready.

Sepsis is when your body’s response to an infection injures its own tissues and organs. I did not understand that definition until it stole my best friend, Jed. To me, Jed was not just my friend. He was my brother. He lost both his legs while addicted to heroin and living on the streets. Most people counted him out after that. But Jed was not most people. He got clean. He got his life back together. He found an apartment, enrolled in school, and was months away from graduating with his master’s degree in computer science. He bought his own car. He rebuilt his family. He was living his best life, finally. The doctors could not clear an infection in what remained of his legs. That infection became sepsis. Jed passed away in the hospital. Sepsis took him fast, and it took him completely. He deserved a way longer life. My experience with sepsis is watching it erase a miracle. I met Jed when I was homeless and trying to leave an abusive relationship. He understood what it meant to start from nothing. He never made me feel invisible. He taught me that your past does not get to decide your future. Seeing him study for finals in a wheelchair, tutoring other students, driving to class in the car he paid for himself, that was my proof that transformation is real. I run a wig business for women who have lost their hair to illness or violence, and Jed was the first person who told me it mattered. When the infection started, none of us thought it would kill him. He had survived the streets. He had survived addiction. He had survived losing his legs. We thought he was unbreakable. Sepsis does not care how hard you fought to get your life back. It does not care that you were days away from a diploma or that your mom finally got to call you her son again. It just takes. Losing Jed to sepsis changed how I see time. He should have had decades. He should have walked across that graduation stage. He should have coded the programs he dreamed about and taken his family on the road trips he planned. Instead, I carry him with me. I advocate for unhoused people and survivors because Jed showed me what is possible when someone believes in you. I include handwritten notes and resource lists in my wig orders because Jed once told me, “No one makes it alone.” I am in college now, using FAFSA and scholarships to stay enrolled, and every class I pass is for him too. Sepsis taught me that infection is not just medical. Indifference is an infection. Giving up on people is an infection. Jed fought to clear those from his life, and he won. The sepsis in his body was the one battle he could not beat. He was one of the greatest people I have ever known. I am grateful for every day I got to call him my brother. His life was short, but it was not small. He transformed from a drug addict on the streets to a man with a home, a degree, a car, his family, and dignity. Sepsis took his breath, but it did not take his impact. I will spend mine making sure of that.

I love math because it is the one place where the rules do not change on me. I have been homeless since I was 12, and I am working to leave an abusive relationship. In my life, people break promises, housing falls through, and safety is never guaranteed. But math stays consistent. Two plus two is four whether I sleep in a shelter that night or in my car. Math gives me control. Math is honest. It does not care where I come from. It only asks me to be right, and when I am, it proves it. Math taught me how to survive before I knew it was teaching me. As a first-generation college student, I did not have anyone at home to explain FAFSA, credit hours, or loan interest. I had to learn those systems alone. Algebra taught me how to solve for x when x was “how do I afford this class?” Geometry taught me how to measure fabric for a custom wig when I could not afford waste. Statistics taught me to track my wins: every class passed, every order shipped, every night I do not go back. When I serve on my campus’s basic needs task force, I use data to argue for locker storage and extended library hours for unhoused students. Numbers make my story undeniable. They take what feels like chaos and give it structure. Math does not erase my challenges, but it gives me a language to face them. I love math because it builds futures. My dream is to open a wig studio that doubles as a resource hub. To do that, I need to understand inventory, rent, payroll, and taxes. Math is how I will get there. It is how I turn a backpack business into a storefront that hires other survivors. Every equation I solve in class is practice for the day I sign a lease. Every budget I make is proof that I can do more than survive. I love math because it never asked me to be anything other than precise. It met me where I was, on library computers and 24-hour diner tables, and gave me tools. When the rest of life feels impossible, math reminds me that problems have solutions. And I have spent my whole life learning how to find them.

Being a first-generation student means I am building a path that did not exist before me. No one in my family went to college. I have been homeless since I was 12. I am working to leave an abusive relationship. I started a wig business with no car, no storefront, and no family safety net, serving women who have lost their hair to illness or violence. College was never guaranteed for me. FAFSA forms, office hours, and degree plans were a foreign language I had to teach myself. When your life has no locked doors, your mind becomes the only room you control. Being first-gen means fighting to keep that room safe while you learn how to unlock every other door. It means carrying questions no one at home can answer, and doing it anyway. The challenges have been constant, but so is my response. I carry inventory in a backpack and take client calls on a prepaid phone. I turn in assignments from library computers, 24-hour diners, or wherever I have shelter that night. I have studied for finals while protecting a school laptop so it is not stolen. I have chosen between bus fare and dinner. I meet wig clients at library tables because I do not have a studio. I have learned to overcome by turning barriers into systems. I use cloud storage so losing my phone does not erase my classes. I serve on my campus’s basic needs task force to push for locker storage and extended library hours for unhoused students. I ask for help even when it is humiliating. I include handwritten notes and shelter resources in every wig order because I know what it feels like to be invisible. Each order shipped, each class passed, each night I do not go back is a win I track. That is how I move forward. My dream is to open a wig studio that doubles as a resource hub where a woman can be heard and leave with both a new look and a therapist’s number. I want to grow my business, finish my degree, and create jobs for other survivors. What drives me is the first time a client put on a wig I styled and whispered, “I remember who I am.” That moment told me dignity is not a luxury. This scholarship would help me move closer to my goals by covering tuition and basic needs so I do not have to choose between textbooks and a safe place to sleep. It means fewer nights studying in places where I cannot close my eyes. It means more time building inventory instead of walking miles to ship it. I am not looking for perfection. I am looking for stability. Being first-generation means I am proof you can build a future without a blueprint. This scholarship invests in that proof. I will use it to keep building, for myself and for every woman who needs to remember who she is.

“You wouldn’t know how it feels to be the only one stuck inside of your head.” Olivia Rodrigo’s lyric from vampire hit me the first time I heard it on a library computer with 8% battery on a prepaid phone. I was homeless, trying to leave an abusive relationship, and carrying inventory for my wig business in a backpack. I had been on my own since I was 12, turning in college assignments from wherever I had shelter that night. That line named the isolation I lived in. Trauma and homelessness make you feel like you are the only one stuck inside your head, watching everyone else move on. Olivia did not fix that feeling, but she made it visible. She reminded me that if someone else could put it into words, maybe I was not as alone as I thought. “God, I wish that I was strong enough to let it go.” When Olivia sang that in enough for you, I was packaging wig orders at a post office counter, deciding between bus fare and dinner. I started my business with no car, no storefront, and no family safety net to serve women who have lost their hair to illness or violence. Some days I feel strong. Other days I feel like I am faking it. That lyric connected to my own challenge: learning that strength is not pretending you are fine. It is showing up anyway. I do not have the luxury of waiting until I feel ready. I meet clients on buses and at library tables. I take exams in 24-hour diners. I keep applying for scholarships like this one. Olivia’s music taught me that wanting to be strong enough is part of getting there. Her vulnerability gave me permission to be a CEO and a survivor at the same time, to be ambitious while I am still healing. The triumph is that I am still here, building. “I’m so sick of myself, I’d rather be somebody else” from jealousy, jealousy used to be my truth. Now, because of artists like Olivia who write without shame, I am learning to choose myself. I am in college using FAFSA and scholarships to pay for classes, food, and places to stay. I include handwritten notes and shelter resources in every wig order because I know what it feels like to be invisible. Olivia’s discography reflects the chaos of being young, heartbroken, and underestimated, and it insists that you deserve to be heard through it. Her work taught me to take my narrative back. I can be homeless and in school. I can be leaving an abusive relationship and planning a business expansion. I can carry inventory in a backpack and still dream of a studio that doubles as a resource hub. Olivia Rodrigo’s lyrics resonate because they refuse to minimize pain or joy. They tell me I do not have to be perfect to be powerful. That is how I live now. I keep singing. I keep building.

Mental health is important to me because I have lived without it, and I know the difference between surviving and healing. I have been homeless since I was 12. I am working to leave an abusive relationship. I started a wig business with no car, no storefront, and no family safety net, serving women who have lost their hair to illness or violence. I carry inventory in a backpack, take client calls on a prepaid phone, and turn in college assignments from wherever I have shelter that night. When your life has no locked doors, your mind becomes the only room you control. If that room is not safe, nothing else can be. Trauma takes more than housing or safety. It takes your sense of self. The first time a client put on a wig I styled and whispered, “I remember who I am,” I understood that mental health is not a luxury. It is dignity. I advocate for mental health through my business every day. Many clients are chemotherapy patients or domestic violence survivors. They come for a wig, but they are asking for control. Every order includes local shelter, counseling, and crisis hotline resources. I offer free consultations to clients who cannot pay, and I do not rush. I ask, “What do you need today?” Sometimes it is a style. Sometimes it is a referral to a therapist with a sliding scale. I keep a list of counselors, support groups, and legal aid in my phone and printed in my backpack, so I can share it on buses, at library tables, or while shipping orders. I include handwritten notes in packages because I know what it feels like to need more than a product. I know what it feels like to be invisible. I also advocate in college and in public spaces. I am in school using scholarships and FAFSA to pay for classes, food, and places to stay. I serve on my campus’s basic needs task force, where I helped push for extended library hours and locker storage for unhoused students. I speak up in classes about mental health, not as an expert, but as someone living it. I tell them anxiety looks like clutching your laptop while you sleep so it is not stolen. Depression looks like choosing between a meal and bus fare. At the library, on the bus, in line at the food bank, I talk to women who keep their heads down. I tell them where the domestic violence advocate meets. I tell them therapy is not for “broken” people. It is for people who want to stop flinching at sudden sounds. Stigma breaks when we speak plainly. Advocacy starts with caring for myself, too. I use the college counseling center. I keep a safety plan with my advocate that covers my inventory, classes, and sleep. I store records in the cloud so losing my phone does not erase my life. I track wins: every order shipped, every class passed, every night I do not go back. My goal is to open a wig studio that doubles as a resource hub where a woman can be heard and leave with both a new look and a therapist’s number. Until then, I carry the work with me. Mental health is important to me because I have seen what happens when it is denied. I advocate because I refuse to let another woman feel invisible the way I did. Healing is community, and I am proof you can build that without a home, a car, or perfect conditions.

I became a fan of Sabrina Carpenter on a night I had nowhere to sleep and a prepaid phone with 8% battery. I was homeless, trying to leave an abusive relationship, and I found her song “Skin” on a library computer. She was singing about reclaiming her story when other people tried to write it for her. I was carrying inventory for my wig business in a backpack, turning in college assignments from wherever I had shelter, and trying to keep a school laptop from being stolen. Her lyrics did not fix my situation, but they named it. They reminded me I could take my narrative back too. That is why I am a fan. Sabrina Carpenter makes pop music that refuses to be small. She started as a Disney actress, was told she was one kind of artist, and kept expanding anyway. She writes songs that are funny, sharp, and vulnerable in the same verse. Watching her evolve through _Emails I Can’t Send_ and _Short n’ Sweet_ changed how I saw my own path. I started my company for women who have lost their hair to illness or violence. I meet clients on buses and at library tables because I do not have a car or a storefront. Sabrina’s career taught me that you do not wait for permission. You evolve out loud, even if people are watching. Her impact is practical, not just emotional. When I heard her talk about writing every day, I applied that to my business and my degree. I am in college using scholarships and FAFSA to pay for school, food, and places to stay. Some nights I study in 24-hour diners and package orders on foot from a P.O. box. I watched Sabrina take the long route. She was not an overnight success. She toured, opened for other artists, and kept building. That showed me persistence without convenience is still progress. So I keep shipping orders. I keep turning in assignments. Her career also shaped how I run my business. She treats fans like collaborators, not consumers. I do the same with my clients. I include handwritten notes and local shelter resources with every wig because I know what it feels like to need more than a product. Sabrina’s work says, “I see you, and you can be witty and heartbroken at the same time.” That duality gave me permission to be a survivor and a CEO. A student and a founder. I am a fan because she makes ambition look joyful instead of ruthless. She is proof that you can be underestimated and still end up headlining. She did not skip the hard years, and I do not have to either. I can be homeless and in school. I can be in an abusive relationship and planning my exit. I can carry inventory in a backpack and still dream of a studio. Sabrina Carpenter’s career impacted me by showing me that your voice is yours, even when your life is not fully yours yet. She kept singing. I keep building. That is why I am a superfan, and why her work lives in my business, my degree, and the future I refuse to give up on.

Love Island Challenge: "Heart Strings Attached" Concept "Heart Strings Attached" forces Islanders to work together while literally tied to each other. It tests communication, trust, and patience through messy physical tasks and brutally honest questions. Setup - Pairings- Couples are split and randomly re-paired by pulling colored strings. You could get your partner, your rival, or your ex. - The Attachment- Each pair has their wrists tied together with a 4ft stretchy bungee “heart string.” If it’s untied or dropped, that pair is out. - Goal- Be the last pair standing and collect the most “Heart Tokens” along the course. Round 1: Tangled Up – 5 Minute Obstacle Course Pairs must complete 5 stations while attached: 1. Love Hurdle- Crawl under cargo nets holding a giant inflatable heart. Drop it and restart the obstacle. 2. Slip ’N Sip- Slide into a pool, then fill a glass with “Love Potion” using only free hands. Spill it and refill. 3. Message in a Bottle- Dig up 3 bottles with anonymous Casa Amor texts. Read them aloud and guess together who sent it. 4. Tower of Temptation- Stack heart blocks into a 6ft tower on a wobbly platform. If it falls, rebuild. 5. Final Pull- Run to opposite ends to stretch the bungee and grab a Heart Token at the same time. Round 2: String Theory – Emotional Q&A Still tied, pairs sit knee to knee and answer 3 questions on whiteboards: - “Who would your partner least want you coupled up with?” p - “What’s one insecurity your partner has?” - “If you recoupled tomorrow, who would you pick?” Matching answers earn Heart Tokens. Mismatches mean a 10-second forced eye contact while the villa watches. Twists 1. The Ex Factor- Klaxon sounds mid-game. One person per pair must cut their string and tie to someone new. Cut strings lose all tokens. 2. Secret String- One pair’s bungee is rigged to snap randomly. If it breaks, they’re out but steal 2 tokens from anyone. 3. Public String- Tokens are counted publicly. The lowest pair sleeps in daybeds tied together overnight. Winners Get 1. A night in the Hideaway 2. Power to send one couple on a “Make or Break” date 3. Immunity from the next public vote Why It Works It’s physical comedy meets emotional landmines. Watching Islanders navigate obstacles while bungeed to someone they can’t stand is chaos. The questions expose cracks, and the twists force strategy. Do you cut ties and lose tokens, or suffer together? Visually, you get strings stretching, towers falling, soaked Islanders yelling “You never listen!” at sunset. It’s classic Love Island: relationships, revelations, and mess.

My goal is to earn my degree and open a physical wig studio that serves as both a retail space and a haven for women rebuilding after illness, violence, or poverty. I started this business while homeless, without a car, and trying to leave an abusive relationship. I carry inventory in a backpack, take client calls on a prepaid phone, and package orders at public library tables between classes. I launched this company so women who have had their identity stripped away can look in the mirror and remember who they are. That mission drives every plan I make. To reach this goal, I am in college and use scholarships and FAFSA to pay for school, food, and places to stay. Education gives me the framework to budget, market ethically, and plan for a storefront that will employ survivors and offer resources for healing. Without financial aid, I would have to choose between a textbook and a night in a shelter. Because of that assistance, I stay enrolled, fed, and moving forward. I turn in assignments from wherever I have shelter, keeping my school laptop and phone gripped tightly so they are not stolen again. On days I cannot reach my storage unit, I carry inventory with me to ship orders and meet customers publicly. It is hard, but worth it to see clients light up and to watch my business grow into something larger than I imagined. The resources I need are specific. For school, I rely on scholarships and FAFSA to cover tuition and housing costs. For business, I need $500 monthly for inventory and supplies, $240 per year for a website and P.O. box, and access to free wifi and printing at the library. For survival, I budget $900 per month for food, bus fare, and temporary shelter when needed. I reinvest 60% of every sale into inventory and save 10% toward a future storefront deposit. My current revenue averages $500 per month, and my goal is $2,000 per month within the next year. I will reach that by posting client transformations three times a week, utilizing social media platforms to gain awareness and customers, offering free services to grow My account of regular customers and their referrals, and completing a free business certification through my free platforms like Coursera. This is not a story of convenience. It is a plan built on persistence. I am opening this business while homeless, without a car, and in an abusive relationship because I refuse to wait for perfect conditions to live with purpose. I am going to school because education is the tool that will carry me forward. Scholarships and FAFSA keep me alive and learning. With discipline, community, and funding, I will graduate, scale this company, and create the safe, beautiful space I needed when I was twelve. Every order shipped and every class completed is proof that a life can be reconstructed from the ground up.

I have been homeless on and off since I was 12 years old. That is the age most kids are picking out middle school outfits and worrying about their first dance. I was learning how to sleep in a car without drawing attention, how to wash up in public bathrooms, and how to keep my school uniform clean for the next day. Stability was a word I only heard other people use. Between shelters, couches, and nights when there was nowhere to go, I learned to do homework by flashlight and to turn in assignments even when I had not eaten dinner. School became the one thing that was mine. It was the place where I could prove to myself that my circumstances were not my identity. Today I am still fighting for full freedom. I am working to completely leave an emotionally, mentally, and physically abusive relationship that I have been in for years. Leaving is not a single moment. It is a series of choices you make every day when you are scared, tired, and unsure if you will have a safe place to sleep that night. There have been times I have had to choose between buying groceries or paying for a burner phone so I could keep my location private. There have been nights I stayed up studying for an exam after a fight, because I refuse to let someone else’s choices steal my education. I am not fully out yet, but every step I take is a step toward the life I know God has for me. I share this not for sympathy, but because it is the truth of what many students carry silently into class. In the middle of all of this, I started a business. I sell wigs. That might sound simple, but for me it is ministry and healing wrapped into one. I began it after I met a woman at a shelter who had lost her hair during chemotherapy. She told me she avoided mirrors because she did not recognize herself anymore. I gave her one of the first wigs I had learned to style, and when she looked up, she cried. She said, “I feel like me again.” That moment stuck with me. Then I started meeting women who, like me, were coming out of abusive relationships. Abuse takes more than your safety. It takes your sense of worth. It tells you that you are not beautiful, not capable, not enough. I wanted to create something that helped women take a piece of themselves back. My business is small, but the mission is big. I hand select and customize wigs for women who have lost their hair to illness and for survivors who are rebuilding their confidence. I do free consultations for clients who cannot afford to pay, because I remember what it felt like to need help and have no options. I include a note of encouragement with every order, and I pray over each piece before it ships. This is not just about hair. It is about giving someone the ability to walk into a job interview, a court date, or their child’s school play feeling like they can hold their head high. Running this business while homeless has meant packaging orders in library study rooms, and taking client calls, and storing inventory in a storage unit. It has also meant learning accounting, marketing, and customer service on my own because I cannot afford to outsource anything yet. At the same time, I am enrolled in college. I am pursuing a degree in business so I can grow this company the right way and eventually open a storefront that doubles as a safe space for women. I take online classes at night and attend in person when I can. Professors see the finished paper. They do not see the nights I wrote it in a 24 hour diner because the shelter closed at 9 pm. Classmates see me show up to presentations. They do not see me changing in the bathroom of a grocery store. I am applying for this scholarship because college costs are another wall between me and the future I am building. Tuition, books, software for my business classes, and basic living expenses add up fast when you have no family safety net. Financial aid helps, but it does not cover everything, and I cannot take out large loans when my housing is unstable. This scholarship would mean I could stay enrolled full time, keep my business running, and continue moving toward complete independence from abuse. My story is not easy, but it is why I am driven. Homelessness taught me resourcefulness. Abuse taught me empathy. School taught me discipline. My business taught me purpose. I want to keep growing so I can be the person I needed when I was 12, and when I was 20, and when I was standing in a shelter wondering if anyone saw me. I want to help women look in the mirror and love what they see, not because a wig fixes everything, but because it can be the first step back to self respect. I am not a finished product. I am still healing, still learning, still fighting. But I show up. Every day I choose to build instead of break, to study instead of quit, and to serve instead of stay silent. That is why I believe I am a strong candidate for this scholarship. With your help, I can turn survival into impact.

My experience with anxiety did not start with a diagnosis. It started with many small system failures. In high school, I was the person who had five color-coded planners, a to-do list for my to-do lists, and still felt constantly behind. I thought I was bad at managing time. In my first year of computer science, I realized I was actually bad at managing uncertainty. Group projects, live coding interviews, and the open-ended nature of debugging would send my brain into a loop. If I do not solve this tonight, then I will fail the class, then I will lose my scholarship; then I will let everyone down. My brain ran worst case scenarios faster than any program I could write. Learning to work with my anxiety instead of against it changed my goals completely. I used to think success meant being the fastest coder in the room or shipping perfect projects on the first try. Now my goal is to build things that reduce stress for myself and for other people. That shift showed up in the way I approach computer science. I started documenting my code like I was writing notes to a future version of me who might be overwhelmed. I began breaking assignments into the smallest possible steps so I could get a win early and quiet the noise. I even chose my side projects differently. Instead of another algorithm visualizer, I built a simple budgeting app that uses plain language and gentle reminders, because I know what it feels like to avoid looking at your bank account when you are anxious. My career goal is not just to work in tech. It is to work on tools that feel calm, predictable, and kind to the user. Mental health also rewired how I show up in relationships. Before, I thought asking for help meant I was failing. I would isolate when I was behind on a project because I did not want friends to see me struggle. Therapy and a lot of honest conversations taught me that people cannot support you if they do not know you need it. Now I practice naming what I feel in plain terms. I will tell my project partner, I am getting overwhelmed by the scope here, can we split this into smaller tasks and check in tomorrow. Almost every time, the other person says they feel the same way. Being open turned classmates into real friends and teammates into collaborators. It also made me a better listener. When a friend says they are stuck, I do not jump to fix it. I ask what part feels heaviest, because I know how much it helps to name the specific problem instead of drowning in the general feeling. My understanding of the world got less judgmental and more systems oriented. Anxiety taught me that behavior you see on the surface is often the output of a process you cannot see. The student who misses deadlines might be dealing with insomnia. The teammate who seems uninterested might be burned out. That perspective makes me a better developer because good software accounts for real human constraints. Edge cases are not just null values and bad inputs. Edge cases are users who are tired, distracted, grieving, or overwhelmed. If my app only works for someone who is calm, focused, and has perfect wifi, then I have not built it well. There are still days when my brain runs hot. I still keep a notes app full of coping strategies, breathing exercises, and reminders that a single bug does not define me. The difference is that I now see mental health as data, not a flaw. It is information about how I operate under load, and I can design around it. I take breaks before I crash. I set boundaries on late night coding. I celebrate small commits instead of waiting for the final push. I am grateful that my experience pushed me toward compassion and toward practical problem solving. It shaped my goal to build technology that respects human limits. It made my relationships more honest and my teams more effective. And it gave me a broader understanding of the world, where success is not about never struggling, but about creating systems, both technical and personal, that help people get through the hard parts. That is the kind of engineer and the kind of friend I want to be.

I have been taking things apart since I was a kid, but I never thought my habit of tinkering would make me the hero of our CS department’s game night. I am a computer science student who loves the problem solving side of coding more than anything. That mindset ended up delighting about forty stressed out classmates when our biggest social event of the semester almost fell apart. Every quarter, our CS club hosts a LAN party to help everyone unwind before finals. It is not just about gaming. It is how a lot of us actually hang out, since most of us are debugging code alone in our rooms all week. This time we planned a mini tournament with Minecraft, Smash Bros, and a custom coding challenge I helped write. We booked the campus tech lounge, set up a dedicated router, and even got a local pizza place to sponsor us. Thirty minutes before doors opened, the campus network admin shut off our switch port. A security policy change had flagged our router as “rogue hardware,” and they could not get us back online until Monday. No internet meant no Steam login, no Minecraft server, and no way to submit scores for the coding challenge. You could feel the energy in the room crash. People had been looking forward to this for weeks. I was helping with setup, and I could see people starting to pack up. That is when I switched into what I call debug mode. I remembered that we did not actually need the public internet for most of this. We just needed a local network that every laptop and Switch could talk to. I ran back to my dorm and grabbed an old Raspberry Pi and a spare travel router I keep for hackathons. In the tech lounge, I flashed the Pi with a lightweight Linux server image, installed a local Minecraft server and a simple web app I had built for score tracking, and configured the travel router to create an offline LAN called “CSGameNight.” Then I manually set static IPs for the tournament machines and wrote a quick one page instruction sheet so people could connect. My hands were a little shaky because I had ten minutes and a room full of CS majors watching me type. We told everyone to join “CSGameNight” and reboot their games. For a second, nothing happened, and I was sure I messed up a firewall rule. Then someone yelled that they were in the Minecraft world. Then the Smash setups connected for local play. Then the coding challenge page loaded from my Pi and started accepting submissions. The room went from silent to loud in about five seconds. People were cheering, high fiving, and dragging chairs back to the tables. The tournament ran two hours late because nobody wanted to leave. That night reminded me why I chose computer science. Hacking and tinkering are not just about personal projects or grades. They are about noticing when something is broken for other people and using the tools you understand to fix it. Whether I am scripting a fix for a lab machine or spinning up a Raspberry Pi server so my friends can play games, the goal is the same. I like using technical skills to remove frustration and create moments people remember. That is the kind of developer I want to be, and it is why I am excited to keep learning, building, and helping wherever I can.

The first time I realized what “family” really meant, I was seven years old, sitting at my grandparents’ kitchen table while they helped me sound out words for homework. I wasn’t in their care because of a court order, but because life had shifted and they stepped up. That table became my anchor. Growing up with my grandparents taught me that stability isn’t guaranteed, but it can be built. They lived simply, grew food, saved carefully, and showed up for people. Their faith wasn’t loud, but it was constant: you help because that’s what you do. We said grace before meals, tended the garden together, and canned vegetables in the fall so we’d be ready for winter. I watched them give without expecting applause. That perspective stuck with me. Watching them care for me, and later helping care for them, shaped how I see the world. I learned early that dignity often comes from small things, a home-cooked meal, a safe place to sleep, someone who listens without rushing. When you’ve been on the receiving end of that kind of care, you don’t forget it. You look for ways to pass it on. That’s why I started my wig store. I meet women who’ve lost their hair to illness and, with it, a piece of their confidence. Designing a wig that feels comfortable and looks like they aren't just business. It’s restoration. I test cap constructions, blend colors, and adjust fit until it’s right, because I know what it means to look in the mirror and not recognize yourself. Giving someone back that recognition is holy work to me. It’s the same reason I became an unpaid home care worker. I’ve seen how one overlooked detail, like a missed medication or an uncomfortable day, can steal someone’s independence. So I problem-solve. I’ve even coded simple apps to track meds because tech should serve people, not confuse them. If a tool doesn’t make life easier for the person using it, I redesign it. My faith influences this work quietly but deeply. I believe we’re meant to protect and rebuild what life breaks. That belief drives my goals now: I’m studying computer science, graphic design, and cybersecurity because I want to build tools that make people safer and more self-reliant. I want to secure data the way my grandparents secured a home — with attention, consistency, and care. I’m not flashy with money or choices. I invest in Traditional and Roth IRAs, I garden, I care for my polydactyl cats with their extra toes — all reminders that steady, attentive care matters. Extra effort for the overlooked is always worth it. My grandparents gave me a foundation when I needed it. My goal is to pay that forward. Whether I’m securing someone’s data or helping them face the world with confidence again, I want my work to say: you’re not alone, and you’re worth protecting.

A project that reflects my curiosity and creativity is my wig store. I started it because I saw how many women lose their hair due to illnesses like cancer, alopecia, or autoimmune conditions, and I witnessed firsthand how much that loss impacts their confidence and sense of self. I got curious: could I design wigs that not only look natural, but also feel comfortable enough to wear all day without irritation? That question turned into months of experimentation. I began researching cap construction, studying how different materials breathe and move. I tested synthetic fibers against human hair, mixed custom color blends, and even redesigned lace fronts to better match different skin tones and hairlines. I’d wear the prototypes myself, ask friends to test them, collect honest feedback, and head back to my worktable to redesign. It wasn’t just about selling a product. It was about solving a deeply personal problem with empathy, patience, and design thinking. That same approach shapes how I tackle problems in computer science and cybersecurity today. I’m drawn to graphic design and application development because I like building things that are both functional and beautiful. When I see a problem, I don’t get overwhelmed. I break it into smaller pieces, research what’s already been tried, test possible solutions, and iterate until it works. I don’t need the flashiest or most complex solution. I need the one that actually works for the person using it, especially if that person is vulnerable or overlooked. As an unpaid home care worker, I’ve learned that small, practical solutions can have huge impacts. Sometimes dignity comes from something as simple as a medication reminder app I coded so a client wouldn’t miss a dose, or a wig that helps a woman look in the mirror and recognize herself again after chemo. Both are about restoring independence. I’m not a big risk-taker with money. Raised by my grandparents, I learned to plan, save, and invest carefully. I grow my own vegetables, can food for the year, and contribute to both a Traditional and Roth IRA because stability matters to me. But I am willing to take creative risks to help people. My goal is to use tech and design to build tools that make life easier, safer, and more dignified , whether that’s a secure app that protects user data or a custom wig that protects someone’s confidence. That curiosity, asking “how can I make this better for someone?”, is what drives me. It’s why I garden and preserve food instead of buying into trends. It’s why I care for polydactyl cats with their extra toes; I appreciate things that are a little different and need gentle support. And it’s why I study cybersecurity. In a world where people can lose so much hair, health, privacy, peace of mind, I want to be someone who helps them feel secure again, online and in real life.