I’ve never had the privilege of a traditional path. My story didn’t begin with stability or predictability—it began with survival. Before I was old enough to speak, my life had already been shaped by circumstances outside my control: a biological mother fighting addiction, a temporary home in the foster care system, and a label placed on me before I even entered the world. “Crack baby.” Two words that told me who people expected me to become long before I had a chance to decide for myself. Being adopted around the age of three gave me the safety I desperately needed, but it didn’t erase the questions I carried. Growing up, I often felt like I was living in a story whose first chapter I had never been allowed to read. I didn’t know where I came from, why things happened the way they did, or what parts of me belonged to a past I couldn’t remember. That sense of disconnect made me feel different from other students—like I was building an identity from fragments. That’s what makes me a non-traditional student. Not my age, or a break in my education, but the fact that nothing about my path has been simple or straight. I’ve had to grow up fast, navigate trauma quietly, and learn how to turn pain into purpose. I had to teach myself that I was worthy of a future long before I ever entered a classroom. What kept me moving forward—what saved me—was compassion. Sometimes from others, but often from myself. And that compassion is what pushes me to show up for people the way I wish someone had shown up for me when I was younger. One moment that shaped me happened when I was leading a songwriting workshop for a group of students. One girl quiet, withdrawn, barely speaking above a whisper—shared a lyric about feeling unwanted. The room froze. I recognized that feeling so deeply it hurt. Afterward, she told me it was the first time she had ever said those words out loud. I told her I understood and that I had felt that way too, but that she was not alone and never would be in my space. Her eyes filled, and she hugged me like she was holding on to the possibility of hope. That moment reminded me why I invest so deeply in others: because I know what it feels like to be overlooked, misunderstood, or written off. Kindness isn’t just something I practice—it’s something I needed in order to survive. Perseverance isn’t something I learned from books—it’s something life carved into me. Today, I move through the world with a heart shaped by everything I’ve overcome. I am a non-traditional student because I come from a non-traditional story—one built on resilience, compassion, and a fierce determination to lift others up as I climb. That is how I hope to carry forward the spirit that defined Andrea Worden’s life: with generosity, with courage, and with the kind of kindness that changes people from the inside out.

Being a first-generation college graduate would mean everything to me—because it would represent a victory not just for myself, but for every part of my story that was supposed to hold me back. I was born into circumstances that many people assumed would determine my entire future. My biological mother struggled with addiction, and before I could even take my first breath, the world labeled me a “crack baby.” That label was a prediction, a dismissal, and a warning all at once. It told me, long before I understood words, that people didn’t expect much from me. But being the first in my family to earn a degree would prove that my beginning does not define my ending. It would show that cycles can be broken, that trauma can be transformed, and that a young Black girl who started life in the foster care system can rise into her own power. Graduating first-generation would be a moment of reclaiming my narrative—of honoring the little girl who didn’t know her own name yet, and the young woman who decided to write a different story for herself. My extracurricular activities, especially in music, have been the driving force behind that transformation. Music is not just something I do—it’s the thing that saved me. I’ve been singing since I was four and playing guitar for over eleven years. When I didn’t have the words for what I was feeling, music translated the emotions I couldn’t articulate. When I felt unseen, music was the one place where I always felt understood. As I grew older, I realized my gift wasn’t meant to stay with me alone. I started speaking at schools and hosting songwriting workshops, especially for kids who come from instability or painful backgrounds like mine. I’ve watched young people go from quiet and guarded to expressive and hopeful through a single verse or melody. These experiences taught me what leadership truly means: showing up, listening with compassion, and helping others uncover parts of themselves they didn’t know they had the courage to share. Through music, I’ve learned discipline, vulnerability, confidence, and community. It shaped me into someone who doesn’t just survive her past—but uses it to inspire and uplift others. Becoming a first-generation college graduate would be the fulfillment of a dream I once didn’t believe I could have. It would be a promise to myself—and to every young person growing up in systems like the one I came from—that your voice matters, your dreams are valid, and your future can be bigger than your circumstances.

My passion for music started early and runs deep. Growing up, I interned at my local church, where I was immersed in music and audio from the ground up. I learned how to operate soundboards, set up microphones, and support live performances—skills that would eventually form the foundation of my journey into music technology. But more importantly, I was surrounded by gospel music, which sparked my love for powerful, emotional storytelling through sound. That love has only grown stronger over the years. Musically, I’ve spent 14 years training in classical and jazz styles, specializing in guitar and bass. That training sharpened my technical ability, deepened my understanding of harmony and theory, and taught me the discipline that musicianship demands. Alongside that, I developed a passion for contemporary music. I sing, rap, produce, ghostwrite for other artists, and compose across genres—from gospel to hip-hop, R&B to jazz fusion. I’ve taught myself how to record, mix, and master music through digital audio workstations like Ableton Live and Logic Pro. Whether I’m writing lyrics for someone else or building a track from scratch, I always approach music with intention, emotion, and creativity. What makes me most passionate about music is its power to connect and uplift. Music helped me through some of the most challenging times in my life. It gave me purpose and identity when I didn’t have much else. During high school, I worked three jobs to save up for my own equipment, because I believed in my future even when resources were limited. That grind taught me not just work ethic, but gratitude—and it’s a big reason why I’m committed to giving back to the youth through my career. My long-term goal is to build creative spaces for young people—especially in underserved communities—where they can learn music production, audio engineering, songwriting, and performance. I want to mentor the next generation of artists and engineers who may not have access to formal training or gear, just like I didn’t in the beginning. I believe music can help young people find their voice, build confidence, and stay focused. I want to show them that it’s possible to turn their passion into a purpose. Through my work as a producer, artist, and future engineer, I hope to be more than just someone who creates music—I want to be someone who creates opportunities. Because if music could change my life, I know it can do the same for someone else.

Growing up, my love for music and technology was shaped early on through hands-on experience. From a young age, I interned at my church, where I was constantly surrounded by soundboards, microphones, live performances, and passionate musicians. That environment was my first classroom. I didn’t just watch—I asked questions, helped set up, listened, and learned. Over time, I developed a deep, working knowledge of both live sound and musicality, learning how to run cables one day and play chords the next. That church experience gave me a strong foundation in gospel music, which became my gateway into understanding music theory in a deeply intuitive way. I later expanded my training into classical and jazz, which gave me a broader technical vocabulary. But gospel—raw, emotional, and rooted in community—still shapes how I hear and feel music today. It taught me that music is more than structure; it's storytelling, connection, and soul. The moment I realized I wanted to pursue music technology seriously came during high school. I started experimenting with DAWs, downloading free trials of Logic Pro and Ableton, and spending hours layering sounds, building beats, and recreating gospel harmonies with a modern twist. I loved the idea that I could blend all of my musical influences—gospel, jazz, classical—into something new, using technology as the glue. But I didn’t have the equipment or resources to go all in. So I worked. During high school, I held down three jobs just to save up for my own audio equipment—an interface, monitors, headphones, and a decent laptop. Every dollar went into building a home setup where I could learn and create. Without formal instruction, I taught myself everything I could: how to record, mix, master, troubleshoot gear, and produce with intention. It wasn’t easy balancing work, school, and music, but that grind built discipline and drive. It also taught me to appreciate every step of the process because I had to earn every piece of gear and knowledge I gained. Now, I’m a college student studying audio engineering and production—finally getting formal training to match the passion and foundation I built over the years. Being in this program is not just an academic step forward; it's a realization of years of dreaming, working, and preparing. I’m finally in a space where I can refine my technical skills, collaborate with others, and dive deeper into the science of sound while continuing to honor the soulful roots that brought me here. Of course, the journey hasn’t been without challenges—financial stress, imposter syndrome, and the pressure to prove myself in spaces where not many people share my background. But I’ve faced every obstacle the same way I approached my first soundboard at church: with curiosity, persistence, and faith. And every step of the way, I’ve reminded myself why I started—to create music that moves people, bridges tradition and innovation, and brings both spirit and science together. Music technology isn’t just my career path—it’s a reflection of who I am: a builder, a listener, a storyteller, and a student of sound.

From the moment I could make sense of the world, music was my anchor. My name is Chy’Ana Lee — but that’s not the name I was born with. I was adopted at around three years old after being born into a life shaped by struggle. My biological mother was a drug addict. A judge gave her time to get clean while she was pregnant with me, but when she didn’t, I entered the foster care system. From the very beginning, I was labeled — a “crack baby,” a child without a future. That label stayed in the air longer than my name. But I’ve always known that I was meant for more. Despite my painful beginnings, I found my light through music. I’ve been singing since I could speak, and I’ve been playing guitar for over 11 years. Music has always been more than just a passion — it’s been my lifeline, my therapy, and my way of understanding the world. I’ve always felt deeply connected to sound and lyrics, and even as a child, I knew this gift had purpose. That purpose has grown into a calling: I want to pursue a degree in music because it’s more than just what I love — it’s who I am. My goal is to use my voice, my lyrics, and my story to heal myself and help heal others. Music is how I process emotion, confront truth, and find meaning. I believe it can do the same for others, especially those who have faced adversity like I have. Many are surprised when I say I’m a rapper. I don’t fit the stereotype — I’m not chasing fame, clout, or a spotlight. I look up to artists like 2Pac, Biggie, and Lauryn hill — storytellers who weren't afraid to expose pain, speak truth, and challenge the world. My music is clean, raw, and focused on themes like mental health, divine balance in femininity and masculinity, and social justice. I write about things that make people uncomfortable — because those are often the things that matter most. I live by something I call “GAME” — Guidance Above My Emotions. It’s how I stay grounded in truth while still honoring how I feel. It took me 17 years to understand that my gift wasn’t just talent — it was responsibility. I’ve been given this voice and perspective for a reason, and now I know how to use them. Earning a degree will help me refine my craft, deepen my understanding of music theory and production, and give me the tools to turn my passion into a lifelong career. I often ask myself where I would be if I hadn’t been adopted — if I hadn’t been given a second chance. Would I have followed the same path of addiction that destroyed my mother? Would I have even found my gift? These thoughts stay with me, but they also fuel me. They remind me that I’m not just surviving — I’m creating, I’m growing, and I’m giving back. I am proud of how far I’ve come, not because it was easy, but because it was never supposed to be. I am a Black woman, raised in a system that didn’t expect me to succeed — and yet here I am. I’ve found my purpose. I want to pursue a degree in music because I know, without a doubt, that this is what I was born to do: tell the truth, make healing sound beautiful, and give others the courage to find their own voice.

My name is Chy’Ana Lee, but that wasn’t always my name. I was adopted around the age of three, and much of my early identity is still a mystery to me. What I do know is that I was born into a reality marked by pain, instability, and generational cycles. My biological mother struggled with addiction, and the courts gave her a limited opportunity to turn her life around while she was pregnant with me. When she couldn’t, I was placed in the foster care system—a system that shaped the beginning of my life. At birth, I was labeled a “crack baby.” Before I even opened my eyes, others had decided who I would be. That label haunted me. It reflected how quickly we write off children born into trauma, especially Black children. I’ve had to fight every day to prove that I am more than my circumstances. But I did more than survive—I’ve grown into someone I’m proud of. I’ve found that the most impactful part of being involved in music, theatre, or any artistic pursuit comes from the relationships built during the process. It’s not just about the final performance—it’s about what happens before the curtain rises: the late-night rehearsals, the trust formed among collaborators, and the sense of purpose that grows when people work together to bring a shared vision to life. Music has been a part of my life since I was four years old. It’s been my voice, my therapy, and my escape. Growing up adopted gave me a unique understanding of how important it is to feel seen, heard, and supported. That experience shaped the way I see collaboration—not just as a creative tool, but as a powerful force for healing and empowerment. Through music, I found a way to express myself when words weren’t enough, and now I strive to give that same outlet to others. One of the most meaningful ways I’ve been able to do that is through community service that’s rooted in my love for music and writing. I’ve spoken at schools and organized songwriting workshops for youth—especially those who come from difficult or unstable environments. Many of the kids I work with don’t have access to creative outlets at home, and some feel like their voices don’t matter. My goal is to change that. I create spaces where they can be vulnerable, feel safe, and be heard—spaces where creativity becomes a healthy escape rather than a luxury. These workshops are collaborative at their core. We don’t just write songs—we share stories, listen deeply, and help each other grow. I’ve seen kids who were initially closed off open up through a single line of a verse. I’ve witnessed how collaboration, when rooted in trust and compassion, can unlock something powerful in someone who may have never felt confident expressing themselves before. Those experiences have inspired me more than any award or solo performance ever could. Collaboration in my field means recognizing that music has the power to heal, uplift, and unite. It means using my skills not only to create for myself, but to help others find their own voices. Whether I’m co-writing a song, mentoring a young artist, or performing in a group, I carry that mission with me. It’s about showing up for others, being present in the process, and creating something bigger than any one person alone. That’s what drives me as a musician and as a mentor. I don’t just want to succeed individually—I want to be part of something meaningful, something that builds community and changes lives through the art of collaboration.

My name is Chy’Ana Lee, but that wasn’t always my name. I was adopted around the age of three, and much of my early identity is still a mystery to me. What I do know is that I was born into a reality marked by pain, instability, and generational cycles. My biological mother struggled with addiction, and the courts gave her a limited opportunity to turn her life around while she was pregnant with me. When she couldn’t, I was placed in the foster care system—a system that shaped the beginning of my life. At birth, I was labeled a “crack baby.” Before I even opened my eyes, others had decided who I would be. That label haunted me. It reflected how quickly we write off children born into trauma, especially Black children. I’ve had to fight every day to prove that I am more than my circumstances. But I did more than survive—I’ve grown into someone I’m proud of. I’ve found that the most impactful part of being involved in music, theatre, or any artistic pursuit comes from the relationships built during the process. It’s not just about the final performance—it’s about what happens before the curtain rises: the late-night rehearsals, the trust formed among collaborators, and the sense of purpose that grows when people work together to bring a shared vision to life. Music has been a part of my life since I was four years old. It’s been my voice, my therapy, and my escape. Growing up adopted gave me a unique understanding of how important it is to feel seen, heard, and supported. That experience shaped the way I see collaboration—not just as a creative tool, but as a powerful force for healing and empowerment. Through music, I found a way to express myself when words weren’t enough, and now I strive to give that same outlet to others. One of the most meaningful ways I’ve been able to do that is through community service that’s rooted in my love for music and writing. I’ve spoken at schools and organized songwriting workshops for youth—especially those who come from difficult or unstable environments. Many of the kids I work with don’t have access to creative outlets at home, and some feel like their voices don’t matter. My goal is to change that. I create spaces where they can be vulnerable, feel safe, and be heard—spaces where creativity becomes a healthy escape rather than a luxury. These workshops are collaborative at their core. We don’t just write songs—we share stories, listen deeply, and help each other grow. I’ve seen kids who were initially closed off open up through a single line of a verse. I’ve witnessed how collaboration, when rooted in trust and compassion, can unlock something powerful in someone who may have never felt confident expressing themselves before. Those experiences have inspired me more than any award or solo performance ever could. Collaboration in my field means recognizing that music has the power to heal, uplift, and unite. It means using my skills not only to create for myself, but to help others find their own voices. Whether I’m co-writing a song, mentoring a young artist, or performing in a group, I carry that mission with me. It’s about showing up for others, being present in the process, and creating something bigger than any one person alone. That’s what drives me as a musician and as a mentor. I don’t just want to succeed individually—I want to be part of something meaningful, something that builds community and changes lives through the art of collaboration.

My name is Chy’Ana Lee, but that wasn’t always my name. I was adopted around the age of three, and much of my early identity is still a mystery to me. What I do know is that I was born into a reality marked by pain, instability, and generational cycles. My biological mother struggled with addiction, and the courts gave her a limited opportunity to turn her life around while she was pregnant with me. When she couldn’t, I was placed in the foster care system—a system that shaped the beginning of my life. At birth, I was labeled a “crack baby.” Before I even opened my eyes, others had decided who I would be. That label haunted me. It reflected how quickly we write off children born into trauma, especially Black children. I’ve had to fight every day to prove that I am more than my circumstances. But I did more than survive—I’ve grown into someone I’m proud of. I’ve found that the most impactful part of being involved in music, theatre, or any artistic pursuit comes from the relationships built during the process. It’s not just about the final performance—it’s about what happens before the curtain rises: the late-night rehearsals, the trust formed among collaborators, and the sense of purpose that grows when people work together to bring a shared vision to life. Music has been a part of my life since I was four years old. It’s been my voice, my therapy, and my escape. Growing up adopted gave me a unique understanding of how important it is to feel seen, heard, and supported. That experience shaped the way I see collaboration—not just as a creative tool, but as a powerful force for healing and empowerment. Through music, I found a way to express myself when words weren’t enough, and now I strive to give that same outlet to others. One of the most meaningful ways I’ve been able to do that is through community service that’s rooted in my love for music and writing. I’ve spoken at schools and organized songwriting workshops for youth—especially those who come from difficult or unstable environments. Many of the kids I work with don’t have access to creative outlets at home, and some feel like their voices don’t matter. My goal is to change that. I create spaces where they can be vulnerable, feel safe, and be heard—spaces where creativity becomes a healthy escape rather than a luxury. These workshops are collaborative at their core. We don’t just write songs—we share stories, listen deeply, and help each other grow. I’ve seen kids who were initially closed off open up through a single line of a verse. I’ve witnessed how collaboration, when rooted in trust and compassion, can unlock something powerful in someone who may have never felt confident expressing themselves before. Those experiences have inspired me more than any award or solo performance ever could. Collaboration in my field means recognizing that music has the power to heal, uplift, and unite. It means using my skills not only to create for myself, but to help others find their own voices. Whether I’m co-writing a song, mentoring a young artist, or performing in a group, I carry that mission with me. It’s about showing up for others, being present in the process, and creating something bigger than any one person alone. That’s what drives me as a musician and as a mentor. I don’t just want to succeed individually—I want to be part of something meaningful, something that builds community and changes lives through the art of collaboration.

My name is Chy’Ana Lee—but that wasn’t always my name. I was adopted around the age of three, and much of my early identity is still a mystery to me. What I do know is that I was born into a reality marked by pain, instability, and generational trauma. My biological mother struggled with addiction, and the court gave her a limited window to turn her life around while pregnant with me. When she couldn’t, I was placed into the foster care system—a system that defined the earliest chapters of my life. At birth, I was labeled a “crack baby.” Before I could even take my first breath, others had already written my story. That label wasn’t just clinical—it was a judgment, a dismissal of my potential. But I refused to let that define me. I’ve worked every day to become more than what the world expected from me. Today, I am someone who lives with purpose, passion, and a commitment to helping others heal. Music has been my lifeline since I was four years old. It has helped me cope, communicate, and find identity. I’ve been playing guitar for over eleven years and writing and performing music that reflects my truth. I’m a rapper, but not in the way most people expect. I don’t follow industry trends or portray the hypersexualized image that’s often pushed on women in hip-hop. Instead, my inspiration comes from artists like Tupac, Biggie, and Eminem—rappers who spoke truth and created social change through their words. My music touches on mental health, identity, injustice, and healing. It’s honest, raw, and rooted in purpose. I live by a philosophy I call “G.A.M.E.”—Guidance Above My Emotions. It represents my faith, my emotional awareness, and my personal growth. At 14, I began developing a deeper relationship with God and realized my life was meant for more. Through prayer, reflection, and reading scripture, I understood that my voice was a gift. That gift is meant to serve others—to bring light, love, and healing into places where there’s pain. My future plan is not just to be an artist, but a healer, mentor, and educator. I want to study music and its connection to emotional wellness, combining it with psychology, creative arts therapy, or community development. I envision building programs that provide young people—especially those impacted by addiction, trauma, or foster care—safe spaces to express themselves through writing and music. I’ve already begun this work. I’ve spoken at schools, led writing workshops, and mentored youth who feel voiceless. I teach them how to turn pain into poetry, fear into performance. Many of these kids come from homes where creativity isn’t encouraged—or where they’re simply trying to survive. Through music, we build connection, trust, and self-worth. Watching someone go from silent to singing is one of the most fulfilling parts of what I do. This scholarship will help me continue that mission. It would allow me to focus on my education while continuing my community service without being overwhelmed by financial stress. I won’t have to choose between buying supplies for a workshop and paying for school. I’ll be able to invest fully in both learning and leading. Representation also matters deeply to me. As a young Black woman who beat the odds, I want to show others that it’s possible. When kids see someone who came from where they are and made it out with purpose, it gives them hope. And sometimes, hope is everything. In the long term, I plan to open a center for creative healing where youth can write, sing, speak, and be heard. I want to create curriculum that blends music, therapy, and faith-based empowerment. I want to publish my work, share my story on bigger stages, and train other mentors to do the same. This isn’t about fame—it’s about impact. I was given a second chance through adoption, music, and faith. Now I want to pass that gift forward. This scholarship is more than a financial award—it’s a seed planted in the future I’m building for others like me. Thank you for investing in that possibility.

My name is Chy’Ana Lee—but that wasn’t always my name. I was adopted around the age of three, and much of my early identity is still a mystery to me. What I do know is that I was born into a reality marked by pain, instability, and generational trauma. My biological mother struggled with addiction, and the court gave her a limited opportunity to turn her life around while she was pregnant with me. When she couldn’t, I was placed into the foster care system—a system that, unfortunately, defined the earliest chapters of my life. At birth, I was labeled a “crack baby,” and before I could even take my first breath, others had already written my story for me. That label, and the stigma that came with it, followed me like a shadow. It wasn’t just a medical term—it was a judgment, a dismissal of my potential, a way for society to tell me that I would amount to nothing. But I refused to let that be my truth. I have worked every day to prove that I am more than my circumstances. I have grown not only into someone I’m proud of—but someone who knows her purpose and lives it boldly. Music has been my saving grace since I was four years old. It has been my therapy, my voice, my way of transforming pain into power. Singing, writing, and rapping have allowed me to express emotions I couldn’t say out loud and helped me build an identity rooted not in trauma, but in truth and healing. I’ve been playing guitar for over eleven years, and I’m also a rapper—though not the kind people expect. I don’t follow industry trends or the hypersexualized image so often placed on women in the music world. Instead, my influences come from artists like Tupac, Biggie, Eminem, and the golden age of hip-hop—musicians who had something real to say. My music explores deep themes like mental health, racial and social injustice, divine balance, and the emotional complexity of being human. It’s clean, it’s raw, and it’s rooted in purpose. I call my philosophy “G.A.M.E.” – Guidance Above My Emotions. That mindset is more than a catchy phrase—it’s the foundation of how I move through life. I’ve learned to lean into my faith, especially since I was around 14. That’s when I truly began to develop a relationship with God and understand that my life had a bigger meaning. Reading the Bible, reflecting on my experiences, and recognizing the gift I’ve been given through music helped me realize that I was put on this earth to heal others in the most authentic way I know—through creativity, service, and truth. That realization shaped my future plans. I don't just want to be an artist—I want to be a healer, educator, and mentor. I plan to pursue a degree that allows me to study music and its power as a tool for healing and communication, possibly combining that with psychology, creative therapy, or community development. My goal is to continue traveling and performing, but also to create programs and spaces—like youth songwriting workshops, creative healing circles, and mentorship networks—for those who come from the same kinds of broken systems I did. In fact, I’ve already started doing this work. I’ve spoken at schools, mentored young kids, and organized writing workshops where youth can express themselves through music and poetry. Many of these kids come from unstable homes, live with trauma, or feel like their voices don’t matter. I use my platform to show them that they are worthy, that they can tell their stories, and that what they’ve been through doesn’t define who they are or what they can become. I’ve watched these young people go from silence to singing—from fear to freedom—and that transformation has become one of the most fulfilling parts of my life. These workshops are more than educational—they’re collaborative, spiritual, and restorative. We don’t just write music. We share stories, build trust, and form community. I’ve seen how a single line in a song can unlock years of emotion and help someone begin to heal. That’s the power of creative expression. That’s the power I want to keep giving. This scholarship will allow me to further this mission in a sustainable, grounded way. Higher education is the bridge between where I am now and the larger vision I have for my future. With financial support, I will be able to focus on both my academic studies and community work without the constant pressure of financial strain. I won’t have to choose between paying for school and buying a guitar for a kid who’s never owned an instrument. I won’t have to work multiple jobs just to afford books while also trying to perform and mentor. With this scholarship, I will be able to learn, lead, and lift others at the same time. It’s also important for me to be visible in academic and professional spaces as a young Black woman who beat the odds. Representation matters. When kids like me see someone who looks like them, who came from what they’re living through now, standing strong and walking in purpose, it plants a seed of hope. And sometimes that seed is all someone needs to make it through. I want to be that hope. In the long term, I envision building a center for creative healing that brings together music, mentorship, therapy, and education—especially for Black youth, adoptees, and children impacted by addiction or trauma. I want to train others to use music as a healing tool, advocate for mental wellness in communities of color, and challenge systems that have historically failed kids like me. I want to publish my lyrics, write books, and continue using my story as living proof that beginnings don’t define endings—and that creativity can be a lifeline. None of this is about becoming famous. It’s about becoming effective. I know I’ve been given a gift, and I’ve been given a second chance at life through adoption, music, and faith. Now I want to give back that same hope, that same opportunity, to others who are still trying to find their way. This scholarship will help me do that—not just by funding my education, but by fueling my mission. In the words of Tupac, one of my greatest influences, “I’m not saying I’m gonna change the world, but I guarantee that I will spark the brain that will change the world.” I believe this scholarship is an investment not only in my future, but in every young person I will one day help to see their own. Thank you for believing in that possibility.

Music has been a part of my life since I was four years old. It’s been my voice, my therapy, and my escape. Growing up adopted gave me a unique understanding of how important it is to feel seen, heard, and supported. That experience shaped the way I see collaboration—not just as a creative tool, but as a powerful force for healing and empowerment. Through music, I found a way to express myself when words weren’t enough, and now I strive to give that same outlet to others. One of the most meaningful ways I’ve been able to do that is through community service that’s rooted in my love for music and writing. I’ve spoken at schools and organized songwriting workshops for youth—especially those who come from difficult or unstable environments. Many of the kids I work with don’t have access to creative outlets at home, and some feel like their voices don’t matter. My goal is to change that. I create spaces where they can be vulnerable, feel safe, and be heard—spaces where creativity becomes a healthy escape rather than a luxury. These workshops are collaborative at their core. We don’t just write songs—we share stories, listen deeply, and help each other grow. I’ve seen kids who were initially closed off open up through a single line of a verse. I’ve witnessed how collaboration, when rooted in trust and compassion, can unlock something powerful in someone who may have never felt confident expressing themselves before. Those experiences have inspired me more than any award or solo performance ever could. Collaboration in my field means recognizing that music has the power to heal, uplift, and unite. It means using my skills not only to create for myself, but to help others find their own voices. Whether I’m co-writing a song, mentoring a young artist, or performing in a group, I carry that mission with me. It’s about showing up for others, being present in the process, and creating something bigger than any one person alone. That’s what drives me as a musician and as a mentor. I don’t just want to succeed individually—I want to be part of something meaningful, something that builds community and changes lives through the art of collaboration.

My name is Chy’Ana Lee, but that wasn’t always my name. I was adopted around the age of three, and much of my early identity is still a mystery to me. What I do know is that I was born into a reality marked by pain, instability, and generational cycles. My biological mother struggled with addiction, and the courts gave her a limited opportunity to turn her life around while she was pregnant with me. When she couldn’t, I was placed in the foster care system—a system that shaped the beginning of my life. At birth, I was labeled a “crack baby.” Before I even opened my eyes, others had decided who I would be. That label haunted me. It reflected how quickly we write off children born into trauma, especially Black children. I’ve had to fight every day to prove that I am more than my circumstances. But I did more than survive—I’ve grown into someone I’m proud of. I’ve found that the most impactful part of being involved in music, theatre, or any artistic pursuit comes from the relationships built during the process. It’s not just about the final performance—it’s about what happens before the curtain rises: the late-night rehearsals, the trust formed among collaborators, and the sense of purpose that grows when people work together to bring a shared vision to life. Music has been a part of my life since I was four years old. It’s been my voice, my therapy, and my escape. Growing up adopted gave me a unique understanding of how important it is to feel seen, heard, and supported. That experience shaped the way I see collaboration—not just as a creative tool, but as a powerful force for healing and empowerment. Through music, I found a way to express myself when words weren’t enough, and now I strive to give that same outlet to others. One of the most meaningful ways I’ve been able to do that is through community service that’s rooted in my love for music and writing. I’ve spoken at schools and organized songwriting workshops for youth—especially those who come from difficult or unstable environments. Many of the kids I work with don’t have access to creative outlets at home, and some feel like their voices don’t matter. My goal is to change that. I create spaces where they can be vulnerable, feel safe, and be heard—spaces where creativity becomes a healthy escape rather than a luxury. These workshops are collaborative at their core. We don’t just write songs—we share stories, listen deeply, and help each other grow. I’ve seen kids who were initially closed off open up through a single line of a verse. I’ve witnessed how collaboration, when rooted in trust and compassion, can unlock something powerful in someone who may have never felt confident expressing themselves before. Those experiences have inspired me more than any award or solo performance ever could. Collaboration in my field means recognizing that music has the power to heal, uplift, and unite. It means using my skills not only to create for myself, but to help others find their own voices. Whether I’m co-writing a song, mentoring a young artist, or performing in a group, I carry that mission with me. It’s about showing up for others, being present in the process, and creating something bigger than any one person alone. That’s what drives me as a musician and as a mentor. I don’t just want to succeed individually—I want to be part of something meaningful, something that builds community and changes lives through the art of collaboration.

music isn’t just about blending sounds or sharing creative responsibilities—it’s about building connections, nurturing growth, and creating safe, transformative spaces. I’ve found that the most impactful part of being involved in music, theatre, or any artistic pursuit comes from the relationships built during the process. It’s not just about the final performance—it’s about what happens before the curtain rises: the late-night rehearsals, the trust formed among collaborators, and the sense of purpose that grows when people work together to bring a shared vision to life. Music has been a part of my life since I was four years old. It’s been my voice, my therapy, and my escape. Growing up adopted gave me a unique understanding of how important it is to feel seen, heard, and supported. That experience shaped the way I see collaboration—not just as a creative tool, but as a powerful force for healing and empowerment. Through music, I found a way to express myself when words weren’t enough, and now I strive to give that same outlet to others. One of the most meaningful ways I’ve been able to do that is through community service that’s rooted in my love for music and writing. I’ve spoken at schools and organized songwriting workshops for youth—especially those who come from difficult or unstable environments. Many of the kids I work with don’t have access to creative outlets at home, and some feel like their voices don’t matter. My goal is to change that. I create spaces where they can be vulnerable, feel safe, and be heard—spaces where creativity becomes a healthy escape rather than a luxury. These workshops are collaborative at their core. We don’t just write songs—we share stories, listen deeply, and help each other grow. I’ve seen kids who were initially closed off open up through a single line of a verse. I’ve witnessed how collaboration, when rooted in trust and compassion, can unlock something powerful in someone who may have never felt confident expressing themselves before. Those experiences have inspired me more than any award or solo performance ever could. Collaboration in my field means recognizing that music has the power to heal, uplift, and unite. It means using my skills not only to create for myself, but to help others find their own voices. Whether I’m co-writing a song, mentoring a young artist, or performing in a group, I carry that mission with me. It’s about showing up for others, being present in the process, and creating something bigger than any one person alone. That’s what drives me as a musician and as a mentor. I don’t just want to succeed individually—I want to be part of something meaningful, something that builds community and changes lives through the art itself.

collaboration in music isn’t just about blending sounds or sharing creative responsibilities—it’s about building connections, nurturing growth, and creating safe, transformative spaces.. I’ve found that the most impactful part of being involved in music, theatre, or any artistic pursuit comes from the relationships built during the process. It’s not just about the final performance—it’s about what happens before the curtain rises: the late-night rehearsals, the trust formed among collaborators, and the sense of purpose that grows when people work together to bring a shared vision to life. Music has been a part of my life since I was four years old. It’s been my voice, my therapy, and my escape. Growing up adopted gave me a unique understanding of how important it is to feel seen, heard, and supported. That experience shaped the way I see collaboration—not just as a creative tool, but as a powerful force for healing and empowerment. Through music, I found a way to express myself when words weren’t enough, and now I strive to give that same outlet to others. One of the most meaningful ways I’ve been able to do that is through community service that’s rooted in my love for music and writing. I’ve spoken at schools and organized songwriting workshops for youth—especially those who come from difficult or unstable environments. Many of the kids I work with don’t have access to creative outlets at home, and some feel like their voices don’t matter. My goal is to change that. I create spaces where they can be vulnerable, feel safe, and be heard—spaces where creativity becomes a healthy escape rather than a luxury. These workshops are collaborative at their core. We don’t just write songs—we share stories, listen deeply, and help each other grow. I’ve seen kids who were initially closed off open up through a single line of a verse. I’ve witnessed how collaboration, when rooted in trust and compassion, can unlock something powerful in someone who may have never felt confident expressing themselves before. Those experiences have inspired me more than any award or solo performance ever could. Collaboration in my field means recognizing that music has the power to heal, uplift, and unite. It means using my skills not only to create for myself, but to help others find their own voices. Whether I’m co-writing a song, mentoring a young artist, or performing in a group, I carry that mission with me. It’s about showing up for others, being present in the process, and creating something bigger than any one person alone. That’s what drives me as a musician and as a mentor. I don’t just want to succeed individually—I want to be part of something meaningful, something that builds community and changes lives through the art of collaboration.

My name is Chy’Ana Lee—but that wasn’t always my name. I was adopted at the age of three after being born into a world of uncertainty, instability, and generational trauma. My biological mother struggled with addiction, and before I even entered this world, I was labeled a “crack baby”—a term that stripped me of identity and potential before I had a chance to take my first breath. From the very beginning, I was placed in a box, underestimated by a society that often gives up on children born into broken systems. Because of this, mental and physical wellness is not just important to me—it’s essential to my survival, growth, and purpose. I’ve experienced firsthand how early trauma, abandonment, and social judgment can threaten someone’s sense of worth and direction. For a long time, I carried pain I didn’t even have the language to express. But instead of letting it consume me, I turned to something that saved my life: music. Through songwriting, singing, and rapping, I found a healthy outlet to express emotions I’d been forced to silence. Music became the way I learned to heal—and healing requires both mental and physical wellness. As a student, maintaining wellness is a constant balancing act. There are days when the pressures of academics, finances, and personal expectations feel overwhelming. Being a young Black woman in predominantly white or high-pressure environments comes with an unspoken burden of having to “prove” yourself constantly. Add to that the weight of personal history, and you begin to understand how mental health can feel fragile—even when you’re high-functioning. Some of the biggest challenges I face include managing anxiety, setting boundaries, and finding time for self-care amid demanding schedules. I’ve also struggled with imposter syndrome—wondering if I truly belong in spaces I’ve fought hard to enter. Physically, it’s easy to neglect things like sleep, exercise, or proper nutrition when you’re trying to juggle school, work, and your passions. But my philosophy—G.A.M.E., or “Guidance Above My Emotions”—keeps me grounded. It reminds me that I am not my past, my trauma, or my struggles. I have the power to rewrite my narrative, and in doing so, I can guide others to do the same. My wellness matters because I matter. And because I plan to use my education and music to be a voice for those who feel invisible, I must lead by example—prioritizing my mental and physical health not just for myself, but for the communities I serve. My wellness is the foundation for the impact I want to make.

My name is Chy’Ana Lee, but that wasn’t always my name. I was adopted around the age of three, and much of my early identity is still a mystery to me. What I do know is that I was born into a reality marked by pain, instability, and generational cycles that have hurt too many African American women and children. My biological mother struggled with addiction, and the courts gave her a limited opportunity to turn her life around while she was pregnant with me. When she couldn’t, I was placed in the foster care system—a system that shaped the beginning of my life. At birth, I was labeled a “crack baby.” Before I even opened my eyes, others had decided who I would be. That label haunted me—not just as a medical term, but as a societal sentence. It reflected how quickly we write off children born into trauma, especially Black children. I’ve had to fight every day to prove that I am more than my circumstances. But I did more than survive—I’ve grown into someone I’m proud of. Substance abuse and its aftermath impacted me deeply, even though I don’t have direct memories of that time. The absence of my biological mother, the instability of foster care, and the judgment placed on me at birth instilled in me a fierce sense of purpose. I’ve never turned to drugs or alcohol. Instead, I turned to music. Music became my sanctuary and my way of transforming pain into purpose. I’ve been singing since I was little, playing guitar for over 11 years, and rapping with intention and clarity. I don’t fit the mold of today’s industry; I lead with messages about mental health, divine balance, and accountability. I call it “G.A.M.E.” – Guidance Above My Emotions. Through higher education, I plan to use my voice to create more than music—I want to create change. I want to work in creative therapy and community outreach, building safe spaces for African American women and youth impacted by substance abuse and trauma. My goal is to develop programs that focus on expressive healing—through music, writing, and open conversation—because I know firsthand how silence can destroy, and how creativity can restore. We need more representation, care, and cultural understanding when addressing how addiction impacts Black women. I plan to use my education to bridge those gaps—offering tools, empathy, and systems that speak to the real experiences of our communities. My story isn’t one of pity—it’s one of power. And with that power, I will help others rewrite theirs.

For me, collaboration in music isn’t just about blending sounds or sharing creative responsibilities—it’s about building connections, nurturing growth, and creating safe, transformative spaces. Like Pam Branchini, I’ve found that the most impactful part of being involved in music, theatre, or any artistic pursuit comes from the relationships built during the process. It’s not just about the final performance—it’s about what happens before the curtain rises: the late-night rehearsals, the trust formed among collaborators, and the sense of purpose that grows when people work together to bring a shared vision to life. Music has been a part of my life since I was four years old. It’s been my voice, my therapy, and my escape. Growing up adopted gave me a unique understanding of how important it is to feel seen, heard, and supported. That experience shaped the way I see collaboration—not just as a creative tool, but as a powerful force for healing and empowerment. Through music, I found a way to express myself when words weren’t enough, and now I strive to give that same outlet to others. One of the most meaningful ways I’ve been able to do that is through community service that’s rooted in my love for music and writing. I’ve spoken at schools and organized songwriting workshops for youth—especially those who come from difficult or unstable environments. Many of the kids I work with don’t have access to creative outlets at home, and some feel like their voices don’t matter. My goal is to change that. I create spaces where they can be vulnerable, feel safe, and be heard—spaces where creativity becomes a healthy escape rather than a luxury. These workshops are collaborative at their core. We don’t just write songs—we share stories, listen deeply, and help each other grow. I’ve seen kids who were initially closed off open up through a single line of a verse. I’ve witnessed how collaboration, when rooted in trust and compassion, can unlock something powerful in someone who may have never felt confident expressing themselves before. Those experiences have inspired me more than any award or solo performance ever could. Collaboration in my field means recognizing that music has the power to heal, uplift, and unite. It means using my skills not only to create for myself, but to help others find their own voices. Whether I’m co-writing a song, mentoring a young artist, or performing in a group, I carry that mission with me. It’s about showing up for others, being present in the process, and creating something bigger than any one person alone. That’s what drives me as a musician and as a mentor. I don’t just want to succeed individually—I want to be part of something meaningful, something that builds community and changes lives through the art of collaboration.

From the moment I could make sense of the world, music was my anchor. My name is Chy’Ana Lee — but that’s not the name I was born with. I was adopted at around three years old after being born into a life shaped by struggle. My biological mother was a drug addict. A judge gave her time to get clean while she was pregnant with me, but when she didn’t, I entered the foster care system. From the very beginning, I was labeled — a “crack baby,” a child without a future. That label stayed in the air longer than my name. But I’ve always known that I was meant for more. Despite my painful beginnings, I found my light through music. I’ve been singing since I could speak, and I’ve been playing guitar for over 11 years. Music has always been more than just a passion — it’s been my lifeline, my therapy, and my way of understanding the world. I’ve always felt deeply connected to sound and lyrics, and even as a child, I knew this gift had purpose. That purpose has grown into a calling: I want to pursue a degree in music because it’s more than just what I love — it’s who I am. My goal is to use my voice, my lyrics, and my story to heal myself and help heal others. Music is how I process emotion, confront truth, and find meaning. I believe it can do the same for others, especially those who have faced adversity like I have. Many are surprised when I say I’m a rapper. I don’t fit the stereotype — I’m not chasing fame, clout, or a spotlight. I look up to artists like 2Pac, Biggie, and Lauryn hill — storytellers who weren't afraid to expose pain, speak truth, and challenge the world. My music is clean, raw, and focused on themes like mental health, divine balance in femininity and masculinity, and social justice. I write about things that make people uncomfortable — because those are often the things that matter most. I live by something I call “GAME” — Guidance Above My Emotions. It’s how I stay grounded in truth while still honoring how I feel. It took me 17 years to understand that my gift wasn’t just talent — it was responsibility. I’ve been given this voice and perspective for a reason, and now I know how to use them. Earning a degree will help me refine my craft, deepen my understanding of music theory and production, and give me the tools to turn my passion into a lifelong career. I often ask myself where I would be if I hadn’t been adopted — if I hadn’t been given a second chance. Would I have followed the same path of addiction that destroyed my mother? Would I have even found my gift? These thoughts stay with me, but they also fuel me. They remind me that I’m not just surviving — I’m creating, I’m growing, and I’m giving back. I am proud of how far I’ve come, not because it was easy, but because it was never supposed to be. I am a Black woman, raised in a system that didn’t expect me to succeed — and yet here I am. I’ve found my purpose. I want to pursue a degree in music because I know, without a doubt, that this is what I was born to do: tell the truth, make healing sound beautiful, and give others the courage to find their own voice.

My name is Chy’Ana Lee I was adopted around the age of three. My biological mother was a drug addict, and I have three biological siblings. When she was pregnant with me, a judge gave her a chance to get clean. If she didn’t, I’d be placed in the foster system. She didn’t. So yes, I am a product of the system When I was born, they called me a “crack baby.” No one had hope for me — not even before I took my first breath. That alone says a lot about humanity, and how quickly people give up on others. Despite that, and despite a few mental health struggles, I’ve come out with a clean record and a strong sense of self. But I’m not telling you this to make you feel sorry. My story has purpose. It may upset you or make your blood boil, but it’s real — and it shaped who I am today. My name is Chy’Ana, but I am more than that. I am an artist. Music is my sanctuary. I’ve been singing all my life and playing guitar for 11 years. Most people don’t expect someone like me — a young Black woman — to say she’s a rapper. Society expects me to fit a mold, but I don’t. I don’t follow the mainstream. I’m not trying to be the next Cardi B or City Girls. I’m inspired by 2Pac, Biggie, Eminem — the lyricists, the truth-tellers. When people hear “female rapper,” they think of explicit content. That’s not me. I use my gift to speak on divine femininity and masculinity, mental health, social and racial injustice — the topics that make people uncomfortable. The truth is ugly, but it deserves to be heard. I believe in accountability, in facing your own wrongs and understanding the emotions behind every choice — mine or someone else’s. I call it “GAME”: Guidance Above My Emotions. It took me 17 years to understand my purpose, and now that I do, I just want to educate, inspire, and uplift. If I hadn’t been adopted, I often wonder where I’d be. Would I even be making music? Or would I have followed the same destructive path? I’m proud of who I’ve become — because I am more than what they said I would be. I am a Black kid in America, and I found my gift.

My name is Chy’Ana Lee, but that wasn’t always my name. I was adopted around the age of three, and much of my early identity is unknown to me. What I do know is that I was born into circumstances that many would consider hopeless. My biological mother struggled with addiction, and the court gave her a limited window to turn her life around while she was pregnant with me. When she couldn’t, I was placed into the foster care system—a system that, unfortunately, defined the earliest chapters of my life. At birth, I was labeled a “crack baby,” and before I could take my first breath, others had already written my story for me. That label, that lack of faith in my potential, speaks volumes about the judgments society places on children born into difficult circumstances. But despite what was expected of me, I’ve come out the other side stronger—with a clean record, resilience, and a deep understanding of who I am. I don’t share my story to seek pity. I share it to show that your beginnings do not define your ending. Music saved me. It became my sanctuary, my outlet, and my identity. I’ve been singing since I was a child and playing guitar for over 11 years. I’m also a rapper—a title that often surprises people because I don’t fit the mold they expect. I don’t conform to industry trends or the hypersexualized image commonly associated with female rappers today. My influences come from the golden age of hip-hop: artists like Tupac, Biggie, Eminem, and the legendary emcees of the ‘90s. My music explores themes like mental health, divine balance in masculinity and femininity, and racial and social injustice. My lyrical content is intentionally clean and honest. I believe in accountability—acknowledging not only our own flaws but also the truths we’re often too afraid to face. I call it “G.A.M.E.”: Guidance Above My Emotions. That philosophy has guided me in understanding the power of my voice and the responsibility that comes with it. It took me 17 years to fully recognize my gift, and now that I have, I want to use it to inspire others. I often ask myself where I’d be if I hadn’t been adopted—would I still be making music? Would I have fallen into the same cycle my mother couldn’t escape? These thoughts fuel my drive and remind me of how far I’ve come. I’m proud to say I’ve become more than what was expected of me. I am a young Black woman in America who is rewriting her narrative. Through music, I’ve found purpose. After college, I plan to continue traveling, performing, and spreading messages of healing, empowerment, and community upliftment. I want to show others—especially those born into systems like mine—that their voices matter. That their dreams are valid. And that through self-expression and service, there truly are no limits to what we can become

My name is Chy’Ana Lee but that is not my name. I don't know what it was or how it was spelt before but I was adopted around 3 years old. My biological mom was a drug addict. I have 3 biological siblings. The judge gave her time to get clean while she was pregnant with me and if she wasn’t by the time I was born they would put me in the foster system. So yes I am a product of the system. When I was born they called me a crack baby. No one had hope for me before I was even born, that says alot about humanity and what happened to faith seriously. With a clean record and a couple of mental health issues, besides that I think I came out pretty decent. I'm not writing this to tell you a sad story, my story actually has meaning behind it, it may make your blood boil with how unfair and unfortunate the events i had to deal with came at me. But let me restate. My name is Chy’Ana but I am actually an artist. Music is my outlet. I am blessed to say I have a gift I can run to for comfort. I have been singing my entire life and playing guitar for 11 years. Besides the obvious, many look at me differently when I tell them I'm a rapper. It's not usually what you want to hear from a young beautiful girl who is supposed to stick with society's standards of success. I'm sure we know nicki minaj, Cardi B, City Girls etc. but that's not my style. I aim more towards inspiration from great artist such as 2pac, biggie, Eminem, The top rap groups and Emcees of the 90s. When you hear female rapper you immediately think the music of today, sexual and explicit. I am grateful to have a gift where I can express myself lyrically while being clean. My concepts consist of divine comfort in femininity and masculinity, mental health, black and social injustices. I like to point out the things that make others uncomfortable,the truth is ugly and lies are beautiful. I believe in accountability and acknowledging everything for example, your wrongs, the world, how to handle a situation , and how someone else handles a situation. I call it “GAME” , guidance above my emotions. It took me 17 years to finally understand what my gift was and how to hone it and now that I hold a lot of power because of my knowledge, all I want to do is inspire and educate. If I weren't adopted I ask myself alot where I would be. Truly it is a constant question in my daily thoughts, would I be making music,would I have gone down another path of bad choices , or would I have followed the path of addiction. I'm proud of myself because I'm more than what they intended I would be. I am a black kid in America. I didn't have it easy since I was born so making something out of my challenges is the reason I have this voice to be for those who relate to the predestined lifestyle of the system. I found my gift.