I want to be an astronaut, but my story begins in a Florida spring. At Troy Springs, I learned what silence sounds like. Not the empty kind, but the kind filled with life. Sunlight cut through the water, fish shimmered in quick bursts, and I floated weightless, part of something bigger. I was just a kid, but I understood one thing instantly: this world is alive, and it needs us to care for it. That was the first time I felt truly connected to the Earth. Since then, water has been my teacher. In Jupiter and West Palm Beach, I’ve seen the ocean at its brightest - reefs alive with color, sea turtles drifting past, schools of fish swirling like galaxies. But I’ve also seen the other side: corals drained of color, fishing line wrapped tight around fragile fans, plastics moving with the current like ghosts. Diving taught me awe, but it also taught me urgency. The planet’s beauty is staggering, but it is not guaranteed. Sustainability is the line between thriving ecosystems and empty seas. That belief shapes my entire path. I study Aerospace Engineering at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University with a concentration in rocket propulsion. At first glance, rockets and reefs don’t belong in the same story. But to me, they are inseparable. Both demand survival in extreme environments. Both require trust, precision, and respect for fragile systems. The same satellites that map distant stars also track coral bleaching from orbit. The same life-support systems that sustain astronauts in space inspire sustainable systems here on Earth. My relationship with the planet is the compass that directs every choice I make in education: if it doesn’t contribute to exploration and preservation, it’s not enough. That’s also why I lead. As President of the Scuba Diving and Marine Conservation Club, I work with more than seventy divers to clean reefs, remove invasive species, and share conservation lessons with the campus and community. Leadership for me isn’t about holding a title; it’s about building momentum. I’ve watched a diver surface from a cleanup dive holding a tangled net and realize, in that moment, their role in protecting the ocean. Those sparks of responsibility multiply, and that’s how impact begins. If money were no hindrance, I would build an installation called “Blue Planet, Fragile Planet.” It would begin in a Florida spring, with walls of light and sound recreating the clarity and stillness of Troy Springs. The next space would immerse visitors in a reef under stress - bleached corals, rising temperatures, the creeping impact of pollution. The final room would open into the view astronauts see: Earth glowing blue against the black of space, breathtaking and vulnerable. But the exhibit wouldn’t end with awe - it would end with action. Visitors could join workshops, commit to conservation projects, and learn simple sustainable practices that ripple outward into real change. The purpose would be to transform connection into responsibility, and responsibility into collective action. My first dive gave me awe. My ocean dives gave me urgency. My leadership gave me community. And my education gives me the tools. Together, they form my vision: to explore boldly, protect fiercely, and live sustainably so that future generations inherit a planet as alive as the one that first held me in Troy Springs. Because whether underwater or among the stars, the truth is the same: we only get one planet, and its future depends on what we do now.

I have never believed that dreams are only for the dreamer. I am an aerospace engineering student, but my dreams have always reached far beyond the walls of a classroom or the blueprints of a spacecraft. For me, aerospace is more than science and numbers, it is about pushing boundaries, breaking through the limits that society often places on women, and showing the next generation that they can rise as high as they dare to imagine. I didn’t arrive here by following a straight or easy path. I’ve crossed borders - literally and figuratively - on my way to becoming the woman I am today. I remember the 20-hour trip I made across countries, not for a vacation, but to volunteer. That journey taught me that service often means stepping far outside of your comfort zone, sometimes into places where you are tired, unsure, or even scared. But the look on the faces of the young girls I worked with - the way their posture straightened when I told them I was studying aerospace, made every mile worth it. I have faced challenges that tested my resilience in ways I could never have predicted. Some of those moments are etched into my memory permanently, and some I carry on my skin, like the Acropolis tattoo next to my heart, a constant reminder that I can withstand storms and still stand tall. I know what it is to feel small in the face of hardship, but I also know how to fight for my place in the world. That fight is what I pass on to the young women I mentor. Volunteering has been at the heart of my journey. Whether I am mentoring girls in STEM projects, helping them build their first rockets out of scratch or program their first code, or simply listening to their stories, I approach it with the same intention: to let them see themselves in spaces they might have been told were not for them. I remember being their age, wondering if the path I wanted was “too ambitious” for a girl like me. Now, I am living proof that it isn’t, and I make sure they know it, too. The youngest girl I mentored was Kalina, a 6-year old prodigy with a big brave dream. Her mom told me that Wednesday afternoon was her favorite day of the week, because I meet with her... My dreams are not just about designing spacecraft or advancing technology. They are about using the platform I build in aerospace to create opportunities for others, to fund scholarships once I grow old and wiser, and to open doors that once seemed sealed shut. I want to lead programs that give young women not just skills, but the confidence to lead, innovate, and persist. I want them to know that ambition is not arrogance, and that their worth is not up for debate. The This Woman’s Worth Scholarship embodies the very mission I have lived by - unapologetic growth, the celebration of womanhood, and the commitment to lift as we climb. Supporting me means supporting every young woman who will see my journey and think, “If she can do it, so can I.” I am worth my dreams because I have fought for them, nurtured them, and shared them. They are not mine alone - they belong to the girls I’ve mentored, the students I’ve encouraged, and the future leaders I have yet to meet. And as I continue to chase them, I will make sure I’m not running alone.

I hate soup. Not the taste - the sound. When I was a kid, my dad ordered me to get over it. He’d say it at breakfast when the cereal crunch made me want to scream, or at dinner when someone’s chewing felt louder than my thoughts. So, I learned to eat alone. In high school, I’d leave class to cry in the bathroom if someone tapped their pencil too long. I’d skip lunch when the cafeteria got too loud with smacking and gum popping. Nobody really got it, they all thought I was dramatic, or rude, or just “sensitive.” So, I believed it too. It took me until college to say the word out loud: misophonia. The first time I told a professor, I was shaking. I asked to sit by the door so I could step out if someone’s pen clicking made me forget how to breathe. He just nodded and said, “Okay, that’s fine.” It was the first time I didn’t feel like I had to apologize for how my brain works. Now, I’m an aerospace engineering student. I build rockets on paper and test tubes in the lab, but my real challenge is the tiny, everyday battle: tapping, slurping, sniffing. Earplugs in every pocket. Extra batteries for my noise-cancelling headphones. I know exactly where the quietest library cubicle is at 2:00 pm. I never planned to be someone who “raises awareness.” But freshman year I posted a late-night rant on my story about misophonia - how it feels like broken glass behind my eyes. I woke up to messages from classmates saying, “Wait. I thought I was the only one.” That same week, I put up a sticky note in the library: “3rd floor cubicles are quieter. Bring headphones. - Someone with misophonia.” A month later, someone wrote under it: “Thank you.” I still have a picture of that note - it’s tiny, but it reminded me that the smallest things help. Since then, I’ve spoken at student panels and gave a TED-style talk on hidden struggles students carry - not just misophonia, but all the invisible things that shape us. It felt terrifying to stand up there and admit something I used to hide. But it felt honest, too. Last semester I started drafting a simple PDF guide for other students with misophonia - the one I wish I’d had: how to email your professor, what headphones block the worst frequencies, how to explain it to your roommate. I’m working with the disability office to see if we can add real language about misophonia to our accessibility page. Most people don’t think it’s a big deal - “So you don’t like chewing sounds, big whoop.” But they don’t know what it’s like to plan your entire day around dodging normal life. They don’t know how heavy a pencil tap can feel when you’re trying to build your future. This scholarship would help me keep going - one less side job, one more hour to finish my degree, one more push to make sure no one else sits alone, thinking they’re just “too sensitive.” I can’t make the world quieter. But maybe I can make it kinder. That’s enough for now.

I was fifteen when I met my first rocket. It rose like a spine into the sky - the Saturn V replica at the entrance of Space Camp Türkiye. I didn’t know yet how each stage fired, or how many equations it took to leave Earth. But I knew it was pointing somewhere I needed to go. That rocket didn’t just launch astronauts - it launched the dream I have been waking up with every day for the past seven years. I entered the camp as a shy curious girl and left with a lifelong mission. Go to Space. My name is Tatyana Ivanova. I’m a junior in Aerospace Engineering at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, specializing in rocket propulsion. I come from a small town in Bulgaria, where my mom earned her degree with me in her arms, and my dad laid bricks through subzero winters. Education, in my family, has always been a way out. But for me, it became the only way up. That moment at Space Camp flipped a switch. Since then, I’ve pursued every opportunity to understand the physics, math, and engineering that make spaceflight possible. I lead CubeSat-based experiments in the Microgravity Lab at ERAU, developing hardware that simulates and validates technology for solar energy redirection using reflectors. I’ve designed thermal systems, modeled astronaut operations, and trained in high-risk conditions - including hypoxia, underwater capsule escapes, and zero gravity - all to better understand how humans survive and operate in space. But my contribution to science goes beyond lab data. I believe the future of space exploration depends not only on what we build, but who we build it for. That’s why I work equally hard outside the lab - speaking to middle and high school students, mentoring fellow international students, and using every outreach opportunity to open doors that once felt locked to me. I show young women and underrepresented students what aerospace really looks like: how it’s built, who builds it, and how much space there is for them in it. I plan to contribute to science by building systems that make human spaceflight safer, smarter, and more inclusive. My long-term goal is to design extravehicular activity (EVA) tools and astronaut interfaces that combine engineering precision with human usability. That means tools astronauts can rely on - because lives will depend on them. I want to work at NASA’s Neutral Buoyancy Lab, where EVA systems are tested underwater, and later pursue a Ph.D. in Aerodynamics and Propulsion since it is well known, humankind needs reliable rockets to go back to the Moon and beyond. To me, space is not just a frontier - it’s a proving ground. And I want to help shape the science that allows us to go further and come back stronger. The William Griggs Memorial Scholarship honors a man who helped send humans to the Moon -and encouraged his daughters to pursue science. His legacy speaks to me. A replica of the rocket he worked on was the reason I first looked up. Now, I look forward. I don’t just want to fly or be a tourist. I have taken the challenging, complex, tough road to the stars through diving, skydiving, aviation survival, high-g training and countless hours in the classroom and the lab. I want to contribute to the science that makes spaceflight possible, and to the community that makes it worth reaching for. I want to build what launches us, protect who goes, and teach the next generation to keep going. Because no gravity can stop someone who sees the sky as home.

The Words I Never Said, the Poem That Heard Them I wasn’t even supposed to be in that thrift store. It was raining. I had just finished crying in the parking lot of a grocery store after remembering a voicemail I deleted last year. I didn’t want to go home. Something in me didn’t want to be anywhere. So I walked into this dusty little place that smelled like attic wood and old laundry detergent, mostly because I didn’t want anyone to notice my puffy eyes. I wandered toward the back where the shelves were uneven, and the books leaned like they were tired. That’s where I found her - Sappho. A name I vaguely remembered from school. The cover was faded. The pages were loose. I opened the book and landed on a page that held only four lines: “Honestly, I want to die. She left me weeping, and with many tears said this: ‘How terribly we’ve suffered, Sappho. I leave you against my will.’” It was like I had been punched in the stomach. Because I had lost someone too. Someone I loved. And I hadn’t called her that day. Something told me to, and I didn’t. I was tired, or distracted, or afraid of what I might hear in her voice. And now she’s gone. That guilt doesn’t scream. It just sits in my throat and tightens when I laugh too hard. I didn’t expect to find anything in a thrift store that could name that feeling. But here it was, written 2,600 years ago by a woman who clearly knew how it felt to have someone leave and take all the air with them. Sappho’s “Fragment 94” is not just a record of heartbreak, it is a deep expression of the way love and guilt can intertwine when someone leaves before you’re ready. Through close reading of this passage, I found not only a reflection of my grief, but a mirror of the unspeakable guilt I carry. Close reading allowed me to enter into the silences of this ancient text, where I found the possibility of forgiveness and the quiet truth that love doesn’t end, even when presence does. The first line - “Honestly, I want to die” - doesn’t feel poetic. It feels honest. Brutally, plainly, frighteningly honest. It’s the kind of sentence you only say when no one else is listening. And yet, Sappho wrote it down. She gave it to the world. That act alone, naming that depth of pain, allowed me to do the same. But it’s the second and third lines where the texture of the poem hurts even more: “She left me weeping, and with many tears said this: ‘How terribly we’ve suffered, Sappho. I leave you against my will.’” That’s where my understanding shifted. The woman leaving isn’t cruel. She’s not trying to escape. She’s suffering too. She’s leaving even though she doesn’t want to. That line - “I leave you against my will” - is where the guilt I carried cracked a little. I had been holding on to the idea that maybe she left because I didn’t try hard enough. That maybe if I had called, or showed up, or done more, she would still be here. But what if she didn’t want to leave either? What if her leaving wasn’t a decision, but a collapse? Close reading gave me the courage to sit with that thought, not just breeze past it, but circle it, stare at it, breathe through it. That’s what close reading does. It invites you to not just consume the text, but to enter it. To read not just the words, but the spaces around them. The pain underneath them. The possibilities between them. I began reading the piece every night before bed. I would whisper the lines to myself like a spell. I didn’t always cry. Sometimes I just listened. I circled the word weeping. I underlined suffered. I wrote the word guilt in the margin. The more I read, the more I realized that Sappho wasn’t just writing about sadness, she was writing about shared sadness. About a goodbye that neither person wanted. About love that still existed even when the relationship couldn’t. That was revolutionary for me. Because guilt makes you feel alone. It makes you believe that the person is gone because of you. But this poem, this fragment, offered another possibility: that sometimes people leave against their will. That sometimes love still sits on both sides of the loss. I’ve learned that ancient texts aren’t powerful just because they’re old. They’re powerful because they’re honest. Sappho could have dressed up her pain with myth or metaphor. But she didn’t. She said things plainly. She let the silence do the rest. And close reading helped me see that silence not as emptiness, but as invitation. Invitation to see myself. Invitation to see her. Invitation to forgive. There’s a reason we’re asked to slow down and read deeply. When we only skim, we miss what’s trying to speak to us. We miss what’s buried under the language. Close reading isn’t just a classroom skill, it’s a life skill. It’s how we learn to truly hear someone. It’s how we find what was almost said. This skill of listening - to poems, to people, to memories, has changed how I live. I now approach conversations with more care. I ask myself: What’s being said behind the words? I reread messages I used to ignore. I hold onto the voicemails I almost deleted. I listen for the meaning someone may not have had the strength to say aloud. That’s what Sappho did. She gave voice to the things we usually keep hidden. And because I read her closely, she helped me say them too. Close reading helped me understand that my grief isn’t just sadness, it’s the echo of love that has nowhere else to go. And guilt? Guilt is often grief’s shadow. But shadows disappear in the light. And close reading brought light to me. In the months since I found that book, I’ve changed in quiet ways. I write more. Not perfect poems, just raw ones. Lines like: “I didn’t call, and for a while, all I heard was silence. But now I write into the ringing.” or “If she had told me goodbye, I would’ve tried to stop her. But now I carry her in every hello.” I write not to explain, but to remember. And remembering, I find peace. I now understand that literature, especially ancient literature, is not about outdated wisdom. It’s about eternal truths. We still love the way Sappho did. We still break the way she did. And if we’re willing to look closely enough, we can still heal the way she did, too. Close reading is not glamorous. It’s slow. It’s quiet. It’s intimate. But it is powerful. It gives us access to the full weight of what someone was trying to say, and most importantly - what they couldn’t. It helped me forgive someone I never got to say goodbye to. It helped me forgive myself for not answering the phone. It reminded me that love can live in fragments. That silence can be the loudest noise in the room. That a torn page from a thrift store can hold all the words I never said - and help me finally hear them.

Strapped into a seat in a ditching helicopter, upside-down underwater in total darkness, I took my last breath before escape. That moment taught me something: I can survive hard things. Not just in the classroom, but in life. I’m Tatyana Ivanova, an international aerospace engineering student at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, specializing in rocket propulsion. I’m not of Nigerian or African descent, but I am a first-generation student from Bulgaria, working toward becoming the first Bulgarian woman in space. I’ve trained in high-G, anti-G, zero-G, and hypoxia environments. I skydive, scuba dive, and lead CubeSat-based research to test space systems in simulated microgravity. My story didn’t begin with astronaut training, it began with a desk in a cold moldy apartment, a stack of Bulgarian old textbooks, and a family who gave me everything while having nothing. My father works in construction, laying bricks through snowy winters with no sick days and no safety net. I still remember him leaving for work before sunrise. Neither him or my mom had the resources to give me an academic head start, but they taught me the value of work, and the importance of never giving up on yourself. Education became my only way forward, the one thing I could control when everything else felt uncertain. Life as an immigrant student in the U.S. has been a constant series of translations - of language, culture, paperwork, systems. When I got accepted into college, I thought the hardest part was over. I didn’t realize that staying enrolled would become its own fight. I’ve spent nights on the phone with embassies, lost housing and a job. I’ve been blocked from registering for classes because of a tuition hold with no backup plan, no co-signer, and no clear path forward. So I built one. I launched an outreach campaign - wrote proposals, filmed videos, cold-emailed companies and mentors day and night. Over time, I raised over $120,000 to pay for college. I worked multiple jobs at once while maintaining a full-time academic load with the most complex, challenging and demanding coursework. I made the Dean’s List. I continued leading my research teams. And through it all, I stayed focused on the reason I came here in the first place: to turn knowledge into tools that protect human life in space, and back here on Earth. Since arriving in the U.S., I’ve learned that opportunity isn’t just about luck or timing - it’s about knowing how to ask, how to organize, how to lead. I’ve mentored international students who were afraid to speak in class. I’ve created research templates and survival guides. I’ve spoken in classrooms to show kids that someone who started with nothing can still make it in STEM. These aren’t extras - they’re part of my very mission. Being from Bulgaria is part of my story, not something I hide to fit in. It taught me to adapt fast, solve problems, and listen more than I speak. Living in the U.S. taught me to step up, ask better questions, and build things that last. The combination has made me into someone who doesn’t give up when things fall apart. Trust me, things go the wrong way quite often… My goal is to work at NASA’s Neutral Buoyancy Lab, designing tools that help astronauts survive planetary missions. But beyond that, I want to inspire others to never give up - and teach them how to climb, even when the ground disappears beneath them. Immigration didn’t hold me back. It taught me how to move forward. And I’m still climbing because NO DREAM IS TOO HIGH!

Strapped inside a ditching helicopter, upside-down in total darkness, no air, water flooding the cabin - I took my last breath. The quietest silence. A moment of survival. That’s when I knew I could do hard things in life. I’m Tatyana Ivanova, a junior in Aerospace Engineering at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, specializing in rocket propulsion. I’ve trained in anti-G, zero-G, high-G and hypoxia environments. I skydive, scuba dive, and lead CubeSat-based research to test space systems in simulated microgravity. My goal is to design astronaut tools for planetary extravehicular activity and become the first Bulgarian woman in space. What motivates me is the intersection of human survival and engineering precision. I’m drawn to systems that operate where there’s no margin for error, where life depends on tools working exactly as designed. I want to build those tools, lead those missions, and ensure that the next generation of explorers is safer and better prepared than the last. To get there, I plan to earn a Ph.D. in aerospace engineering, complete all relevant astronaut training certifications, and become a certified Divemaster. I will push to the limits - academically, physically, and mentally - to support real missions and train in the same environments astronauts rely on. If I could do anything, I’d go to space - not just to explore the unknown, but to bring back what we learn and use it to improve life on Earth. Space challenges us to solve problems in the most extreme conditions, and those solutions - recycling systems, energy efficiency, sustainable habitats, can help people here who need them most. I want to be part of that effort. I don’t just want to reach orbit, I want to make sure what we do up there has a real impact down here. What excites me about STEM is that it teaches you how to solve problems in places where failure isn’t an option. Literally. It pushes you to think clearly under pressure, and to build systems that don’t just work - they last. Whether I’m testing CubeSat payloads, coding thermal simulations, or troubleshooting experiments in our Microgravity Lab, I’m always focused on what moves the mission forward. As mentioned, I also train in extreme environments, diving and skydiving, where gear, sensors, and human-machine interaction matter just as much as the person wearing them. These experiences help me think about how to design better systems for astronaut training and survival. Information technology ties it all together. I’ve used it to analyze sensor data, model behavior under stress, and build communication between teams and tools. I want to keep working on the software side of space systems - interfaces that support astronauts during missions outside of the spacecraft, early-warning systems, training simulations that actually reflect real risk. But I also believe in sharing what I learn. I’ve created guides, mentored other students, and used online platforms to fundraise and support space education. I visit local schools and speak to middle and high school students, especially girls, immigrants, and first-gen college students, about careers in aerospace, programming, and space systems. I show them real tools, share stories from training, and break down what it actually looks like to work in STEM. I want them to see that this path is not just possible - but worth chasing. I also mentor international students through our university and help them navigate research, internships, and scholarships, the same way others once helped me. I use every outreach opportunity to connect technology with purpose, and to remind students that whether it’s coding, electronics, or space hardware, someone like them belongs there. For me, STEM is about motion, direction, and purpose - and making sure no one’s left behind. In space, things can go wrong fast… So, astronauts train for every scenario. I’ve talked about building systems that predict failure, warn early, and give you time to act. But during my second year, everything went wrong for me and there was no warning. It started with a phone call. A tragedy in the family led to my breaking point. But I didn’t break. I was already balancing an intense engineering program, research leadership, and tutoring. Now, I faced no longer having housing, a tuition block, and the possibility of losing my education entirely. Loans weren’t an option. I had no co-signer, no financial aid, and no time to waste. So I acted. I launched a full-scale outreach campaign - writing proposals, filming videos, cold-emailing sponsors. I raised over $120,000 in donations and support. I stayed enrolled. I kept my jobs. I even made the Dean’s List. That experience rewired my approach to challenge. I no longer wait for the “right” moment or conditions- I engineer momentum. I lead research with more urgency. I plan with more empathy. And I know that when survival is on the line, creativity and determination matter more than comfort. My greatest challenge wasn’t just financial. It was proving to others and myself that I could keep going when the foundation fell out beneath me. I did. And I’m still climbing…