I was not supposed to be here. That is not self-pity. It is just the truth. Seven surgeries, permanent hearing loss, vertigo, and years of navigating something most of my peers knew nothing about. There were plenty of moments where the easier path would have been to pull back, to participate less, to protect myself from the possibility of falling short in public. I didn't watch Rudy looking for my story. I love football and my dad kept telling me what a great movie Rudy was. So one day I sat down with him and watched it. I figured it would be a sports themed movie like many others I have seen. I never expected to find my story in it. As I watched it, I realized I was looking for permission to keep going. Rudy Ruettiger had no business being on a Notre Dame football field. He was too small, not talented enough, and surrounded by people who told him, kindly and unkindly, to be realistic. What he had was something that could not be coached or measured. He had an absolute refusal to let other people's assessment of his limits become his own. He showed up every single day for a dream that most people around him thought was foolish, and he did it without bitterness and without quitting. I understand that feeling in a way that is hard to put into words. I sing in chorus, perform in theater, play football, and run track. I wear a BAHA hearing device and manage vertigo every day. I have sat in AP classrooms and on athletic fields knowing that I was working harder than the people around me just to access what they received automatically. I never said that out loud, because that was never the point. The point was to show up and do the work regardless. The scene in Rudy that stays with me is not the final game. It is the years before it. The practices no one watched and the setbacks that could have ended everything. The choice, made over and over again in private, to keep going anyway. That is the part of any meaningful dream that never makes the highlight reel, and it is the part that actually builds character. I am heading to Auburn University this fall to study Business, with a long term goal of working in medical device sales for Cochlear. I want to help families navigating hearing loss access the technology that changed my own life. That career will require persistence, resilience, and the ability to keep showing up when things are hard. Rudy taught me that those qualities are not born. They are chosen, repeatedly, in moments when no one is watching. I was not supposed to be here. But I am. And I intend to make the most of it.

I am a high school senior from Marietta, Georgia, heading to Auburn University this fall to study Business. I sing in chorus, perform in theater, play football, and throw shotput and discus in track. I lead a small group of middle school boys at my church. I have a 3.8 GPA, membership in the National Honor Society and Tri-M Music Honor Society, an EOPA certification in Sports Medicine, two Walton Pride awards, and an award for my Essentials to Healthcare class. From the outside, my high school experience looks full and successful, and I am genuinely grateful for that. What most people don't know is what it cost to build it. Since the age of four, I have been deaf in one ear and partially deaf in the other, the result of a severe ear infection. At twelve, I developed cholesteatoma that invaded my entire ear canal, mastoid, and skull. I endured seven major surgeries. For a period of time, my face was partially paralyzed. I live with vertigo. In 2024, at sixteen, I was told my hearing loss would be permanent. There would be no more procedures to try and restore my hearing. This was simply the way my life would be. I won't pretend that was easy to hear, literally and figuratively. But somewhere in the days that followed I realized something. I had already been living this life. I had already been performing on stage, competing on the track, leading my small group, and sitting in AP classrooms, all of it with significant hearing loss and vertigo. The news didn't change who I was. It just asked me to own it more fully. Overcoming that adversity didn't happen in a single moment. It happened in thousands of small decisions to keep going, to not let bitterness take root, and to treat people well even on the hardest days. I believe those decisions are visible in how I carry myself, and I hope they are visible in this application. My career goal is to work in medical device sales for Cochlear, the company behind the BAHA hearing device I rely on every day. I want to be the person who gets life changing hearing technology into the hands of families who need it, because I know exactly what it means to be that family. I know what it feels like when the right solution reaches you at the right time, and I know what it costs when it doesn't. I intend to build a career around closing that gap, one family at a time. While I did not personally know Valerie Rabb, she sounds like an amazing human who spent her career championing children who needed someone in their corner. I understand, deeply, what it means to have people show up for you during hard years. This scholarship would honor her legacy and help carry me toward a career where I can do the same for others.

The challenge I am most often asked about is my hearing loss. Seven surgeries, a cholesteatoma that invaded my entire ear canal, mastoid, and skull, partial facial paralysis, permanent vertigo, and a final surgery at seventeen that closed the door on any hope of restored hearing is a significant medical history for someone my age. But the challenge I want to write about is less about the surgeries themselves. It is the challenge of performing at a high level in an academic environment that was not designed with me in mind, without ever using my circumstances as an excuse, and without letting anyone see how hard I was working just to keep up. I have maintained a 3.8 GPA throughout high school. I have taken AP and honors courses, earned membership in the National Honor Society, and received recognition in Tri-M Music Honor Society. I received an award for my Essentials to Healthcare class and earned an EOPA certification in Sports Medicine. From the outside, my academic record looks like the product of a student for whom school came easily. It did not. Hearing lectures in noisy classrooms, following fast-moving discussions, navigating group projects and crowded hallways, none of it is effortless for me. I wear a BAHA hearing device, and even with it, I work harder than most of my peers simply to access what others receive automatically. I developed systems. I sat at the front. I asked teachers to repeat things without embarrassment. I recorded lectures when permitted. I learned to read lips. I read ahead so that gaps in what I heard during class would not leave me lost. I built discipline out of necessity, and over time that discipline became one of my greatest academic assets. There were specific moments that tested me more than others. My sophomore year, I was managing the aftermath of a surgery while simultaneously preparing for AP exams and trying to maintain my place on the track team and in the honors choral program. Most of my peers were stressed about the exams alone. I was managing pain, medical follow-ups, and the quiet grief of processing news about my hearing that I had not yet shared with most people around me. I did not ask for pity. I did not withdraw from activities. I made a choice, the same choice I have made over and over again throughout my life, to keep going and to keep showing up as fully as I possibly could. What I am most proud of is not any individual grade or award, though I am grateful for all of them. What I am most proud of is that I never let the difficulty become a reason to quit. There were days when vertigo made it hard to focus, when the accumulated weight of years of medical uncertainty pressed down on me in ways my classmates could not see. On those days I showed up anyway. I turned in the work. I stayed after class. I kept going. Outside the classroom, I have channeled that same commitment into my community. I sing in chorus, perform in theater, play football, and run track. I lead a small group of middle school boys at my church, investing in their character and confidence the way I wish someone had invested in mine during those years. I do not lead from a place of having everything figured out. I lead from a place of genuinely caring about who they become. Watching them grow has shaped me just as much as I hope I have shaped them, and it has reinforced something I believe deeply. I have been a part of three of their baptisms. The most important thing you can do for another person is show up for them consistently, even when it costs you something. My academic interests in healthcare, reflected in my Sports Medicine certification and my Essentials to Healthcare award, grew directly out of my own medical experiences. I spent years watching professionals navigate the relationship between science and human care, and I developed a deep respect for what that work requires. Those experiences ultimately pointed me toward a Business degree at Auburn University and a long term goal of working in medical device sales for Cochlear, the company behind the technology that powers my own hearing device. I want to be the person who gets life changing hearing technology into the hands of families who need it, because I know exactly what it means to be that family. I know what it means to sit across from a professional who treats you like a person rather than a file, and I intend to be that professional for every family I serve. The circumstances of your life are not your story. What you decide to do within those circumstances is. That is the lesson my challenge taught me, and it is the foundation everything else in my life is built on. I am heading to Auburn this fall with a 3.8 GPA, a Sports Medicine certification, and thirteen years of learning how to succeed in spaces that were not built for me. I am ready for what comes next.

I have spent a lot of my life in medical offices. Since the age of four, I have navigated hearing loss, seven major surgeries, and years of uncertainty alongside doctors, audiologists, and specialists who held a great deal of power over the trajectory of my life. Some of them treated me like a file. A few of them treated me like a person. I noticed the difference every single time, and it shaped the professional I intend to become. Relationships, I have learned, are not soft skills. They are the whole thing. The professionals who made the greatest impact on me were not necessarily the most technically skilled. They were the ones who took the time to explain what was happening, who looked my parents in the eye, who made a frightening process feel like something we were navigating together rather than something being done to us. Those interactions taught me that trust is built in small moments, and that the quality of a relationship between a professional and the person they serve can change outcomes in ways that expertise alone cannot. I also learned the opposite lesson just as clearly. When a provider was dismissive, when we felt like a number rather than a family, the experience was harder in ways that had nothing to do with the medicine itself. Fear fills the spaces that communication leaves empty. I watched my parents carry that weight, and I carried it too. It made me very aware of what it costs people when the humans on the other side of an important transaction don't show up fully. That lesson is the foundation of my career goals. I am pursuing a Business degree at Auburn University with the intention of going into medical device sales, specifically with the goal of working for Cochlear. I wear a BAHA hearing device. I know what this technology means to a family because I have lived it. But I also know that the device only reaches families when someone builds enough trust with the right people to get it there. I want to be that person. Not a vendor, but a partner. Someone who understands the journey these families are on because he has been on it himself. In my experience, the most powerful professional relationships are built on genuine shared understanding. I cannot make that up that with every family I will eventually serve, but I can bring honesty, consistency, and real empathy to every interaction. I can show up the way the best people in my own medical journey showed up for me. I am also currently leading a small group of middle school boys at my church, and that role has taught me something equally important. Relationships require patience. They require showing up when it is inconvenient. They require caring about outcomes you may never fully see. The boys I lead are at an age where they are still deciding what kind of people they want to be, and the relationships they form with trusted adults right now will shape those decisions more than almost anything else. I take that seriously. I think about it every time I show up for them, because someone showed up for me when it mattered most. Long term, I want to build a career and a life defined by the quality of the relationships within it. I believe that the professionals who change industries, and the people who change communities, are the ones who understood early that none of it works without trust. I intend to build mine carefully, consistently, and with the full understanding of what it means to be on the other side of it.

I believe communities get better one person at a time. Not through grand gestures or sweeping programs, but through the quiet, consistent work of people who show up for others and refuse to stop. I am currently doing that work. For the past several years, I have led a small group of middle school boys at my church in Marietta, Georgia. I volunteered for this role because I remembered what middle school felt like. The uncertainty, the pressure, the sense that everyone is watching while you are still trying to figure out who you are. I know something about navigating hard things quietly. I have lived with significant hearing loss my entire life, endured seven major surgeries, and was told at sixteen that my hearing loss would be permanent. That experience gave me something real to offer these boys. Not advice from someone who has everything figured out, but presence from someone who genuinely cares about who they become. Watching them grow in confidence and character has shaped me just as much as I hope I have shaped them. That is the thing about community investment. It flows both ways. After college, I plan to pursue a career in medical device sales, specifically with the goal of working for Cochlear, the company behind the technology that powers my own BAHA hearing device. I have worn this device for years. I know firsthand what it means to a family when the right solution reaches them at the right time. I want to be the person who makes that happen for other families. Not just as a job, but as a calling. Every family I reach as a sales professional is a family that gets to watch their child hear more clearly, participate more fully, and believe more confidently in what is possible for them. I also intend to keep mentoring young people navigating adversity for the rest of my life. The boys I lead today will one day be young men making decisions about how they treat others, how they lead, and what kind of communities they build. If I can plant something in them that holds up under pressure, I will have contributed something that compounds over time in ways I may never fully see. The circumstances of your life are not your story. What you decide to do within those circumstances is. I learned that lesson the hard way, and I intend to spend the rest of my life passing it on.

I am deaf in my right ear and partially deaf in my left ear. At twelve, I developed cholesteatoma that invaded my entire ear canal, mastoid, and skull. I endured seven major surgeries. For a period of time, my face was partially paralyzed. I live with vertigo. In 2024, at sixteen, I had a final surgery and was told that my hearing loss would be permanent. There would be no more procedures to try, no more hoping for a different outcome. This was simply the way my life would be. I won't pretend that was easy to hear. But somewhere in the days that followed, I realized something. I had already been living this life. I had already been singing in chorus, running on the track, leading a small group of middle school boys at my church, and performing on stage, all of it with significant hearing loss and vertigo. The official news didn't change who I was. It just asked me to own it more fully. My disability has shaped my educational path in ways both practical and profound. In the classroom, I have learned to work harder than most of my peers simply to access what others receive automatically. Hearing lectures, participating in discussions, navigating loud hallways and crowded spaces, none of it is effortless for me. I have developed discipline and focus out of necessity, and I believe those qualities will serve me well as I pursue a Business degree at Auburn University this fall. The financial impact of my disability has been significant for my family. Years of surgeries, follow-up care, and ongoing treatment have generated medical bills that have stretched our resources. The BAHA hearing device I rely on every day is expensive, and maintaining it is an ongoing cost that does not go away. As I transition into college, those financial pressures come with me. Additional scholarship funds would directly reduce that burden. They would allow me to focus on my education rather than on how to afford it. They would help cover the continued cost of my hearing device and the care that comes with managing my condition. Most importantly, they would allow me to walk into Auburn knowing that my family's sacrifices over the last thirteen years of surgeries and uncertainty were met with support from people who understood what it means to navigate the world with a disability. Robert and Suzi DeGennaro understood that the world is not always built with people like me in mind. I have spent my whole life finding ways to succeed in spaces that weren't designed for me. I intend to keep doing exactly that, and eventually, to build things that are.

Community service, for me, has never been about resume lines or required hours. It has been about showing up consistently, quietly, and genuinely for people who need someone in their corner. The extracurricular activity that has shaped me most is leading a small group of middle school boys at my church. I volunteered for this role because I remembered what middle school felt like. The uncertainty, the pressure to perform, the sense that everyone is watching while you're still trying to figure out who you are were overwhelming. I know something about navigating hard things quietly, and I believed that experience gave me something real to offer these boys. I don't lead from a place of having everything figured out. I lead from a place of genuinely caring about who they become. We talk about integrity, about how to treat people, about what it means to be someone others can count on. Watching them grow in confidence and character has shaped me just as much as I hope I have shaped them. This role taught me that leadership isn't about being the loudest or the strongest. It is about showing up consistently for people who are counting on you. Beyond my church community, I have participated in chorus, theater, football, and track. What most people around me don't know is that I do all of these things while wearing a BAHA hearing device and managing vertigo, the result of significant hearing loss and seven major surgeries. I never made a point of sharing that publicly, because I didn't want it to be the reason people noticed me. But I mention it here because I think it speaks to something about service. Showing up fully for your community, even when it costs you something, is itself a form of contribution. It tells the people around you that effort and commitment matter more than perfect circumstances. As for how I hope to make my community better for future generations, I think the answer starts small. I want to keep doing what Sophie did so well by instilling hope in people one at a time. The boys I lead in my small group will one day be young men making decisions about how they treat others, how they lead, and what kind of communities they build. If I can plant something in them that holds up under pressure, integrity, kindness, consistency, then I will have contributed something that compounds over time in ways I may never fully see. I also believe that communities get better when people refuse to be defined by their hardest circumstances. That is a lesson I have lived personally, and it is one I try to model for the people around me every day. The circumstances of your life are not your story. What you decide to do within those circumstances, how you treat people, what you pursue, who you choose to be, that is your story. I intend to carry that belief with me to college and beyond, and to keep writing mine in a way that makes the communities I belong to a little better than I found them.