I've always been awkward. As a homeschooled kid growing up with a Dad in the Navy, moving from one military base to another every few years, with late diagnosed ADHD all of my life, I stood out like a sore thumb. I've always been way too intense, a little outdated in my pop culture references, eager to prove myself but being unsure how to do so, and happy to give an on-the-spot "TED talk" on any one of my special interests if given the opportunity. One of those special interests is Space Exploration. I was 6 years old when I watched the Space Shuttle Discovery (STS-26) launch for the first time since the Challenger tragedy, holding my breath along with my parents as I saw the shuttle strapped to the boosters launch into the atmosphere and successfully make its roll and pitch maneuver, carrying 5 brave astronauts safely into orbit. From that point on, I built space shuttles and rockets with my Legos and learned everything I could about space. We were living in Maryland at the time, and one of the most enduring memories from my childhood was going to the Smithsonian and seeing the Moon Lander on display. I'm now 43 years old, and on the inside, I'm just as awkward as the nerdy kid who could rattle off the names of astronauts and their missions to space but was clueless about the latest bands or references to movies I hadn't seen. I've now developed a modern and eclectic taste in music and a love for B-rated horror movies, but my passion for space exploration has remained and grown. I followed the Artemis mission since it was announced, and eagerly watched the liftoffs of Artemis 1 and 2, holding my breath just as I did as a starry-eyed kid in 1988. I've had to prioritize the less glamorous things, like work and paying bills, but watching humanity return to the moon a few months ago rekindled my passion for space and my determination to become part of that future. I got my Associate's Degree from a Community College in 2003, but I always wanted to go back and get my bachelor's. Now, with the fire lit beneath me, burning like the SLS solid rocket boosters, I decided to enroll in Everglades University and complete my Bachelor of Science in Space Studies. I want to fulfill the dreams of that awkward kid to become part of humanity's greatest efforts to reach the Moon, Mars, and beyond, and I know that I will do anything to make it a reality.

Space has always been a calling to me — not just a field of study, but a direction. When NASA's Artemis project began returning humanity's focus to the Moon and beyond, something in me that had been quietly waiting reignited. Artemis is far more than a series of space missions; it is a generational statement. I am part of the Artemis generation — the people who will carry the work of exploration forward at one of the most consequential moments in human spaceflight history. That conviction shapes everything I am working toward: the degree I am earning, the career I am building, and the reason this scholarship matters deeply to me. My ideal job after graduation sits at the intersection of space operations and autonomous systems. I am drawn to future roles that support the coordination and management of robotics and AI in space exploration — whether that means assisting in mission operations, supporting ground systems that interface with autonomous spacecraft, or working within the infrastructure that keeps crewed and uncrewed missions functioning reliably. My professional background in implementation and systems coordination has given me a sound understanding of how complex systems need cooperation across teams under intense pressure. I want to apply that foundation in an aerospace context, adding to the operations layer that makes high-stakes missions actually work. The Artemis program reignited my passion for this work precisely because it is not just about returning to the Moon — it is about building the systems, protocols, and human infrastructure that will carry us to Mars and beyond. I want to be part of the team that makes those systems dependable. The dream is not simply to work in aerospace. It is to contribute to the operational backbone of a space-faring civilization. The aerospace project I would most want to contribute to combines technical ambition with meaningful human impact: the development and utilization of autonomous robotic systems to support crewed deep-space missions. Specifically, I am passionate about the role robotics will play in surface operations on the Moon and eventually Mars — autonomous systems that can scout terrain, prepare habitats, manage resources, and extend the reach of human crews beyond what they can physically access. My goal is not only a technical challenge but a human one, and that is where my broader perspective comes in. I also deeply believe in DEI-centered work in aerospace, and I see these two interests as inseparable. Historically, the faces designing and operating these systems have not reflected the full diversity of humanity. The Artemis program has made meaningful strides — putting the first woman and first person of color on a path to the lunar surface — but there is far more work to do in pipeline development, mentorship, and access. My experience volunteering with the Hispanic Metropolitan Chamber of Commerce in Portland, where I helped produce scholarship materials celebrating first-generation students from underserved communities, showed me firsthand how much representation matters to people who have been told, implicitly or explicitly, that certain futures are not for them. I want to contribute to aerospace projects that are technically excellent and built by teams that look like the world they serve. This scholarship would make a direct and substantial difference in my ability to complete my degree and enter the aerospace workforce. I am a single parent working full-time while pursuing my Bachelor of Science in Space Studies at Everglades University. Every semester is a balancing act — tuition, household expenses, childcare, and the relentless demands of work — and financial support is essential to my success. Scholarships like this one are what allow students in complex life situations to stay enrolled, stay focused, and actually finish. Without that stability, the pressures of cost can force exactly the kind of interruptions that derail promising students who are otherwise fully committed to their goals. Beyond the practical impact, this scholarship would carry personal significance I cannot overstate. I lost my wife, who was months away from her own degree when she passed. I lost my parents to COVID-19 in 2021. I have built my return to education on a foundation of purpose — honoring their memory, modeling resilience for my child, and investing in a future that I genuinely believe in. Being recognized by an organization that supports aerospace education would affirm that this path is real, that the sacrifices are worth it, and that the Artemis generation includes people like me: returning students, single parents, and those who came to this field through loss and determination rather than a straight line. I want my child to watch me receive this and understand that no matter what life takes from you, the stars are still reachable. Everything I have experienced — growing up in a military household, earning my first degree, volunteering in my community, navigating grief and single parenthood, and reawakening my passion through the Artemis program — has brought me to this moment. I am not pursuing aerospace because it is practical. I am pursuing it because it is the truest expression of who I am and what I believe humanity is capable of. This scholarship would not just help me finish a degree. It would help me become the professional I have been working toward my entire life.

In February 2020, I lost my wife, Mary, to suicide. She was 35 years old — just months away from earning her Bachelor of Science in dual emphasis Neuroscience and Computer Science. She left behind our 13-year-old child and a version of me that would never be quite the same. Mary had struggled with depression her entire life, shaped in part by watching her own mother battle mental illness. She was not someone who had “given up” on life. She was brilliant, driven, and deeply loved. But the weight she carried was too heavy, and the support she needed came too late. Overnight, I became a single parent. There was no transition period, no guidebook, no soft landing. There was just my child — grieving, watching me — and the undeniable fact that I had to keep going. I had to hold a household together, make sense of a world that no longer made sense, and somehow be present enough for a teenager who had just lost their mother. Some days that meant getting out of bed when everything in me wanted to stay still. Some days it meant sitting with my child in silence because no words could help. The weight of that responsibility is something I carry every single day, and it has quietly become one of the most powerful forces in my life. My child needed to see that we could survive this — not just endure it, but actually grow from it. Mary had gone back to school as an adult, determined to earn her degree despite everything she was carrying. She juggled coursework alongside the daily struggle of managing her mental health, and she kept going. She was so close. And though she did not get to cross that finish line, her determination planted something in me I could not ignore. If she could fight that hard for her future under those circumstances, I owed it to her memory — and to our child — to fight for mine. I enrolled at Everglades University, becoming one of the first students admitted to their Space Studies program. Space has always represented something profound to me — the idea that the universe is vast, that there is always more to discover, that human beings are capable of reaching beyond what seems possible. It felt right to pursue that passion now, in this chapter of my life. Going back to school as a working single parent is not easy. There are evenings when exhaustion wins. There are moments of doubt. But I think of Mary, months from her finish line, and I keep going. I am doing this for myself because I have dreams worth finishing. I am doing this for my child, so they grow up knowing that loss does not have to be the end of the story — that it can, with time and intention, become the beginning of a new one. And I am doing this for Mary, because she never got to. What grief has taught me about resilience is this: it is not the absence of pain. It is the choice to keep going despite it. Resilience is not a dramatic moment of triumph. It is the ordinary decision, made again and again, to show up. For yourself. For the people who need you. For the memory of someone who believed in the value of striving to excel. Every term I re-enroll is an act of love. Every assignment I complete is a promise kept — to my child, to Mary's memory, and to the person I am still working to become.