By October of 2022, my world had become blanketed by a fog of insecurity. From my bedroom, I could hear my parents whispering to each other, “It's just a phase; he'll snap out of it.” Although that wall was only a half-inch-thick piece of drywall, it might as well have been a mountain of stone. They didn't understand how I was feeling, and neither did I. Sometimes the most important problem to solve is figuring out how to help yourself. When I was a child, I had a certain light to me. I was carefree, with an insatiable curiosity. My grandfather would say I was the most curious child he'd ever seen. Some of my earliest memories include holding his hand on walks and asking him endless questions about life. At fifteen, the light that guided my childhood had been extinguished by a lead blanket of doubt. Perhaps the answers to my questions weren’t coming fast enough, or my body was changing in ways I couldn’t appreciate. School suddenly became a challenge. I didn't care about my grades, and I didn't want to leave my room. I wanted to plunge into the comfort of my new darkness. In March of 2023, my younger brother was rushed to the hospital in diabetic ketoacidosis, a life-threatening condition from undiagnosed Type 1 diabetes. “Why had this happened to him?” Suddenly, my personal dam of melancholy burst open, sending a stream of questions and curiosities back into my life. “What can I do to help him?” While his body was shutting down on a hospital bed, I committed myself to learning again. Just like that, my curiosity,my spark, had returned. I began to leverage my newfound passion for learning beyond ways to help my brother. I became a voracious reader, devouring classic novels. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Salinger seemed to articulate exactly how I felt. Through my reading, I began to realize that I was not alone in my struggles. Holden Caulfield, the protagonist of The Catcher in the Rye, also struggled with darkness during his transition into adulthood. Although works of fiction, these novels had a profound impact on how I rediscovered myself and my love of learning. My brother's diagnosis was an inflection point in my life. I realized that life isn't always fair and that bad things happen to good people. However, I also learned that positive things can come from personal challenges, and perhaps even the best of things. And that no matter how isolated I may feel at times, I am not alone. Salinger said it best in The Catcher in the Rye: “Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.” As I begin this season of my life as a college student, I am thankful for my past struggles. They've made me stronger and more resilient and have helped me understand that learning is not finite, but a lifelong pursuit to which lessons come from all around us, even from the words of novels written well before my birth. My world is light again. I credit many things for that change, mostly my health and the realization that I am not alone in how I feel. One thing I am now certain of: the older I get, the more I become who I am.

One of my favorite quotes is by Mahatma Gandhi: “The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others." I’m someone who works hard, thinks deeply, and cares a lot about doing things with purpose. One of my greatest strengths is perseverance. When I face challenges, whether in school or in life, I don’t give up. I keep going, even when it’s difficult. I’ve learned that showing up and putting in the effort, even when things feel uncertain, is what builds character. I’m also someone who’s naturally curious, especially about how the world works. That’s what drew me to political science. I want to better understand people, systems, and how decisions are made, because I believe that knowledge can be used to improve lives. I believe another strength of mine is being steady and dependable. I may not be the loudest voice in the room, but I listen carefully and speak honestly. I try to treat people with kindness and respect, and I do my best to be someone others can count on. I’ve seen how those qualities matter, not just in school, but in the kind of person I want to become. At the same time, I am aware that I still have areas where I am growing. I sometimes doubt myself, especially in competitive environments or when I feel the need to prove myself. I’ve let fear of failure hold me back from fully stepping into new roles. But I’m working on that. Each time I take a step forward, my confidence grows, and I’m starting to trust myself more. As I’ve grown and developed a love for current events, I’ve observed how the tone of our national discourse has become increasingly bitter and divisive. Politics today often feels like a battlefield, with opposing sides more interested in scoring points than understanding one another. We live in a world where political rhetoric focuses on what divides us rather than what unites us. It doesn’t have to be this way. I believe the pendulum has swung so far in one direction that it has nowhere to go but back, toward a time when Americans demanded decency and civility from their elected officials. At college, I am eager to study political theory and policymaking to serve others as envisioned by the framers of our Constitution. I aspire to be a leader who values compassion over division and fosters a society where respect and empathy guide daily life. My goal as a future public servant is to implement and scale broad policies that touch the lives of deserving communities and level the playing field for those who feel relegated to the sidelines. Serving others is my calling, and it’s a mission to which I am ready to devote my career. Receiving this scholarship would mean a lot to me and my family. It would help ease the financial pressure of attending the University of Tennessee, where I have entered as a freshman studying political science. But more than that, it would feel like someone saying, “We believe in you.” That encouragement would fuel me to keep pushing toward my goals. I want to utilize my education to make a positive impact. This scholarship would be more than financial support. It would be an investment in my future and in the kind of person I’m striving to become.

It never got so bad that I wanted to hurt myself. But by October of 2022, my world had become blanketed by a fog of insecurity. From my bedroom, I could hear my parents whispering to each other, “It's just a phase; he'll snap out of it.” Although that wall was only a half-inch-thick piece of drywall, it might as well have been a mountain of stone. They didn't understand how I was feeling, and neither did I. Sometimes the most important problem to solve is figuring out how to help yourself. When I was a child, I had a certain light to me. I was happy and carefree, with an insatiable curiosity. My grandfather used to say I was the most curious child he'd ever seen. Some of my earliest and fondest memories were of holding his hand on long walks, asking him endless questions about life. Somehow, by the age of fifteen, the light that had guided my childhood had been extinguished by a lead blanket of doubt and indecision. Perhaps the answers to my questions weren’t coming fast enough, or perhaps my body was changing in ways I couldn’t possibly appreciate. Either way, school suddenly became a challenge. I didn't care about my grades, and I didn't want to leave my room. I wanted to plunge into the comfort of my new darkness. In 2023, my brother was rushed to the hospital in critical condition due to diabetic ketoacidosis, resulting from undiagnosed Type 1 diabetes. “Why had this happened to him?” Suddenly, my dam of melancholy burst open, sending a stream of questions and curiosities back into my life. “What can I do to help him?” While his body was shutting down on a hospital bed, I committed myself to learning again. Just like that, my curiosity and spark had returned. I began to leverage my newfound passion for learning beyond ways to help my brother. I became a voracious reader, devouring classic novels. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Salinger seemed to articulate exactly how I felt. Through my reading, I began to realize that I wasn't alone in my struggles. Holden Caulfield, the protagonist of The Catcher in the Rye, also struggled with darkness during his transition into adulthood. Although works of fiction, these novels had a profound impact on how I rediscovered myself and my love of learning. My brother's diagnosis was an inflection point in my life. I realized that life isn't always fair and that bad things happen to good people. I learned that positive things can come from personal challenges, maybe even the best of things. And no matter how isolated I feel at times, I'm not alone. Salinger said it best in The Catcher in the Rye: “Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. As I begin the next season of my life as a college student, I'm thankful for my past struggles. They have made me stronger and more resilient and have helped me understand that learning is not finite, but a lifelong pursuit from which lessons come from all around us, even from the words of novels written well before my birth. My world is light again. I credit many things for that change, mostly my health and the realization that I'm not alone. One thing I'm now certain of: the older I get, the more I become who I am.

Lessons From The Fairway For the thousandth time in my teenage life, I rolled my eyes at my dad! I was staring down the 7th hole of a beautifully manicured SoCal fairway, picturing my drive carving through the cool, dry air like a jet slicing through the clouds. “Davis”, my dad approached, “it’s a short par 4. There’s water on the left and bunkers on the right. Hit your 5-iron and get down in 3 for an easy par”. What does he know! Although I had been introduced to golf much earlier in my life, I didn’t start playing regularly until Covid. I was 13 years old, and Sterling Hills Golf Club was one of the first clubs in our area to open its doors. Playing golf on Sundays became our weekly tradition. My dad referred to me and my brother as his “golfing buddies”, and the three of us would awkwardly make our way through the difficulties of Sterling Hills. The more I played, the better I got. I learned how to read putts, and became a consistent ball-striker from the fairways. I was an overconfident teenager just starting to understand the classroom of golf. “I can hit my driver over 300 yards, Dad." I confidently approached my tee-shot, took dead-aim at the center of the fairway, and proceeded to slice my drive 80 yards left into the middle of a lake. I escaped with a double bogey. If golf has taught me one lesson in life, it's humility. Golf is unrelentingly difficult. Courses are designed to challenge golfers at every turn, and they don’t care about one’s skill-level, age, or experience. Miss hit the ball by 2 degrees, and you’re playing your next shot from a deep bunker. Don’t account for the 12-mph crosswind; you’ll watch your tee-shot splash into someone’s swimming pool. Even the most skilled golfers in the world get humbled. This sport is maddening. Golf has taught me many important lessons, such as being resilient, mentally tough, honorable, respectful, and competitive, but no lesson rings truer than being humble. To me, golf is a microcosm of life, beautiful one day, frustratingly unfair the next. It’s taught me to accept the good with the bad, and that no matter how bad my “lie” might be, I’ve got to get out of it. Through humility, I’ve now given up playing golf competitively, and I play it because it makes me happy. I don’t take golf too seriously anymore. If I make a mistake, I move on, just like life. I still play with my “golfing buddies”. We're competitive with each other, but I’ve learned to laugh at the bad breaks that golf tends to serve up and enjoy my time on the course with those I love. One day, I hope to pass golf on to my kids, allowing them to be students of this wise game. Maybe they will listen to me more than I’ve listened to my dad. “Ok, next time I’ll grab the 5-iron”.

From birth, almost everyone enters the world inherently selfish. Parents and educators work on teaching us to be considerate of others, share, and avoid taking what doesn’t belong to us. Being generous isn't a natural inclination for young children. At some point in the development of our brains, and perhaps our hearts, people discover the impact they can have on others. That realization was transformative for me, sparked by a simple comment that influenced my perspective and career aspirations. “Your brother could slip into a coma.” That's the call from my dad in March 2021, which changed my life. No one suspected he'd be diagnosed with Type1 Diabetes and fighting for his life in a state of DKA. I'm now his caregiver. I administer insulin doses, monitor glucose values, and react to stubborn high/low blood sugars. I provide interventions he's incapable of managing himself. There's something beautiful in that: providing care to someone made me feel good. I volunteer at Breakthrough T1D (a diabetes organization). During one event, I overheard a mother talking about the sacrifices her family makes to afford the insulin. My family has private health insurance that provides reasonably priced insulin for my brother. That’s not the case for everyone. Many Americans lack access to quality medical care and the means to afford basic health essentials. Healthcare is a human right, not a privilege reserved for those who can afford it. I decided to help. When my brother was diagnosed with Type1, I had a way to make cash and save for college. I sourced used clothing, marketed the inventory, and sold each piece at a profit. I decided to donate a portion of my proceeds to help families cope with the cost of diabetes. I felt embarrassed by how small my first donation amount was. But a parent said, “This is a month of insulin for someone.” Helping others made me feel good. I was hooked. As I’ve grown and developed a love for current events, I’ve observed how the tone of our national discourse has become increasingly bitter and divisive. Politics today often feels like a battlefield, with opposing sides more interested in scoring points than understanding one another. We live in a world where political rhetoric focuses on what divides us rather than what unites us. It doesn’t have to be this way. I believe the pendulum has swung so far in one direction that it has nowhere to go but back, toward a time when Americans demanded decency and civility from their elected officials. I'm eager to pursue a degree in political science, focusing on political theory and policymaking to serve others as envisioned by the framers of our Constitution. By studying the philosophies of our nation, I hope to understand how policies can foster justice and equity. I aspire to be a leader who values compassion over division and fosters a society where respect and empathy guide daily life. My goal as a future public servant is to implement and scale broad policies that touch the lives of deserving communities and level the playing field for those who feel relegated to the sidelines. Serving others is my calling, and it’s a mission to which I'm ready to devote my career. I'm honored to be considered for this scholarship. It would allow me to focus on my education without the additional burden of financial stress. As a political science major, I hope to engage in internships and leadership opportunities that'll help prepare me for my career in public service. I'm grateful for this opportunity and the kindness of those who make scholarships possible.

One of my favorite quotes is by Mahatma Gandhi: “The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others." From birth, almost everyone enters the world inherently selfish. At the earliest opportunity, parents and educators work on teaching us to be considerate of others, share with classmates, and avoid taking what doesn’t belong to us. Being generous is simply not a natural inclination for young children. But at some point in the development of our brains, and perhaps our hearts, people discover the impact they can have on others, both positively and negatively. That realization was transformative for me, sparked by a simple, offhand comment that profoundly influenced my perspective and career aspirations. I volunteer occasionally at Breakthrough T1D (formerly JDRF), an organization that helps families like mine impacted by Type 1 Diabetes. Often, my involvement is casual; I go bowling or play paintball with the kids. The idea is to bring children diagnosed with Type 1 together and let them forget about diabetes for a few hours. During one volunteer event, I overheard a mother talking about the sacrifices her family had to make to afford the insulin required to keep her child alive. Thankfully, my family has private health insurance that provides reasonably priced insulin for my little brother. But that’s not the case for everyone. Many Americans lack access to quality medical care and the means to afford basic health essentials. Healthcare is a human right, after all, not a privilege reserved for those who can afford it. I decided to help. When my brother was diagnosed, I had a hobby, a way to make pocket cash and save for college. I sourced used clothing from consignment shops, marketed the inventory on social media, and sold each piece at a decent profit. I decided to donate a portion of my proceeds to help families cope with the cost of diabetes. I distinctly remember the first donation I made. Strangely enough, I felt embarrassed by how small the amount was. But a parent approached me, put her hand on my shoulder, and said, “Davis, this is a month of insulin for someone. Thank you.” That comment made me understand a beautiful paradox of life: helping others made me feel good. What else could I do to help? I was hooked. At college, I am eager to study political theory and policymaking to serve others as envisioned by the framers of our Constitution. I aspire to be a leader who values compassion over division and fosters a society where respect and empathy guide daily life. My goal as a future public servant is to implement and scale broad policies that touch the lives of deserving communities and level the playing field for those who feel relegated to the sidelines. Serving others is my calling, and it’s a mission to which I am ready to devote my career.

One of my favorite quotes is by Mahatma Gandhi: “The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others." From birth, almost everyone enters the world inherently selfish. At the earliest opportunity, parents and educators work on teaching us to be considerate of others, share with classmates, and avoid taking what doesn’t belong to us. Being generous is simply not a natural inclination for young children. But at some point in the development of our brains, and perhaps our hearts, people discover the impact they can have on others, both positively and negatively. That realization was transformative for me, sparked by a simple, offhand comment that profoundly influenced my perspective and career aspirations. I volunteer occasionally at Breakthrough T1D (formerly JDRF), an organization that helps families like mine impacted by Type 1 Diabetes. Often, my involvement is casual, I go bowling or play paintball with the kids. The idea is to bring children diagnosed with Type 1 together and let them forget about diabetes for a few hours. During one volunteer event, I overheard a mother talking about the sacrifices her family had to make to afford the insulin required to keep her child alive. Thankfully, my family has private health insurance that provides reasonably priced insulin for my little brother. But that’s not the case for everyone. Many Americans lack access to quality medical care and the means to afford basic health essentials. Healthcare is a human right, after all, not a privilege reserved for those who can afford it. I decided to help. When my brother was diagnosed, I had a hobby, a way to make pocket cash and save for college. I sourced used clothing from consignment shops, marketed the inventory on social media, and sold each piece at a decent profit. I decided to donate a portion of my proceeds to help families cope with the cost of diabetes. I distinctly remember the first donation I made. Strangely enough, I felt embarrassed by how small the amount was. But a parent approached me, put her hand on my shoulder, and said, “Davis, this is a month of insulin for someone. Thank you.” That comment made me understand a beautiful paradox of life: helping others made me feel good. What else could I do to help? I was hooked. At college, I am eager to study political theory and policymaking to serve others as envisioned by the framers of our Constitution. I aspire to be a leader who values compassion over division and fosters a society where respect and empathy guide daily life. My goal as a future public servant is to implement and scale broad policies that touch the lives of deserving communities and level the playing field for those who feel relegated to the sidelines. Serving others is my calling, and it’s a mission to which I am ready to devote my career.

Long before assuming positions of leadership, people must first recognize and understand their natural leadership styles. Many types of volunteering surround leadership. My leadership and volunteer styles are described as Servant Leadership. Servant leaders are empathetic and selfless; they prioritize the well-being of others before considering themselves and help others reach their full potential. Ever since I was a child, I would always notice if someone felt excluded in a group setting, and I would make an effort to welcome them when many others remained oblivious. Math has always come easily to me, while many others struggle. At school, I regularly stop what I am doing to help frustrated classmates, often at the expense of preparing adequately for my own assignments. These qualities are ingrained in me, and I couldn’t change them if I tried. These servant qualities have led me down many volunteering paths..... On November 3rd, 2022, I turned 16. Most 16-year-olds want to throw a party, go-karting, go to the beach, or hang with friends. But, for me, this day was a day I had been looking forward to for a very long time. The day I could finally donate MY blood! I walked into an American Red Cross bus to donate blood for the very first time. Of course, I was nervous and a little frightened, but this day was finally here, and I was more excited than I was scared. I knew I wanted to donate my blood from a very young age. When I was about 7 years old, my mom shared her birth story with me about the day I was born. My mom had a very long and complicated labor and delivery with me. Once she finally gave birth to all of 8 pounds and 4 ounces of me, she hemorrhaged and quickly needed a blood transfusion to save her life. Someone's generous donation saved her life, and that has always stuck with me. Now, it's my turn to give back. After that first donation, the American Red Cross reached out to me. It turns out that my blood type is quite rare. In fact, around 8% of donors have my blood type, so they asked if I would come back and be a regular donor. My answer was, "YES, of course"! I wanted others to have access to the blood they need, whether they were accident victims, surgery patients, or, like my mom, a new mother giving birth. Since the age of 16, I have donated my rare blood twice a year. Donating blood is my way of showing kindness and doing something meaningful for others within my community. Blood supply can only come from donors, and the latest studies show that in the US, someone needs a blood transfusion every 2 seconds. I hope to inspire more people to consider giving because one donation could save a life.

For the thousandth time of my teenage life, I rolled my eyes at my dad! I was staring down the 7th hole of beautifully manicured Southern California fairway, picturing my drive carve through the cool, dry air like a jet slicing through the clouds. I stood alone on the tee box as my father and brother waited patiently for my pending tee-shot. “Davis”, my dad approached, “it’s a short par 4. There’s water on the left and bunkers on the right. Hit your 5-iron and get down in 3 for an easy par”. What does he know! Although I had been introduced to golf much earlier in my life, I didn’t start playing regularly until Covid. I was 13 years-old, desperate to get out of the house, and Sterling Hills Golf Club was one of the first clubs in our area that opened its doors to the restless public. Playing golf on Sundays became our weekly tradition. My dad affectionately referred to me and my brother as his “golfing buddies”, and the three of us would awkwardly make our way through the difficulties of Sterling Hills. The more I played, the better I got. I learned how to read putts on undulating greens, I developed soft hands from the rough, and became a consistent ball-striker from the fairways. But I was an overconfident teenager who was just starting to understand the classroom of golf. “I can hit my driver over 300 yards, dad. I know what I’m doing”. I confidently approached my tee-shot, took dead-aim at the center of the fairway, and proceeded to slice my drive 80 yards left into the middle of a lake. I escaped with a double bogey. If golf has taught me one lesson in life, it's humility. Golf is unrelentingly difficult. Courses are mercilessly designed to challenge golfers at every turn and they don’t care about one’s skill-level, age, experience, gender, or race. Mishit the ball by a mere 2 degrees, and you’re playing your next shot from a deep bunker. Don’t account for the 12-mph cross wind, and you’ll watch your tee-shot splash into someone’s swimming pool. Even the most skilled golfers in the world get humbled. One day a professional shoot a 65, the next day she shoots a 78. This sport is maddening. Golf has taught me many important lessons in its teachings; to be resilient, mentally tough, honorable, respectful, and competitive, but no lesson rings truer than being humble. To me, golf is a microcosm of life, beautiful one day, frustratingly unfair the next. It’s taught me to accept the good with the bad and that no matter how bad my “lie” might be, I’ve got to get out of it. Through humility, I’ve given up any notion of playing golf competitively and I simply play the sport because it makes me happy (until it doesn’t). I don’t take golf too seriously anymore, if I make a mistake, I move on, just like life. Today, I still play with my “golfing buddies”, my dad and my brother. We are competitive with each other, but I’ve learned to laugh at the bad breaks that golf tends to serve up and simply enjoy my time on the course with those I love. One day, I hope to pass golf on to my kids, allowing them to be students of this wise game. Maybe they will listen to me more than I’ve listened to my dad. “Ok, next time I’ll grab the 5-iron”. Thank you for this opportunity.

For the thousandth time of my teenage life, I rolled my eyes at my dad! I was staring down the 7th hole of beautifully manicured Southern California fairway, picturing my drive carve through the cool, dry air like a jet slicing through the clouds. I stood alone on the tee box as my father and brother waited patiently for my pending tee-shot. “Davis”, my dad approached, “it’s a short par 4. There’s water on the left and bunkers on the right. Hit your 5-iron and get down in 3 for an easy par”. What does he know! Although I had been introduced to golf much earlier in my life, I didn’t start playing regularly until Covid. I was 13 years-old, desperate to get out of the house, and Sterling Hills Golf Club was one of the first clubs in our area that opened its doors to the restless public. Playing golf on Sundays became our weekly tradition. My dad affectionately referred to me and my brother as his “golfing buddies”, and the three of us would awkwardly make our way through the difficulties of Sterling Hills. The more I played, the better I got. I learned how to read putts on undulating greens, I developed soft hands from the rough, and became a consistent ball-striker from the fairways. But I was an overconfident teenager who was just starting to understand the classroom of golf. “I can hit my driver over 300 yards, dad. I know what I’m doing”. I confidently approached my tee-shot, took dead-aim at the center of the fairway, and proceeded to slice my drive 80 yards left into the middle of a lake. I escaped with a double bogey. If golf has taught me one lesson in life, it's humility. Golf is unrelentingly difficult. Courses are mercilessly designed to challenge golfers at every turn and they don’t care about one’s skill-level, age, experience, gender, or race. Mishit the ball by a mere 2 degrees, and you’re playing your next shot from a deep bunker. Don’t account for the 12-mph cross wind, and you’ll watch your tee-shot splash into someone’s swimming pool. Even the most skilled golfers in the world get humbled. One day a professional shoot a 65, the next day she shoots a 78. This sport is maddening. Golf has taught me many important lessons in its teachings; to be resilient, mentally tough, honorable, respectful, and competitive, but no lesson rings truer than being humble. To me, golf is a microcosm of life, beautiful one day, frustratingly unfair the next. It’s taught me to accept the good with the bad and that no matter how bad my “lie” might be, I’ve got to get out of it. Through humility, I’ve given up any notion of playing golf competitively and I simply play the sport because it makes me happy (until it doesn’t). I don’t take golf too seriously anymore, if I make a mistake, I move on, just like life. Today, I still play with my “golfing buddies”, my dad and my brother. We are competitive with each other, but I’ve learned to laugh at the bad breaks that golf tends to serve up and simply enjoy my time on the course with those I love. One day, I hope to pass golf on to my kids, allowing them to be students of this wise game. Maybe they will listen to me more than I’ve listened to my dad. “Ok, next time I’ll grab the 5-iron”. Thank you for this opportunity.

For the thousandth time of my teenage life, I rolled my eyes at my dad! I was staring down the 7th hole of beautifully manicured Southern California fairway, picturing my drive carve through the cool, dry air like a jet slicing through the clouds. I stood alone on the tee box as my father and brother waited patiently for my pending tee-shot. “Davis”, my dad approached, “it’s a short par 4. There’s water on the left and bunkers on the right. Hit your 5-iron and get down in 3 for an easy par”. What does he know! Although I had been introduced to golf much earlier in my life, I didn’t start playing regularly until Covid. I was 13 years-old, desperate to get out of the house, and Sterling Hills Golf Club was one of the first clubs in our area that opened its doors to the restless public. Playing golf on Sundays became our weekly tradition. My dad affectionately referred to me and my brother as his “golfing buddies”, and the three of us would awkwardly make our way through the difficulties of Sterling Hills. The more I played, the better I got. I learned how to read putts on undulating greens, I developed soft hands from the rough, and became a consistent ball-striker from the fairways. But I was an overconfident teenager who was just starting to understand the classroom of golf. “I can hit my driver over 300 yards, dad. I know what I’m doing”. I confidently approached my tee-shot, took dead-aim at the center of the fairway, and proceeded to slice my drive 80 yards left into the middle of a lake. I escaped with a double bogey. If golf has taught me one lesson in life, it's humility. Golf is unrelentingly difficult. Courses are mercilessly designed to challenge golfers at every turn and they don’t care about one’s skill-level, age, experience, gender, or race. Mishit the ball by a mere 2 degrees, and you’re playing your next shot from a deep bunker. Don’t account for the 12-mph cross wind, and you’ll watch your tee-shot splash into someone’s swimming pool. Even the most skilled golfers in the world get humbled. One day a professional shoot a 65, the next day she shoots a 78. This sport is maddening. Golf has taught me many important lessons in its teachings; to be resilient, mentally tough, honorable, respectful, and competitive, but no lesson rings truer than being humble. To me, golf is a microcosm of life, beautiful one day, frustratingly unfair the next. It’s taught me to accept the good with the bad and that no matter how bad my “lie” might be, I’ve got to get out of it. Through humility, I’ve given up any notion of playing golf competitively and I simply play the sport because it makes me happy (until it doesn’t). I don’t take golf too seriously anymore, if I make a mistake, I move on, just like life. Today, I still play with my “golfing buddies”, my dad and my brother. We are competitive with each other, but I’ve learned to laugh at the bad breaks that golf tends to serve up and simply enjoy my time on the course with those I love. One day, I hope to pass golf on to my kids, allowing them to be students of this wise game. Maybe they will listen to me more than I’ve listened to my dad. “Ok, next time I’ll grab the 5-iron”. Thank you for this opportunity.

It never got so bad I wanted to hurt myself. But, October of 2022, my world had become blanketed by a fog of insecurity. From my bedroom, I could hear my parents whispering, “It's just a phase; he'll snap out of it.” Although that wall was only a half-inch-thick piece of drywall, it might as well have been a mountain-of-stone. They didn't understand how I was feeling and neither did I. Sometimes the most important problem to solve, is figuring out how to help yourself. When I was a child, I had a certain light to me. I was happy with an insatiable curiosity. My grandfather used to say I was the most curious child he'd ever seen. Some of my earliest and fondest memories were of holding his hand on long walks, asking him endless questions about life. Somehow, at fifteen, the light that had guided my childhood had been extinguished by a lead blanket of doubt and indecision. Perhaps the answers to my questions weren’t coming fast enough, or perhaps my body was changing in ways I couldn’t possibly appreciate. Either way, school suddenly became a challenge. I didn't care about my grades, and I didn't want to leave my room. I wanted to plunge into the comfort of my new darkness. In 2023, my younger brother was rushed to the hospital in critical condition due to diabetic ketoacidosis, a life-threatening condition from his undiagnosed Type 1 diabetes. “Why had this happened to him?” Suddenly, my personal dam of melancholy burst open, sending a stream of questions and curiosities back into my life. “What can I do to help him?” “Are there advancements being made that could help him?” At that moment, while his body was shutting down on a hospital bed, I committed myself to learning again. Just like that, my curiosity—my spark—had returned. I began to leverage my newfound passion for learning beyond ways to help my brother. I became a voracious reader, devouring classic novels. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Salinger seemed to articulate exactly how I felt. Through my reading, I began to realize that I was not alone in my struggles. Holden Caulfield, the protagonist of The Catcher in the Rye, also struggled with darkness during his transition into adulthood. Although works of fiction, these novels had a profound impact on how I rediscovered myself and my love of learning. My brother's diagnosis was an inflection point in my life. I realized that life isn't always fair and that bad things happen to good people. But I also learned that positive things can come from personal challenges, maybe even the best of things. And that no matter how isolated I may feel at times, I am not alone. Salinger said it best in The Catcher in the Rye: “Many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you." As I begin the season as a college student, I'm thankful for my past struggles. They've made me stronger and helped me understand that learning isn't finite, but a lifelong pursuit to which lessons come from all around us, even from the words of novels written well before my birth. My world is light again. I credit many things for that change—mostly my health and the realization that I'm not alone in how I feel. One thing I'm now certain of-the older I get, the more I become who I am.

I am the oldest of three boys. We are close in age and truly the best gift my parents have given me. I have so many loving memories of growing up with my brothers. But my youngest brother started missing basic milestones. He didn’t crawl at the same time as other babies, he didn’t speak his first words on time, and he displayed an inability to learn at the same capacity as other children. My brother was eventually classified as “intellectually disabled,” a diagnosis that no family wants for their loved one. My parents, unable to accept the consequences of such a designation, have committed incalculable resources to providing him with the right treatments. Today, his life is an unrelenting carousel of speech therapy, imaging studies, genetic testing, and special needs programs. It can often be heartbreaking and financially disruptive for my family. As if my brother didn’t already face enough challenges, he was recently diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes and is now dependent on insulin for the rest of his life. With both of my parents working, I have taken on the responsibility of being his caregiver. I calculate and administer insulin doses, monitor his glucose values, and react to stubborn high and low blood sugars. I’m not just his brother anymore; I’m his keeper. There is something beautiful in that, I learned—a remarkable paradox: providing care to him made me feel good. At the time of Brooks’s diagnosis, I had a hobby, a way to make extra pocket cash and save for college. I decided to donate a portion of my proceeds to help families cope with the cost of diabetes. I distinctly remember the first donation I made. Strangely enough, I felt embarrassed by how small the amount was. But a parent approached me and said, “Davis, this is a month of insulin for us. Thank you.” Ironically, the feeling I experienced in helping that parent fueled my interest in the unlikeliest of professions: politics. I began to wonder what it would be like to scale that feeling of helping others. While today’s political arena seems to be more about scoring points and degrading one’s opposition, it should be about creating far-reaching policies that benefit the greater good. In the context of my brother’s diabetes, my family is fortunate to have private health insurance that provides reasonably priced insulin. But that’s not the case for everyone. Many Americans lack access to quality medical care and the means to afford basic health essentials. Healthcare is a human right, not a privilege reserved for those who can afford it. This is what excites me as an aspiring public servant: the opportunity to implement policies that touch the lives of deserving communities on a large scale. I am eager to study political theory and policymaking so that one day, I can serve the people as the framers of our Constitution intended. I am determined to be the kind of leader who prioritizes compassion over division and helps build a society where respect and empathy are not just ideals but everyday practices. I am determined to turn my passion for change into action and my ideas into impact, one difference at a time. For my brother and for those with special needs, I will work with lawmakers to improve policies to improve education and healthcare. I will spend my life fighting for fair treatment and equal opportunities. I love my brother, and I will spend the rest of my life advocating for him. ***Attached is a picture with my 2 brothers. I am hugging on my youngest brother.

It never got so bad that I wanted to hurt myself. But by October of 2022, my world had become blanketed by a fog of insecurity. From my bedroom, I could hear my parents whispering to each other, “It's just a phase; he'll snap out of it.” Although that wall was only a half-inch-thick piece of drywall, it might as well have been a mountain of stone. They didn't understand how I was feeling, and neither did I. Sometimes the most important problem to solve, is figuring out how to help yourself. When I was a child, I had a certain light to me. I was happy and carefree, with an insatiable curiosity. My grandfather used to say I was the most curious child he had ever seen. Some of my earliest and fondest memories were of holding his hand on long walks, asking him endless questions about life. But somehow, by the age of fifteen, the light that had guided my childhood had been extinguished by a lead blanket of doubt and indecision. Perhaps the answers to my questions weren’t coming fast enough, or perhaps my body was simply changing in ways I couldn’t possibly appreciate. Either way, school suddenly became a challenge. I didn't care about my grades, and I didn't want to leave my room. I simply wanted to plunge into the comfort of my new darkness. In March of 2023, my younger brother Brooks was rushed to the hospital in critical condition due to diabetic ketoacidosis, a life-threatening condition resulting from his undiagnosed Type 1 diabetes. “Why had this happened to him?” “What had Brooks done to deserve this?” Suddenly, my personal dam of melancholy burst open, sending a stream of questions and curiosities back into my life. “What can I do to help him?” “Are there advancements being made that could help him?” At that moment, while Brooks’ body was shutting down on a hospital bed, I committed myself to learning again. Just like that, my curiosity—my spark—had returned. I began to leverage my newfound passion for learning beyond ways to help my brother. I became a voracious reader, devouring classic novels. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Salinger seemed to articulate exactly how I felt. Through my reading, I began to realize that I was not alone in my struggles. Holden Caulfield, the protagonist of The Catcher in the Rye, also struggled with darkness during his transition into adulthood. Although works of fiction, these novels had a profound impact on how I rediscovered myself and my love of learning. My brother's diagnosis was an inflection point in my life. I realized that life isn't always fair and that bad things happen to good people. But I also learned that positive things can come from personal challenges, maybe even the best of things. And that no matter how isolated I may feel at times, I am not alone. Salinger said it best in The Catcher in the Rye: “Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.” As I begin the next season of my life as a college student, I am thankful for my past struggles. They have made me stronger and more resilient and have helped me to understand that learning is not finite, but a lifelong pursuit to which lessons come from all around us, even from the words of novels written well before my birth. My world is light again. I credit many things for that change—mostly my health and the realization that I am not alone in how I feel. One thing I am now certain of: the older I get, the more I become who I am. I am genuinely sorry for the loss of your mom. If awarded this scholarship, I promise to honor her by continuing to share my story so others who may be going through the same journey as I did don't feel alone.

It never got so bad that I wanted to hurt myself. But by October of 2022, my world had become blanketed by a fog of insecurity. From my bedroom, I could hear my parents whispering to each other, “It's just a phase; he'll snap out of it.” Although that wall was only a half-inch-thick piece of drywall, it might as well have been a mountain of stone. They didn't understand how I was feeling, and neither did I. Sometimes the most important problem to solve, is figuring out how to help yourself. When I was a child, I had a certain light to me. I was happy and carefree, with an insatiable curiosity. My grandfather used to say I was the most curious child he had ever seen. Some of my earliest and fondest memories were of holding his hand on long walks, asking him endless questions about life. But somehow, by the age of fifteen, the light that had guided my childhood had been extinguished by a lead blanket of doubt and indecision. Perhaps the answers to my questions weren’t coming fast enough, or perhaps my body was simply changing in ways I couldn’t possibly appreciate. Either way, school suddenly became a challenge. I didn't care about my grades, and I didn't want to leave my room. I simply wanted to plunge into the comfort of my new darkness. In March of 2023, my younger brother Brooks was rushed to the hospital in critical condition due to diabetic ketoacidosis, a life-threatening condition resulting from his undiagnosed Type 1 diabetes. “Why had this happened to him?” “What had Brooks done to deserve this?” Suddenly, my personal dam of melancholy burst open, sending a stream of questions and curiosities back into my life. “What can I do to help him?” “Are there advancements being made that could help him?” At that moment, while Brooks’ body was shutting down on a hospital bed, I committed myself to learning again. Just like that, my curiosity—my spark—had returned. I began to leverage my newfound passion for learning beyond ways to help my brother. I became a voracious reader, devouring classic novels. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Salinger seemed to articulate exactly how I felt. Through my reading, I began to realize that I was not alone in my struggles. Holden Caulfield, the protagonist of The Catcher in the Rye, also struggled with darkness during his transition into adulthood. Although works of fiction, these novels had a profound impact on how I rediscovered myself and my love of learning. My brother's diagnosis was an inflection point in my life. I realized that life isn't always fair and that bad things happen to good people. But I also learned that positive things can come from personal challenges, maybe even the best of things. And that no matter how isolated I may feel at times, I am not alone. Salinger said it best in The Catcher in the Rye: “Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.” As I begin the next season of my life as a college student, I am thankful for my past struggles. They have made me stronger and more resilient and have helped me to understand that learning is not finite, but a lifelong pursuit to which lessons come from all around us, even from the words of novels written well before my birth. My world is light again. I credit many things for that change—mostly my health and the realization that I am not alone in how I feel. One thing I am now certain of: the older I get, the more I become who I am. I will use this scholarship to honor your mom, Ethel Hayes, and promise to never stop sharing my story in hopes of helping others who may be going through the same journey as I did.

"Your brother could slip into a coma." That phone call from my dad in March 2021 changed my life. Brooks hadn’t seemed himself for weeks, but no one suspected he would soon be diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes and fighting for his life at LA Children’s Hospital in diabetic ketoacidosis. Thankfully, Brooks is OK now, and we have adapted to life with a Type 1 diabetic. With both of my parents working, I have taken on the responsibility of being his caregiver—calculating insulin doses, monitoring glucose levels, and managing highs and lows. I’m not just his brother anymore; I’m his keeper. Caring for Brooks has shown me something remarkable: helping others gives me purpose. At the time of his diagnosis, I had a side business—sourcing used clothing from consignment shops and selling it for a profit. It started as a way to earn pocket cash and save for college, but as my business grew, I felt it lacked meaning. I decided to donate a portion of my proceeds to families struggling with the cost of diabetes. I remember the first donation I made, feeling embarrassed by how small it was. But then, a parent put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Davis, this is a month of insulin for us. Thank you.” That moment changed everything. Ironically, my experiences with Brooks and my business ignited an interest in the unlikeliest of fields: politics. I began to wonder—how could I replicate the impact I’ve had on Brooks and those families on a larger scale? While today’s political climate is divisive, politics should be about creating policies that benefit the greater good. My family is fortunate to have health insurance that makes insulin affordable, but many Americans are not as lucky. Healthcare is a human right, not a privilege reserved for those who can afford it. That belief fuels my passion for public service. As I’ve grown, so has my awareness of how fractured our national discourse has become. Politics often feels like a battlefield, with leaders more interested in scoring points than solving problems. But it doesn’t have to be this way. I believe the pendulum will swing back toward a time when Americans demand decency and civility from their leaders. At college, I am eager to study political theory and policymaking so that one day, I can serve the people as the framers of our Constitution intended. I am determined to be the kind of leader who prioritizes compassion over division, working toward a society where respect and empathy are not just ideals but everyday practices. My journey—first as Brooks’s caregiver, then as a young entrepreneur turned advocate—has shown me that leadership is not about power; it’s about service. That is my calling, and I am ready to dedicate my life to it. I promise to use this scholarship to honor Frederick and Bernice Beretta in a way that would make them proud if they were still here today.

Sometimes, it’s not the brush with death that leaves the deepest marks, it’s the acts of kindness that follow. When I was 6, I nearly lost my life to Meningitis. The ordeal was terrifying, marked by excruciating pain and a hospital stay that left my parents fearing the worst. As my fragile body lay on a cold hospital bed, the only things that provided comfort to me were the warm loving hands of my parents and a small brown teddy bear, compliments of the caring nurses at Tampa General Hospital. Years later, however, what I remember most vividly from that experience, isn’t my first lesson of life’s fragility, or the terrifying spinal tap needle being driven into my back, but the lessons of kindness and humanity that awaited me upon my discharge. Arriving home on Thanksgiving Day, after the most frightening week of my young life, our neighbors Bill and Jan Gentry, who were practically strangers to us, arrived at our door with the most beautiful Thanksgiving meal one could imagine. As we received this unexpected gift from our new friends, I was struck by the power that community and compassion could have on a young life. Later in life, I faced another life-threatening experience when I watched my little brother Brooks nearly slip into a coma from Diabetic Ketoacidosis-a serious condition resulting from his undiagnosed Type 1 Diabetes. As he lay in a hospital bed, I witnessed something remarkable: family, friends, and the Type 1 Diabetes community rallying to his aid. They offered not just emotional support, but tangible help, meals, rides, even financial assistance. Their collective strength helped my family navigate that terrifying time and reinforced my belief that we're all deeply interconnected. Ironically, these two traumatizing events have fueled my interest in the most unlikely of professions: politics. As I’ve grown and developed a love of current events, I’ve observed how the tone of our nation has become increasingly bitter and divisive. Politics today often seems more like a battlefield than a forum to help people, with opposing sides more interested in scoring points than in understanding each other. This was my first election I coud vote. While it was a tremendous privilege, I can’t help but feel discouraged by the constant hateful rhetoric, focused on dividing us rather than uniting us. Am I naive to believe there's a better way? Reasonable people can disagree with each other, that is to be expected, and while we may never achieve total unity, I believe we should at least strive for empathy and respect. As JFK said, “One person can make a difference, and everyone should try.” This belief drives my commitment and volunteering to organizations like Breakthrough T1D. Through my involvement, I’ve had the opportunity to connect with others who share my dedication to making the world a more compassionate place. These experiences have not only shaped my character but have also ignited a personal calling: to serve my country in a way that brings decency, community, and kindness back into the political sphere. The brown teddy bear from my hospital stay is still perched on a shelf in my bedroom, a reminder of the compassion and benevolence that inspired my life’s interest. That bear symbolizes a promise I’ve made to myself: to always carry forward the lessons of kindness and decency to effect positive change. As I look to the future, I’m determined to bring these values into my work, to be the kind of leader who prioritizes compassion over division. This is my calling, and it’s a mission to which I’m ready to dedicate my life.