Being raised by a single mother shaped the way I see strength, sacrifice, and love. My mom taught me that giving back matters, even when you don’t have much to give. She raised me to care about people, to work hard, and to give more than I receive. I watched her carry responsibilities that should’ve never been hers alone, but she still made sure I felt loved, supported, and capable of becoming something more. Now, I’m a single mother myself to three children, my two boys who are 9 and 11, and my daughter who is 1 and a half. Being a single parent has changed every part of my educational journey. I don’t just go to school for myself. I go because my children are watching me. They see me tired, overwhelmed, studying late, recovering from injury, and still pushing forward. They also see that giving up isn’t an option when you’re trying to build a safer and better future for your family. My journey hasn’t been easy. I’m a survivor of domestic violence, and leaving that situation meant choosing safety, healing, and stability for my children and myself. Starting over as a single mother took courage I didn’t even know I had. There were moments when I felt scared, exhausted, and unsure of how I’d manage everything. But being a mother means finding strength even when you feel empty. My children deserve peace, protection, and opportunity, and that’s what keeps me going. Education has become my way of changing the future for my family. It’s also become the path toward the kind of work I know I’m meant to do. I’m pursuing a future in law because I want to help people who haven’t received the support, protection, or justice they deserve. I know what it feels like to need help and feel alone. I know what it feels like to rebuild after trauma. That’s why I want to use my career to advocate for others, especially people who are vulnerable, unheard, or taken advantage of. Giving back has always been part of who I am. I’m a volunteer EMT in Maryland, and once my surgery and injury are healed, I plan to continue serving my community in that role. Being an EMT taught me that helping others doesn’t only happen when it’s convenient. It happens when someone is scared, hurt, or in crisis, and you choose to show up anyway. That same purpose is what I want to carry into my future legal career. This scholarship would help ease the financial pressure of being both a student and a single parent. It would allow me to continue my education while providing for my children and building the future they deserve. More than anything, it would support a journey that started with my mother’s example and continues through the life I’m creating for my own children. I want my children to grow up knowing that hardship doesn’t have to define them. I want them to see that even after pain, fear, and starting over, it’s still possible to serve others, keep going, and build something meaningful.

I used to think intimate partner violence was something that happened when love disappeared. Now I know it can happen while love is still in the room, while children are still crying for the person hurting you to stop, and while your mind is still trying to understand how the person meant to protect your family became the person you had to survive. My personal background is not theoretical. My former husband was prior military and an officer at the time. That made leaving feel impossible in ways people may not understand. I kept asking myself, how do you ask the law to protect you when the person hurting you is also part of it? That fear can trap someone long before hands ever touch their throat. But one day I saw what my marriage was becoming. I saw my two boys, one still in pull ups and one just starting kindergarten, and I knew if I stayed silent, the damage would not stop with me. It would fall onto them too. I gave him divorce papers because I was trying to prevent the very outcome I feared. That night, I didn’t recognize the man in front of me. His hands were around my throat. My oldest was screaming for his father to stop. My youngest was crying. My dog, Tyson, was barking behind the gate, trying to get to me. My five year old pushed his father, and I was able to yell for him to open the gate. Tyson lunged at the man who was supposed to be our protector, and that moment gave me enough time to grab my children and run. When we ran outside, officers were already there. For a second, I thought the guns were aimed at us. Then they moved us aside and protected us. I felt heard. I felt believed. I felt what justice should feel like. I also knew how lucky I was. Many survivors are not believed quickly enough. Many are afraid no one will listen. Many try to explain danger before it becomes violence, but systems often respond after harm has already happened. That is what I want to change. My education in law is not just a career goal. It is how I intend to turn survival into prevention. I want to help build systems that recognize warning signs earlier, respond without bias, and protect people before their story becomes evidence in a courtroom or a hospital report. I also bring experience from emergency medicine, community outreach, and caregiving. As an EMT and CNA/PCT, I have seen crisis from the front lines. I know what fear looks like before someone has the words for it. I know how important it is to listen the first time...even if there are no words. Existing initiatives against intimate partner violence matter, but they need stronger legal advocacy, better education, trauma informed response, and prevention focused policy. I want to use my education to help survivors be heard before escalation, before injury, before another child has to scream for a parent to stop. I survived because people listened when it mattered. My goal is to make sure listening is not luck. Thank you for taking the time to read my story and consider the life I am still building.

Going to college means I’m refusing to let my circumstances have the final word. I’m a minority in more ways than one. People see the color of my skin before they know the roots of my family, before they know the color of the biological paternal parent connected to my DNA but not my identity, before they understand the full story that lives behind my face. I know what it feels like to be seen quickly, but not known fully. I know what it feels like to have parts of who I am questioned until I have to explain myself like evidence. But college gives me a place where I’m not just explaining who I am. I’m building who I’m becoming. My path has not been simple. I have worked as a CNA and EMT, stepping into spaces where care, patience, and quick decisions matter. I have been the person others relied on in emergencies, the person who showed up when someone needed help. That work shaped my heart. It taught me that people deserve dignity when they are scared, hurting, confused, or at their lowest. Then life changed in a way I never expected. After an accident caused by negligence, I was left with a traumatic brain injury and physical injuries that altered my future. I went from being the person who helped others to being the person trying to understand my own healing. I had to relearn how to think, study, remember, and function. I had to face the grief of not being able to use my body the way I once could, including limitations that affected my work as an EMT. That kind of loss can make you question everything. But my education became one thing I could still fight for. College is not just classes, grades, or a degree to me. It is proof that I am still moving. It is proof that even after injury, pain, financial stress, and being underestimated, I can still rise. It is the place where I take everything that tried to break me and turn it into purpose. What I am trying to accomplish is bigger than me. I am pursuing a future in law because I know what it feels like to be unheard. I know what it feels like to warn people, to show proof, to ask for help, and still be ignored until damage is done. I want to stand beside people who are overlooked by systems that should protect them. I want to help people affected by careless companies, careless choices, and careless people. I want my children to see that struggle does not have to become surrender. I want them to see me study while healing, keep going while tired, and build a future with my hands even when those hands are shaking. I want them to know that being a minority, being a mother, being injured, being misunderstood, none of it makes you less capable of becoming something powerful. College means access. It means stability. It means changing the story for my family. It means taking every label that was placed on me and answering with action. I am not here just to earn a degree. I’m here to become the kind of person I once needed, someone who listens when others are silenced, stands when others are shaken, and reminds them that their story is not over. Thank you for taking the time to read my story and consider the life I am still building. Simply having my story heard means more than I can fully explain.

I’ve always been a little hard to categorize. I write with my left hand, but I do almost everything else with my right. When I played baseball, I caught the ball with my glove on my right hand, then had to rip the glove off fast enough to throw with that same hand. It looked awkward. It probably was awkward. But somehow, I made it work. That feels like the story of my life. I’ve never fit neatly into one box. I’m a woman in emergency services, an EMT and firefighter in spaces where men are still often expected before women are. I’ve learned how to walk into rooms where I may not be what people imagined, then prove I belong by what I do, not what they assumed. I’m also someone who has spent most of my life being the helper. I’m the person watching the field at my children’s games a little closer than everyone else, ready to move if someone gets hurt. I’m the neighbor who hears a smoke detector and pays attention. I’m the person people call when something goes wrong. Then life made me switch roles. After an accident caused by negligence, I became the one who needed help. I was left with a traumatic brain injury and a shoulder injury that changed what I could do. I couldn’t lift patients. I couldn’t perform CPR. As an EMT, that kind of loss hit deep, because helping people wasn’t just a job to me, it was part of who I was. The concussion changed my mind too. I had to relearn how to think, remember, study, and function. Some days, I still feel like I’m rebuilding myself from the inside out, trying to trust a brain that doesn’t always move the way it used to. So maybe what makes me stand out is not that I’m left handed. Maybe it’s that I’ve always had to find another way. On a baseball field, I found a way to catch and throw with the same hand. In emergency services, I found a way to stand strong in spaces where I wasn’t always expected. After my injury, I found a way to keep learning, keep healing, and keep moving toward a future in law. That is what I want to bring into the world, a deeper kind of empathy. The kind that comes from knowing what it feels like to be overlooked, underestimated, injured, dismissed, and still determined to rise. I want to use my education and lived experience to help people who feel unheard. People who did everything right and still paid the price for someone else’s carelessness. People who need someone to believe them, stand with them, and fight for them. My “awkward” thing is that I don’t move through life the way people expect. I never really have. But I’ve learned that different doesn’t mean broken. Sometimes different means adaptable. Sometimes it means creative. Sometimes it means you can survive what was meant to stop you, because you already know how to adjust mid throw. I may do things a little backward. But I still know exactly where I’m aiming.

I was raised by a woman who taught me how to survive before I even understood what survival meant. My mama became a mother before the world gave her permission to be ready. Life handed her pain, judgment, and responsibility, then watched to see if she would break. She didn’t. She kept going. She chose me. She chose love. She chose to build a life when everything around her gave her reasons not to. Growing up with a single mother meant learning early that strength is not always loud. Sometimes strength is a tired woman still getting up. Sometimes it is bills paid late but dinner still on the table. Sometimes it is crying in private, then walking back into the room like hope is still an option. My mother was my first example of what it means to keep moving when life gets cruel. She didn’t raise me to fold when things got hard. She raised me to rise with shaking hands. That lesson became my lifeline after my accident. After repeated warnings, pictures, and videos showing something was unsafe, nothing changed. I did everything I was supposed to do, and I was still the one who got hurt. Negligence left me concussed, physically injured, and facing a future I no longer recognized. As an EMT, my body was part of my purpose. I lifted patients. I performed CPR. I ran toward emergencies because helping people was never just something I did, it was who I was. Then my shoulder injury made those things impossible. Surgery may help repair my body, but my mind is still healing from a concussion that changed how I think, remember, and function. There are days I feel like I am rebuilding myself from pieces no one else can see. And still, I hear my mama in me. Not her voice telling me life is fair, because she never lied to me. Her life taught me the truth, that life can be unfair, people can fail you, systems can overlook you, and you may still have to carry what should have never been yours. But she also taught me that pain does not get the final word. So I kept going. I stayed connected to healthcare as a CNA and EMT in the ways I still could. I leaned harder into school. I began pursuing law because I know what it feels like to be unheard, to warn people, to show proof, to beg for safety, and still be ignored until damage is done. I want to become someone who stands where others are being dismissed. Someone who can take the pain I survived and turn it into protection for someone else. My mama shaped that in me. She gave me the first blueprint of courage. She showed me that your beginning does not get to decide your ending. She showed me that children are always watching, and now mine are watching me. They are watching me heal. They are watching me study. They are watching me fall apart and still get back up. I want my children to know that we are not only made from what hurts us. We are made from what we choose after. My mother chose me. Now I choose my future, my children, my education, and every person I hope to help because I refused to stay broken. She raised me from survival. I am building us toward legacy.

I have always been the person people call when something goes wrong. The friendly neighborhood EMT, the firefighter who shows up before anyone suspects, the one on the sidelines at my children’s games watching a little closer than everyone else, ready to run if something happens, the neighbor who smells the smoke before the detector screams and doesn't hesitate. Helping people has never been something I chose, it is who I am. As an EMT and prior CNA, community outreach became my purpose. I did not just respond to emergencies, I built trust, I showed up for people, I stood in moments where they needed someone to care without question. And then, I became the one who needed help. After repeated warnings, pictures, and videos showing how unsafe something was, nothing was done. I did everything I was supposed to do. And I was the one who got hurt. An accident caused by negligence left me with a traumatic brain injury and a torn shoulder that now requires surgery. I cannot lift patients, I cannot perform CPR. As an EMT, the role I built my identity around, I became a liability to the people I once protected. That realization doesn't just hurt physically, it changes how you see yourself. The surgery will help my body, but I am still working to recover my mind. A concussion forced me to relearn how to think, how to function, how to move through life in ways that used to come naturally. There are moments where memory slips, where I have to piece together my own reality, where I feel like I am learning how to be myself all over again. It has been my greatest battle. But it has also given me something I did not have before. I understand what it feels like to be unheard, to know something is wrong and not be taken seriously until it is too late. I understand what it feels like to be on the other side of care. And that is where my purpose grew. I am pursuing a future in law, not as a shift away from helping people, but as a continuation of it. What happened to me shouldn't have happened, and there are too many people who do not have the voice, the knowledge, or the strength to fight back when negligence changes their lives. Everyone deserves to be heard. Everyone deserves care that does not fail them. My experiences have given me the ability to understand people beyond training, beyond textbooks, through lived reality. I have stood in both roles, the one who shows up to help and the one left needing someone to listen. That perspective matters. It's how empathy is built. I want to use my voice, my education, and everything I have lived through to advocate for those who feel overlooked, dismissed, or powerless. To stand for people who are told to accept what happened to them when they shouldn't have to. Because I know what that feels like. And I refuse to let that be the end of someone else’s story. What I have been through did not take away who I am. It expanded it.

I’m a minority in more ways than one. Not just my ethnicity. Anyone who doesn’t know my family sees me as the color of my skin. They don’t see the rest of me. They don’t know the color of my father. They don’t understand until it’s explained… until a family tree is laid out in front of them like proof that I’m who I say I am. Acceptance doesn’t come first… Explanation does. I’ve lived my life being seen… but not fully known. And that doesn’t stop there. I’m a woman in a field that wasn’t built with me in mind. As an EMT and firefighter… I’ve stepped into spaces dominated by men… where I’ve had to prove myself before I was ever given the chance to just exist in my role. Strength isn’t assumed. Capability isn’t expected. It’s something I’ve had to show… over and over again. Then there’s the part of me most people will never see. I live with a traumatic brain injury. On the outside I look normal. I can smile, talk and show up the way people expect me to. But internally there are moments where my mind doesn’t cooperate. Memory slips. Mental exhaustion. Times where I have to fight just to function at the level people assume comes easily. It’s invisible. And invisible struggles are the easiest ones to overlook. I carry all of this while being a single mother. There is no pause. No backup. Every decision I make affects more than just me. My education isn’t just a goal… it’s a responsibility. It’s how I create stability and how I build a future where my children don’t have to struggle the way I have. What’s been challenging isn’t just one thing. It’s being underestimated in multiple ways at the same time… It’s being responsible for others while still trying to build something for myself… It’s navigating a mind and body that don’t always cooperate… while still refusing to fall behind. But there is something powerful in that too. There is fulfillment in continuing anyway… In showing up when it would be easier not to… In knowing my children are watching me choose growth over giving up. Furthering my education is how I change the trajectory of my life. It’s how I step into a future where I’m not defined by what people assume when they see me… but by what I’ve built despite it. Because I understand what it feels like to exist in spaces where you have to prove who you are. To be seen… but questioned. To be present… but not fully accepted. I don’t just want success for myself. I want to use my experiences to stand for others who feel unseen… unheard… or misunderstood. People whose struggles aren’t obvious. People who are constantly asked to explain their existence before they’re allowed to be accepted. What I’ve learned is this… Being a minority isn’t just about identity. It’s about carrying layers the world doesn’t always make room for… And learning how to stand in them anyway. I’m not what people assume when they look at me. I’m everything they didn’t take the time to understand. And now I’m building a life where my children will grow up knowing their worth without question… where they’ll see what it looks like to rise… to push forward… and to stand fully in who they are. I’ve spent enough time being explained. Now, I’ll be seen. Not for what the world expected me to be… But for everything I’ve fought to become… and everything I’m about to be.

My life didn’t follow the path I thought it would. I was trained to save lives. As both a CNA and an EMT, I learned how to stay calm in chaos, how to act when seconds matter, and how to be the person others rely on in their worst moments. That role wasn’t just a job to me, it was part of who I am. Then everything changed. An accident caused by negligence left me with a traumatic brain injury, and the life I had built no longer functioned the way it once did. I struggle with memory loss, moments I can’t recall, and days where I have to work harder than most just to keep up. There are times I’ve had to watch myself through my own home cameras just to understand what I did or said. Imagine trying to trust your own mind when parts of your reality are missing. I’m also living with physical limitations that have taken me out of the field I love in the way I once knew it. I cannot perform CPR. I cannot respond the same way I used to. That loss is deeply personal. But it is not permanent. I'm preparing for surgery to correct injuries that should have never existed, and I'm working toward returning to full capacity. These limitations are temporary, but what they’ve taught me is permenant. My story doesn’t start or end there. In a military family, I experienced firsthand how trauma and brain injury can change a person. I’ve stood in moments of fear and confusion, trying to hold everything together for my children while navigating something I didn’t fully understand at the time. Now, living with my own brain injury, I see things differently. I understand how easily mental and neurological struggles are overlooked. I understand how quickly someone can lose control of themselves, and how misunderstood that can be from the outside. I understand what it feels like to fight something invisible. And I’ve learned that strength doesn’t look the way people expect it to. Strength is rebuilding when everything feels unfamiliar. It’s creating systems just to remember. It’s pushing forward when your mind and body don’t cooperate the way they used to. Even now, I haven’t stepped away from helping others. I continue working in healthcare while pursuing a future in law. To me, that isn’t a change in direction, it’s a continuation of purpose: to advocate, to protect, and to stand up for people when they need it most. My goals have evolved, but they haven’t disappeared. I still want to help people. I want to use both my medical background and lived experiences to advocate for those navigating brain injuries, mental health struggles, and situations where their voices are overlooked. Furthering my education is the next step. This scholarship would help relieve the financial burden, allowing me to focus on rebuilding my future and stepping fully into the career I’m working toward. What I’ve been through didn’t just change my life. It reshaped it. I'm still here. Still learning. Still rebuilding. And I'm not done. What happened to me didn’t take my purpose. It forced me to see the real one. And now that I see it… I won’t look away.

PTSD wasn’t something I understood from the outside. It was something I lived inside of, long before I had the words for it. Service has always been part of my life. It runs through generations of my family, from my papa to my husband, and through the path I chose as an EMT. I grew up around the values of service, strength, and sacrifice. But I also learned that not all wounds from service are visible. Within my marriage in a military family, I experienced firsthand how trauma can change a person. After a severe orbital skull fracture and concussion, everything shifted. What followed wasn’t just physical recovery, it was a gradual transformation in behavior, emotion, and control. The person I knew became harder to recognize. At first, it was subtle. Mood changes. Distance. Moments that felt off but were easy to excuse. Then it became something else entirely. There were nights filled with yelling, confusion, and fear. I remember standing there, looking through blurred, tear-filled vision, trying to find the person I knew. Our children, only two and five years old, screaming and crying, begging for it to stop. Those moments don’t leave you. There was a point when everything became clear. Safety had to come first. I realized that love and loyalty couldn’t outweigh protection, especially for my children. Military families are built on resilience, on pushing through, on holding things together. But PTSD doesn’t always show itself in obvious ways. It can build quietly, behind closed doors, until it affects everyone in its path. Now, I live with my own traumatic brain injury. After an accident caused by negligence, I was left with a concussion and ongoing post-TBI symptoms that have changed how I think, react, and process the world. There are moments where my emotions feel out of reach, where reactions come faster than I can control, and I catch glimpses of a version of myself that doesn’t feel like me. And that’s when everything changed. For the first time, I began to understand what living with neurological disruption might feel like. Not to excuse what happened, but to recognize how deeply the brain can alter behavior and control. My background in emergency medicine deepened that understanding. As an EMT, I was trained to respond to visible crises, but this experience showed me how much happens beneath the surface, and how often these injuries are overlooked. What I’ve learned is this: PTSD doesn’t just affect the person who served. It affects families, partners, and children trying to navigate something they were never trained to understand. My experiences have changed how I move through the world. I listen differently. I recognize warning signs others may miss. I understand the importance of early intervention and support systems. I want to advocate for others, especially veterans and military families navigating PTSD. Not just those suffering directly, but those around them trying to protect their families and hold everything together. Because I’ve seen both sides of it. I’ve lived in the fear, the confusion, and the aftermath. And now, I carry a deeper awareness of how critical it is to recognize these struggles for what they are. PTSD doesn’t just affect one person. It affects everyone connected to them. And if we don’t acknowledge it, understand it, and support those living with it, the cycle continues. But I won’t let that be the outcome of my story. What I’ve lived through didn’t just show me the damage PTSD can cause. It showed me exactly where I’m meant to stand. And I won’t be silent there.

My experience with mental health did not begin quietly. It arrived without permission, through an accident caused by negligence that split my life into before and after. Before, I was an EMT. I was trained to run toward emergencies, not away from them. I knew what to do when someone’s heart stopped. I knew how to stay steady when everything else wasn’t. Now, I live in a body that does not always listen to me. The right side of my body holds limits I cannot push past. I cannot perform CPR, something that once felt as natural as breathing. I'm out of work, and facing surgery for complications that should have never existed. What stays with me most isn't just what I have lost, but what I can't stop thinking about. The calls I'm not on. The moments I'm not there. There are nights I lie awake wondering how many times someone needed hands like mine, and I wasn't there to give them. Those thoughts don't come with answers. They just stay. At the same time, my traumatic brain injury has taken something even more personal: my memory. There are moments of my life I cannot recall, moments I have had to watch back on my own home cameras just to understand what I did or said. Imagine trying to trust your own mind when parts of your reality are missing. My mental health exists in that space now, unpredictable and uninvited. There are days when intrusive thoughts appear without warning, thoughts that do not belong to me. I didn't ask for them, and I didn't choose this life. But I am still here. Rebuilding has not been one moment of strength. It has been thousands of small, exhausting decisions. I have had to relearn how I learn, creating systems to hold onto memories that no longer come naturally. This experience has changed my beliefs. I now understand that mental health is not something people can simply push through. It is real, complex, and often invisible. I also understand how easily people can be silenced when fear and pressure take over. That realization has strengthened my voice and my desire to advocate for others who feel unheard. In my relationships, I have become more patient and more aware of what people carry quietly. I know what it feels like to appear fine while struggling internally. My purpose has not disappeared. It has shifted. I may not be the person performing CPR right now, but I am still someone who understands what it means to be on both sides of care. I know what it feels like to lose control, to not be believed, and to fight to be seen. What happened to me took pieces of my life, my physical ability, parts of my memory, and the future I once imagined. But it did not take everything. It did not take my drive. It did not take my compassion. And it did not take my commitment to helping others. If anything, it changed the future I thought I would have… and replaced it with one I now feel called to fight for. Because I know what it feels like to be unheard. To be dismissed. To be forced to carry something that was never yours to carry. I will advocate for those who feel powerless. I will stand beside those navigating systems that overwhelm them. And I will use everything I have lived through to make sure others are not left to fight alone. What happened to me did not end my purpose. It revealed it.

My experience with mental health did not begin quietly. It arrived without permission, through an accident caused by negligence that split my life into before and after. Before, I was an EMT. I was trained to run toward emergencies, not away from them. I knew what to do when someone’s heart stopped. I knew how to stay steady when everything else wasn’t. Now, I live in a body that does not always listen to me. The right side of my body holds limits I cannot push past. I cannot perform CPR, something that once felt as natural as breathing. I am out of work, and I am facing surgery for complications that should have never existed. What stays with me most is not just what I have lost, but what I can't stop thinking about. The calls I am not on. The moments I am not there. There are nights I lie awake wondering how many times someone needed hands like mine, and I was not there to give them. Those thoughts do not come with answers. They just stay. At the same time, my traumatic brain injury has taken something even more personal: my memory. There are moments of my life I cannot recall, moments I have had to watch back on my own home cameras just to understand what I did or said. Imagine trying to trust your own mind when parts of your reality are missing. My mental health exists in that space now, unpredictable and uninvited. There are days when intrusive thoughts appear without warning, thoughts that don't belong to me. I didn't ask for them, and I didn't choose this life. But I am still here. Rebuilding hasn't been one moment of strength. It's been thousands of small, exhausting decisions. I have had to relearn how I learn, creating systems to hold onto memories that no longer come naturally. This experience has changed my beliefs. I now understand that mental health is not something people can simply push through. It is real, complex, and often invisible. I also understand how easily people can be silenced when fear and pressure take over. That realization has strengthened my voice and my desire to advocate for others who feel unheard. In my relationships, I have become more patient and more aware of what people carry quietly. I know what it feels like to appear fine while struggling internally. My purpose hasn't disappeared. It has shifted. I may not be the person performing CPR right now, but I am still someone who understands what it means to be on both sides of care. I know what it feels like to lose control, to not be believed, and to fight to be seen. What happened to me took pieces of my life, my physical ability, parts of my memory, and the future I once imagined. But it didn't take everything. It did not take my drive. It did not take my compassion. And it did not take my commitment to helping others. If anything, it changed the future I thought I would have had and replaced it with one I now feel called to fight for. Because I know what it feels like to be unheard. To be dismissed. To be forced to carry something that was never yours to carry. I will advocate for those who feel powerless. I will stand beside those navigating systems that overwhelm them. And I will use everything I have lived through to make sure others are not left to fight alone. What happened to me did not end my purpose. It revealed it.

The hardest part about being both a student and a single parent is that life does not pause when you are exhausted. There is no break to grieve, heal, study, work, parent, or recover separately. Everything happens at once. You wake up carrying responsibilities that feel heavier than your own body, but you keep moving because your children are depending on you to survive it. I never imagined my life would unfold the way it did. I made the decision to leave my marriage after realizing my husband’s anger had become unpredictable following his accident and the PTSD he developed afterward. I feared that one day an outburst could put my children and me in danger, and I knew I had to protect them before that fear became reality. After I served him with separation papers, the exact thing I had feared happened. He physically assaulted me in our home. If my four year old son had not called the police that night, I genuinely do not know if I would still be here today. That moment changed everything. Overnight, I became a single mother trying to rebuild my life emotionally, financially, physically, and mentally while also navigating the trauma that followed. At the same time, I was trying to survive and heal from my own traumatic brain injury caused by an accident connected to negligence that never should have happened in the first place. A traumatic brain injury changes every part of your life. Healing is not simply “getting better.” For me, it meant relearning parts of myself while grieving the person I used to be. It meant struggling with memory, concentration, emotional regulation, headaches, exhaustion, and moments where my own mind no longer felt familiar to me. But even during the hardest moments, my children still needed comfort, safety, love, and stability. Even through all of this, helping others has remained part of who I am. As an EMT, I learned that service is not something you clock into and out of. I help people because I genuinely cannot ignore someone in need. I have stepped in at playgrounds while spending time with my own children because another child fell and was injured. I have responded in restaurants after exhausting eighteen hour shifts because someone nearby was having a heart attack. I have helped at baseball games after children suffered head injuries, at my son’s football games when someone broke an arm, and even in my neighbor’s backyard when her three year old daughter went into an unexpected allergic reaction after a bee sting. No matter how overwhelmed I am personally, when someone needs help, I move toward them. That instinct comes from understanding suffering intimately myself. I also know what it feels like to lose someone you love because they were not properly heard. My father began experiencing shoulder pain, and as both a CNA and EMT, I recognized the warning signs immediately. I insisted he go to the emergency room because I knew something was seriously wrong. He listened to me and went, where doctors discovered he was actively having a heart attack and placed two stents. It was thought that...it meant he was safe. But after returning home, he continued getting worse. He repeatedly told medical professionals something felt wrong. He knew his body was changing. He knew his heart felt as though it was weakening. Instead of truly listening to him, they insisted he continue medications that worsened his condition and weakened his heart further. He trusted the people who were supposed to help him. I wish I had known...but I myself was up in Maine, helping my Nana arrange my own Papa's recent passing. Three weeks later, my father died from a heart attack. What stays with me most is that he tried to advocate for himself. He used his voice. He asked for help. He knew something was wrong, but he was ignored. Losing him permanently changed the way I view healthcare, advocacy, and justice. My experiences as a CNA taught me compassion during people’s most vulnerable moments. My work as an EMT taught me how to respond under pressure when lives are at risk and fear takes over. But my personal experiences taught me something equally important…what happens after the emergency matters too. What happens when people are ignored, dismissed, neglected, or left without support can change the course of their lives forever. That is what ultimately led me toward law. I don't want to simply help people survive traumatic moments, I want to help protect them afterward as well. I want to advocate for individuals and families who feel powerless against systems larger than themselves, especially those facing medical negligence, injury, disability, or abuse. My children are the reason I continue fighting for a future built on safety, justice, compassion, and advocacy. I want them to grow up seeing that even after trauma, loss, and hardship, it is still possible to turn pain into purpose and become the person others can rely on during the moments they need help most.

I was standing in hospital rooms long before I understood how deeply broken some systems truly are. As an EMT and CNA, I learned how to stay calm during emergencies, how to comfort people during fear, and how to recognize when someone’s condition was becoming critical. But my understanding of suffering changed completely when the people I loved became the patients…when I became the patient myself. After experiencing a traumatic brain injury connected to negligence involving my HOA, my life changed physically, emotionally, and mentally. Healing became something I had to fight for every single day. I learned what it felt like to be exhausted while still advocating for yourself, to feel dismissed while knowing something was wrong, and to realize how vulnerable people become when systems fail them. 2 years for a diagnosis I knew in my own body…and now on to surgery. There were moments where I felt less like a person and more like paperwork, liability, or inconvenience. Then my father got sick. He began experiencing shoulder pain, and as both a CNA and EMT, I recognized the warning signs immediately. I was adamant that he needed emergency care because I knew something was seriously wrong. He listened to me and went to the ER, where doctors discovered he was actively having a heart attack. They placed two stents to save his life. I thought that meant he was safe. But after returning home, he continued getting worse. He repeatedly told medical professionals that something felt wrong. He used his own words to explain that his body did not feel right, that he was weakening, that something was happening to his heart. Instead of truly listening, they continued insisting he remain on medication that was worsening his condition and weakening him further. He trusted them because they were supposed to help him. Three weeks later, my father died from a heart attack. What haunts me most is that he tried to advocate for himself. He spoke up. He asked for help. He knew something was wrong. But he was ignored. Losing him changed me permanently. My passion for law was born from grief, survival, and witnessing firsthand what happens when vulnerable people are unheard. I know what it feels like to watch systems fail someone you love. I know the devastation of realizing that being compliant, respectful, and trusting authority does not always protect people. Some individuals are dismissed because they are overwhelmed, uneducated about medicine, financially vulnerable, disabled, elderly, exhausted, or simply because nobody takes the time to truly listen. I want to fight for those people. I want to advocate for patients and families facing medical negligence, injury, disability, and injustice. I want to help people who feel powerless against systems designed to intimidate them. My experiences in healthcare taught me compassion, but my personal experiences taught me that compassion without advocacy is not enough. People deserve support, dignity, and someone willing to stand beside them when they no longer have the strength to fight alone. Being a first generation student has made this journey even more difficult, but it has also made me resilient. Every hardship I have survived has strengthened my determination to turn pain into purpose. I refuse to let my father’s voice disappear with him. I refuse to let my own suffering become meaningless. Catrina Celestine Aquilino believed justice should be accessible to everyone regardless of background. That belief resonates deeply with me because I understand what happens when people are denied support, denied protection, and denied humanity during the moments they need it most. Thank you for your consideration.

I was raised by a woman who made a choice that changed everything. My mother became pregnant with me as a teenager, the result of rape, and nearly everyone around her told her not to keep me. She was fifteen when she became pregnant and sixteen when she gave birth. She graduated a year after her class, raising a baby while still growing up herself. Later, she raised my little brother too. She did not have money, privilege, or a roadmap. What she had was conviction, grit, and an unshakable belief that life, even when it begins in violence, can still be shaped by love and purpose. Growing up in a single parent household meant learning early what responsibility looks like. I watched my mother work, sacrifice, and keep going even when it would have been easier to give up. She never let the circumstances of my conception define who I was allowed to become. Instead, she taught me something I carry into every part of my life now, genetics are not destiny, and origin stories do not get the final word. Choices do. That belief shaped me long before I ever stepped into college, long before I became an EMT and a CNA, long before I became a mother myself. I learned how to show up for people because I watched her do it every day. I learned empathy because she lived it. I learned resilience because quitting was never presented as an option. I returned to school as an adult already carrying those lessons, and then life added more. After starting college, I suffered a traumatic brain injury that changed the way I process information. Reading became slower. Concentration took more effort. Confidence wavered. But just like my mother, I adapted. I rebuilt my study habits, learned how to advocate for myself, and kept going. I continued my education while working in healthcare, while raising my children, while managing a brain that no longer works the way it once did. As a mother, I now understand my own childhood differently. Balancing school and family is not about perfection. It is about commitment. My children see me study at the kitchen table. They see me exhausted and still trying. They see me refuse to let circumstances decide the limits of my life. In that way, I am continuing the legacy my mother started. This scholarship represents more than financial support. It represents belief in people whose paths were never simple. It would help me continue my education while honoring both where I come from and where I am going. I plan to use my education, my healthcare background, and my lived experience to serve others, especially those whose stories are complicated, who have been written off, or who feel defined by things they did not choose. I am a child born from violence, raised by love, shaped by choice, and committed to doing good. I stand by the truth that we are not always our DNA. We are our decisions, our perseverance, and the people who refuse to give up on us, even before we can believe in ourselves.

Balancing my education with my responsibility as a single mother is not something I plan out neatly on a calendar … it is something I live every single day. I was already in school, already building a future for myself and my children, when my life changed. When I experienced a traumatic brain injury, everything I thought I understood about learning, focus, and endurance shifted. I did not stop being a student … but becoming one again felt entirely different. Before my injury, reading came easily. I trusted my mind. After my injury, processing information slowed. Concentration required effort. I reread pages, lost my place, and fought frustration that felt deeply personal. Some days my brain feels clear, other days it feels heavy and crowded. Healing is not linear, and neither is learning. Still, I show up. I adapt. I build systems to support myself, because quitting was never an option. Alongside school, I trained and worked in emergency medicine. EMT school taught me how to function under pressure, how to stay calm when everything around me is chaotic, how to help people on what is often the worst day of their lives. Working as a CNA deepened that understanding. I learned patience, humility, and the quiet strength it takes to care for others when no one is watching. I learned how much dignity matters. I also learned how emotionally and physically exhausting it is to give everything to others while still trying to hold yourself together. Motherhood sits at the center of all of this. Studying happens while meals are cooking, while homework is checked, while little voices ask for attention. I have written papers late at night when the house is finally quiet, reviewed notes with toys scattered at my feet, and carried the invisible weight of knowing I am the one my children rely on. There is no pause button. There is no safety net. There is only commitment. What keeps me moving forward is knowing my children are watching. They see me struggle and continue. They see me rest when I need to, then try again when my brain slows me down. They are learning that strength is not perfection, it is persistence. Education is not just my goal, it is part of how I parent. This scholarship would ease a burden that single parents carry quietly. Every dollar matters. Tuition competes with groceries, books compete with bills, time for school competes with rest and healing. Financial support would give me breathing room in a life that rarely allows it. It would allow me to focus more fully on completing my education without sacrificing my family’s stability. I am pursuing my degree with intention. My experiences in emergency care, caregiving, motherhood, and recovery have shaped my desire to advocate for others who feel overwhelmed by systems they do not understand. I know what it feels like to need help, to be dismissed, to keep pushing anyway. I want to turn what I have lived into service and impact. Balancing education, work, healing, and motherhood is not easy. It is emotional, exhausting, and real. But it is also powerful. I was a student before my injury, and I am still here after it. This scholarship would not change my determination … it would support the work I am already doing, every single day.

I learned early that books are not just stories, they are mirrors and lifelines. Growing up, reading helped me understand people, pain, and systems that were bigger than me. As I got older, I gravitated toward books about justice, trauma, ethics, and human behavior. I read about how laws are written, who they protect, and who they leave behind. I read survivor stories, medical narratives, and legal cases that forced me to sit with discomfort instead of turning away. Those books shaped my goals by teaching me that knowledge without compassion is hollow, and compassion without action is incomplete. My relationship with reading changed after a traumatic brain injury. Reading used to come easily. After my injury, it became slower, heavier, and emotionally exhausting. Words blurred, comprehension fractured, and I had to reread the same sentence again and again. That struggle affected my mental health deeply. I felt grief for the version of myself I was before, and fear that I might never fully return. But instead of walking away from reading, I leaned into it differently. I learned patience. I learned how to sit with frustration without quitting. I learned that healing is not linear, and neither is learning. Working as a licensed EMT and CNA exposed me to the intersection of mental health, trauma, and systemic failure. I have seen how untreated mental illness can spiral into criminalization instead of care. I have watched people be judged for reactions rooted in pain rather than intent. Those experiences reinforced what I read in books, that justice systems often meet people at their worst moments without understanding how they arrived there. That realization shaped my career aspirations toward law and advocacy. I want to be someone who understands both the human story and the legal framework surrounding it. My identity has also shaped how I see the world and my responsibility within it. I am Irish, Puerto Rican, and Nigerian. I carry histories of survival, resilience, and cultural strength. Those identities taught me that voices matter, especially the ones that are overlooked or dismissed. They also taught me that healing and justice are communal acts, not individual ones. Mental health is the social issue I am most committed to addressing. Too many people fall through the cracks because systems respond with punishment instead of understanding. Through my education in criminology and legal studies, I am working toward a future where mental health awareness is integrated into legal advocacy, policy, and reform. I want to help create pathways that prioritize treatment, dignity, and prevention, not just consequences. Books taught me how to think critically. My injury taught me how to persevere. My experiences taught me why change is necessary. Together, they shaped my goal to pursue law as a means of protection, advocacy, and accountability. I am not chasing titles or prestige. I am chasing impact. I want to stand beside people when systems feel overwhelming and help turn knowledge into justice that is accessible, humane, and real.

I did not choose law from a distance. I chose it from the floor of emergency rooms, from patient rooms where families whispered fear into their hands, from moments where systems failed people who did everything right and still lost. As a licensed EMT and CNA, I have spent years standing beside people at their most vulnerable, watching how quickly a lack of advocacy can change the course of a life. Those moments stayed with me. They are the reason I am pursuing a career in law. My path has not been simple. A traumatic brain injury changed the way I process information, the way I read, the way I learn. Reading used to be easy for me. After my injury, it became something I had to fight for. I reread sentences. I slow down. I work harder than I ever imagined I would have to. For a long time, I questioned whether law school was still possible. Then I realized something important. The same persistence that carries me through long shifts, complex patients, and moments of crisis is the same persistence that carries me through academics. I am still here. I am still capable. And I am still moving forward. As a Nigerian, Irish, and Puerto Rican woman, I have lived at the intersection of multiple identities. I understand what it feels like to navigate systems that were not designed with you in mind. I have seen how race, income, health, and education shape outcomes long before a person ever steps into a courtroom. These experiences shape my desire to practice law in a way that centers people, not paperwork, and justice, not ego. My goal is to become an attorney who bridges the gap between lived experience and legal advocacy. I plan to pursue law with a focus on protecting individuals who are often dismissed or overwhelmed by the legal system, including those facing housing insecurity, injury related claims, and institutional neglect. I am already taking steps toward this goal through my education, maintaining a strong GPA, and continuing to serve others in healthcare while balancing family and recovery. Every step I take is intentional. What I bring to the legal profession is not just ambition, but empathy earned through experience. I know how to listen when someone cannot find the words. I know how to stay calm when everything feels urgent. I know how to advocate when someone feels powerless. These are not skills learned from textbooks. They are lived. Law is where my resilience, compassion, and commitment to service come together. I am not pursuing this path to win arguments. I am pursuing it to protect people, to stand beside them, and to help make justice something they can actually reach.

I did not decide to pursue law because it looked impressive or safe. I chose it because I have spent years standing next to people during some of the hardest moments of their lives and watching how much power systems have over them … and how often those systems fail when compassion is missing. Before law was ever on my radar, I worked on the front lines as a licensed EMT and CNA. I have been in ambulances at all hours of the night, in hospital rooms where fear sat heavier than silence, and in long shifts where families were exhausted, confused, and desperate for answers. In those moments, what mattered most was not authority or speed. It was communication. It was empathy. It was trust. Those experiences shaped me in ways no textbook ever could. Then my own life shifted. After a traumatic brain injury, reading, comprehension, and processing information became slower and more exhausting than they had ever been before. Things that once felt automatic suddenly required patience, repetition, and determination. Returning to college while healing was intimidating and emotional. I questioned myself more times than I can count. But I refused to quit. Instead, I learned how to adapt. I developed structured study habits, leaned into writing as a way to process information, and learned how to advocate for myself when I needed support. Healing taught me something powerful … struggle does not weaken purpose, it sharpens it. Maintaining a strong GPA while navigating injury recovery, supporting my family, and continuing to serve others through healthcare showed me who I am when things are hard. It showed me resilience. It showed me discipline. It showed me that limits do not define potential. That is when law stopped being an abstract idea and became personal. I have watched people feel powerless in systems they do not understand. I have seen families overwhelmed by paperwork, deadlines, and legal language that feels intentionally confusing. I know what it feels like to be intelligent, capable, and still disadvantaged by how information is delivered. I also know how much relief comes when someone finally explains things clearly and treats you like a human being instead of a case file. As a woman of Nigerian, Irish, and Puerto Rican heritage, I understand what it means to exist at intersections. Of culture. Of identity. Of expectations. Representation matters, but how that representation behaves matters more. I do not want to practice law from a place of distance. I want to practice from lived understanding. Margot Pickering believed that success in law comes from diligence, empathy, and earning trust. That belief reflects everything that has shaped me. In healthcare, trust can calm panic. In law, it can restore dignity. I want to be the kind of attorney people feel safe speaking honestly with. The kind who listens before speaking. The kind who explains, not intimidates. I plan to use my legal education to advocate for individuals and families navigating complex systems, especially those impacted by injury, disability, or unequal access to resources. I want to help translate the law into something people can understand and use, not something they fear. Law school matters to me because it is not a departure from my past experiences … it is a continuation of them. It is where my resilience, my empathy, and my commitment to service can become action. I am not pursuing law to win arguments. I am pursuing it to protect people, to stand beside them, and to make sure justice is something they can actually reach.

I chose to pursue criminal justice and law because I have spent years standing beside people in moments when they felt invisible, powerless, or forgotten. As a woman, a mother, a licensed EMT, and a CNA, I have held hands in hospital rooms, responded to emergencies in the middle of the night, and watched families try to make sense of systems that felt overwhelming and impersonal. Those experiences changed me. They taught me that justice is not abstract. It is deeply human, and when it fails, people suffer quietly. Working in emergency services and healthcare exposed me to realities most people never see. I have cared for patients who depended on others to speak for them, advocate for them, and protect their dignity. As a CNA, I learned how easily vulnerable people are overlooked, and how much power exists in simply being present and paying attention. As an EMT, I saw how quickly crises escalate when resources are scarce or when systems respond too late. I realized that while medical care can stabilize a moment, it does not fix the deeper issues that brought people there in the first place. My identity also shapes how I see the world. I am Nigerian, Irish, and Puerto Rican, and I grew up understanding that identity affects how people are perceived, treated, and believed. That awareness followed me into my professional life, where I saw how race, gender, and socioeconomic status influence access to care, legal protection, and opportunity. Too often, people who need help the most are the ones forced to navigate the most barriers. I knew I wanted to be part of changing that. My path has not been easy. After experiencing a traumatic brain injury, my ability to process information changed in ways I could not ignore. Tasks that once felt natural required patience and repetition. Continuing my education while healing, raising a family, and working demanded resilience I did not know I possessed. There were moments when I questioned whether I could keep going. But every time I returned to my work, my studies, or my family, I was reminded why I started. I learned that strength does not mean pretending nothing changed. It means adapting and moving forward anyway. Maintaining a strong academic record despite those challenges reshaped how I see myself. What once felt like loss became proof of perseverance. Each obstacle deepened my empathy and strengthened my commitment to advocacy. I no longer want to only respond to emergencies. I want to address the systems that allow harm to repeat. Through a career in criminal justice and law, I intend to advocate for accountability, fairness, and access. I want to work in spaces where people feel heard, protected, and represented, especially those who have historically been marginalized. My goal is to bridge lived experience with legal action, ensuring that justice reflects compassion as much as it does authority. The Women of Impact Education Scholarship represents belief in women who lead with resilience and purpose. This scholarship would allow me to continue building a future rooted in service and advocacy, not just for my family, but for the communities I am committed to standing beside. I am not pursuing this path despite my experiences. I am pursuing it because of them.

“You have power over your mind, not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” This line from Marcus Aurelius stayed with me because it speaks to a kind of strength that is earned, not given. It does not deny pain, loss, or hardship. Instead, it draws a sharp line between what we can control and what we cannot, and challenges the reader to build resilience in that space. Marcus Aurelius is not offering comfort in the form of false optimism. He is offering responsibility, and with it, freedom. For much of my life, reading came easily to me. Learning felt natural and familiar, something I trusted myself to do well. That changed after I experienced a traumatic brain injury. Suddenly, my ability to process information slowed. Reading required repetition. Comprehension took patience I did not think I possessed. Returning to school meant facing the reality that an outside event had altered something fundamental about how my mind worked. In that moment, Marcus Aurelius’ words stopped being philosophical and became deeply personal. What struck me most about this passage is that Marcus does not claim we can control what happens to us. Injury, loss, and disruption are real, and they leave marks. What he insists on is that meaning is not created by the event itself, but by how we respond internally. Strength, in his view, is not about resisting reality or pretending hardship does not exist. It is about refusing to surrender one’s sense of agency. This idea reshaped how I approached both healing and learning. I could not undo what had happened to me. I could not force my brain to work the way it once did. But I could decide how I met that reality. I could choose to adapt rather than withdraw. I could decide that needing more time, rereading material, or approaching learning differently did not mean failure. It meant persistence. Marcus Aurelius understood that the mind is both fragile and powerful. When he says we have power over our minds, he is not claiming it is easy. He is claiming it is necessary. Without that internal control, we become defined by circumstance. With it, we regain authorship over our lives. This distinction matters deeply to me because rebuilding confidence after injury required reclaiming that internal space. Each time I returned to an assignment instead of walking away, I exercised the kind of strength Marcus describes. As a mother and a licensed EMT, this lesson extends beyond the classroom. Emergency work teaches you quickly that control is limited. You cannot control outcomes, only responses. You show up, you act with intention, and you remain steady even when situations unfold unpredictably. Marcus Aurelius’ words reflect this reality with striking clarity. Strength is not calm circumstances. Strength is composure within chaos. Close reading this passage reveals that Marcus is not offering detachment from the world, but engagement with it on honest terms. He is reminding the reader that while life will apply pressure, it does not get to decide who we become. That choice remains internal. For someone navigating recovery, education, family responsibility, and professional service, that idea is not abstract. It is lived daily. This passage matters because it reframes adversity as a proving ground rather than a sentence. It does not glorify suffering, but it refuses to let suffering erase purpose. Marcus Aurelius teaches that strength is not the absence of struggle, but the decision to remain present, intentional, and grounded within it. That understanding has shaped how I move forward, not as someone unchanged by hardship, but as someone who continues to choose resilience, effort, and meaning.

Reading used to come easily to me. I never questioned my ability to learn or keep up academically until my life changed in ways I never expected. After experiencing a traumatic brain injury, things that once felt automatic suddenly required effort, patience, and repetition. Processing information became slower. Reading took longer. Comprehension no longer came instantly. Returning to college as an adult meant facing that reality head-on, and it was terrifying. I wondered if I was still capable of succeeding, or if the version of me who thrived academically was gone. Those fears hit hard, especially because I am also a mother. My days are already full of responsibility, exhaustion, and putting others first. There were nights when I sat with assignments feeling overwhelmed, frustrated, and emotional. Not because I lacked motivation, but because my brain no longer worked the way it used to. It would have been easier to walk away and tell myself that school was no longer realistic for me. But quitting would have meant giving up on the future I am fighting to rebuild, for myself and for my family. Instead, I chose to adapt. I learned how my brain works now, not how it used to. I developed structured study routines, broke assignments into smaller pieces, reread material as many times as needed, and leaned heavily on writing to process information. Writing became my lifeline. It slowed everything down and allowed me to organize my thoughts when reading felt overwhelming. I also learned how to advocate for myself, something that did not come naturally at first, but became essential to my growth. Every small victory rebuilt confidence I thought I had lost forever. Alongside school, I continue working as a licensed EMT. Emergency services taught me resilience in a way nothing else could. I have shown up during chaos, pain, and uncertainty, both for others and for myself. That experience reminded me that I am capable of functioning under pressure, adapting to change, and continuing forward even when things are difficult. When school felt heavy, I reminded myself that healing does not mean returning to who I was, it means becoming someone stronger in new ways. Maintaining a high GPA while balancing recovery, family life, and professional responsibility reshaped how I see my challenges. What once felt like loss became proof of strength. Every late night, every reread page, and every moment I pushed through frustration showed me that I am still here, still capable, and still moving forward. This journey has shaped my desire to pursue a career in criminal justice and law, where persistence, empathy, and advocacy matter. I want to stand up for people who feel overlooked, misunderstood, or underestimated, because I know that feeling deeply. The Lippey Family Scholarship would support my education, but more importantly, it would affirm that healing is not linear, challenges do not define limits, and resilience can grow even after life changes everything.