Inherited Silence “You don’t need therapy; you need God. Just pray about it and keep moving.” My father said those words whenever emotions became too heavy to acknowledge. Over time, they became my inheritance. I learned early that struggle was something to endure quietly. In my Black, rural, faith-centered community, mental health was rarely treated as a legitimate concern. Resilience was often measured by silence rather than vulnerability. I grew up in rural Mississippi in a deteriorating trailer that had been passed down through generations. Roaches crawled across the counters at night, sections of the floor sagged beneath our feet, and the instability inside our home reflected the instability in our lives. My mother left when I was two, and as my father’s substance abuse worsened, our home became increasingly chaotic. By eight years old, survival had already become routine. I stood on chairs to reach the stove, washed my clothes in the sink when the washer stopped working, and tried my best to look presentable for school despite everything happening at home. Still, I could never fully hide where I came from. I still remember classmates covering their noses when I walked past and laughing at my worn clothes. Sometimes I laughed along to ease the humiliation, but it followed me home every day. What hurt most was not the trailer or the teasing. It was longing for comfort from someone who was struggling to care for himself. I spent years convincing myself that my feelings were weakness and that if I prayed hard enough, ignored things long enough, or stayed busy enough, eventually the heaviness would disappear. Graduating from high school did not feel triumphant. It felt terrifying. Survival had consumed so much of my life that I never stopped to ask myself who I wanted to become outside of it. While everyone around me seemed to be moving forward with supportive families and stability, comparison slowly became shame, and shame became isolation. I had fallen into depression, questioning my worth, my future, and whether I was capable of building a life different from the one I had known. Desperate for clarity, I rented a hotel room for two days with money I had saved from work. I brought only a notebook, a pen, and a duffel bag of clothes. For the first time in years, there was no distraction loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I wrote for hours. Page after page, I poured out memories I had spent years trying to minimize: the embarrassment I carried into school, the anger I buried to avoid becoming like my father, and the exhaustion of pretending I was okay. Somewhere between those pages, I realized I had spent years mistaking trauma for personal failure. Prayer brought comfort to many people in my community, including my family, but I began to understand that faith and professional help did not have to oppose one another. Seeking therapy did not make me weak; it meant I was finally allowing myself to heal. That weekend marked the beginning of my life. I sought professional support and slowly began rebuilding my relationship with myself. I stopped asking who I was expected to become and began defining who I wanted to be: someone grounded, compassionate, emotionally aware, and unwilling to normalize the cycles I grew up around. I also began reopening conversations about mental health within my family. When my cousin later admitted she was struggling but insisted she “didn’t need help, just faith,” I recognized my younger self in her. Instead of dismissing her feelings, I shared my story. I told her about the hotel room, the notebook, and the relief that came from receiving support. Over time, she began opening up more and healing, and even my relationship with my father became more honest. Recently, my father admitted that seeking help might have saved him years of pain. For the first time, I saw not only the man who taught me to suppress emotion, but someone who had inherited that silence long before passing it to me. I no longer wanted to inherit that silence. Prioritizing my mental health changed more than my emotional well-being; it changed what I believed was possible for my future. For years, survival had left little room to imagine higher education, let alone believe I belonged there. As I began healing, goals that once felt unrealistic slowly became tangible. Pursuing college was no longer about proving I had overcome my past; it became an investment in the future I was finally allowing myself to build. I am pursuing a career in radiologic technology because I want to be part of the kind of care I once needed but could not fully name. In healthcare, it is easy to focus only on results and procedures, but I have learned that every scan represents a person carrying more than physical symptoms. Patients often enter imaging rooms carrying fear, uncertainty, pain, or diagnoses they do not yet understand. In those moments, technical competence matters, but so does the ability to create calm, and help patients feel safe in unfamiliar or vulnerable situations. I want to be the kind of healthcare professional who makes those moments feel less frightening. My experiences with mental health taught me that the most significant struggles are often invisible. Success in my life will not simply mean professional achievement. It will mean using my knowledge, values, and experiences to advocate for others, challenge stigma, and care for people with both competence and compassion. I want to be the technologist who notices the anxious grip on the table, explains procedures with patience, and understands that care extends beyond producing clear images. For much of my life, I felt unseen. Now, I strive to help create an environment where others feel acknowledged, understood, and safe during some of their most vulnerable moments. I want patients to feel what I once needed most; recognition that their experience is real, even when it cannot be seen or easily explained.

As anxiety, anticipation, and excitement tangled together in my chest, I watched him take a bite. There was a pause. Then he yelled, “These cookies are drier than a Popeyes biscuit!” I did not know what to feel. My stomach dropped, but then I heard laughter, his and mine too. Mr. Malone, my high school science teacher, did not say it to be cruel. It was honest in a way I was not used to. Strangely, it made me want to try again instead of giving up. After school, I went home and started baking immediately. I tweaked recipes, baked new batches, and repeated the process until I was satisfied. Over the next few days, I brought cookies to school and handed them out to students, staff, and anyone willing to try them. Some reactions were encouraging, while others made me overthink everything. I began to understand that creating something meant opening myself up to being seen, judged, and sometimes misunderstood, while choosing to do it anyway. Then there was Mr. Josh, a staff member I did not know well at the time. I offered him a cookie, after taking a bite, he paused and said, “These are special.” He asked about my baking hobby and whether I had ever considered starting a business. I had not. I simply enjoyed baking and wanted to improve. He listened and began teaching me how to think differently, not just about baking, but about discipline, growth, and turning something small into something real. Before we parted, he gave me a challenge: come back in a month, show him what I had built using what he taught me, and he would continue mentoring me while supporting my business. I agreed. A few months later, I was known as “the cookie girl.” Students I had never spoken to approached me to talk about my cookies as if they had always known me. Some even sent me videos reviewing them, laughing, surprised, and genuinely happy. My principal became a regular customer. A hobby had somehow become something people shared with one another. What stayed with me was not the attention. It was the feeling I got every time someone smiled because of something I created. I was not just baking, I was creating moments for people. Small moments, but meaningful ones. Through that experience, I discovered that I am deeply fulfilled by acts of service and that realization extended far beyond baking. I later became captain of my high school step team, learning how to lead not just performances, but people. I worked to build confidence, create unity, and foster spaces where others felt seen and valued. By the end of the year, I was awarded Student of the Month. Knowing that the impact I hoped to create could be felt by others strengthened my commitment to turning small ideas into meaningful realities. My background has not been defined by comfort, but by financial hardship, generational trauma, and survival. I grew up in rural Mississippi in a deteriorating trailer passed down through generations. My mother left when I was two, and my father struggled with substance abuse. By the age of eight, survival was already routine. I stood on chairs to reach the stove, washed clothes in the sink when the washer broke, and did my best to appear put together for school despite instability at home. Still, I could never fully hide where I came from. I still remember classmates covering their noses when I walked past and laughing at my worn clothes. Sometimes I laughed along to ease the humiliation, but it followed me home every day. For years, those conditions left little room to imagine college, let alone believe I belonged in that space. As I began to heal, my perspective shifted. What once felt out of reach started to feel possible, not because my circumstances immediately changed, but because I did. College stopped being about proving I had overcome my past and became an intentional step toward building a future I now believe I can shape. Those experiences have taught me that meaningful things do not have to begin perfectly. Whether I am building a business, leading a team, serving my community, or shaping my future, I have learned that growth comes from showing up, learning, and continuing despite uncertainty. My commitment to build, serve, and leave people better than I found them continues to guide my path toward higher education and a career in healthcare. I am pursuing that path not as an escape from where I come from, but as an extension of what I have already begun: turning small acts of care into something that lasts.

I learned early that not everything is visible on the surface. Some things require a deeper look to truly understand. That belief has shaped how I approach science, relationships, and personal growth, and it is ultimately what led me to pursue a career in radiologic technology. My curiosity first took root during a STEM summer program at Jackson State University that served disadvantaged communities, where I was introduced to coding, robotics, environmental science, and other STEM disciplines. Working alongside other young girls, I learned how to think critically, solve problems, and collaborate to create complex projects. At the time, it felt like an exciting summer experience, but looking back, it was the first moment I realized that science was not something meant only to be observed. It was something I could actively engage with, explore, and use to better understand the world around me and make it better. As I grew older, I began to recognize that understanding people often requires looking beyond what is immediately visible. In my community, mental health is frequently misunderstood or avoided altogether. Difficult emotions and personal struggles are often hidden rather than discussed, and seeking help can carry a stigma. Growing up around that mindset influenced how I viewed my own challenges and experiences. For a long time, I struggled to understand certain aspects of myself and what it meant to heal and grow. Over time, I began to challenge those perspectives. I researched the history of mental health stigma within the Black community and gained a deeper understanding of the factors that contributed to it. I realized that my family’s resistance to vulnerability or professional support was not rooted in a lack of love, but in generations of survival, fear, and the belief that strength meant enduring hardship in silence. That realization taught me the importance of empathy, education, and understanding, but it also showed me that meaningful solutions often begin by looking deeper. That lesson sparked my interest in healthcare and eventually led me to radiologic technology. I am drawn to the field because it combines science, technology, and patient care in a meaningful way. Radiologic technologists use imaging to reveal what cannot be seen externally, helping healthcare teams identify conditions, guide treatment, and provide answers to patients. The profession reflects the same mindset that has guided my own growth: seeking greater understanding in order to create better outcomes. What excites me most is the balance between technical expertise and human connection. While the role requires precision and scientific knowledge, it also places professionals in direct contact with people who may be experiencing fear, uncertainty, or pain. I want to be the kind of healthcare professional who performs procedures accurately but also helps patients feel respected, informed, and supported during vulnerable moments. I understand how powerful reassurance and understanding can be when facing uncertainty, and I want to provide that same sense of comfort to others. Pursuing higher education will provide me with the clinical training, scientific foundation, and experience needed to enter the field with confidence. More importantly, it will allow me to serve my community in a meaningful way. I strive to help bridge gaps in health awareness and encourage people to seek answers rather than avoid them. By combining my passion for science with a commitment to compassion and education, I hope to make a lasting impact on both my community and the healthcare field. Through radiologic technology, I can help bring clarity where there is uncertainty and understanding where there is fear, proving that some of the most important answers are found when we choose to look deeper.

Growing up, I often heard the words, “Just pray.” When emotions became too heavy to carry, prayer was the prescribed solution. So when I expressed that to my family I was struggling with depression and needed help or even therapy, I was told that therapy was unnecessary and that God would fix any problem worth solving. I believed that. I still do. I knew God was capable of healing me, but what I was carrying felt deeper than what silence alone could solve. I grew up surrounded by financial hardship, instability, and trauma, learning how to survive long before I learned how to process pain. There was little room for emotional honesty when survival itself demanded strength. Over time, enduring hardship began to masquerade as healing. As I grew older, I began researching mental health stigma within the Black community to better understand why seeking help felt so forbidden. I realized my family’s resistance to therapy was not rooted in a lack of love or faith, but in generations of survival, mistrust, and the belief that strength meant suffering quietly. That understanding changed my perspective, but another realization changed my life entirely: faith and professional help did not have to oppose one another. I believe God guided me toward healing through therapy. Rather than weakening my faith, therapy strengthened it. It became the place where years of hidden hurt could finally be spoken aloud instead of being buried beneath responsibility and fear. For the first time, I was not simply praying to survive; I was learning how to heal. That journey transformed the way I see other people. I became deeply aware that pain often goes unseen. The strongest individuals in a room may be carrying the heaviest burdens in silence. Because of that, I now strive to embody a life of service through empathy, emotional awareness, and compassion for others, especially those who feel unheard or overlooked. While volunteering to support unhoused individuals in my community, I learned that service is often less about having the perfect words and more about treating people with dignity, patience, and allowing God’s love to shine through me. That experience, along with emotionally supporting friends during difficult seasons and encouraging open conversations about mental health within my family, reinforced my belief that compassion can make people feel less alone. As I pursue a career in healthcare as a radiologic technologist, I hope to use both my education and personal experiences to care for people during some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives. Patients are more than diagnoses or images on a screen; many are carrying fear, uncertainty, grief, or emotional burdens that are invisible to others. I understand how difficult it can be for someone to ask for help. I want to be the kind of healthcare professional who helps make that step feel less frightening. My faith will guide not only what I accomplish, but also how I serve. To me, faith is not passive endurance. Faith is trusting God enough to pursue wisdom, accept help, and use the resources He places before us. Success in my career will not simply mean professional achievement. It will mean using my knowledge, values, and experiences to advocate for others, challenge stigma, and help people feel seen, heard, and cared for. I once believed faith meant waiting quietly for healing to arrive. Now, I believe God was guiding me toward becoming part of healing for others. Instagram: @dejahsdelights

The flashing red and blue lights appeared in my rearview mirror, and my stomach dropped. After a ten-hour shift, I was driving home exhausted, taking neighborhood roads to avoid traffic. It was not until the police officer stood beside my window that I realized I had missed the 15 MPH during school hours sign beneath the 25 MPH speed limit. I could not afford a ticket. I was already helping my family cover bills and necessities. Standing in court, I admitted what felt embarrassing to say aloud: “I can’t afford to pay it.” Instead of a fine, the judge offered community service through a nonprofit organization. I agreed immediately, relieved to have another option. I chose a shelter and soup kitchen. At first, I viewed my hours as a consequence to complete, not an experience to absorb. On my first day, I sorted donated clothes in silence, irritated that one exhausted mistake had placed me there. I checked the clock constantly, mentally separating myself from the people around me. I told myself I did not belong there. Then someone beside me asked why I was volunteering. “Community service,” I answered awkwardly before asking her the same question. “I volunteer here with my husband.” Her answer fit comfortably inside the assumptions I already carried. A few days later, while working in the kitchen, another woman asked me the same question. Expecting a similar response, I explained my situation and casually returned the question. “I live here.” The sentence was simple, but it disrupted something in me. Until that moment, the shelter had existed in my mind as a distant category rather than a place filled with individual lives. Without fully realizing it, I had reduced people there to circumstances instead of stories. Curiosity replaced discomfort, and our conversations grew. She told me about her children, her work, and the reality of rebuilding a life while carrying responsibilities most people could not see. She spoke honestly about hardship, but what stayed with me most was not her struggle, but her gratitude. She talked about the people inside that building who had encouraged her, supported her, and reminded her that her situation did not define her future. The more I listened, the more my assumptions began to unravel. She was not a stereotype, a cautionary tale, or someone fundamentally different from me. She was a mother navigating instability. A woman working toward something better. A person whose strength had been sustained, in part, by support and community. Over time, our conversations became something I had not anticipated: a genuine relationship rooted not in charity, but human connection. Before meeting her, I believed compassion meant helping people. She taught me that connection begins earlier than that; with listening deeply enough to recognize someone’s humanity beyond your first impression. That understanding altered the way I build relationships. I became slower to assume and quicker to ask questions. I began paying closer attention to the stories people carry quietly. I became more intentional about listening without immediately filtering others through assumptions or surface level judgments. I started recognizing how thin the distance can be between stability and hardship, and how profoundly community can shape someone’s ability to endure both. I completed my required hours, but I chose to return frequently, and still do. What began with resentment over a traffic ticket became one of the most meaningful relationships of my life. The woman who once told me, “I live here,” changed more than my perspective on homelessness. She changed the way I understand people. Her influence reaches beyond the walls of that shelter. It shapes how I communicate, how I serve my community, and how I strive to move through higher education and my future career in radiologic technology, where compassionate patient care depends on trust, empathy, and human connection. I no longer view human connection as separate from success or personal growth. I view it as the force that makes both possible.

Dejah Harper Forever 90 Scholarship May 26, 2026 Title: Becoming Part of the Healing Growing up, I often heard the words, “Just pray.” When emotions became too heavy to carry, prayer was the prescribed solution. So when I expressed that to my family I was struggling with depression and needed help or even therapy, I was told that therapy was unnecessary and that God would fix any problem worth solving. I believed that. I still do. I knew God was capable of healing me, but what I was carrying felt deeper than what silence alone could solve. I grew up surrounded by financial hardship, instability, and trauma, learning how to survive long before I learned how to process pain. There was little room for emotional honesty when survival itself demanded strength. Over time, enduring hardship began to masquerade as healing. As I grew older, I began researching mental health stigma within the Black community to better understand why seeking help felt so forbidden. I realized my family’s resistance to professional aid was not rooted in a lack of love or faith, but in generations of survival, mistrust, and the belief that strength meant suffering quietly. That understanding changed my perspective, but another realization changed my life entirely: faith and professional help did not have to oppose one another. I believe God guided me toward healing through therapy. Rather than weakening my faith, therapy strengthened it. It became the place where years of hidden hurt could finally be spoken aloud instead of being buried beneath responsibility and fear. For the first time, I was not simply praying to survive; I was learning how to heal. That journey transformed the way I see other people. I became deeply aware that pain often goes unseen. The strongest individuals in a room may be carrying the heaviest burdens in silence. Because of that, I now strive to embody a life of service through empathy, emotional awareness, and compassion for others, especially those who feel unheard or overlooked. While volunteering to support unhoused individuals in my community, I learned that service is often less about having the perfect words and more about treating people with dignity, patience, and humanity. That experience, along with emotionally supporting friends during difficult seasons and encouraging open conversations about mental health, reinforced my belief that compassion can make people feel less alone. As I pursue a career in healthcare as a radiologic technologist, I hope to use both my education and personal experiences to care for people during some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives. Patients are more than diagnoses or images on a screen; many are carrying fear, uncertainty, grief, or emotional burdens that are invisible to others. I understand how difficult it can be for someone to ask for help. I want to be the kind of healthcare professional who helps make that step feel less frightening. My faith will guide not only what I accomplish, but also how I serve. To me, faith is not passive endurance. Faith is trusting God enough to pursue wisdom, accept help, and use the resources He places before us. Success in my career will not simply mean professional achievement. It will mean using my knowledge, values, and experiences to advocate for others, challenge stigma, and help people feel seen, heard, and cared for. I once believed faith meant waiting quietly for healing to arrive. Now, I believe God was guiding me toward becoming part of healing for others.