Choosing trade school over the traditional path of a four-year university has never been a careless decision for me. It is a choice rooted in passion, purpose, and a dream I have carried since childhood. For years, my family has questioned this decision, often asking why I would stray from what they see as the “safer” or more respected route. Their concerns are not quiet ones; they echo doubts about my gender, my background, and the financial uncertainty surrounding trade careers. Still, my answer has never changed. I am pursuing aviation maintenance because it is not just what I want to do…it is who I am. My fascination with aircraft began long before I understood how they worked. Growing up, my family did not have the means to travel, so the world beyond Texas felt distant and unreachable. Airplanes, helicopters, and jets existed only through the glow of a television screen. To me, they were larger than life, almost magical, like superheroes cutting through the sky. I would climb onto the top bunk of my shared bed and pretend I was piloting a plane, narrating imaginary emergencies and daring rescues. In those moments, I felt limitless, even if my reality was anything but. At the time, I believed planes operated on their own, as if they had minds and instincts. I did not yet understand that behind every flight was a team of skilled individuals ensuring its safety. That understanding came when I was eleven years old, during a visit to a friend’s house. Her older brother was an A&P mechanic, a title I had never heard before. As he spoke about his work over dinner, I listened intently, captivated by every detail. I could not hold back my excitement and interrupted with a burst of questions, the most important being, “You can actually make planes fly?” His answer was simple but life-changing. He explained that he ensured the engines and systems were safe before a plane ever left the ground. In that moment, something shifted within me. The magic I once imagined was replaced with something even more powerful…the realization that people like him made flight possible. From that day forward, I knew I wanted to be one of those people. As I grew older, my interest evolved into commitment. Throughout middle and high school, I researched everything I could about becoming an A&P mechanic. I learned about the training, the certifications, and the responsibility that comes with maintaining aircraft. As a woman entering a male-dominated industry, I have also learned that my presence will be questioned before my skills are even seen. I have been told that this field is not meant for someone like me, and that I will have to work twice as hard to be taken seriously. Instead of discouraging me, those words have strengthened my resolve to prove that passion and dedication are not defined by gender. When I shared my plans with my family, their reactions were far from encouraging. They questioned the stability of trade school and whether I truly belonged in such a field. Some voices went further, suggesting it was a waste of time. Yet, none of these doubts were strong enough to outweigh my determination. Now, at twenty years old, I stand firm in my decision to attend trade school in August 2026. This path may not align with traditional expectations, but it aligns with my purpose. Aviation maintenance is more than a career to me; it is a way to be part of something greater, to ensure that every aircraft I touch carries people safely to their destinations.

Hello, my name is Demariean Williams. I was raised in San Antonio, Texas, and recently moved to Houston, Texas. I am twenty years old and currently enrolled in school to earn my high school diploma. I attend the University of Texas at Austin High School online. After years of struggling with my identity, I am now proudly a part of the LGBTQ+ community. This declaration did not come easy, though. My journey toward self-acceptance was shaped by fear, silence, and the expectations placed on me long before I understood who I was. I grew up with a mother who strongly opposed anything related to the LGBTQ+ community. She made sure to instill strict gender roles in our household. My sisters and I were not allowed to like what boys liked, and my brother was not allowed to enjoy anything feminine unless he planned on marrying it. These rules were presented as normal, unquestionable, and necessary. Because of that environment, I grew up knowing exactly what girls “should” be, and I took that lesson to heart. I noticed my first attraction to a girl in fifth grade. Her name was Alize, the popular girl in my class. She embodied femininity at such a young age. She was kind, funny, and really pretty. I wanted to be around her constantly, but I never wanted to be like her. I was her opposite. I loved football and video games, while she liked lip gloss and Musical.ly. One afternoon, I told my older sister about Alize. She laughed and joked about me being “gay,” and I immediately broke down crying. I admit, being gay seemed really bad to me at the time. I was not homophobic, but I was terrified of what my mother would do if she ever found out. After that day, I avoided Alize at all costs, afraid someone else would say the same thing. When she tried to talk to me, I ran away. Eventually, the crush faded, and I convinced myself I had moved on. Middle school was the same, but worse. By then, my attraction to girls was undeniable. I found myself overly complimenting my friends and gravitating toward male friendships instead. I shared more in common with the boys in my class. We argued over football teams and competed relentlessly in Fortnite. Around this time, I discovered my passion for writing. I was the student who never feared essays. When my ELA teacher announced a writing prompt, I felt excited rather than stressed. I never counted words; I just wrote. When class ended before I finished, I felt uneasy. There was always more that needed to be said. Eventually, writing followed me outside the classroom. I spent my free time creating storylines and imagining myself as an award-winning author. Most of my stories centered around two female characters secretly dating at school. I was living vicariously through my characters. The strangest part was that while writing, I did not feel ashamed or guilty. I felt honest. I felt safe. I felt free. The sadness came from knowing I might never experience the love I was brave enough to put on paper. Writing gave me a voice when I felt I did not have one. It allowed me to explore my identity privately before I was ready to live it publicly. Because of that, I am passionate about pursuing writing as my future. It is more than a skill; it is survival, truth, and self-expression. Through writing, I reclaim my narrative, honor my past, challenge fear, and step confidently toward a future shaped by authenticity and courage.

How did music affect my life? Honestly, I never really thought about it. Music is everywhere, so much so that we barely notice it anymore. It becomes background noise, quite literally. However, without it, I wholeheartedly believe I wouldn’t have made it this far in life. Looking back, I used music as an extension of my emotions. If I were angry, you could catch me listening to NWA or DMX; if I were sad, I wouldn’t hesitate to put on Billie Eilish or Adele. Music could tell what I was feeling and why I was feeling it. It resonated with my soul. It understood me. If I didn’t have the words to express my inner thoughts, music knew exactly what to say. Growing up in a household where my voice was constantly silenced, music would advocate for me. During high school, music carried me through my days. After teachers gave instructions, I’d put on my headphones and escape. I drowned out gossiping girls and guys making crude jokes. Time moved faster as each song passed. An eight-hour day felt like two hours. Navigating loud hallways after class spiked my anxiety, but with music in my ears, I gained tunnel vision. I moved swiftly from point A to point B. The power of a song can encourage those who feel weak. I am a testament to that. My freshman and sophomore years of high school hold my darkest memories. I was in a relationship with a boy who was physically abusive. I felt powerless. It shattered my self-confidence until I became numb. After each incident, I locked myself in the restroom and blasted music. The loud bang drowned out my tears. One day, while lying on the bathroom floor, James Arthur’s “Train Wreck” began to play on my speaker. Although the song made me cry more, I felt a sense of strength. I felt as if he was saying what was in my heart out loud. I didn’t leave my ex-boyfriend immediately, but that strength created a ripple effect. I gained the courage to stand up for myself and reach out to a friend for help. Over time, I found the footing I needed to walk away. I believe that had that song not played in that exact moment, I might not have found such resilience. That little three- to four-minute snippet changed the course of my life. I cannot imagine what could have happened if I had stayed. Music is an enhancement of life. It adds understanding to a world full of chaos. It shapes and reshapes society as it evolves. Music inspires and influences everyone, internally and externally. Life without music wouldn’t be life at all. Even now, when silence feels overwhelming, music remains my refuge. It reminds me of how far I’ve come, how much I’ve survived, and how strong I truly am. Those melodies didn’t just help me cope; they helped me become myself, braver, louder, and finally unafraid to be heard in the world around me.

I am the youngest of five. More specifically, I have three older sisters and one older brother. I grew up in a single-parent household. Just my siblings, my mother, and me. Many people have a love-hate relationship with their siblings, and rightfully so. But for me, my relationship with my siblings is built on trauma, sacrifice, and understanding. My family was poor and homeless for the majority of my childhood. At first, I was too young to process the world around me. My mother and two older sisters, Lala and Moni, did a great job at hiding the bitter reality from us three younger ones. We pranced around, yelling at each other and playing together, while they drowned in the sea of hardship, trying to keep us afloat. My mother worked two jobs to try to keep a roof over our heads. Moni, my oldest sister, joined in by working at McDonald’s part-time after school to help my mom. They were never home, so Lala took the responsibility of caring for me, my brother, and my other sister. Imagine a fourteen-year-old girl coming home from school, helping her siblings, with no adult supervision or intervention. No experience in life, yet she had to play the role of a guardian with no frame of reference. I didn’t know it then, but this broke her quietly. She became the inevitable lifeline of my two other siblings and me. All the while, my mother slowly detached from her parental role and became the source of our trauma. My mother became negligent of our needs. I guess she got tired of trying to provide for five other mouths when she couldn’t feed herself. Verbal abuse and constant conflict ultimately led to Moni leaving. Lala was now the full-time parent, as well as the main provider for herself. This carried on for years and resulted in her becoming desensitized and emotionally removed. No one provided for her. No one showed up for her. But she had to provide and show up for others. She worked part-time jobs while attending school to give us a life she knew nothing about. Back then, I didn’t realize what she had sacrificed to ensure we had somewhat of a life. When I think back, I attach her to the greatest memories of my childhood. She was the reason I had those moments in the first place. My first time eating at Whataburger, my first time going to Six Flags, and even learning how to drive all exist because of her. Lala was at the center of it all. A few years ago, she told me that she had turned down a college offer to stay home and care for us. My heart shattered. I couldn’t understand why she would make such a sacrifice. I knew I wouldn’t have done the same if it were me, and that difference shows the gap in how we grew up. She made decisions I would never have the heart to make. Today, I understand the sacrifices my sister made for us. I am grateful for her. I plan on opening a bakery in her honor, using the recipes she taught me, giving the world a taste of what pure love feels like. I plan to invest my profits into her future endeavors, while also donating to dental assistant programs, because that is what Lala is today. Her love taught me giving means choosing others, even when the cost is everything.

I plan on pursuing the skilled trade of aviation maintenance. And to throw it out there, I didn’t choose this trade; it chose me. How, you may ask? For starters, I was afraid of flying growing up. Not because of the heights, but because the concept itself felt foreign to me. Whenever I passed airports or Air Force bases and saw parked aircraft, a spike of anxiety would engulf my body. They were massive. I questioned how such huge heaps of metal could fly safely through the sky. It didn’t make sense to my young mind. Years later, everything changed when I finally faced that childhood fear. I flew for the first time, and that moment changed me forever. Looking out the window of that Boeing 737-800, I watched the Earth stretch for miles beneath me. I caught a glimpse of just how vast our world truly is. As we passed over cities and the sun began to set, the dazzling lights below created an upside-down sky. It was breathtaking, like Peter Pan flying Wendy Darling over London on the way to Neverland. At that moment, I needed to understand how this was possible. From that point forward, I became obsessed with all things aviation. I wanted to know how to fly, metaphorically and literally. The very thing I feared most as a child transformed me in just a few hours. I explored careers connected to aviation, including pilots and flight attendants, but neither felt right. I didn’t just want to fly; I wanted to make things fly. That is when I discovered aviation maintenance, the people responsible for repairing and maintaining the systems that allow an aircraft to leave the Earth below. In theory, I chose this trade, but I will never truly see it that way. I was once afraid of the very machines my career now centers around, and today I am determined to become someone responsible for them. I want to play a part in helping aircraft serve their purpose so others can experience seeing the vast Earth and witnessing those upside-down skies for themselves. I believe I will be successful because I possess a strong desire to be part of something greater than myself. That drive, paired with my solid work ethic, will carry me further than I ever imagined. My resilience was molded under the pressure of adversity, so much so that I do not falter when things become difficult. I do not shy away from challenges; I welcome them. Years of survival have shaped me into someone who remains steady under pressure, accountable for her work, and committed to continuous improvement. To me, success is rooted in acceptance. When you accept where you come from, your environment, and the person you see in the mirror, growth begins. Acceptance opens doors to possibility. You become the conqueror of your battles, the slayer of hardships, the hand holding the sword. That is success: deciding who you will become, rather than allowing your environment or beginnings to decide for you. Success does not look like piles of money, status, or titles. It is being the leading force behind your own fate. In the end, it is not where you arrive that matters most, but how you got there that counts. All that remains is to prepare for the journey ahead. I am ready to learn, to be challenged, and to uphold the responsibility this trade demands. Aviation maintenance is not just my career choice, but my commitment to precision, safety, and trust, ensuring every flight begins with confidence and ends with safe arrival for everyone aboard.

Now I’m no scientist, but I speak for all young dreamers when I say, we have a problem. You see, in school, we are taught about our solar systems and the millions of celestial bodies within them. We learn about the planets, galaxies, and moons. We hear about the constellations and how they make impressive shapes. Which sounds magical, right? Wrong! It bothers me. It bothers me that only a select few of a select few, get to actually see these things in person. How is that fair? I (like many others) would like to touch the stars. While looking at it on paper, you technically can’t touch a star for many reasons. One of those reasons being they are hot balls of gas. Yeah, right. How do we know that if we never touched one? THEY ARE MILLIONS OF MILES AWAY! Someone isn’t telling the whole truth here. I mean, come on, Super Mario touched a star, and he seemed fine. As a matter of fact, he seemed BETTER. I would like to investigate this for myself. Well, guess what, my fellow dreamers? I have an idea for an invention that will solve all of our grievances and put Elon Musk to shame. Behold! The Star Vaccuminizor 3000. This invention will use the power of super suction to vacuum a star from our solar system and into a container. When it is in the container, you’ll be able to take it out and touch that star. With proper funding of approximately two billion dollars (to start), development of the vacuum would begin immediately. Step one would be to assemble a dream team of astrophysicists, engineers, and people who enjoy saying, “That’s impossible.” They would be tasked with designing a controlled gravitational suction device strong enough to pull the star from the sky. Step two focuses on creating a proper containment unit. I’m sure the star would appreciate a comfortable stay on its short visit to our planet. Using layered heat-resistant glass, electromagnetic shielding, and other sciencey things, the star would be stabilized at a decent seventy degrees Fahrenheit. Radiation would be neutralized using technology inspired by satellites that already survive space, which feels like a good sign. All testing will be done in the controlled environment of a high school laboratory. No animals will be used for testing. PETA approved. Once the vacuum works without exploding for the thousandth time (you know, trial and error), step three will commence. Instead of selling individual vacuums, the Star Vaccuminizor 3000 would be installed in stations in major science museums and space centers. Each station would cost around fifty million dollars to build and maintain, but could host over five-hundred thousand visitors annually. At the low price of thirty dollars per supervised star-touching session (because we wouldn't want anyone stealing the stars and taking them home), revenue would add up quickly. Marketing would come next. Even stars need a good intro. A one-hundred-million-dollar campaign would target all the people who dreamed of seeing a star, the people who wished upon a star, and those who need to see it to believe it. The slogan “If you can't reach the stars, we’ll bring one to you.” will be slapped on every social media platform, news outlets, school posters, and bathroom magazines. Traveling exhibits would expand access globally. Within the next ten years, ticket sales, sponsorships, and partnerships would allow the project to break even, which is impressive for a giant space vacuum. Twenty percent of profits would fund student innovation grants and scholarships, because future inventors deserve encouragement.

Hello, my name is Demariean Williams. I was raised in San Antonio, Texas but I recently moved to Houston, Texas with my mother. I attend an online high school called University of Texas at Austin High School. I am twenty years old, and I would like to be an aviation mechanic. Two years ago, my sister and I noticed a strange smell drifting through our apartment. At first, we assumed it was someone barbecuing in the nearby fields, something common in our area. But the smell lingered and felt wrong. Without thinking much about it, I checked our apartment and then stepped outside to see where the smell was coming from. Across the parking lot, an apartment was on fire. Our complex was small, and it was clear how quickly the situation could escalate. I yelled for my sister to call 911 and ran toward the building. I remembered that our elderly neighbor, Ms. Sherry, lived there alone and relied on a walker. The worry that she may still be inside the burning complex, immediately triggered me. When I made it to the apartment, I broke through the window near her front door. I jumped inside and ended up in her living room. The heat was disorienting, and I immediately noticed the fire was coming from the kitchen. I heard my sister yelling after me. I did not stop to think through my actions. I moved through the apartment until I found Ms. Sherry on the bedroom floor, unable to move on her own. I helped her up and guided her to the front door, and we made it outside. Unbeknownst to me, my sister began knocking on nearby doors to warn other residents. She helped neighbors evacuate in case the fire spread. When we were reunited outside, she hugged me and guided me toward the ambulance. When I look back, I feel both relief and shock. Thinking of the initiative we took, still surprises me. Although this was not a traditional group project, it required shared responsibility and trust. There was no planning or assigned roles. I don’t remember feeling confident or prepared. I remember just reacting during a time of crisis. What stays with me most is knowing that I was able to help someone despite being in danger myself. This, to me, represents that initiative does not always come from certainty, but from choosing to act anyway.

When it comes to my upbringing, I have to admit that I get nervous shining a light on my past. A slight sting of embarrassment and sadness creeps up my spine. My upbringing didn’t have many positive moments. In fact, it was deep-rooted in survival and trauma. At a young age, I experienced homelessness, sexual assault, violence, and mental illness. Instead of focusing on books, I focused on where my next meal would come from. It didn’t matter where academics could take me, what mattered was what I could do to help my family during times of hardship. “Such is life,” I believed. I watched my peers flash the newest versions of everything, while I didn’t even have the old ones. Soon enough, they noticed my lack of privilege. Anyone could imagine what happened next. I was bullied for not having enough. They took a particular interest in the clothes I wore. Stained, worn out, and ripped. If that alone didn’t isolate me enough from the rest of the crowd, I was also one of the very few Black students attending a predominantly Hispanic school. They made fun of that too. Back home wasn’t any better. The pressure of financial instability plagued the walls of our “home.” And by home, I mean a tent that was carefully placed in the woods near my school so that my siblings and I could walk there every morning. The best thing about the whole ordeal was that no one knew about it. No one saw our little tent tucked behind the trees. Every day, I was reminded of everything I lacked. A proper home, proper food, proper clothes, proper hygiene, a proper family, and proper amounts of money. This was my reality. This was my life. This was my upbringing. Today, I am no longer afraid to face that reality. But I admit that it isn’t something I hold with pride. Still, how I grew up shaped my resilience. It taught me how to survive with very little. It taught me that pressure doesn’t have to break you, it can mold you. It allowed me to dream big and set even bigger goals. At no point did I ever not have a dream. I dreamed of having better. I didn’t know exactly what better was, and to this day, I still don’t. Is it a big house? Thousands of dollars? A brand-new car? The latest clothes? I don’t know. What I do know is that I will work to define my future so that I never have to live that life again. I want to become an aviation mechanic because planes symbolize something special to me. They represent the idea that no matter how heavy the weight, metaphorically, something can still soar. But that is not the only reason. I have always been fascinated by the mechanics behind flight. I wanted to understand the systems at play, and that curiosity soon became a desire to be part of making those systems work. I want to look up at the sky, see a plane, and feel pride knowing that I played a part in getting it there. And on a deeper level, I want to feel that same pride in myself.

To me, work ethic is the visible commitment a person makes to their own success. It is not simply the desire to improve one’s life, but the daily decision to act in ways that move that desire forward. Commitment carries weight, and that weight shapes a person’s future. Those who dedicate themselves to growth, especially after hardship, demonstrate a strong work ethic through persistence and accountability. Anyone can say they want to achieve a goal. Far fewer are willing to apply consistent effort, adapt when circumstances change, and remain disciplined when motivation fades. A strong work ethic is built through resilience, pressure, and follow-through. It is understood that consistency determines outcomes. Results come not from intention alone, but from sustained action over time. Work ethic is not about perfection, but about showing up repeatedly. Work ethic is prevalent in my life because I am redefining my future. I grew up surrounded by hardship, and I refuse to allow that to dictate where I end up. I do not want to simply say “I want better for myself”, I am committed to creating better for myself. That commitment requires discipline, patience, and responsibility. One promise I made to myself was to earn my high school diploma, and I am honoring that promise by enrolling in an online high school and continuing despite obstacles. I may not have graduated alongside my peers, but my timeline does not invalidate my determination. Success is not about following a traditional path or receiving external validation. It is about focusing on personal growth and staying aligned with long-term goals. Whether it takes two years or twenty, I will graduate and pursue my goal of becoming an aviation mechanic. What was once a dream now requires action. A strong work ethic allows me to turn intention into reality. It builds the foundation for my future and reminds me that progress is earned through effort, consistency, and belief in my potential.

When I reflect on the events of my life, I am often overwhelmed by emotion, both painful and hopeful. I dwell on disheartening moments because there were many more of those than moments of comfort. Those experiences shaped my resilience, yet I have not always carried that truth pride. For years, I believed my past defined my limits rather than my strength. From a young age, I endured homelessness, sexual assault, domestic violence, and mental illness. I did not know then that these adversities would keep my body locked in survival mode long after the danger passed. I lived as if catastrophe were always imminent, afraid of repeating the same fate. Anxiety replaced joy, and vigilance became normal. My heart grew heavy from constant battles, so heavy that it forgot how to rest. I relived my worst moments, convinced that fear was protection. In reality, I became my own enemy. I sabotaged my dreams, believing I was only the sum of what happened to me, unworthy of success, and destined for an ending written by forces I never chose. Trauma chained me to my history. But I refuse to accept that narrative. I will not believe I am worthless or undeserving. My past may have raised me, but my future remains undecided. I believe I am not a victim, but a survivor. Survival itself is proof of a second chance. Each small victory adds a new stroke to my story, and it is not finished yet. Today I wake up reminding myself that I no longer have to fight what is not there. I practice patience and forgiveness with myself, and I actively use the resources available to me to redefine my future. At twenty years old, I enrolled in an online high school to earn my diploma. This decision represents my first concrete step forward. After graduating, I plan to attend aviation mechanic school to pursue my dream of becoming an Aviation Mechanic, a career built on precision, responsibility, and trust. This scholarship would be transformative in making this future possible. Financial instability has always been frightening for me, but I understand that education requires investment. Scholarship funds would be used solely for tuition, tools, and required equipment, allowing me to focus fully on learning rather than survival. This support would remove barriers created by circumstances beyond my control and replace them with opportunity. My goals extend beyond personal success. One day, I plan to open both a children’s home and an animal refuge. These spaces will provide safety, stability, and compassion to those who have none. Children will be given resources, guidance, and the freedom to experience a true childhood, not one defined by survival. Animals will receive care, dignity, and love. By paying my second chance forward, I hope to become living proof that healing can create hope for others. This scholarship represents more than financial assistance. It represents belief. Belief that growth is possible after hardship, and that resilience deserves reinforcement. With this opportunity, I can continue choosing progress over fear and purpose over paralysis. I will honor this investment by persisting through setbacks, graduating, and building a stable career rooted in skill and integrity. Every achievement will be shared through mentorship, volunteering, and advocacy for trauma informed care. I want others to see that their beginnings do not disqualify them from meaningful futures. Though this scholarship will not change who I am, it will amplify who I am becoming, and allow my survival to evolve into service, stability, and lasting impact for generations influenced by compassion and courageous example.

There is nothing bigger than a dream. Some dreams feel impossible to reach. Some dreams are impossible to reach. But that never stops people from dreaming. My dream is to be an aviation mechanic. To many, that’s basic. Mundane. To me, it’s a dream. One that’s hard to obtain due to the resources that I don’t have much of. Money. I didn’t come from money. I didn’t have the privilege of planning out my future when I was younger. I was busy trying to make money to help support my impoverished family. Of course, I wanted to go to college, but college wasn’t spoken much of in our household. Mainly because for us, it was just a dream. When I flew on a plane for the first time, I was in awe. It wasn’t just because it was my first time, but because it symbolized something deeper. I had accomplished something that felt impossible. I was able to connect with my hopes of becoming an aviation mechanic. It didn’t feel far-fetched. Even now, as I work my part-time job at the airport, I carry my dream. Better yet, it’s become a goal. I know I don’t make enough money to pay for school alone, but I know I can make it happen. Trade school is a stepping stone. Making it so far as to walk inside the doors of an aviation mechanic school would be for me like a child walking into Disney World. The start of my forever. I know getting a scholarship will help in a way that I could only imagine. I plan on utilizing 100% of my earnings for my school and any equipment that I may need. With me working and the help of scholarships, I will be able to pay my way through school. I will make my dream a reality, no matter how hard I need to work. Even without scholarships, my heart will go on.

I never thought I could fly until I got on a plane. I never knew how big the world was beneath me until I got on a plane. The first time I ever flew on an aircraft, I panicked. Not because of the height, but because of the unknown. I looked out the window of the airport, saw the plane, and thought to myself, “That thing is supposed to fly in the air? How? It’s massive.” I knew the basics, but the concept of something that big being able to fly didn’t make sense to my anxiety. I didn’t realize that the same thought would soon be the reason why I wanted to become an aviation mechanic. I know, right? My fear became my dream. When I was in the sky, I looked out the window and saw the structures of my city become specs. And again I thought, “How is this possible?” I paid for the expensive wifi that came as a luxury to the passengers. I looked up things like “What makes a plane fly?” and “How many people can fit on a plane?” At first, I read the articles to pass the time. But even when I got off the plane, something resonated with me. I began to become obsessed with the mechanics of planes and how their systems work. This led me to decide that I wanted to be a part of making those systems work. I’m excited to start the first steps of pursuing my dream career. Going to trade school will be the most important step. I’m excited to start trade school because I will be able to see and understand the systems I will be working on. After trade school, I will apply to many different airlines. Hoping to fly into the unknown.

A book. It all started with a book. A simple tool used to persuade, entertain, and/or inform. A book served many purposes where I grew up. It was a symbol of your level of education. If you could read a book, you were seen as smarter than your peers. A nerd, if you will. However, growing up in the environment I did, reading wasn’t viewed as important. Only things that could make you money the fastest way possible. And writing a book? That wasn’t even a thought. But I found myself sitting in class, putting a pencil to my paper and writing stories carelessly. This happened after reading my first book. Or maybe it started before that. I was that one kid in class who wasn’t afraid of writing an essay. In fact, I felt excited when my ELA teacher announced the prompt. I never focused on counting how many words I was writing. I just wrote. When class would end, I would feel a small sense of unease if I didn’t finish writing. There was always more that needed to be said. At some point, I found myself writing outside of the school curriculum. I would utilize my free time by creating story plots, pretending I was an award-winning author. It was my guilty pleasure. My peers and family never knew about my writing journal. And frankly, I didn’t want them to. I knew that I’d be looked at as weird or abnormal. I would be told to focus on what really mattered. Making money. But I couldn’t stop chasing the thrill of writing a story. The twists and turns of the plot line. The unique characters, the millions of storylines I could create. The power in knowing I control the outcome of what happens. It was all so magical. Nothing was impossible when I put my pencil to my paper. The astronaut could eat pizza on the moon, the doctor could be an international superspy, and the little girl could have the power to fly. I loved that I could create any reality that I wanted. I love that I alone controlled the fate of my characters. Maybe in a way, I used writing as an escape from my own reality. The reality of a poor homeless girl with only her mother and four older siblings, living in a tent with no running water or a heat source. Who would want to live in that reality? I know I didn’t. So I wrote about worlds that I knew nothing about. Created stories I could only dream of actually living in. It brought me peace. A sense of purpose. To this day, I still write. Creating new tales despite being in a better position than I was all those years ago. No matter where I end up, writing will always be my happy place. No matter my career, I’ll always paint a picture with my words. Although I plan on becoming an aviation mechanic, my heart won’t let me give up on my dream of becoming an author. I hope to major in creative writing in college. This will give me the drive and confidence needed to make it happen. After college, I want to publish my first book. One of three. A trilogy called “The Fracture Trilogy”. I have been working on the storyline for this trilogy since I was fifteen. It never got past the pages of my now withered journal. However, the story is still alive in my soul, and one day it will be reality. A reality I created.

Picture a little girl lying on frozen ground in the middle of winter. A thin tent barely shields her from the cold breeze wrapping around her and five other bodies. She lies on her side, staring into the darkness, thinking “I’m tired of living like this”, but she’s too afraid to say it out loud. Afraid her mother, who just worked a double shift at two jobs, might hear that silent cry and feel like she failed. So instead, the girl pulls her old Princess and the Frog blanket tighter around her shivering body and waits for morning. That tent in the woods was her home. She lived there with her four older siblings and her mother. Warmth felt like an unrealistic fantasy, something meant for other families. Her comfort came from knowing that in the morning she’d go to school, where the cafeteria was warm and breakfast was guaranteed. For a while, that was enough to get her through the night. Even then, she had dreams. She dreamed of becoming a singer. In choir class, when she sang, she felt powerful like Beyoncé on a stage in front of thousands. She imagined sparkling dresses, flashing cameras, and people asking for her autograph. Singing became her escape, her way out of the cold reality she lived in every day. As she grew older, she found another dream, gymnastics. Her mother couldn’t afford lessons, so she taught herself. She learned cartwheels, splits, and front walkovers. She practiced daily, quietly, and persistently. When she showed her family, they were distracted by survival, by the stress of trying to escape their circumstances. She soon realized that without resources or coaching, the Olympics were out of reach. So she let that dream go. But she never stopped singing. Even as she grew older, she sang karaoke alone, holding onto the faint memory of the girl who once dreamed big without limits. Life, however, had other plans. Everything changed the day she flew on a plane, something she never imagined she’d experience. As the aircraft lifted into the sky, a new dream was born. She became fascinated not just with flying, but with how it was possible. How could something so massive, made of metal, safely carry hundreds of people thousands of feet in the air? That curiosity grew into her pie-in-the-sky dream…becoming an aviation mechanic. This dream feels inspiring and just out of reach, but not impossible. It represents more than a career; it represents stability, achievement, and proof that where she started doesn’t determine where she ends. I know this dream will require courage. The courage to step into unfamiliar spaces, to ask questions without fear, and to believe in myself even when doubt is louder than confidence. I will graduate from high school. I will enroll in aviation mechanic school. I will complete the program, apply relentlessly, and keep going even when rejection challenges my resolve. Resilience has been woven into my life for as long as I can remember. I learned how to adapt when resources were limited, how to release dreams that no longer fit, and how to build new ones instead of giving up. What drives me is the belief that dreams are not meant to be easy, they are meant to be earned. I need commitment, discipline, and faith in my ability to grow beyond my circumstances. And through it all, I will still sing at the top of my lungs, because I am proof that the little girl who once slept in the cold can still rise, still dream, and still learn how to fly.

Surprisingly, I was afraid of flying growing up. Not because of heights, but because of the unknown. No one in my family (that I know of) had ever taken a plane before. It was something we had seen in movies. Usually, in those movies, something crazy was happening on those planes. The first time I got on an airplane was in 2024. I was heading to Great Lakes, Illinois from Texas for boot camp. To say that I was nervous would be an understatement. I was having a full-blown panic attack. I remember it so vividly. I was flying with American Airlines. When I looked out the window of the airport, I could see the plane. And in the midst of panicking, I remember thinking “That thing is supposed to go in the air? But it’s huge? How?” I knew how, but the concept of something so big being able to fly in the air didn’t make sense to my anxiety. When I sat down in my seat (the middle seat to be exact), I remember looking above the seats in front of me counting how many rows I was away from the exit door. This gave me some sort of comfort. That was until the captain came onto the intercom to announce our departure. Panic. Pure dread. I tried to talk to the guy sitting next to me to avoid having an outburst. I asked if he had flown before. He told me “Yeah it’s not that bad. I really like it. It’s actually really relaxing.” “Relaxing?” I thought to myself. “My rapid heartbeat and elevated pulse would beg to differ.” We finally hit the runway like Naomi Campbell in the 1986 Paris Fashion Week. My heartbeat has picked up to an alarming rate. I hear the engines begin to roar. At the time, I didn’t know what that sound was. I instantly thought my life was done for. But then the plane started to pick up speed. A speed foreign to my body. My back stayed glued to my seat, my hands gripped the seat in front of me, my eyes were shut tight, and my heart was pounding. “Five.” I began to count in my head to cope with the overwhelming sensation. “Four.” I took a deep breath in. “Three.” I let it out. “Two.” I shut my eyes tighter. “One.” Peace. Just like that, I was in the air. Me. In the sky. I couldn’t believe it. I was touching the clouds. I leaned over a bit to look out of the window. Careful not to invade the space of the kind man whom I attempted to use to relieve my anxiety. I saw my city beneath me. Streets that housed thousands of people were now little specs. It was beautiful. A sight that no one could ever experience from anywhere else. Up there was the only way of seeing such a view. I was in awe. My anxiety, which seemed never-ending, was gone in an instant. That moment changed my life, forever. My time in the boot camp didn’t last long due to an injury so I had to come home. My heart was heavy from having to leave, but the plane ride home had brought me peace. Being back in the sky knowing I was on my way home, had taken that weight off my heart. “Relaxing.” I thought to myself. A month or so after coming home, I applied at my local airport. I had come to the decision to dedicate my time to finishing high school and becoming an Aviation Mechanic.

Growing up it was just me, my four older siblings, and my mother. A father figure was a foreign subject to us. My oldest sister had to raise us four younger ones for the majority of the time, and my second-oldest sister would take her place whenever the oldest went to work. It goes without saying that my mother was never at home because she was always working. Six mouths to feed isn't easy when you're just one person, so the majority of the time she just worked on feeding five. The bills managed to make a pile so big that my mom couldn't find the bottom of it. At some point, she stopped worrying about what she couldn't do and focused on what she could, which was making sure we got to school and had food in our stomachs. This shift in focus didn't come without sacrifice though. We found ourselves moving around a lot because the rent was often neglected. We bounced around so much that there was no other option but the streets. We were homeless for a while, living in tents. But my mom made sure we were at school. If there was one thing my mother instilled in us is that education is everything. The only thing. When I was younger, I didn't appreciate school as much as I do now. Especially because I was being bullied for not having as much as my fellow peers. My focus was on what I didn't have instead of what I did have. But as I grew up, I realized she was right. Mothers know best. After we beat homelessness, we moved to a different city. We weren't out of poverty yet, but we finally had a roof over our heads. An ACTUAL ROOF! One that didn't leak when small holes tore through the thin fabric. One where the walls didn't move when the wind blew. A real roof with solid walls attached. But that didn't change my mother's philosophy. School was still everything. The only thing. When we got the four-bedroom apartment, we felt unstoppable. If beating homelessness doesn't give you a newfound appreciation for life, I don't know what will. Walking to school no longer felt like a chore, but a privilege. I knew that once that clock hit 4:30, I would be walking back to a home. A real one. My seventh-grade year was when I started taking school seriously. Realizing high school was around the corner, I started focusing on keeping my grades up. I quickly learned that I was really good at ELA classes. I would usually score the highest amongst my peers. Although the financial situation at home didn't improve much, I was improving in school, and that mattered more to me. In high school, I accepted the reality that school was my only way out of the cycle. I began working my first job at fifteen years old to help out the way I could, but it was pretty evident that my efforts were futile. We once again moved. I moved schools. This didn't go over well seeing as my grades began to slip dramatically. Not because I wasn't smart enough, but because we didn't stick around in one place long enough for me to adapt. But that doesn't change my mission. Today, I carry my mother’s philosophy as my own. I approach school with discipline, curiosity, and persistence because I know every assignment completed is a step away from the life we once lived. When I finish school, I will be more than a graduate. I will be a testimony.