Being a Black woman in America has shaped every part of who I am. My identity is not something I take off when life gets heavy or when the world makes it hard to breathe. It is the lens through which I move, create, learn, raise my son, and pursue my dreams. It is both a gift and a responsibility. I come from a lineage of women who carried strength with grace. Women who worked long hours, who prayed through struggle, who protected their families even when nobody protected them. That legacy lives in me, and it fuels my ambition to create a life that honors everything they survived. Growing up Black in a low income household meant I learned early what resilience looked like. I also learned what it felt like to be counted out before I even began. In school, I often felt invisible unless I was performing exceptionally. In workplaces, I learned to navigate stereotypes, assumptions, and moments where my confidence made others uncomfortable. As a mother, I became even more aware of how society views young Black boys and how much intention it takes to pour strength, gentleness, discipline, and creativity into them at the same time. These experiences did not break me. They sharpened me. My identity pushed me to pursue higher education because I want to create the representation and change I did not always see. I am studying Film and Media because I believe storytelling is one of the most powerful tools we have for shifting culture and building empathy. When people see themselves reflected on screen, they feel valued. When they see new perspectives, they gain understanding. When they see truth, they feel seen. As a Black filmmaker and educator, I want to create space for young people who grew up like me, looking for a sign that their voice mattered. My identity has also inspired the work I do in my community. I teach youth film production classes where Black and brown kids learn how to write, direct, act, hold a camera, and speak with confidence. Many of these students have never been told that creativity is a career path or that their stories are valuable. Watching them grow into leaders reminds me why my voice and presence in this field matter. They need to see creators who look like them. They need to see a Black woman running programs, building studios, teaching, leading, and choosing purpose every day. Looking ahead, my identity will continue to shape my vision. I plan to build a creative arts academy that centers Black and brown youth, giving them mentorship, training, and opportunities that could change the direction of their lives. I want to create films that tell our stories with honesty, beauty, and complexity. I want to use my education to change how the world sees us and how we see ourselves. Being a Black woman has been both my challenge and my power. It made me ambitious. It made me driven. And it made me committed to creating impact that lasts generations.

The event that has had the biggest impact on my life was the moment my marriage ended. It was not just the loss of a relationship. It was the moment that stripped me down, shook the foundation of everything I believed about love, safety, and partnership, and forced me to meet myself again. I had spent so many years trying to hold everything together that I did not realize how much of myself I had lost in the process. When my husband told me he could replace me with a “bag of women,” something inside me broke. But something inside me also woke up. That moment pushed me into the deepest season of my life. I had to rebuild myself emotionally, spiritually, financially, and mentally while still being a mother and still trying to protect my son from the storm I was living in. I had nights when I cried on the bathroom floor and mornings when I had to stand up and pretend nothing was wrong. I had to find strength I did not know existed. But in that breaking, God started to rebuild me. Leaving my marriage set me on a journey of healing, self discovery, and purpose. It pushed me back into my education. It led me to film and storytelling as a way to process pain and transform it into something meaningful. It opened my heart to serving young people through creative arts, because I knew what it felt like to reinvent your life from scratch. It made me understand how important community, faith, and self love really are. That moment changed the entire direction of my life. It pushed me closer to God. It made me a better mother. It made me a fighter. And it lit a fire in me to help others heal through creativity and truth. What was meant to break me became the catalyst that revealed who I truly am. What surprised me most is that the very moment that shattered me also became the moment that shifted me into purpose. After the breakup, I had to face myself without distractions. I had to learn how to love the woman I had abandoned while trying to hold a marriage together. Therapy, prayer, and creativity became my lifelines. I started writing, filming, teaching, and pouring into young people because I needed to remind myself that there was still light in me. Every child I uplifted, every story I created, every class I taught slowly stitched pieces of me back together. That painful chapter made me realize I was not meant to live small. I was meant to build something that heals, something that inspires, something that outlives the pain that came before it. So now I have arrived and I’m very happy to be present in this very moment.

My name is Destiny, and everything I do is rooted in purpose, creativity, and a deep desire to uplift others. I grew up in a low income household where strength was not something we talked about, it was something we lived. My mother worked long hours as a nurse, and even through struggle she taught me compassion, community, and the importance of giving people a space to be seen. Those early lessons shaped me into the woman I am today: a single mother, a storyteller, a mentor, and a student determined to use my gifts to make a lasting impact on the world. I am currently pursuing a degree in Film and Media because storytelling is more than art to me. It is healing. It is education. It is change. I believe stories have the power to shift culture and give people hope, especially in communities where hope sometimes feels scarce. As someone who has faced real obstacles and seasons of instability, I know what it feels like to search for direction. I know what it feels like to need someone to believe in your potential. That is why my work is centered on children and young people who remind me so much of myself. Right now, I teach youth film production classes where students learn writing, directing, camera work, and creative leadership. Some of the children who walk into my class barely speak on the first day. By the time we finish a session, they are acting, directing, and telling stories with confidence they did not know they had. Watching them transform is one of the clearest signs that I am walking in my calling. These moments push me to dream even bigger. My long term vision is to create a full creative arts academy for Black and brown youth, especially those from single parent or low income families. I want to build a place where children can explore film, writing, dance, music, and digital media and see themselves as creators with limitless potential. I want them to understand entrepreneurship, leadership, and the value of their voice. I want to give them access to equipment, mentorship, and opportunities that can open doors for the rest of their lives. My goal is not only to entertain through film but to educate, empower, and inspire. This dream is personal. My son watches everything I do. I want him to see that even when life is difficult, you can rise. You can reinvent yourself. You can build something meaningful from the pieces life gives you. I want him to know that success is not about perfection. It is about persistence, faith, and purpose. Through my career in film and youth arts education, I plan to make a positive impact by telling stories that reflect real people, by creating programs that lift young voices, and by building spaces where creativity becomes a pathway to healing and opportunity. I believe God placed these dreams in me for a reason, and I plan to walk them out boldly, one step at a time.

Faith has carried me through every season of my life. I grew up watching my family pray their way through struggle, and as an adult I learned to do the same. God has been the steady place I return to when everything around me feels uncertain. There were moments when money was tight, when I questioned my purpose, and when I felt overwhelmed as a single mother trying to rebuild my life. In every one of those moments, God reminded me that I was not walking alone. He gave me peace when my situation did not make sense and strength when I felt like I had nothing left. My faith taught me to believe in what I could not yet see. It helped me silence doubt and trust that the gifts inside me were placed there for a reason. When I decided to return to college, I did it with prayer and courage. When I began teaching youth film classes, I trusted that God would guide my steps, and He did. Every time I pour into a child, every time I create a story, and every time I choose hope over fear, I feel the presence of God working through me. Faith has also taught me patience and humility. There were seasons when I wanted quick results and instant success, but God was teaching me to build a foundation that would last. He taught me that slow progress is still progress and that sometimes He delays things to grow my character. Those lessons became a cornerstone of how I handle challenges in school, in parenting, and in my creative career. I know my faith will guide my future because my purpose is rooted in service. I want to open a creative arts academy for young people and create films that heal and uplift communities. I cannot accomplish that vision on talent alone. I need wisdom, compassion, and discernment, and those come from God. My faith reminds me that what I am building is bigger than me and that every step I take is part of a plan designed for impact and legacy. Faith has shaped my resilience, my creativity, and my commitment to helping others. It will continue to guide every decision I make as I grow in my career and walk in the calling God placed on my life. In the end, my faith is not just something I practice. It is the way I breathe, the way I move, and the way I choose courage even when life feels uncertain. God has shown me that my story has value and that every challenge I survived will one day help someone else rise. I believe He is preparing me for a future where I can use my voice, my creativity, and my testimony to change lives. My career is not simply a dream. It is a calling, and with God guiding me, I know I will fulfill it.

My dreams have always been larger than the circumstances I grew up in. Coming from a low income family taught me early how to stretch what I had, how to reinvent myself when life shifted, and how to keep moving even when the world felt heavy. Those lessons shaped the woman I am now. I am a mother, a filmmaker, a mentor, and someone who believes pressure makes diamonds. Currently I am building something that goes far beyond me. I teach youth film production classes and help students write scripts, direct scenes, and step into leadership roles they never imagined for themselves. Watching a quiet child become a director or a writer reminds me why I am pursuing my degree in Film and Media. Storytelling kept me grounded during moments when life felt unstable, including seasons where housing was uncertain and I had to choose strength even when I felt afraid. My aspirations are rooted in service. I want to open a creative arts academy for Black and brown youth, a place where they can explore film, writing, dance, and performance while seeing themselves reflected in every lesson. Personally, I dream of building stability and legacy for my son. I want him to see that even when you come from a disadvantaged background, you can still rise and bring others with you. This scholarship would do more than cover tuition. It would give me room to breathe and allow me to focus on expanding my youth programs, completing my degree, and turning my lived experiences into something that lifts my community. It would help me grow personally and professionally while continuing the work I already started. I want a better life, yes. But I also want to create better lives around me. This scholarship helps me move closer to both.

I am currently pursuing a degree in Film and Media because storytelling is not only my passion, it is the vehicle I plan to use to uplift my community. Film has always been a lifeline for me, a way to process my experiences and make meaning out of the challenges I’ve faced. As I study screenwriting, production, directing, and editing, I am building the foundation for a career that allows me to merge creativity with purpose. My long-term goal is to create a creative arts academy and youth media program that gives children, especially those from low-income and underrepresented communities the tools, confidence, and exposure to imagine a bigger future for themselves. Attending college as a single parent has come with obstacles that tested both my strength and my commitment. Balancing coursework, parenting, and providing for my child has required sacrifices that many traditional students never face. There are nights when I’ve stayed up until 2 a.m. finishing assignments after helping with homework, making dinner, and preparing for the next day. There have been semesters where I had to pause and rearrange everything in my life just to keep going. Financially, the pressure can feel overwhelming. Tuition, books, gas, childcare, and basic expenses do not pause just because I am trying to build a better future. I have learned how to stretch every dollar, how to advocate for myself, and how to push through exhaustion because quitting is not an option when your child is looking to you as their example. Despite these challenges, being a single parent in school has made me more disciplined, more intentional, and more driven. I want my son to see that even when life gets hard, you can still show up for yourself. I want him to understand that pursuing your dreams is not selfish, it is an act of generational change. Every time he sees me studying, filming, writing, or teaching, he is watching a blueprint unfold that says, “You can rise no matter where you start.” Once I finish my degree, my goals are clear. I plan to expand the youth film programs I currently teach, establish a full creative arts academy, and create opportunities for kids to learn writing, acting, directing, dance, film production, and digital media. I want to build a safe space for young people to explore their identity and creativity, especially those who come from single-parent or low-income households like mine. I also plan to produce films and series that center inspirational stories, healing, and joy—projects that remind people that representation and storytelling matter. This scholarship would ease the financial strain that comes with being a single parent in college and allow me to continue moving toward a future where I can serve my community through film, education, and mentorship. With support, I can turn my experiences into opportunities for the next generation.

Being a first-generation student means choosing a path no one in my family ever had the chance to walk. It means rewriting generational stories, breaking cycles, and proving first to myself, and then to everyone watching, that where you start doesn’t determine where you can go. I come from a low-income family held together by hard work and heart. My mother worked long nursing shifts to keep us afloat. We didn’t grow up with resources or legacies waiting for us. We grew up with grit. And that grit is what carries me through every challenge I face today. Returning to college in my thirties as a single mother has been one of the most difficult and transformative decisions I’ve ever made. I’m balancing school, parenting, creative work, and the constant pressure of wanting to build a better life for my son. There have been times when the bills didn’t match the income, when exhaustion made me question whether I was doing the right thing, and when it felt like the world expected me to settle. But every time I thought about giving up, I remembered the little girl who didn’t have anyone ahead of her to show her what this journey could look like, and I kept going. I’ve learned to face challenges by creating opportunities instead of waiting for them. I teach film and media to kids because I know what it feels like to grow up without access to creative programs. I build stories, scripts, and youth media projects because I want young people, especially those from underserved communities, to see themselves as creators, leaders, and visionaries. My dream is to open a creative arts academy that gives Black and brown youth the tools, mentorship, and confidence to change their own narratives. I want to build a place where kids can discover their voice and their purpose long before the world hands them limitations. What drives me is knowing that my son is watching. I want Gavin to see that even when life gets heavy, you keep moving. You reinvent yourself. You chase the dreams that scare you. You build something that outlives you. Being a first-gen student isn’t just about me getting a degreeit’s about me creating a new foundation for every generation that comes after. This scholarship would lift a real financial weight off my shoulders and give me breathing room to continue my education without sacrificing essentials for my family. It would allow me to stay focused, finish strong, and stay on track as I work toward my film degree and the future academy I am committed to building. I am not perfect. But I am determined, I am growing, and I am willing to do the work. I believe in using my story to help others find their own voice, and with this scholarship, I’ll be one step closer to making that vision real.

Coming from a low-income family taught me, how to stretch what I had, and how to believe in a future I couldn’t yet see. My mother worked long shifts as a nurse, and even when money was tight, she made sure our home stayed filled with love, creativity, and resilience. We didn’t grow up with luxury, but we grew up with strength. Watching her provide for us without complaint gave me the blueprint for perseverance. Being raised in a household where every dollar had a purpose forced me to become resourceful. I learned to solve problems, to work with what I had, and to never let lack turn into limitation. That mindset followed me into adulthood. As a single mother returning to college in my thirties, I’ve had to balance school, work, parenting, and community projects, but I’ve never allowed financial hardship to stop my progress. Instead, it became the fuel that pushed me to create opportunities for myself and for others. My life experience is the foundation of the impact I want to make in my community. I am building programs in youth film production because I know firsthand what it feels like not to have access. I want to ensure that kids from underserved neighborhoods who look like me, kids who are being raised by hardworking parents with limited resources get a chance to explore their creativity, build confidence, and see a future bigger than their circumstances. I am actively working toward my goals by pursuing a film degree, teaching film and TV production to students, and developing a creative arts academy that will provide mentorship, training, and space for young people to thrive. I’ve learned that purpose grows from the soil of struggle, and I intend to use my journey to help other families rise with me.

Being an “up-stander” has never been something I consciously set out to be, it’s something life shaped in me. As a Black woman, a mother, a first-generation college student, and a storyteller, I learned early that silence can be costly. People like Mohamed Magdi Taha understood that standing up for what is right isn’t always loud or dramatic; sometimes it is as simple as refusing to let people feel invisible. I carry that lesson into everything I do. My voice started forming long before I recognized it. Growing up, I watched my mother work as a nurse for decades, showing compassion even when she was exhausted. I watched my family and my community survive things that should have broken them. From them, I learned that advocacy begins at home, by speaking life into people, by giving them room to grow, and by protecting those who don’t have the same shield of experience or resources. As I returned to college in my thirties, I realized that my own life had prepared me to step into a new chapter of leadership. I didn’t come back to school just to earn a degree; I came back because I want to build something bigger than myself. I want to open a creative arts school and production program that gives young people, especially Black and brown kids who are often overlooked, the chance to see themselves as creators, leaders, and innovators. I want them to understand that their voices matter long before the world tells them they’re “old enough” to be heard. My work in youth film production is one of the clearest examples of how I stand up for others. In every Kids TV class I teach, I meet students who feel shy, unsure, or disconnected. I always make it my mission to help each one find their voice, whether that’s through holding a camera for the first time, writing a script, or leading a scene. I’ve watched quiet children transform into confident directors, writers, and actors when given the space to shine. I advocate for them in the room, to their parents, and to the school because I believe creativity can be a lifeline. When I create space for kids to feel powerful, I’m honoring the same principles Mohamed stood for: courage, community, and compassionate action. I also stand up by being honest about my own journey. As a single mother, as someone rebuilding her life after heartbreak, and as a woman who once questioned her value, I use my voice to tell the truth. I write books and develop films that explore healing, resilience, and the power of reclaiming one’s story. My transparency helps others feel less alone. Every time I choose to speak instead of shrinking, I’m modeling what it means to rise above silence. Using my voice to build community isn’t something I plan to do one day, it's something I’m doing now and intend to expand. My long-term vision is to build a creative arts academy where kids can learn filmmaking, writing, dance, acting, and entrepreneurship. A place where underserved youth can access mentorship, equipment, and opportunities that could change the direction of their lives. I want to be the bridge that I once needed. To me, being an up-stander means refusing to let fear dictate how loudly I show up. It means creating space, opening doors, and pulling others through with me. It means using every gift, from my voice to my camera, to help build a community where every child knows they matter.

As a first-generation college student and a single mother, my journey back to school has been shaped by resilience, faith, and an unwavering desire to rewrite the story for myself and my son. I come from a family of hard-working women who survived more than they ever had the opportunity to dream. Their strength lives in me, but so do the limitations they faced, limitations I am determined to break. When I decided to return to college in my thirties, it wasn’t because life had become easier. It was because I realized that waiting for the “right time” was keeping me from the future I know I’m meant to build. I grew up believing education was a pathway to freedom, but like many first-generation students, I didn’t have a guide. I didn’t have a blueprint. I had to figure everything out through trial, error, and perseverance. Becoming a mother made that even more challenging, but it also made my purpose clearer. I went back to school so my son could see that dreams are still possible, even after heartbreak, even after starting over, even when the odds say otherwise. I want him to witness what determination looks like, not just hear about it. I want him to know that we break generational patterns by choosing courage, by choosing education, and by choosing to believe in a future that’s bigger than where we started. Being a single mother in college means constantly balancing responsibilities, schoolwork, childcare, finances, healing, and rebuilding. It means doing homework after putting my son to bed and waking up early to finish assignments before the day begins. It means navigating tuition, supplies, transportation, and bills on a low-income budget while still showing up consistently for the dreams I hold. There are moments where the weight feels heavy, but my “why” keeps me grounded. I am majoring in Film & Media because storytelling is my calling. I currently teach film and acting classes to children, and I’ve seen firsthand how powerful creativity is in shaping confidence, leadership, and identity. One of my long-term goals is to open a creative arts academy where kids, especially Black and underrepresented youth, can discover their gifts, learn media skills, and see themselves reflected in the stories they create. Education is the stepping stone to that vision. This scholarship does more than relieve financial stress. It restores time, energy, and emotional bandwidth, three things single mothers rarely have enough of. It offers the chance to stay enrolled without interruption. It means I can focus on my coursework instead of choosing between paying a bill and paying for a class. It brings me one step closer to completing my degree, providing stability for my son, and building a career that aligns with my passion and purpose. I deserve this scholarship not because my journey has been perfect, but because I refuse to give up. I am committed, determined, and fully invested in creating a future that honors my sacrifices and expands possibilities for the next generation. This scholarship would not only support my education, it would support a legacy of resilience, creativity, and transformation. Thank you for considering my story and the vision I am working tirelessly to bring to life.

The courage for me to go back to school didn’t arrive all at once. It came in quiet waves—through heartbreak, healing, rediscovery, and the slow but steady realization that I am allowed to build a new life for myself. For years, I lived in survival mode. I focused on being a mother, a wife, a supporter, a caretaker, and a problem-solver for everyone around me. My own dreams took a backseat to responsibilities, and every time I tried to inch toward them, life demanded something else of me. I told myself that one day I would return to school, one day I would finish what I started, one day I would choose myself. But “one day” kept moving further away. Part of my hesitation came from the disappointment I carried after the Art Institute of Atlanta closed while I was still a student. Losing that opportunity felt like a sign that maybe school just wasn’t meant for me. I shifted into work and motherhood fully. I convinced myself that building stability for my son mattered more than following the creative path I’d dreamed about since childhood. But over time, my passion for storytelling and filmmaking never left me, it just lived quietly underneath the noise of everything else. My courage began to take shape the moment I realized I was no longer willing to live life on autopilot. After the end of my marriage and the emotional unraveling that followed, I had to confront who I was without all the roles I used to hide behind. I had to rebuild myself from the inside out. In that process, something powerful happened: I remembered that I am capable. I remembered that I have gifts. I remembered that my voice matters. The courage also came from my son. As he grows, he watches everything I do, not just what I say. I want him to see that his mother didn’t just work hard; she worked toward something. I want him to understand that life may break you down, but you always have permission to stand back up. I want him to know that dreams don’t expire just because time has passed or circumstances have changed. Going back to school shows him, through my actions, that starting over is not a failure, it’s a form of strength. Stepping back into education at thirty-five required humility and vulnerability. It meant walking into classrooms where many students were years younger than me. It meant balancing motherhood, work, creative projects, and healing while holding myself to the discipline school requires. But I walk in with purpose that only life experience can give. I’m no longer seeking a degree just to have one—I’m building a career and a future that aligns with my soul. My major, Film & Media, is not just a passion, it’s a calling. I am a storyteller. I am an educator. I am a builder of community spaces for young creatives. Returning to school is part of a much larger mission to eventually open a creative arts academy where children, especially Black children, can discover their gifts and see representation in the arts. Every class I take moves me closer to that vision. What gave me courage was finally choosing to believe that my life could expand again. That I could reinvent myself. That it was not too late. Going back to school was an act of faith. An act of healing. An act of reclaiming my future. And now that I’ve taken the step, I’m committed to walking this journey all the way through.

The courage for me to go back to school didn’t arrive all at once. It came in quiet waves, through heartbreak, healing, rediscovery, and the slow but steady realization that I am allowed to build a new life for myself. For years, I lived in survival mode. I focused on being a mother, a wife, a supporter, a caretaker, and a problem-solver for everyone around me. My own dreams took a backseat to responsibilities, and every time I tried to inch toward them, life demanded something else of me. I told myself that one day I would return to school, one day I would finish what I started, one day I would choose myself. But “one day” kept moving further away. Part of my hesitation came from the disappointment I carried after the Art Institute of Atlanta closed while I was still a student. Losing that opportunity felt like a sign that maybe school just wasn’t meant for me. I shifted into work and motherhood fully. I convinced myself that building stability for my son mattered more than following the creative path I’d dreamed about since childhood. But over time, my passion for storytelling and filmmaking never left me, it just lived quietly underneath the noise of everything else. My courage began to take shape the moment I realized I was no longer willing to live life on autopilot. After the end of my marriage and the emotional unraveling that followed, I had to confront who I was without all the roles I used to hide behind. I had to rebuild myself from the inside out. In that process, something powerful happened: I remembered that I am capable. I remembered that I have gifts. I remembered that my voice matters. The courage also came from my son. As he grows, he watches everything I do, not just what I say. I want him to see that his mother didn’t just work hard; she worked toward something. I want him to understand that life may break you down, but you always have permission to stand back up. I want him to know that dreams don’t expire just because time has passed or circumstances have changed. Going back to school shows him, through my actions, that starting over is not a failure, it’s a form of strength. Stepping back into education at thirty-five required humility and vulnerability. It meant walking into classrooms where many students were years younger than me. It meant balancing motherhood, work, creative projects, and healing while holding myself to the discipline school requires. But I walk in with purpose that only life experience can give. My major, Film & Media, is not just a passion, it’s a calling. I am a storyteller. I am an educator. I am a builder of community spaces for young creatives. Returning to school is part of a much larger mission to eventually open a creative arts academy where children, especially Black children, can discover their gifts and see representation in the arts. Every class I take moves me closer to that vision. What gave me courage was finally choosing to believe that my life could expand again. That I could reinvent myself. That it was not too late. The courage came from choosing a life that honors who I am becoming, instead of shrinking back into who I used to be. Going back to school was an act of faith. An act of healing. An act of reclaiming my future. And now that I’ve taken the step, I’m committed to walking this journey all the way through.

I’ve been caring my whole life before I had the language to name it or the training to earn a paycheck for it. I learned it in the soft-spoken strength of my grandmother, a nurse who prayed with her patients. I learned it in the unwavering hands of my mother, also a nurse, now legally blind, who still finds ways to care for others in the dark. They both taught me that true caregiving isn’t a job it’s a way of being. A calling. For over 15 years, I walked the path they paved. I collected certifications Certified Nursing Assistant, phlebotomy, EKG tech, patient care tech. I showed up, shift after shift, caring for strangers with tenderness and dignity. But all the while, something else tugged at me: storytelling. I wanted to write, direct, and produce stories that reflected real people, real love, and the resilience I saw daily. Still, I stayed in healthcare, believing that dreams could wait. Then the pandemic came and made everything real. With art school on pause, I dusted off my certificates and returned to the front lines. That’s when I met Kayla, a vibrant, stubborn, brilliant young woman with cerebral palsy and autism. I was assigned as her caregiver, thinking it would be temporary. But temporary turned into four years of laughter, meltdowns, music, and unconditional sisterhood. Kayla became more than a client she became family. Even now, as I return to school full-time, she still calls. She only listens to me. I FaceTime her through meltdowns, help her manage routines, and show up for her in the ways only someone who loves her can. At the same time, I care for my mother, who once bathed me and now needs help finding her slippers. I am her eyes, her stability, her reminder that she’s still powerful even when she feels vulnerable. Balancing school, caregiving, and my own healing journey hasn’t been easy. But caregiving gave me something priceless: emotional range. Patience. Depth. A sense of urgency to tell stories that matter. I now study film and media arts not just for me, but for everyone I’ve cared for. I want to create films that spotlight the humanity of caregivers and the beauty of those they serve. I want to produce stories that change how the world views disability, love, and strength. Caregiving didn’t delay my purpose it refined it. And now, I’m ready to carry it onto the screen.

As a Christian writer, I believe storytelling is one of the purest forms of ministry. Jesus used parables to reach hearts, and I’ve learned that vulnerability on the page can do the same. My personal story is one of trauma, redemption, and radical grace and through writing, I’m turning my testimony into transformation for others. I’m currently working on a memoir titled On This Side of Healing, which explores my journey through childhood sexual abuse, emotional abuse in marriage, single motherhood, and the struggle to reclaim my identity and faith. For years, I believed silence was survival. But God began to show me that sharing my story could set others free. Every chapter is a love letter to the broken-hearted, a reminder that God still restores, and that healing isn’t always pretty but it’s always possible. My writing centers on real-life experiences and spiritual truth. It speaks to people who feel forgotten, failed by systems, or far from God. I aim to make my readers feel seen and remind them that their story doesn’t end in suffering. It ends in resurrection. Whether through memoir, creative nonfiction, or screenwriting, I want to tell stories that plant seeds, break chains, and shift culture starting with the hearts of those who need it most. Pursuing a degree in creative writing is more than an academic goal it’s part of my calling. This scholarship would support my growth as a writer and amplify my ability to reach others with authenticity and faith. My prayer is simple: that my words would become a mirror, a map, and a ministry. Because healing isn’t just for me it’s for every reader still waiting to believe it’s possible.

In my life, I have had more than one Phoebe, but there is one woman who stands out above the rest. She came into my life when I did not even know I needed saving. Her name is Aunt Keisha, and while she is not my biological aunt, she became family in every sense of the word. She is the woman who helped me find my voice when the world tried to silence it. She is the reason I stepped on my first stage, wrote my first script, and believed that my stories were worth telling. Aunt Keisha joined our church back in the 90s. She was a college student, only twenty-one at the time, but full of light and boldness. She created the church’s drama and arts department, and that was where I was first introduced to the performing arts. While many kids shied away from the stage, I leaned in. And she saw that in me. She nurtured it. She pushed me when I wanted to shrink. She clapped the loudest when I performed. She spoke life into me, reminding me that I had something special long before I ever believed it myself. Her presence changed the trajectory of my life. Because of her, I began to write, direct, and teach others to express themselves through art. And even as I have walked through some of life’s most difficult seasons, single motherhood, financial hardship, separation and heartbreak, she has been one of the people who reminded me that I still had a purpose. As a woman over 30 returning to school, I now understand how rare it is to have someone who not only sees your potential but also walks beside you while you pursue it. I am currently studying Film and Media at Georgia State University’s Perimeter College. I was once months away from graduating at the Art Institute of Atlanta before it closed, forcing me to start over. But women like Aunt Keisha inspired me to get back up, apply again, and believe that it is never too late to begin again. If I am awarded this scholarship, it would not only help me continue my education it would help me pour into the next generation of women, artists, and dreamers. My dream is to open a performing arts academy and launch a production company focused on storytelling that heals and empowers. I want to mentor girls who feel unseen, single mothers who are rediscovering themselves, and youth with disabilities who need a space to create and be celebrated. I am already making an impact in small ways through community events, actor coaching, and youth mentorship. But this scholarship would allow me to go further, do more, and create something lasting. It would help me become someone else’s Phoebe a woman who shows up, believes in others, and helps them see the light within themselves. I am proof that all it takes is one person to believe in you at the right time. Aunt Keisha was mine. Now I want to become that for someone else.

Right now, I am actively engaged in my mission. I mentor young creatives, volunteer with youth organizations, and contribute to my community through acts of service and storytelling. After college, my goal is to take everything I have learned, experienced, and am passionate about to build something that will extend far beyond my own life. As a film and media student, my vision is not just to tell stories but to create spaces for others to share their own narratives. I plan to open a performing arts academy and launch a production company that amplifies the voices of those who are often overlooked. This includes Black youth, single parents, young adults with disabilities, returning citizens, and people from underserved communities who have often been denied the opportunity to be heard but have powerful stories to tell. Growing up, I rarely saw people who looked like me celebrated for their creativity unless they were already famous or had access to resources. Many of us were talented but invisible. This fuels my passion for building platforms that help everyday people shine. I aim to create writing labs, acting intensives, and mentorship programs that meet individuals where they are and guide them toward where they want to go. I want to make my city a hub for creative healing, representation, and opportunity. Currently, I am already engaged in some of this work on a smaller scale. I direct stage plays, coach actors, and produce community events that bring people together to express themselves and connect. I speak to students, share my story, and use every project as an opportunity to reflect real people and real lives. I have faced pain, disappointment, and the need to start over more times than I can count. However, those experiences have made me stronger, and now I use them to connect with others and remind them that they are not alone. One of the most important lessons I have learned is that healing is contagious. When one person steps into their power, it inspires others to do the same. That is the spark I hope to ignite through my work. I do not want to just entertain; I want to educate, empower, and elevate. Whether through a documentary, a short film, a live performance, or a conversation in a classroom, my goal is always the same: to make people feel seen. After college, I want to pursue this work full-time and on a larger scale. I aspire to own facilities, fund scholarships, host retreats, and employ other creatives who are passionate about service. My community has supported me, believed in me, and helped me rebuild when I faced challenges. This is how I plan to give back: not through words, but through action; not through perfection, but through presence. I do not want to wait until everything is perfect; I want to start where I am, use what I have, and let my purpose guide me. That is my plan to make the world a better place one story, one person, and one opportunity at a time.

The arts did not find me in a fancy classroom or studio. They found me in a church pew, on a small stage in the sanctuary, where I first learned how to speak from the heart, move a crowd, and tell a story. That is where I found my voice. In 1996, a young woman named Keisha joined our church. She was only 21 years old, a college student searching for a local place to worship. She had no idea she was about to change my life. Keisha brought a creative fire with her. She started the drama and arts department at our church, and from that moment on, something inside me lit up. She would later become my aunt by marriage, but from the very beginning, she was the person who gave me my first stage. She organized church skits, holiday plays, and creative dance performances. While most of my cousins rolled their eyes or tried to avoid participating, I was the one who was always ready. I loved the spotlight, the rehearsals, the costumes, and most of all, the way it felt to make people feel something. That was where my gift first came alive. That small seed has grown into something so much bigger. Today, I am a writer, director, and acting coach. I was not trained in prestigious programs or big film schools. I was trained in church and in life. I learned by doing, by feeling, by watching, and by trusting that my purpose would make room for me. That same fire I felt as a child has followed me into adulthood. And now, as a film and media student, I am finally getting the tools to turn my calling into a career. The person who pushes me most now is my son. I adopted him as a newborn when I was 22 years old. He is thirteen now, and everything I do is with him in mind. I want him to see what resilience looks like. I want him to know that even if you come from struggle, you can still create beauty. I want him to be proud of the legacy I am building and the spaces I am creating for others. Art has never been just a hobby to me. It has been my healing, my freedom, and my mission. I want to launch a performing arts academy and a production company that creates opportunities for youth, single parents, and anyone who has ever felt like their voice did not matter. I want to create what Keisha created for me all those years ago—a safe place to grow, to shine, and to believe in yourself. Arts education changed my life before I even knew what to call it. And now, I want to use that same passion to help others find their light too.

Community has never been about perfection. For me, it has always been about presence. I have lived through seasons where I did not have much, but what I did have was a village of people. Some were family, some were strangers, but all of them reminded me that I was not alone. Being part of a community, especially as a single mother, a student, and a woman rebuilding her life, has shaped my hope in ways I will never forget. One of the moments that changed everything for me happened the year I decided to go back to school. I was in the middle of a separation, emotionally overwhelmed, behind on bills, and unsure how I would manage college, parenting, and healing all at once. My car had broken down. My lights were off. I was mentally exhausted and on the edge of giving up. But people showed up. Neighbors I barely knew gave me rides to class. A friend brought groceries. My son’s football coach made sure he got to and from practice. One of my professors saw that I was struggling and walked me through the financial aid appeal process step by step. No one person gave me everything, but everyone gave me something. Those small acts became my lifeline. They reminded me that I was not invisible and that my goals still mattered even in hard times. I also witnessed this spirit growing up. My mother worked as a nurse and would often care for people in the neighborhood who could not afford proper care. My grandfather fed anyone who showed up on his porch. Even when our house had no furniture or food, my family found ways to share love. That stuck with me. Now I do the same. I mentor young creatives, volunteer with youth, and give back through art and storytelling. Community is what keeps me going. It is why I want to open a performing arts academy and launch a production company focused on real stories from real people. I want to create a space where single parents, kids with disabilities, and young dreamers can walk in and feel like they matter. I want them to know they are seen, supported, and full of potential. Hope is not just a feeling. It is people showing up without being asked. It is love without conditions. It is someone holding the door open when you feel like it is about to close. That is what I want to reflect in my work and in the spaces I create. Because of my community, I no longer walk this journey alone. I am fueled by those who lifted me up and inspired to do the same for others. My purpose is not just about success. It is about legacy. And that legacy begins with love, faith, and the power of community.

I grew up in a working-class household that didn’t qualify for government assistance, but we still felt the weight of poverty every day. My mother was a licensed practical nurse, and my stepfather worked for the water company. Both made less than $15 an hour, and although it may have seemed to outsiders that we were "middle class," our daily reality told a different story. We often lived in homes without furniture, stayed with extended family when we couldn’t afford rent, and switched schools my brother and I changed schools almost every semester. We lived in survival mode. We relied heavily on food banks, and most nights, my brother and I went to bed hungry or cold. There were winters when our home had no heat and summers when we went without air conditioning. Despite these challenges, our parents tried their best. Even when their efforts weren't enough, they never stopped showing us love. We didn’t have brand-name shoes or new clothes. Most of our wardrobe came from the Salvation Army, and I remember being constantly picked on for what I wore. Instead of shrinking under that pressure, I learned to shine. I became the funny one, the person who could light up a room with a joke or a dance. School may have been a struggle to attend, but once I was there, I made people laugh. That became my stage. Looking back, I know that’s where my love for performing, storytelling, and entertaining began. My grandfather also taught me resilience through nature. At just nine years old, he taught me how to fish and clean them myself. We learned to eat off the land when the refrigerator was empty. He showed me how to survive with my hands, my faith, and my heart. Those lessons instilled in me the belief that I should tell stories about everyday people those who quietly survive, hustle, and hope. We were raised in a faith-filled home. Church wasn’t just a building; it was our sanctuary and place of peace, where I learned the power of belief. While I didn’t grow up with material wealth, I grew up with love, creativity, and spiritual grounding. My parents gave us what they could: their hearts, their humor, and their unwavering belief in something better. What shaped me most wasn’t just the lack of resources; it was watching my parents help others even when we didn’t have much. That spirit lives in me. Today, I’m a film and media student who wants to build platforms that give a voice to those who feel overlooked. I aspire to create a production company and performing arts academy for youth, single mothers, people with disabilities, and dreamers who need a safe space to be seen. Growing up the way I did taught me to stretch joy out of struggle. It taught me how to lead with empathy, how to create from the heart, and how to turn pain into purpose. I don’t take anything for granted. My background isn’t just a story of poverty; it’s a story of transformation, and it forms the foundation for everything I’m building now.