My faith hasn’t made me a loud leader—it’s made me a steady one. I’ve never been the person shouting instructions or standing at the front of a crowd, but I’ve learned that leadership doesn’t always look like a spotlight. Sometimes, it looks like being a quiet encourager, a patient listener, or someone willing to speak truth when it matters most. My mother raised me with a deep understanding of what it means to live out faith in both belief and action. Her story of choosing life as a 17-year-old pregnant with me taught me what courage, conviction, and selflessness look like. She didn’t just talk about her values—she lived them. And watching her made me want to do the same, in my own way. One moment where my faith helped me lead came when a close friend was facing a pregnancy scare. She was overwhelmed, terrified, and considering options that didn’t align with either of our values. I didn’t judge her. I listened, shared what my mom had always taught me, and offered truth wrapped in compassion. I reminded her that fear doesn’t last forever—but regret can. I pointed her toward hope, options like adoption, and ultimately toward the God who sees her and her unborn child with love. She later told me that conversation changed everything for her. That experience showed me that leadership, especially through faith, is less about directing others and more about guiding them toward light when they feel stuck in darkness. It’s about being available, vulnerable, and obedient to the Spirit, even when it’s uncomfortable. Faith also shaped how I handle my own struggles—especially anxiety. I’ve battled mental illness that has at times left me completely isolated. There were seasons when I couldn’t leave my room, when I didn’t see a future for myself at all. But I never lost my faith. It was the one thing that reminded me I was still seen, still loved, and still called to something greater. My decision to apply to college, despite all the fear and unknowns, was a leap of faith. It’s one I made not just for myself, but in hopes of inspiring others who are also silently battling. As I prepare to attend ETSU, my vision for the future is shaped by this kind of faith-based leadership—quiet, but powerful. I want to be someone others know they can turn to. Someone who tells the truth with love, who sees people through the eyes of Christ, and who reminds them they’re not alone. Whether that’s through encouraging a friend, speaking out about mental health, or simply showing up for others when it matters most, I believe this is the kind of leadership the world needs more of. My faith doesn’t just influence how I lead—it defines why I lead. And with every step forward, I trust that God is using my story, even the broken parts, to inspire others and build something beautiful.

I struggle with mental illness—primarily anxiety, but also periods of depression. My anxiety became overwhelming after the COVID-19 quarantine. Before that, I rarely missed school. I wasn’t bullied, and I was doing okay academically. But something shifted. Suddenly, the idea of waking up and walking into a school building gave me panic attacks. It felt irrational, but it was real. My anxiety took over to the point where I couldn't leave my room. I ended up finishing high school through homeschooling. I’ve had anxiety for most of my life, but it used to focus mostly on health. When I was just seven years old, I was convinced I had breast cancer. As I got older, it expanded—fear of being seen, of being judged, of losing control. I dealt with body dysmorphia and came dangerously close to developing an eating disorder. Even now, I don’t see what others see when I look in the mirror. Some might assume I’m vain because I always have my hair and makeup done, but the truth is those things are armor. They help me feel safe enough to face the world. As I grow, I’ve been working hard to push past my anxiety instead of letting it control me. That journey hasn’t been easy. On top of mental struggles, I’ve faced physical health concerns too. At one point, doctors suspected Lupus. My labs were positive, and I finally thought I had an answer for my chronic pain—but later tests said otherwise. The disappointment of going from a diagnosis to more questions was hard. I still don’t know what’s wrong, but I’ve accepted that uncertainty and I’ve chosen to move forward anyway. One of the biggest steps I’ve taken is applying to college. I was terrified, but I did it—I got accepted to ETSU, and I plan to live on campus. I’m proud of that. I’m still afraid, but I’m learning that being afraid and moving forward can coexist. I’m tired of missing out on life, friendships, and hope because I’m stuck in my head. I want more. I want to grow, to heal, and to become someone I can be proud of. This scholarship would help me get there. I come from a family that works hard, but on paper, our income disqualifies me from grants—even though we live paycheck to paycheck. I’ve been awarded $5,500 in federal student loans and up to $2,000 per semester in work-study, but that still leaves a big financial gap. I will be taking out loans to cover the rest, but every bit of help makes a difference. I know I’m not alone. Many students are facing similar battles. But I’m hopeful. With determination, faith, and support, I believe I can overcome this. Thank you for reading a small piece of my story.

I can’t say my pro-life stance comes directly from my own experiences, but it is rooted deeply in my mother’s story—a story I was part of from the very beginning. She became pregnant with me at just 17 years old. At that time, she had never held a baby, knew nothing about raising children, and often joked that she would never have kids. So when she discovered she was expecting, she was shocked, scared, and uncertain about the future. Yet despite all that fear and confusion, abortion never crossed her mind. She’s always told me that while I was unplanned, I was never unwanted. She calls me a surprise—not a mistake—and that distinction has always stuck with me. My mother chose life without hesitation, and in doing so, she taught me what real courage and love look like. As I’ve grown, she’s been open with me and my siblings about her beliefs. She’s shown us biblical truths, shared scientific research, and encouraged open dialogue so that we would never feel alone in the face of a crisis. She helped me understand that abortion isn’t just a political issue—it’s a moral and spiritual one. She also showed us that the language used to soften abortion, like calling a baby a “fetus” or “a cluster of cells,” is used to mask the truth. Abortion is the ending of a human life. Her example shaped the way I speak to others. When friends come to me with fears of an unexpected pregnancy, I pass on the message I was raised with: There are always other options. If you feel unprepared for parenthood, adoption is a life-giving, compassionate alternative. The excuse of “it would be too hard to give my baby away” pales in comparison to the reality of ending a life. Choosing adoption may be hard—but taking a life should never be the easier option. I truly believe that abortion, at its root, stems from a culture of selfishness. We live in a world that places convenience above sacrifice, and that mindset is deeply dangerous. Every child is a gift from God—sometimes that gift is meant for you, and sometimes it's meant for another family. But either way, it's not ours to destroy. Though I haven’t joined official pro-life organizations or public demonstrations due to my personal struggle with anxiety, I take every opportunity to speak truth when the topic arises. I make my beliefs known—respectfully, but firmly—because I know that words matter. You never know who needs to hear encouragement or hope in a moment of fear. My pro-life beliefs aren’t just philosophical or political—they're personal. I owe my life to a young woman who said “yes” to the hard road, and I carry that decision with me every day. While I may not be on a stage or at a rally, I believe real impact often begins in quiet conversations—one heart to another. I am committed to being a voice for the voiceless and standing for the dignity and value of every human life, especially the unborn.