One of the hardest parts about growing up in a single-parent household was learning how to expect disappointment before it even happened. I remember being younger and inviting my mom to sports games, school events, or award ceremonies while already knowing there was a good chance she would not be able to come. I would still ask because part of me hoped maybe this time would be different, but after a while I stopped expecting to look up into the bleachers or audience and see someone waving back at me like I saw for other kids. At some point, that feeling became normal. I learned early how to celebrate accomplishments quietly and move on without expecting much attention. As a child, I did not fully understand why things were that way. I just knew my mom was almost always working, exhausted, or trying to figure out how to keep everything together financially. My siblings and I learned how to do a lot on our own because there was not really another option. We learned how to make food, wash clothes, solve problems ourselves, and handle responsibilities earlier than most kids around us. Looking back now, I understand those absences differently. What once felt personal to me was often sacrifice. My mom was carrying the weight of rent, groceries, gas, and every other responsibility alone. There was no second parent to split the pressure with her. As I got older, I started realizing that many of the moments where I felt unsupported were actually moments where she was trying to make sure we stayed stable financially, even if it meant missing important things in the process. That realization shaped the way I approach my education today. As a first-generation college student pursuing Accounting and Business Analytics at Ball State University, I carry a strong sense of responsibility toward my future. Education became important to me not only because I wanted success for myself, but because I saw firsthand how difficult life can become when one person has to carry everything alone. I want to build a future where survival is not the only focus every day. Growing up in a single-parent household also made me more aware of the struggles other people quietly carry. A lot of students look completely fine on the outside while dealing with financial stress, family pressure, exhaustion, or feeling unsupported behind the scenes. That awareness is part of what pushed me toward volunteer work and campus involvement. Through organizations like Cardinal Kitchen, Ball State’s campus food pantry, I have seen how much difference even small forms of support can make for students who feel overwhelmed or isolated. In the future, I want to use both my education and experiences to give back to my community in meaningful ways. I want to build a career that allows me to create stability not only for myself, but for others too. Whether that means helping organizations better support people through business and analytics or simply being someone others can rely on, I want the work I do to make people feel less alone than I sometimes did growing up. I think one of the biggest lessons a single-parent household taught me is that love does not always look ideal or picture-perfect. Sometimes it looks like sacrifice, exhaustion, and doing the best you can under difficult circumstances. Understanding that changed the way I view both my mom and myself. It also gave me the motivation to build a future where the people I care about never have to wonder whether someone will show up for them.

One of the biggest things I have learned about people is how little you can actually tell about someone just by looking at them. There were periods of my life where I was struggling financially, mentally, and emotionally while still looking completely normal to everyone around me. I still went to class. I still joked with people. I still showed up to meetings, events, and responsibilities. From the outside, I probably looked like someone managing life fairly well. In reality, there were times where I felt overwhelmed almost constantly. Because of that, I never really developed the habit of assuming other people had everything figured out either. I think struggling privately changed the way I understand human connection more than anything else in my life. It made me realize how much people carry internally without ever saying it out loud. Some people become quieter when they are overwhelmed. Some become busier. Some joke more. Some disappear socially. There is no single “look” for someone who is struggling, and I think realizing that made me much more intentional about the way I interact with others. Growing up in a single-parent household reinforced that perspective too. My siblings and I learned pretty early how to function independently because we had to. Our mom was never home, and when she would get off work, she was exhausted. If we wanted to see her, we had to go to her room and peek from the doorway. I wasn't taught how to tame my curls, but a bad few interactions at school led me to learn. I didn't know how to wash my own clothes, but someone pointing out a stain from the prior day led me to start knowing. A lot of responsibility, stress, and emotional adjustment happened quietly in our household. Over time, I became used to people handling difficult situations without openly talking about them. I think that environment made me more observant emotionally. I pay attention to changes in people’s behavior, energy, or tone because I know firsthand how easy it is to hide what is actually happening internally. That awareness has shaped almost every relationship I build now. At Ball State University, some of the most meaningful experiences I have had came through volunteering and leadership opportunities where I was able to interact with students from very different backgrounds. Through Cardinal Kitchen especially, I met students who reminded me a lot of myself: people trying to hold everything together academically and socially while privately dealing with stress, burnout, financial pressure, or isolation. What stood out to me most was not weakness, but effort. Most people are trying much harder than others realize. I think that understanding has made me more patient, less judgmental, and more intentional about making people feel genuinely supported rather than superficially acknowledged. Sometimes human connection is not about giving someone a perfect solution. Sometimes it is simply about making them feel less invisible. In a world where so much communication happens online, I think people are becoming more skilled at presenting themselves than expressing themselves honestly. Social media especially encourages people to appear constantly successful, productive, attractive, or emotionally unaffected. Because of that, authentic connection becomes even more important. People want spaces where they can exist without feeling like they have to perform being okay all the time. That belief influences the way I approach leadership, friendships, teamwork, and even my future career goals. Although I am pursuing Accounting and Business Analytics, I never want to lose sight of the human side of systems and organizations. Every number, decision, and policy affects real people carrying lives that others may know nothing about. More than anything, I want to be someone who creates environments where people feel understood instead of overlooked. I think strong relationships are built when people feel safe enough to be honest rather than pressured to appear perfect. My experiences taught me that you never truly know what someone is carrying, which is exactly why kindness, patience, and genuine human connection matter so much.

When people talk about building a future, they usually focus on careers, salaries, or personal success. What I think about more is confidence. Not the loud kind. The kind that allows someone to walk into unfamiliar spaces without immediately feeling behind. A lot of my college experience has involved realizing how many things other people seemed to already know. I remember sitting through conversations about internships, networking, résumés, and professional opportunities while quietly trying to piece together what half the terminology even meant. Sometimes I would look things up afterward because I did not want anyone to realize I was still figuring everything out in real time. That experience changed the way I think about opportunity. People like to talk about success as if everyone starts from the same place and simply works different amounts. But there are students entering college already understanding professional environments because they grew up around those conversations. There are also students trying to decode everything silently while hoping they do not look out of place. I know what it feels like to be in that second group. That is why what I want to build is not just a successful career for myself. I want to help build confidence and access for students who enter unfamiliar spaces feeling like they are already behind everyone else. Studying Accounting and Business Analytics at Ball State University has shown me how much systems shape people’s lives, especially financial systems. A lot of people hear accounting or analytics and think only about numbers, spreadsheets, or corporations. What interests me more is the human side behind those systems. Financial literacy, access to information, and professional guidance can completely change the direction of someone’s future. In the future, I want to mentor students who feel intimidated by professional or academic spaces the same way I once did. I want to help students understand internships, finances, networking, and opportunities that often feel hidden behind unspoken rules. Not everyone has parents, mentors, or connections explaining how those systems work. Sometimes people are capable of succeeding but simply lack guidance and reassurance. I realized that even more through volunteering experiences like Cardinal Kitchen and College Mentors for Kids. The biggest thing those experiences taught me is that people remember how you made them feel long after they forget what you actually said. Sometimes the most impactful thing you can do for someone is make them feel capable in a space where they previously felt small. I do not want to build a future that only benefits me personally. I want to become the kind of person who helps others feel less intimidated, less excluded, and more confident navigating spaces that once overwhelmed them. To me, that kind of impact lasts far longer than a job title ever could.

Before my grandfather passed away, I do not think I fully understood how heavy silence could become inside a family. After his suicide, everything felt quieter in a way that had nothing to do with sound. People still spoke to each other. We still sat in the same rooms, watched the same television shows, and went through the motions of everyday life. But grief settled into everything. It showed up in my mother’s voice, in the tension during random conversations, and in the questions nobody knew how to ask out loud. I think that is one of the hardest parts about losing someone to suicide. The person is gone, but the wondering stays. You replay conversations differently afterward. You rethink ordinary moments that once meant nothing. Sometimes grief would hit during the strangest situations. A song in the grocery store. Someone laughing the way he used to laugh. Even good moments carried this strange ache because part of me would suddenly remember he was no longer here to experience them too. For a long time, I did not really know what to do with that kind of grief. At the same time, I was struggling heavily with my own mental health. There were periods where I became overwhelmed to the point of harming myself, first through cutting and later through burning because somehow it felt easier to explain away. If anyone noticed, I blamed it on work. Most people accepted the explanation. Or maybe they simply did not want to ask questions they were not prepared to hear the answers to. Even during my own lowest moments, though, I kept thinking about my grandfather and what his death did to the people around him. Suicide does not end pain. It redistributes it. It settles into families quietly and changes people long after the funeral ends. For a while, staying alive felt less like a choice I was making for myself and more like a promise I was making for everybody else. Eventually, though, something shifted. I realized healing could not only be about surviving for other people. I needed to believe my life had value outside of being useful, needed, or emotionally strong for everyone around me. That realization was difficult because grief changes your relationship with yourself. It makes you question your thoughts, your emotions, and sometimes even your right to struggle when you know other people are hurting too. But slowly, I started learning how to live instead of simply endure. One of the biggest lessons this loss taught me is that healing is usually quiet. Most of the time, it does not look inspirational or dramatic. It looks like deciding to be honest when pretending would be easier. It looks like asking for help. It looks like waking up and continuing forward even on days where grief unexpectedly returns. Losing my grandfather also changed the way I move through the world. I pay attention differently now. I think people are carrying far more than they let others see, and because of that, I try to treat people more gently. You never fully know what someone is surviving privately. As an undergraduate student studying Accounting and Business Analytics at Ball State University, I want my future to reflect that understanding. Success means very little to me if I lose my ability to remain compassionate while pursuing it. I cannot change what happened to my grandfather, and I do not think grief ever fully disappears. But I think honoring someone’s life sometimes means choosing to keep living honestly and fully even after seeing how fragile life can become.

In my family, education was never talked about casually. It was talked about like survival. Not in a dramatic way either. More in the way people talk about rent, gas money, or keeping the lights on. It was understood early that education was supposed to lead to a “better life,” even if nobody fully knew what that process looked like. College applications, financial aid, networking, internships, office hours, professional connections. Most of that was unfamiliar territory in my household. Still, there was always this quiet understanding that somehow I was supposed to figure it out. I think that pressure changes you a little when you are first-generation. You start feeling like your decisions no longer belong entirely to you. Success stops feeling personal because it carries the hopes of people who never got the same opportunities. At times, it almost feels like your entire family is standing behind you, holding their breath while you try to build a future none of you have seen before. At the same time, there is something strangely isolating about it too. There have been moments in college where I realized other students were entering adulthood with instruction manuals I never received. Some people already understood how professional environments worked because they grew up around those conversations. Meanwhile, I was quietly teaching myself things most people seemed to already know. Sometimes I still catch myself Googling terms after meetings or rereading emails multiple times just to make sure I interpreted them correctly. But honestly, I think being first-generation has given me something valuable too. It forced me to become resourceful. Growing up, my siblings and I learned how to figure things out ourselves because we had to. We learned how to adapt quickly, solve problems independently, and keep moving forward even when we were uncertain. Looking back, I think those experiences prepared me for college more than I realized at the time. I may not have entered higher education with connections or guidance, but I came into it knowing how to survive unfamiliar situations without immediately giving up. That mindset is a huge part of why education matters so much to me. To me, education is not just about earning a degree or increasing income. It is about creating options. It is about finally understanding systems that once felt intimidating or completely out of reach. More importantly, it is about making sure the people who come after me inherit more than survival mode. That is the legacy I hope to leave behind. I want younger people in my family to grow up seeing college, stability, and opportunity as something normal instead of something distant or overwhelming. I want them to ask questions without feeling embarrassed for not already knowing the answers. I want them to enter rooms with confidence instead of feeling like they have to prove they deserve to be there first. Studying Accounting and Business Analytics at Ball State University is helping me build that future not only for myself, but for the people connected to me too. I think a lot of first-generation students grow up learning how to survive. My goal is to make sure the people after me get the chance to do more than that.

I used to think making a positive impact on the world had to look impressive. Like you had to invent something life-changing, start a huge organization, or somehow become the kind of person everyone remembers forever. But the more people I meet, the more I realize most lives are changed in much quieter ways. Usually by ordinary people who decided to care a little more than they had to. One thing I have noticed through volunteering is how easy it is for people to feel embarrassed when they need help. At Cardinal Kitchen at Ball State University, I have seen students hesitate before taking food, apologize for grabbing “too much,” or nervously explain their situation when nobody even asked them to. I remember thinking how strange it is that people can feel guilty for something as basic as needing to eat. That stuck with me more than anything else. It made me realize that helping people is not just about providing things. It is also about the way you treat them while doing it. People can usually tell the difference between being helped and being pitied. One preserves dignity. The other takes it away. That idea has followed me into every space I volunteer in. Through College Mentors for Kids, I learned how much children remember small moments. They remember who listened to them instead of talking over them. Who made them feel included instead of tolerated. Honestly, some of the kids just wanted someone who would sit there and fully engage with them without acting distracted the entire time. It sounds simple, but it matters. Dance Marathon taught me something similar in a completely different way. There is something powerful about watching hundreds of people come together for children and families they may never even meet personally. It reminded me that compassion is contagious. When people see genuine kindness, it usually encourages more of it. In the future, I want my career to reflect that same kind of humanity. Studying Accounting and Business Analytics at Ball State University has shown me how often people become overwhelmed by systems they are simply expected to understand. Financial stress affects almost every part of someone’s life, yet many people are never taught how to confidently navigate those situations. I want to help make those spaces feel less intimidating and more accessible, especially for people who feel overlooked or discouraged. More than anything, I want people to feel seen, respected, and comfortable being themselves around me. I think the world would feel a lot different if more people focused less on appearing important and more on making other people feel valued. Most people will not remember every conversation they have in life, but they will remember how someone treated them during moments where they felt vulnerable, embarrassed, or out of place. That is the kind of impact I hope to leave behind.

For a long time, I thought struggling mentally was something you were supposed to hide until you figured out how to fix yourself. Silence can look a lot like strength when you grow up in environments where vulnerability feels unsafe. Growing up, mental health was not something openly discussed around me unless someone had “completely lost it.” Anything outside of that was usually minimized, joked about, prayed away, or kept private. Even within my own family, it felt like everyone was quietly fighting their own “demons,” yet those struggles were usually only discussed in negative ways or used to judge other people. There was this unspoken pressure to seem stronger, healthier, or more put together than everyone else around you. Because of that, coming to terms with my own mental health felt almost impossible at times. So when I started struggling with my own mental health, I convinced myself the best thing I could do was keep functioning normally and never let anyone fully see how bad things actually felt. From the outside, I probably looked fine most of the time. I still went to school. I still showed up to responsibilities. I still laughed around people and kept moving forward. Internally, though, there were periods where I felt constantly overwhelmed by anxiety, emotional exhaustion, self-hatred, and the pressure of trying to hold everything together all the time. At one point, those feelings became so overwhelming that I started harming myself. Looking back now, I do not think I always wanted to hurt myself as much as I wanted physical pain to distract me from everything happening internally. Eventually, what started as cutting became burning because in my mind it somehow felt “better,” even though it really was not. If anyone noticed the burns, I would usually blame them on work. Most people accepted the explanation. Or maybe they simply chose not to question it. The scariest part about that period of my life is how normal I learned to make it look. I became very good at appearing emotionally functional while privately struggling in ways almost nobody fully understood. I learned how to survive without ever really learning how to slow down. My grandfather’s suicide changed the way I understood pain completely. It made mental health feel both terrifying and deeply personal long before I fully understood my own struggles. Even during my own lowest moments, part of me kept thinking about what that kind of grief does to a family and how badly I did not want the people around me to experience that pain again because of me. In a strange way, I started living for other people before I really knew how to live for myself. I became so focused on not hurting the people around me that I barely understood my own emotions, choices, or sense of self anymore. Mental health also affected the way I viewed relationships. For a long time, I struggled with vulnerability because I genuinely believed needing support made me weak or burdensome. I spent so much time trying not to become a burden that I slowly started becoming invisible to myself too. I became someone who handled things privately, overanalyzed everything, and tried to make myself emotionally smaller so I would not inconvenience other people. But over time, I started realizing isolation only made things worse. My grandmother, Clara, was one of the first people who made me feel like healing did not have to be something I faced alone. Before she passed from breast cancer, she constantly encouraged me to lean into faith instead of self-destruction. Whenever I became overwhelmed, she would tell me to pray instead of hurting myself. At the time, I did not always fully believe that could help me, but her patience stayed with me. Even when I struggled to believe in myself, she never seemed to. Eventually, I started praying again. I picked my Bible back up. I started allowing myself to believe healing did not have to look perfect or immediate in order to still matter. My experiences with mental health changed the way I understand people completely. I think many people are quietly carrying far more pain than they allow others to see. Because of that, I pay attention differently now. I notice when someone suddenly becomes quieter, when someone jokes to avoid serious conversations, or when someone insists they are fine a little too quickly. I understand what it feels like to silently struggle while convincing everyone around you that everything is okay. That understanding shapes the way I move through the world now. Through volunteering, leadership, and everyday interactions, I try to create the kind of environment I once needed myself: one where people feel less judged, less invisible, and less ashamed for struggling. Mental health has also shaped my goals. As a first-generation African American student studying Accounting and Business Analytics at Ball State University, I want my future success to represent more than achievement alone. I want to help create environments, both professionally and personally, where people feel supported as human beings rather than pressured to constantly perform strength. For a long time, I thought healing meant becoming a completely different person. Now I think healing is learning how to remain soft, honest, and hopeful after experiencing versions of yourself you once thought would destroy you.

When I was younger, I used to think being “strong” meant becoming the kind of person who never needed anything from anybody. I think a lot of Black girls grow up with that mindset without even realizing it. You learn how to be dependable early. You learn how to keep things moving even when you are overwhelmed. You learn how to make hard situations look manageable because somewhere along the way, you start believing struggle only counts if people can visibly see it. For me, that mindset showed up in almost every part of my life. I am a first-generation African American college student studying Accounting and Business Analytics at Ball State University. Growing up, my siblings and I learned independence early because we had to. We learned how to solve problems ourselves, figure things out quietly, and adapt quickly whenever life became unstable financially or emotionally. Looking back now, I realize I spent a lot of time trying to appear “fine” instead of actually allowing myself to need support. That is part of why service became so personal to me. One of the biggest things I have learned through volunteering is that many people are not just carrying hardship. They are carrying embarrassment about the hardship. Through Cardinal Kitchen, I have worked around students dealing with food insecurity while still trying to maintain normal college life on the outside. Some students walk in joking around casually. Some avoid eye contact completely. Some apologize for taking food as if survival is something they should feel guilty for. I understood that feeling immediately because I know what it feels like to quietly struggle while hoping nobody notices. That experience changed the way I think about impact. I used to think making a difference had to involve doing something huge or revolutionary. Now I think some of the most meaningful forms of impact are much quieter than that. Sometimes impact is protecting someone’s dignity during a difficult moment. Sometimes it is remembering people deserve kindness even when they cannot offer anything back. I saw that same idea through College Mentors for Kids. Working with younger students reminded me how deeply people remember the way you make them feel. Kids do not care whether you sound impressive. They care whether you listen to them, encourage them, and make them feel important. I think adults forget that sometimes. As a Black woman pursuing higher education, I am also aware of how important representation is in leadership spaces. Growing up, I rarely saw women who looked like me in business, analytics, or leadership roles. When people do not see themselves reflected in certain spaces, they subconsciously start believing those spaces were not built for them. That is part of why I chose Accounting and Business Analytics. A lot of people hear those fields and think only about numbers, spreadsheets, or profit margins. What interests me more is understanding systems well enough to improve them for the people forced to navigate them every day. I want to help create environments that feel more accessible, people-centered, and equitable because I know how exhausting it feels to constantly adapt to spaces that were never fully designed with you in mind. I may never become the loudest person in the room, and honestly, I do not think I need to be. I think there is power in being the person who notices when others feel overlooked. The person who remembers what it feels like to struggle quietly. The person who still chooses softness, empathy, and community in a world that often rewards detachment instead.

For most of my life, people described me as “quiet” before they understood something deeper was happening. Selective mutism was never me just being shy or nervous sometimes. There were moments where I physically could not make myself speak no matter how badly I wanted to. Teachers would call on me in class and I could feel my chest tighten instantly. I would rehearse answers repeatedly in my head just to say absolutely nothing once everyone looked at me. Even asking to use the bathroom sometimes felt impossible, which sounds ridiculous until you are the one trying to force out a sentence everyone else says effortlessly. What frustrated me most was that people assumed silence meant comfort. In reality, I was constantly overthinking every interaction around me. As I got older, selective mutism was brought up informally and I was encouraged to pursue additional testing for a formal diagnosis. But mental health carried a lot of stigma around me, especially labels that made people seem unstable. Part of me felt scared that once there was an official diagnosis, people would stop seeing me as a person first and only see what was “wrong” with me. So I never fully went through with it, even though deep down I already knew my brain worked differently in social situations. The hardest part about selective mutism is how invisible it can look from the outside. Most people just saw a quiet student who stayed out of trouble. What they did not see was how exhausting it felt to constantly analyze whether I sounded awkward, embarrassing, annoying, or stupid before speaking. Sometimes I would spend an entire class period wanting to contribute something and then get angry at myself afterward for staying silent again. I used to envy people who could speak impulsively without replaying every word in their head first. To me, that almost felt like a superpower. Over time, I got better at masking it. I learned how to force myself through conversations, presentations, or social situations even when internally I felt panicked. But even now, I still notice how much selective mutism shaped the way I grew up. I became someone who observed people more than I spoke to them. I learned how to read rooms carefully because I spent so much time silently studying everyone else first. For a long time, I honestly thought my silence made me forgettable. Pursuing higher education at Ball State University as a first-generation college student became important to me partly because I refused to let fear completely decide the direction of my life. College forced me into situations younger me would have avoided entirely: networking, leadership positions, volunteering, group projects, and constantly meeting new people. None of those things magically became easy for me. I just became tired of allowing fear to have the final say in every decision I made. Ironically, selective mutism also gave me strengths I probably would not have developed otherwise. Because I spent so much time listening and observing, I became deeply aware of people’s emotions and the things they do not always say directly. I understand what it feels like to be underestimated or silently struggling while everyone assumes you are fine. Because of that, I pay attention differently now. I know how meaningful patience and kindness can feel to someone fighting battles internally that other people cannot immediately see. For a long time, I thought strength meant finally becoming fearless. Now I think strength is continuing to show up even when fear never fully leaves.

For a long time, I thought being a first-generation college student mostly meant figuring out paperwork, financial aid, or college terminology on your own. It does involve those things, but I eventually realized it is also a much stranger experience than that. It is sitting in rooms where everyone else seems to understand rules nobody ever explained to you while trying not to look like you are learning in real time. There have been moments in college where I felt embarrassingly aware of what I did not know. I remember hearing students casually mention internships their parents helped them secure, recruiters they already knew, or career advice they had apparently been hearing since high school. Meanwhile, I was the person quietly Googling terms afterward because I did not want to sound behind. Even networking felt strange to me at first. Other students walked into professional conversations confidently while I overthought whether I sounded smart enough to belong there at all. Nobody really talks about how exhausting it can feel to constantly translate environments you were never prepared to enter. At first, experiences like that made me feel out of place. Over time, though, I realized being first-generation forced me to develop strengths that cannot really be taught. Growing up, independence was never optional for me. My siblings and I learned early how to solve problems ourselves, adapt quickly, and keep moving even when we were unsure of what we were doing. I became comfortable figuring things out without guidance because most of the time, there was no one around who had already navigated the path I was trying to take. That mindset followed me into college in ways I did not fully notice at first. I became the kind of person who rarely asked for help because I was so used to figuring things out alone. Even when I felt overwhelmed academically or personally, part of me believed I was supposed to handle it quietly. I think many first-generation students carry that pressure without realizing it. You feel grateful for the opportunity to be there, but at the same time terrified of wasting it. Now, as a first-generation student studying Accounting and Business Analytics at Ball State University, I view education differently than I did growing up. At some point, education stopped feeling like just school and started feeling tied to stability. To choice. To whether my future would always revolve around surviving stressful situations or whether I could eventually build something more secure for myself and the people around me. What motivates me about business and analytics is not just numbers or profit margins. It is understanding systems well enough to improve them. Growing up, I saw how difficult life becomes when people are forced to navigate systems they do not fully understand or that were never designed with them in mind. That experience pushed me toward a career where I can combine analytical thinking with leadership to create environments that feel more accessible and human-centered. I think one of the biggest misconceptions about first-generation students is that resilience comes naturally to us. In reality, resilience is something many of us build because there is no alternative. You learn how to adapt because you have to. You learn how to keep moving even when you feel uncertain because stopping does not feel like an option. I may not have entered college with the same guidance, connections, or advantages as everyone around me, but I came with determination, adaptability, and the willingness to keep figuring things out anyway. In many ways, I think that has become my greatest strength.

Growing up, my siblings and I learned how to take care of ourselves earlier than most kids around us. We learned how to do our own hair, wash our own clothes, make food, and figure things out on our own because there was not really another option. My mom worked constantly, and for a long time, it honestly felt like we were raising ourselves more than anything else. As a child, I used to resent her for that. I remember feeling jealous of friends whose parents were always present for small things that seemed normal to them: helping with homework, sitting together for dinner regularly, or simply being home consistently. Sometimes living with my mom felt almost like living with a stranger because she was always working, exhausted, or trying to keep everything afloat financially. At that age, I did not fully understand why her absence felt unavoidable. I only understood that it hurt. As I got older, though, my perspective started changing. I began recognizing that her absence was not caused by a lack of love or care. It was one of the sacrifices she had to make to keep our lives stable. Rent still had to be paid. Groceries still had to be bought. Gas still had to go into the car. There was no second parent sharing those responsibilities with her. Looking back now, I honestly believe that if life had allowed her the opportunity to be more present while still keeping us financially secure, she would have taken it without hesitation. That realization changed the way I view both my mom and success itself. Growing up in a single-parent household forced me to become independent early, but it also taught me how much people can quietly sacrifice for the people they love. I saw firsthand what it looks like for someone to keep going even when they are exhausted, stressed, or overwhelmed because other people are depending on them. That work ethic stayed with me and shaped the way I approach my own goals today. As a first-generation college student pursuing Accounting and Business Analytics at Ball State University, there have been many moments where I questioned whether I was capable of handling everything in front of me. Balancing academics, leadership involvement, financial pressure, and personal struggles has not been easy. But whenever I feel overwhelmed, I think about the example my mom set. She taught me that strength is not always loud or inspiring. Sometimes it looks like waking up tired every day and continuing anyway because people are relying on you. Her sacrifices also shaped the kind of person I want to become. I do not want success to stop at financial stability for myself. I want to create a life where the people around me feel supported in ways my family sometimes struggled to experience. That mindset influences the way I approach leadership, volunteering, and the future career I hope to build. I want to use my education not just to succeed personally, but to create opportunities and stability for others too. I think one of the hardest parts about growing up in a single-parent household is realizing how much your parent carried without ever fully showing it. As a child, you mostly notice what is missing. As you grow older, you start noticing everything they gave up so you could still have a future. That understanding has shaped me more than any class, award, or accomplishment ever could.

Growing up, I learned pretty quickly how to read a room. Not in the dramatic way people talk about in movies, but in smaller ways. I could tell when someone was stressed before they admitted it. I noticed when adults were pretending things were okay financially even when they were clearly worried. I noticed when people were emotionally checked out even while physically present. And over time, I became good at doing the same thing myself. For a long time, that was my version of strength. As a first-generation African American college student, I spent years trying to balance ambition with survival without letting people fully see how difficult things sometimes felt behind the scenes. I dealt with financial stress, grief, mental health struggles, and feeling out of place in environments that did not always feel built for people like me. But most people around me probably would not have guessed that. I still showed up to class, stayed involved, worked, volunteered, and carried myself like everything was under control. The older I get, though, the more I realize my uniqueness comes from the fact that I stopped believing I had to hide every difficult part of myself in order to be respected. A lot of people are used to environments where everyone feels pressured to look successful, emotionally unaffected, or constantly confident. I think that pressure makes people feel disconnected from each other. Nobody wants to be the first person to admit they are overwhelmed, struggling, or unsure of themselves. Because I know what that feeling is like, I try very intentionally to be the kind of person who makes others feel safe enough to stop pretending for a second. That mindset influences the way I approach service and leadership. Through Cardinal Kitchen at Ball State University, I worked around students dealing with food insecurity and financial pressure while still trying to maintain normal college life on the outside. One thing that stayed with me was how many students seemed embarrassed needing help in the first place. I understood that feeling immediately. Sometimes the most important part of helping someone is making sure they still feel respected while receiving support. Through College Mentors for Kids, I also realized how much impact people can have without even noticing it at the time. Kids pay attention to everything. The way you speak to them, encourage them, listen to them, or simply show up consistently matters more than people think. I remember realizing that some children are not necessarily looking for someone perfect. They are looking for someone who makes them feel important. Dance Marathon reinforced that idea in another way. Watching students come together to support children and families facing medical hardships reminded me that human connection matters most during the moments people feel the most vulnerable. I think what makes me different is not that I have everything figured out. It is that I have learned how powerful authenticity can be in a world where so many people feel pressure to perform being okay all the time. Growing up, I spent a lot of time thinking strength meant becoming emotionally unreadable. Now I think real strength is allowing yourself to remain soft, honest, and compassionate even after life gives you reasons to close yourself off. I may never fully know who is watching me, but I hope the way I move through the world makes at least one person feel less alone, less invisible, or less afraid to be themselves. To me, that kind of impact matters more than any title, award, or accomplishment ever could.

Cancer changed my family long before it took my grandmother. It changed the atmosphere in rooms, the way conversations sounded, the way we hoped, and the way we feared losing hope at all. My grandmother, Clara, had battled breast cancer once before and won. For five years, everyone believed the hardest part was behind us. She rang the bell, we celebrated, and life slowly started feeling normal again. Then during the first semester of my junior year of college, the cancer came back. This time, it was different. This time, she would not ring the bell again. What made losing her especially difficult was the kind of person she was. Clara was genuinely one of the sweetest people I have ever known. She carried herself with patience, kindness, and a quiet faith that never felt forced. During high school, I struggled heavily with my mental health and my relationship with faith. There were periods where I felt angry, disconnected, and uncertain about God entirely. But she never judged me for that. She stayed patient with me even when I was frustrated with everything around me, including religion itself. She always told me that what is meant for me will be for me. Whenever I became overwhelmed or turned toward unhealthy coping mechanisms, she would tell me to pray instead of hurting myself. At the time, I did not always know how to fully accept those words. But after her cancer returned, I found myself praying more than I ever had before. I picked my Bible back up. I started talking to God again, even when I was unsure what I believed half the time. One of the hardest moments during that period was hearing her say she did not know if she wanted to go through chemotherapy again. The first time had already taken so much out of her physically and emotionally. Part of her was tired of fighting something so cruel all over again. At the same time, everyone around her desperately wanted her to try because we wanted more time with her. Ultimately, though, it was her choice. And despite everything she already knew the treatment would put her through, she chose to fight anyway. As her condition worsened, there came a point where she could barely speak anymore. She could only murmur or cry because she could no longer fully express herself. Watching someone so full of warmth and life slowly lose the ability to communicate was heartbreaking in a way I still struggle to describe. I remember questioning my faith all over again. How could someone so kind, someone fighting so hard to stay here, not get more time? But even during those moments, I knew she would not have wanted me to become consumed by anger or hopelessness. So I kept praying anyway. At some point, my prayers changed. Instead of desperately asking for her to stay no matter what, I began praying for peace. I prayed that if she had to go, she would go without pain. I prayed that she would leave this world surrounded by love instead of fear. Losing my grandmother taught me that faith is not always certainty. Sometimes faith is continuing to love, hope, and pray even when you do not fully understand why painful things happen. More than anything, Clara taught me that strength is not always loud. Sometimes it looks like remaining gentle in a world that gives you every reason not to be.

There was a period of my life when feeling overwhelmed never stayed emotional for long. Eventually, it became physical. For a long time, I did not really know how to handle stress in a healthy way. I became very good at looking functional on the outside while privately struggling in ways most people around me never noticed. I still went to class, stayed involved, and kept trying to meet expectations, but internally I felt like I was constantly carrying more than I knew how to process. Part of that pressure came from my family history. I lost my grandfather to suicide, and even though people do not always talk openly about how loss like that changes a family, it does. Afterward, mental health stopped feeling distant or abstract to me. It became something heavy and personal. As I got older and began struggling myself, there was always an additional layer of fear underneath it all. No matter how overwhelmed I became, I knew I never wanted the people I loved to experience that kind of loss again. At my lowest point, that overwhelm turned into self-harm. Cutting became a way to physically release emotions that I could not organize mentally. Looking back, I do not think it was ever truly about wanting pain. It was about wanting an outlet, control, or even temporary relief from feeling emotionally trapped inside my own head. Later, as my mindset slowly started changing and I began finding things in life I genuinely wanted to stay present for, that behavior shifted into burning myself instead. Even though it was still harmful, it reflected something important: part of me no longer wanted to destroy myself in the same way I once had. What makes mental health struggles difficult is that healing rarely happens in a straight line. People often talk about recovery as if someone suddenly decides to get better and everything changes overnight. For me, it happened gradually and imperfectly. Some days were better than others. Some coping mechanisms were healthier than others. But over time, I slowly learned how to sit with difficult emotions without turning them against myself physically. One of the biggest turning points was realizing how isolated I had made myself. I spent years believing that struggling meant I was weak or incapable. As a first-generation college student pursuing Accounting and Business Analytics at Ball State University, I constantly felt pressure to prove that I could handle everything independently. I thought resilience meant silently enduring stress no matter how heavy things became. In reality, that mindset only pushed me further away from the support I needed. Over time, I became more honest with myself and with people I trusted. I learned healthier ways to process stress, built stronger support systems, and started creating a life that felt worth protecting instead of escaping from. Today, I no longer harm myself at all. That sentence may sound simple, but for me it represents years of growth, setbacks, reflection, and perseverance that most people never saw happening quietly in the background of my life. I pay attention differently now. I understand how easy it is for someone to appear “fine” while privately fighting battles nobody else can see. Because of that, I care deeply about creating spaces where people feel safe being honest about what they are carrying instead of feeling pressured to hide it. Sometimes survival looks dramatic, but other times it looks quiet. Sometimes it looks like continuing forward long enough to believe healing is possible, even after convincing yourself for years that it was not.

One of the strangest things I learned in college is how good people are at pretending they are okay. You see it everywhere. Someone jokes about not eating all day because they are “too busy.” Someone disappears from class for two weeks and comes back acting normal. Someone says they are “just tired” when they are clearly overwhelmed. College campuses are full of students quietly trying to survive situations nobody else notices. That is part of why getting involved with Cardinal Kitchen at Ball State University became so important to me. Before joining, I honestly assumed food insecurity on college campuses looked obvious. I thought you could tell who was struggling. Instead, I met students who looked completely put together on the outside while privately stressing about affording groceries, balancing jobs, or figuring out how to make it through the week. What stuck with me most was realizing how many students felt embarrassed using resources that were created specifically to help them. As a first-generation college student studying Accounting and Business Analytics, that changed the way I think about both leadership and success. A lot of people hear “business” and immediately think profit, competition, or corporate environments. What interests me more is how systems affect people’s everyday lives. Behind every spreadsheet, budget decision, or resource allocation is a human outcome. Someone benefits from a system working well, and someone struggles when it does not. Working with Cardinal Kitchen made that feel real to me in a way no classroom ever could. One thing I especially care about is accessibility, not just financially, but socially. Resources only matter if people actually feel comfortable using them. I have seen students hesitate to ask for help because they think struggling means they are failing. I understand that mindset because I have felt it too. Being first-generation often feels like constantly trying to prove that you belong in spaces you were never fully taught how to navigate in the first place. That is why I want the work I do in the future to have a human impact, even if it starts in business or analytics. I want to help organizations operate in ways that are efficient without losing sight of the people behind the numbers. Too many systems are designed around performance metrics while ignoring the conditions people are expected to perform under. To me, service is not always about huge public actions. Sometimes it is smaller and quieter than that. Sometimes it looks like helping someone feel less alone, less embarrassed, or less invisible during a difficult time. I think Addie James Hamerter’s legacy reflects that kind of impact. Not everyone changes lives by standing at the center of attention. Some people change lives because they consistently choose to care when it would be easier not to. Receiving this scholarship would help ease some of the financial pressure that comes with pursuing my education, but more importantly, it would remind me that the kind of impact I hope to make actually matters. I do not want to succeed only for myself. I want the work I do, the leadership roles I take on, and the systems I help shape to leave people better than I found them.

The hardest part of my junior year was realizing that being “high-functioning” is not the same thing as actually being okay. For months, I was living in an environment that constantly made it difficult to focus, rest, or fully relax. There was an ongoing odor issue in my housing situation that became severe enough that I started structuring entire days around avoiding my own room. I would stay in academic buildings long after I finished studying, volunteer for extra campus activities, or sit in common areas just to delay going back. At first, I convinced myself it was manageable. I told myself that if I stayed disciplined enough, I could outwork the problem. Instead, I slowly started burning myself out. As a first-generation college student pursuing Accounting and Business Analytics, I already felt pressure to prove that I belonged in the spaces I had worked so hard to reach. Junior year especially felt high stakes because so many of my classes were directly connected to internships, graduation timelines, and future career opportunities. I did not want to be the student constantly asking for help or explaining why I was struggling. I thought resilience meant handling everything independently, even when things became overwhelming. So instead of addressing the situation early, I kept trying to quietly adapt around it. I bought air fresheners and sprays, spent most of my time studying outside my room, and pushed myself to keep performing normally even when I felt mentally exhausted. What surprised me most was how quickly a problem that sounded minor on paper started affecting every part of my life. Lack of rest made it harder to focus in class. Difficulty concentrating made assignments take twice as long. The constant stress slowly affected my confidence academically, especially in courses where falling behind even briefly can snowball into much bigger problems. Eventually, I realized I was spending more energy trying to survive my environment than actually learning. The turning point came when I finally stopped treating the situation like something I had to quietly tolerate. I reached out to housing staff, spoke more honestly with professors and advisors, and admitted to myself that struggling did not mean I was incapable. Some solutions worked temporarily, while others did not solve much at all, but the experience completely changed how I view ambition and perseverance. Before this year, I viewed ambition almost entirely as endurance. I believed successful people were simply better at pushing through discomfort than everyone else. Now I understand that real drive also requires adaptability, communication, and self-awareness. There is nothing ambitious about silently running yourself into the ground. The people who succeed long term are usually the ones who learn how to problem solve instead of pretending problems do not exist. That lesson also changed the way I interact with other students on campus. Being involved in organizations and leadership opportunities has made me more aware of how many students quietly deal with circumstances that affect their academic performance far beyond the classroom. Financial pressure, unstable living conditions, mental exhaustion, and the pressure of being first-generation are not always visible struggles, but they shape a student’s ability to succeed every day. I still have big goals for myself. I want to build a career where I can combine business, analytics, and leadership to create systems that genuinely help people. But junior year taught me something equally important: success is not measured by how well someone hides their struggles. Sometimes growth comes from learning how to face problems honestly, adapt, and continue moving forward anyway.

"Some things are in our control and others are not. Things in our control are opinion, pursuit, desire, aversion, and in word, whatever are our own actions. Things not in our control are body, reputation, command, and, in one word, whatever are not in our own actions." In this opening passage of the Enchiridion, Epictetus is not simply giving practical advice about staying calm. He is redefining what it means to be free. Beneath the simple division between what we control and what we do not lies a radical claim: most human suffering comes from confusing what belongs to us with what never did. Epictetus argues that freedom does not depend on circumstances, status, or security. It depends entirely on mastering the will. If we misunderstand this boundary, we guarantee our own frustration. The first sentence appears almost obvious: "Some things are in our control and others not." Its simplicity is intentional. There is no emotional language, no buildup, no explanation. The statements divides reality into two clean categories. This sharp structure mirrors the clarity Epictetus wants his reader to adopt. Before discussing virtue or tranquility, he begins with classification. Disorder in life, he suggests, begins with disorder in thought. The list that follows makes the argument more specific. What falls under our control are "opinion, pursuit, desire, aversion." Every item is internal. "Opinion" is placed first, which is significant. Our interpretation of events themselves but in the judgments we attach to them. If someone insults us, the insult is external. The belief that the insult harms our worth is internal. By placing opinion at the front of the list, Epictetus shifts responsibility inward. He challenges the common tendency to blame external circumstances for emotional pain. The second list is more surprising because it includes things most people naturally associate with identity and success: the body, reputation, and command. Epictetus deliberately removes these from the category of true ownership. Reputation depends entirely on the judgments of other people. The body can weaken through illness, injury, or age regardless of personal effort. Positions of authority can disappear through political change, bad luck, or shifting public opinion. By classifying these things as outside human control, Epictetus rejects the belief that stability can be achieved through external success. This idea forms the central meaning of the passage. Epictetus believes that people create their own misery by depending emotionally on unstable things. Someone who bases their happiness on reputation will constantly fear embarrassment or criticism. Someone who depends on power will fear losing it. Even physical beauty or health eventually become sources of anxiety because they cannot last forever. According to Epictetus, the more people attach their peace of mind to external conditions, the more vulnerable they become. The passage ultimately presents freedom as something internal rather than political or material. A person may have wealth, influence, and status while still being controlled by fear, anger, or desire. At the same time, someone with very little may remain mentally free if they have learned to govern their own thoughts and reactions. Epictetus argues that true independence comes not from controlling the world, but from controlling oneself. His philosophy forces the reader to confront an uncomfortable truth: much of human frustration comes from fighting battles that were impossible to win from the beginning. Even centuries later, the passage remains powerful because the problem Epictetus describes still exists. People continue to measure their worth through public approval, appearance, achievement, and social status. The desire to control how others see us often creates more anxiety than peace. Epictetus challenges this mindset completely. He argues that freedom begins only when people stop treating unstable external conditions as the foundation of their happiness. By separating what belongs to the self from what does not, he presents self-mastery as the only reliable path to peace.

My grandma Clara was not just my grandmother. She was my second mother, my safe place, and the light in our family. When my mom was trying to balance parenting and providing for us, Grandma Clara stepped in without hesitation. She ran a daycare, but it never felt like a business. It felt like an extension of her heart. Her home was always full of kids, laughter, food, and warmth. She had a way of making every child feel chosen. While my mom worked, Clara raised me in many ways. She braided my hair, corrected me when I was wrong, prayed over me, and loved me in a way that felt constant and unshakable. She was the kind of person who never let anyone see her down. Even when life felt heavy. she would turn to God instead of turning bitter. She believed hard times were seasons, not endings. That faith carried her through more than most people knew. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer the first time, it was terrifying. But she fought. She went through chemo, rang the bell, and we celebrated her recovery like we had won the lottery. We though the worst was behind us. Then freshman year of college, we got the news that the cancer was back. Chemo hit her harder this time. She hated how it made her fell, and we hated watching the strongest woman we knew slowly lose her energy. Our sunshine was starting to dim, and none of us was ready for that. By sophomore year, we were told the cancer had spread too far. The treatments were no longer working. She did not have long left. Even knowing that, she kept giving. She was still cooking for people, still baking. Still hosting small gatherings when she had the strength. Just weeks before she was hospitalized, she was surrounded by family, laughing and feeding everyone like she always had. Then suddenly she was in a hospitl bed, unable to form full sentences. The woman who once filled every room with her voice could only cry when she saw our faces and whisper words we could not quite understand. She did not want us to see her like that. And we did not want that to be our last memory of her. We chose to celebrate her while she was still here. We told stories. We prayed. we thanked her. That was the only thing that kept us from completely breaking. When she passed, I felt like my anchor was gone. My light left with her. It took everything in me not to take a break from school. Grief is heavy. It sits on your chest and makes even small tasks feel impossible. But I knew quitting, even temporarily, would not honor her. She believed in pushing forward. She believed that hard did not mean impossible. Losing her reshaped me. It taught me that strength is not loud. It is showing up when your heart is shattered. It is choosing discipline when you want to collapse. It is carrying someone's legacy through your actions. I continue my education not just for myself, but for her. Every exam I study for and every late night I push through is rooted in the foundation she built in me. Her love built me. Her faith steadied me. And her fight taught me that perseverance is not optional. It is necessary. Even if she is not physically there to watch me graduate, I will keep moving forward, carrying her with me the way she taught me to.

Some people serve in ways that are visible to the world. Others serve quietly, without headlines. Sgt. Albert Dono Ware did both. He chose to defend a country he called home, fully aware of the risks. He served with courage, and he paid the ultimate price. That kind of bravery forces you to ask yourself a difficult question: What am I willing to give for something greater than myself? I think about that question often. As a first-generation African American college student, I understand sacrifice not as a concept, but as a lived experience. My mother graduated from high school and stepped directly into responsibility. College was not an option she could realistically pursue because she had children to raise and bills to pay. She sacrificed opportunities so I could have them. Watching her work tirelessly, often without recognition, taught me that service is not glamorous. It is steady. It is consistent. It is love in action. Sgt. Ware's life represents service at a level that humbles me. He did not have to serve. He chose to. That choice matters. It speaks to commitment, to loyalty, and to a belief that protecting others is worth personal risk. His story inspires me because it reflects something powerful about the African diaspora in America: resilience, strength, and the willingness to build and defend spaces where we belong. Service, sacrifice, and bravery have shaped every major decision in my journey. As an undergraduate studying Accounting and Business Analytics, I am preparing for a career that offers stability and opportunity. But I do not view my degree as an individual achievement. I see it as a tool. A tool that can either serve only me or serve something larger. Sacrifice shows up in my daily choices. There are nights when balancing coursework, responsibilities, and community involvement feels overwhelming. There are moments when it would be easier to focus only on myself. But growth rarely comes from comfort. My family did not endure hardship for me to settle for convenience. They endured it so I could expand what is possible. Bravery, to me, is walking into spaces where people who look like me are underrepresented and refusing to shrink. It is raising my hand in rooms where confidence is not always encouraged in young Black students. It is believing that my voice belongs in conversations about finance, policy, and leadership. That belief did not come naturally. It was built over time, strengthened by examples of people like Sgt. Ware, who demonstrated courage beyond circumstance. The African diaspora in the United States continues to face systematic challenges that demand bold responses. Economic inequality remains one of the most pressing. The racial wealth gap is not accidental. It is the result of generations of exclusion from property ownership, capital access, and equitable policy. Education disparities further compound this issue. Many Black students attend underfunded schools that limit exposure to advanced coursework, financial literacy, and career pathways. Addressing these challenges requires both policy reform and community action. On a policy level, equitable school funding must be prioritized. No child's future should be determined by their zip code. Public education systems need consistent investment in qualified educators, updated materials, and access to technology. In addition, financial literacy should be a mandatory component of high school curricula nationwide. Students deserve practical knowledge about taxes, credit, budgeting, and entrepreneurship before they graduate. Economic reform must also include expanding fair lending practices and increasing access to small business capital in historically underserved communities. Financial institutions and policymakers share responsibility in dismantling barriers that limit wealth-building opportunities. At the community level, mentorship is critical. Representation in professional spaces changes trajectories. When young African American students see accountants, business owners, lawyers, and policymakers who share their background, aspiration becomes tangible. Community organizations, faith-based institutions, local nonprofits, and colleges must collaborate to create mentorship pipelines that begin early and remain consistent. With my degree, I want to host workshops that demystify taxes, credit, investing, and business formation. I want families to leave those spaces not intimidated by financial systems but equipped to navigate them confidently. Knowledge is power, but only when it is shared. Because of this, I would also love to mentor first-generation students in business-related fields. Sometimes the biggest barrier is not ability, but access to information. If I can shorten that learning curve for someone else, I will. Sgt. Ware's legacy reminds me that impact is not measured by comfort. It is measured by contribution. He demonstrated that service requires courage, and that courage sometimes demands sacrifice. While my path looks different, the principle remains the same. I want my education to protect and uplift my community in its own way. If awarded this scholarship, I would carry it as both an honor and an obligation. Honor, because it connects me to a legacy of service. Obligation, because support should multiply impact. I am not striving simply to succeed. I am striving to serve. Service built my foundation. Sacrifice shaped my perspective. Bravery fuels my ambition. I intend to live in a way that makes those values visible.

Being a first-generation African American college student means I am doing something that has never been done in my family before. I am not just earning a degree. I am creating a new standard. My mother graduated from high school and immediately stepped into adulthood. She had children to raise and responsibilities that made college feel out of reach. It was not about ability. It was about opportunity and timing. That story is common in many Black families, where financial pressure and limited resources make higher education feel like a luxury instead of an expectation. Now I attend college as an Accounting and Business Analytics major, and I carry that history with me every day. I think about the statistics that say only 29 percent of Black young adults earn a bachelor's degree. I think about how many talented students never make it this far because of financial barriers, underfunded schools, or a lack of guidance. I refuse to let those barriers define my future. My degree is bigger than personal achievement. It is about economic empowerment. In many African American communities, there is a gap in access to financial education. Families are trying to navigate taxes, credit systems, entrepreneurship, and investing without clear guidance. Mistakes can be costly, and misinformation can set people back for years. With a background in accounting, I plan to help close that gap. After graduation, I want to work in accounting while also creating financial literacy workshops in underserved communities. These workshops would focus on practical knowledge that directly impacts everyday life. I want to teach people how to file taxes correctly, how to start and structure a small business, how to build and protect credit, and how to make smart long-term financial decisions. When people understand how money works, they gain control over their future. I also plan to mentor first-generation African American students who are interested in business and finance. I know what it feels like to step into college without a roadmap. There is no inherited knowledge about internships, networking, or how to navigate corporate spaces. I had to learn by asking questions, making mistakes, and pushing myself into rooms that did not always feel made for me. I want to make that path clearer for the next student who comes after me. Volunteering has already shaped how I see leadership. Serving others showed me that change starts locally. It starts with showing up. It starts with using whatever skills you have to solve real problems. My education will give me technical expertise, but my community gives me purpose. This scholarship would not just ease financial pressure. It would allow me to focus more fully on internships, leadership opportunities, and community involvement without worrying about costs. It would be an investment in someone who is committed to reinvesting in others. I am not pursuing a degree simply to climb the ladder alone. I am pursuing it so I can reach back and pull others up with me. My goal is not to leave my community behind. It is to return stronger, more informed, and ready to create real change. I deserve this scholarship because I am building more than a career. I am building access, opportunity, and impact for the people who come after me.

Growing up, I learned early that education is not just about earning a degree, but about creating opportunities for stability, growth, and service. As a student at Ball State University, pursuing a degree in accounting, I see higher education as a pathway to both personal development and the ability to make a meaningful impact on my community. Attending Ball State has allowed me to stay connected to the Muncie area while working toward goals that extend far beyond myself. I chose to pursue higher education because I value independence, accountability, and long-term growth. College has challenged me to think critically, manage my time effectively, and step outside of my comfort zone. As an accounting student, I have learned that attention to detail, ethical decision making, and consistency matter not only in the classroom but also in real world situations. These lessons have shaped the way I approach both my academic work and my personal responsibilities. I am motivated by the idea that the skills I am developing now will allow me to contribute to organizations and individuals who rely on accuracy and trust. My long-term goal is to build a career in accounting where I can apply my skills in a way that supports informed decision making and financial stability. I am especially interested in work that allows me to help businesses or individuals understand their financial information clearly and confidently. Whether that is through corporate accounting, public accounting, or another professional path, I hope to work in a role where integrity and impact are prioritized. I also plan to continue developing my skills beyond graduation through certifications and professional growth opportunities. Being a student comes with financial pressures that extend beyond tuition alone. Balancing coursework, living expenses, and professional development opportunities can be challenging, especially while trying to fully engage in internships, campus involvement, and academic success. Receiving the Bonita J. Gribble Memorial Scholarship would help ease that financial burden and allow me to focus more fully on my education and career preparation. This support would give me the ability to invest more time into my studies and professional development without the constant stress of financial limitations. This scholarship holds special meaning because of its connection to the Muncie community and Ball State University. Knowing that it honors the life of someone who was deeply rooted in this area makes it even more impactful. I am proud to be pursuing my education at Ball State and to be part of a community that believes in supporting students as they work toward a better future. With ambition, drive, and a strong sense of purpose, I am committed to making the most of my education. This scholarship would not only support my academic journey, but also reinforce my determination to give back through meaningful, ethical, and impactful work.

"Imagine human beings living in an underground cave, with their legs and necks chained so that they cannot move, unable to see anything except the wall of the cave in front of them. Behind them is a fire burning, and between the fire and the prisoners is a raised walkway. People outside the cave walk along this walkway carrying objects that cast shadows on the wall of the cave. The prisoners perceive these shadows as reality, unaware of the objects or the world outside." Plato’s allegory of the cave, found in The Republic, remains one of the most profound philosophical metaphors about knowledge and reality. The story describes prisoners chained inside a dark cave who can only see shadows cast on a wall by objects behind them. These shadows become their only understanding of reality. The allegory illustrates the human condition of ignorance, how people often accept superficial appearances as truth and remain trapped within limited perceptions. At its core, the allegory teaches that true knowledge requires breaking free from these confines and confronting deeper, sometimes uncomfortable realities beyond mere appearances. The cave itself symbolizes a state of ignorance and limited awareness. The prisoners are chained so they cannot turn their heads; their reality is defined solely by the shadows projected before them. This captures the way humans can be prisoners of their own limited perspectives, constrained by cultural conditioning, personal biases, or incomplete information. The shadows represent distorted reflections of reality, mere illusions that people mistake for the whole truth. This condition is tragically common, as many live their entire lives accepting what is familiar or presented to them without critical examination. The fire behind the prisoners plays a crucial role, as it casts the shadows they see. This fire can be understood as the sources of information and influences we rely on daily: media outlets, societal narratives, traditions, or even peer opinions. These sources often filter and manipulate reality, providing incomplete or misleading impressions, much like the distorted shadows on the cave wall. The allegory suggests that without awareness of this filtering, people risk mistaking shadows for truth, perpetuating ignorance. Plato’s allegory also emphasizes the transformative power of education and enlightenment. The prisoner who is freed and forced to leave the cave undergoes a painful process of adjustment. Initially blinded by the sunlight outside, the symbol of truth and knowledge, the prisoner gradually acclimates and begins to see the world as it truly is. This journey captures the difficult, often uncomfortable nature of genuine learning. Acquiring true knowledge is not a passive experience but an active struggle to confront and move beyond falsehoods. Furthermore, the freed prisoner’s return to the cave to help others illustrates the moral responsibility of those who gain insight to guide others still trapped in ignorance, despite resistance or misunderstanding. In modern society, Plato’s allegory resonates deeply. The shadows on the cave wall can be likened to the “echo chambers” and algorithm-driven bubbles of social media. Platforms designed to maximize engagement often expose users to content that reinforces their existing beliefs, limiting exposure to diverse viewpoints. This digital environment can trap individuals in a modern cave, where the shadows are personalized misinformation or selective truths. Just as the prisoners mistake shadows for reality, many today struggle to discern fact from distortion amid an overwhelming flood of information. Moreover, the allegory’s chains symbolize the psychological and societal constraints people face. Everyone harbors unconscious biases, cognitive dissonance, or social pressures that prevent critical questioning. These invisible chains make it difficult to break free and challenge deeply held assumptions. The allegory underscores the courage required to confront uncomfortable truths and the effort needed to overcome intellectual inertia. In this context, education should aim not merely to transfer knowledge but to foster critical thinking skills that empower students to identify and break their own chains. On a personal level, the allegory of the cave reflects the journey of self-awareness and authenticity. Many people live with illusions about themselves or the world, comforting but false narratives that shield them from difficult realities. The sunlight outside the cave symbolizes not only intellectual enlightenment but also an awakening of the soul. This metaphor aligns with various spiritual traditions that emphasize awakening as a process of shedding illusions to connect with a deeper truth. In this way, Plato’s allegory transcends philosophy to touch on universal human experiences of growth and transformation. The allegory also challenges modern relativistic perspectives on truth. In an era where “truth” is often seen as subjective or multiple truths are accepted simultaneously, Plato’s metaphor calls attention to the pursuit of objective reality. It reminds us that while perspectives may vary, there exists a deeper truth that demands rigorous effort to uncover. This pursuit is neither easy nor comfortable, but it is necessary to escape the shadows of ignorance. Finally, the allegory speaks to the ethics of leadership and social responsibility. The freed prisoner who returns to the cave embodies the ideal of the philosopher-king, someone who having seen the truth takes on the burden of educating others. This message is timeless. Those who gain insight have a duty to help their communities overcome ignorance and injustice, even when faced with hostility or skepticism. The allegory thus inspires patience, empathy, and perseverance in the quest for social progress. In conclusion, Plato’s allegory of the cave reveals the fundamental human challenge of discerning reality beyond appearances. It calls us to question our assumptions, seek knowledge courageously, and embrace the transformative journey from ignorance to enlightenment. The shadows on the wall are not just ancient metaphorical images but warnings for today’s society, urging vigilance against accepting shallow narratives and encouraging active pursuit of truth. The world outside the cave, though often difficult and blinding at first, offers genuine understanding and freedom, the ultimate human aspiration.

In my community, mental health was rarely talked about unless someone was already in crisis. Not because we didn’t care, but because we were taught to survive first and feel later. When I started struggling with anxiety in college, I finally understood how isolating it is to need help but not know where to turn. Therapy felt like a resource reserved for people with money, access, and time — three things I’ve often lacked. That’s exactly what I want to change. As a Business Analytics and Information Systems student, I want to build a digital platform specifically for BIPOC youth that connects them to affordable, culturally competent mental health resources. But I also want to incorporate what helped me cope when therapy wasn’t accessible: creative expression. Through journal prompts, visual art, poetry, and audio stories, users will be able to share their experiences anonymously, find connection through creativity, and learn to express their pain in a space that feels safe and stigma-free. Mental health care should not feel like a luxury item. It should be visible, affordable, and rooted in empathy. We need systems that reflect us, speak our language, and meet us where we are. I want to build that system, not just with code but with compassion. Everyone deserves to be seen, heard, and helped. And I’m determined to make that possible for as many people as I can. With this scholarship, I will turn lived experience into lasting impact.

I didn’t grow up dreaming of sales or marketing. I grew up watching my mom figure out how to stretch a dollar just far enough to keep the lights on, dinner on the table, and hope in the room. What I didn’t realize then was that she was showing me the core of great business. It is about resourcefulness, empathy, and storytelling. That is what sales and marketing really are: the ability to meet people where they are, understand what they need, and find creative, honest ways to deliver it. As an Accounting and Business Analytics major with a minor in Information Systems, I’ve learned to look at numbers, trends, and patterns. But what truly excites me is when those patterns tell a story. That story helps businesses make smarter decisions, connect better with their customers, and ultimately create value that matters. I’m not chasing sales just for the sake of making a profit. I am pursuing this path because I want to be part of building trust, solving problems, and creating human-centered strategies that actually improve lives. My interest in business started with watching how small local shops in my hometown operated. These weren’t large corporations. They were families. The ones that succeeded weren’t just selling the cheapest products. They knew how to talk to people, how to show value, and how to build relationships. I started volunteering to help some of them organize basic inventory and track costs using spreadsheets. Eventually, I helped one redesign their social media to boost foot traffic. That small experience sparked something bigger in me. What drives me now is the belief that behind every product or service is a story waiting to be told. Telling that story well, honestly, creatively, and strategically, is what separates a good business from a great one. I want to be the person who helps organizations not only sell more, but connect more. Whether it is through digital campaigns, client relationship building, or branding strategies, I want my work to mean something deeper than just numbers on a chart. Learning about Neal Hartl's legacy deeply resonated with me. His ability to connect with people, to be both passionate and effective, and to leave a mark through his work is the exact kind of professional I aspire to become. It is clear that he didn’t just succeed because he could sell. He succeeded because he cared, and people could feel that. I want to carry that same spirit into my career by using my education not just to hit targets, but to build real relationships that last. This scholarship would allow me to continue my education without the constant financial pressure pulling at my focus. More than that, it would be a vote of confidence in my belief that business should always start and end with people. I am not just learning how to market a product. I am learning how to market with purpose, with empathy, and with results that reflect both. Thank you for considering my application. I am ready to take everything I have learned, inside the classroom and out, and turn it into something meaningful.

My name is Devaney Wooten, and I am an undergraduate student double-majoring in Accounting and Business Analytics with a minor in Information Systems. I’m writing this from a place of deep vulnerability and relentless determination. As a first-generation college student from a single-parent household, I’ve learned early what it means to carry dreams not just for myself but for my entire family. My mother has given everything to ensure I had a chance at a future she could only imagine. Growing up, we didn’t always have a lot. What we lacked in money, we made up for in heart. Watching my mom work long hours while still managing to show up for me in every way possible taught me one of life’s most valuable lessons. True success is not measured in titles or bank accounts. It is measured in perseverance, character, and purpose. College, for me, is not just about a degree. It is about breaking cycles. It is about paving a new road for my younger relatives and proving to myself that I am capable of overcoming every barrier that society said would stop me. I am determined, but I have also had to face the financial reality of higher education. Every semester becomes a race. I am constantly balancing deadlines, exams, tuition bills, and financial stress. I have scraped together scholarships, worked jobs between classes, and still worry that my funding will not last through graduation. When I read about Kalia D. Davis, something inside me paused. Her story is not just heartbreaking. It is familiar. She reminded me of the kind of person I strive to be, someone who works hard, leads with grace, and lifts others up while pursuing her goals. Kalia was not just a high achiever. She showed up for her community, her family, and her future. The way she balanced academics, leadership, service, and work-study, all while preparing to serve her country, left me deeply moved. Kalia’s story challenged me. It made me reflect on why I keep pushing forward, even when I feel overwhelmed or exhausted. People like Kalia did not wait for perfect conditions. They gave their all with what they had. Receiving this scholarship in her name would not only ease my financial burden. It would remind me to keep living with compassion, courage, and purpose, just as she did. I have participated in community service projects such as food drives, youth mentorship, and neighborhood clean-up events. I played sports in high school, not just for competition but to learn discipline, resilience, and teamwork. These are the same values I apply to my academic and personal life today. I currently hold a GPA above 3.0 and plan to use my degree to help organizations make ethical financial decisions, especially to serve underrepresented communities. This scholarship would allow me to finish strong and honor the sacrifices my family has made. Most importantly, it would help me carry forward a legacy that deserves to live on, not just in memory, but through meaningful action. Thank you for considering my application. I do not just want to succeed. I want to make a lasting impact. And with your help, I will.

I’ve never had the luxury of convenience. I don’t drive, so something as simple as volunteering becomes a puzzle of bus routes, walking in the rain, or depending on someone else’s schedule. But I still show up. Every food drive I help unload, every child I help with homework, every time I stand in a food bank sorting canned goods, I’m not there because it’s easy. I’m there because I need to be. Because it matters. I’m a first-generation African American college student majoring in accounting. I chose this field because I’ve seen the impact that financial literacy, or the lack of it, can have on families like mine. Numbers aren’t just numbers to me. They represent stability, opportunity, and freedom. I want to become someone who not only understands how money moves, but who can help others build futures they didn’t think were possible. College hasn’t been a smooth path. Without the financial cushion that many of my peers have, I’ve had to be careful and creative to stay afloat. I juggle classes with volunteer work and personal responsibilities. That means sacrificing sleep, small joys, and often my social life just to keep up. What makes this especially hard is that I genuinely love people. I enjoy listening to stories, learning about others, and forming connections. But I’ve never really had the time or resources to experience that part of college. My energy goes into getting to class, studying hard, and showing up for my community. Education and service have always come first. It’s tough feeling like you’re missing out on what should be “the best years of your life.” But I’ve learned to find fulfillment in other ways, through the smiles of kids I tutor, the thank-yous from families at the food bank, and the quiet pride that comes from knowing I didn’t quit, even when things were hard. I’ve always believed that if I work hard and stay kind, doors will eventually open. Still, being a student of color in a field like accounting can feel isolating. There are times I’ve looked around classrooms and didn’t see anyone who looked like me. That’s why representation matters so much. That’s why scholarships like this matter. You’re not just investing in one student. You’re helping shape the future of a field that needs more diverse voices, more lived experiences, and more heart. If awarded this scholarship, I won’t take it lightly. I’ll carry it with me into every lecture, every late-night study session, every moment where I feel like giving up but choose not to. I’ll continue serving my community, even when getting there isn’t easy. And one day, I’ll be in a position where I can help students like me, those with big dreams, limited resources, and the grit to keep going. Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I hope you see in me not just a worthy candidate, but someone who is ready to make this opportunity count, someone who’s been waiting for a door to open so I can walk through it and pull others with me.

Being a first-generation college student of mixed heritage, with African American and white roots, has deeply influenced how I see the world and my place in it. My major in Accounting and Business Analytics, along with my minor in Information Systems, reflects a balance of logic, curiosity, and the desire to create real, measurable change. But my goals go beyond academics. They are grounded in the experiences that shaped me, growing up in a household where money was tight, support was stretched thin, and every small success had to be earned through persistence. I was raised by a single mother who had to start working right after high school to support her family. She had children soon after graduating, and college wasn’t an option for her. Despite the challenges she faced, she never stopped showing up for me. I watched her skip meals, work extra hours, and still find the time to remind me that I was capable of more. While she never had the chance to go to college, she gave me the motivation to pursue my education. Her strength taught me that success doesn’t come from having it easy. It comes from learning to rise in spite of everything working against you. That upbringing is what led me to pursue a career in accounting. To some, it may seem like a field of numbers and spreadsheets. To me, it represents a path toward empowerment. I want to become a Certified Public Accountant who helps underrepresented communities and small business owners, especially those in Black and brown communities, make smart, data-driven decisions that protect their dreams and futures. I want to use what I learn to help people who are often overlooked or underestimated gain the tools they need to succeed. Throughout my college journey, I’ve faced challenges that many others never have to think about. I’ve had to decide between paying for class materials or essentials like groceries. I’ve passed up on career-building opportunities because I couldn’t afford the cost of getting there. I’ve juggled part-time jobs with full-time classes, often pushing through exhaustion just to stay afloat. These obstacles don’t define me, but they have shaped the kind of person and professional I am becoming, one who doesn’t give up, no matter what. Receiving this scholarship would relieve some of the financial weight that makes each step forward more difficult than it has to be. It would give me the space to focus fully on my studies and career goals, rather than the stress of how to cover the next unexpected cost. Most of all, it would represent belief, not just in me, but in what I’m trying to build. I don’t want to just graduate. I want to change what success looks like for students who come from backgrounds like mine. I want to show that no matter your starting point, you can move forward with purpose. My vision is to create a future where more students of color, more young women, and more people from overlooked communities feel seen, supported, and financially empowered. I want to be the reason someone else believes it is possible.

As a first-generation African American college student majoring in Accounting and Business Analytics with a minor in Information Systems, I’ve had to figure out most of my path on my own. My family has always supported me emotionally, but when it came to navigating college, I had to learn by doing. From applying for financial aid to managing course schedules and finding internships, every step has been a new experience. One of the biggest challenges I’ve faced is the financial pressure that comes with higher education. While I didn’t have to pay for the SAT or ACT themselves, I did have to purchase study materials to feel prepared. Once I started college, I realized those expenses were just the beginning. Textbooks, software, housing, and even basic school supplies add up quickly when you’re trying to make every dollar count. Transportation has also been a much bigger hurdle than I expected. I thought not "wanting" to drive would help save my family money by avoiding costs like gas, insurance, and possibly car payments. But that decision ended up creating more stress than I could have imagined. I live in an area without reliable public transit, and there are few sidewalks, so biking isn’t really an option either. I remember missing a networking event I had been excited about because I couldn’t find a ride and didn’t have the money to pay for an Uber. That moment stuck with me, not just because I missed an opportunity, but because it reminded me how easily small barriers can add up and hold you back. Receiving this scholarship would lift some of that weight. It would give me more freedom to focus on my studies and prepare for the CPA exam without constantly worrying about how I’ll cover the next unexpected cost. It would also open the door for me to take on internships and professional development opportunities that sometimes feel out of reach financially. My long-term goal is to use my skills in accounting and analytics to support Black-owned businesses and underserved communities. I want to help small businesses make data-driven financial decisions that lead to growth and sustainability. I also plan to create mentorship programs and offer free financial literacy workshops for students who are walking the same path I’m on now. I want my journey to be more than personal success. I want it to be a blueprint. I am not just working for my own future. I am building a path for others to follow.

I didn’t grow up knowing what a healthy relationship looked like, so when I entered my first serious one, I didn’t recognize the warning signs. The yelling, the harsh words disguised as jokes, the “playful” threats like being told I might get slapped if I didn’t shut up all made me feel uneasy, but I didn’t have the words to call it abuse. He told me I was overreacting, that I was too sensitive, and that I couldn’t take a joke. Over time, I started to believe him. It was confusing. I found myself constantly second-guessing everything I said or did. I walked on eggshells, trying to avoid setting him off. I didn’t realize how much of myself I was losing until I no longer recognized who I was. I felt trapped. The relationship didn’t just hurt emotionally; it made me feel invisible. My feelings didn’t seem to matter, and eventually, I began to believe that I didn’t matter. With the help of friends and some counseling, I found the strength to leave. That experience changed me. It opened my eyes to how many women go through the same thing and never speak about it, especially in the Black community. Too often, we are expected to be strong no matter what. But I’ve learned that strength isn’t about staying silent. Sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is ask for help and walk away from what is hurting you. I am currently majoring in accounting, and for a while, I wondered if that limited how I could help others. But the more I’ve learned, the more I’ve seen how powerful financial independence can be. Many women stay in abusive relationships simply because they can’t afford to leave. Money becomes a trap. That’s why I want to use my degree to teach women how to manage their finances and build secure, independent lives. After graduation, I plan to volunteer with local shelters and community centers to offer free financial literacy workshops. I want to teach budgeting, saving, credit building, and financial planning. These skills may seem simple, but they can give survivors the confidence and ability to start fresh. I want women to feel in control of their futures again. What I went through was painful, but it gave me a purpose. I want to be a source of encouragement for other young women who are going through something similar. I want them to know that they are not overreacting, they are not too sensitive, and they are not alone. Receiving this scholarship would not only help me continue my education, but it would also allow me to carry on the legacy of Linda Hicks. Like Linda, I want to live a life of service, compassion, and strength. I want to turn my past into something that helps others heal and move forward.

Growing up in a single-parent, low-income household meant learning resilience from a young age. There was always a quiet but heavy pressure to succeed, not just for myself but for the future of my family. I am the first person in my household to even attempt going to college, and with that comes a deep sense of responsibility. There is no financial safety net. I cannot ask my family for help because they are already doing everything they can just to keep the lights on and food on the table. When times were rough, I did not have the option of giving up. That would have only made things harder for my family, both emotionally and financially. I knew I had to keep going, even when I felt overwhelmed or exhausted. So I did. I work part-time while studying full-time, and I have learned how to manage my time, plan ahead, and push through even the hardest moments. Through it all, I have held on to my belief that education is my way forward. I also try to lift others as I climb. I help mentor younger students in my community and encourage them to dream big, even when their circumstances feel limiting. I want to use my experience to make a difference in the lives of people like me, those who are told that success is out of reach because of where they come from. This scholarship would be more than financial help. It would be a vote of confidence in everything I am working for. I plan to use my education to give back, to build opportunity, and to create a path that others can walk with hope.

As a Black undergraduate student majoring in accounting and business analytics, I am keenly aware of the racial disparities in business and finance. I have witnessed firsthand how the lack of representation in leadership roles discourages many young Black people from pursuing careers in business. However, I refuse to let these challenges define my future. Instead, I am committed to using my education to pave the way for greater representation and success for Black people in the business world. The underrepresentation of Black individuals in decision-making roles in business is not just a matter of diversity. It is an issue of access and opportunity. Throughout my academic journey, I have been motivated by the desire to see more people who look like me in positions of power, influence, and leadership. It is my belief that by breaking barriers in business, we can create a ripple effect that not only empowers individuals but also improves industries by diversifying the perspectives that shape their direction. My passion for business stems from personal experiences growing up in a community where access to financial education was limited. I saw so many people struggle with managing their finances and securing opportunities simply because they were never taught the skills to succeed. This gap in knowledge and access is what drives me to pursue business and accounting, as I see these fields as essential for creating change. I know that education in finance and business administration can help individuals unlock financial freedom and opportunities, not just for themselves but for their families and communities as well. Once I complete my degree, my goal is to help diversify the business world by creating mentorship programs that connect young Black students with business professionals. By providing guidance, resources, and networking opportunities, I hope to show these students that there is a place for them in business and finance. Representation is critical. When students see successful Black professionals in these spaces, they are more likely to believe that they, too, can achieve their goals. I also plan to work on creating initiatives within the business world that focus on supporting Black entrepreneurs and business owners. Many entrepreneurs from marginalized communities face an uphill battle when it comes to securing funding, resources, and opportunities. By collaborating with financial institutions and businesses, I hope to develop programs that provide access to capital, networking, and mentorship for Black business owners. This is essential for creating long-term success and sustainability for Black-owned businesses and increasing economic mobility within our communities. This scholarship will help me take one step closer to fulfilling this mission. With the support of this award, I will continue to pursue my degree with the knowledge that I am not just working toward my personal success but also laying the foundation for future generations of Black leaders in the business world. I am determined to be part of the movement that ensures that Black people can enter, thrive in, and lead within the business world, thereby shaping a future that is more inclusive and equitable for all.

I am a Black woman who has always been motivated by the desire to make a meaningful difference in the world. From a young age, I saw the struggles many people in my community face, particularly women of color, in accessing the resources and opportunities they deserve. These struggles fueled my determination to not only succeed but to bring others along with me as I make progress in my journey. As an incoming undergraduate student pursuing an accounting major, I know that the path ahead will not be easy. There are financial challenges, societal expectations, and the weight of being a first-generation college student, but none of these obstacles will stop me. I am committed to making a positive impact in my community and the world by helping those who face barriers like the ones I have experienced. Growing up, I witnessed how limited access to financial education can trap families in cycles of poverty. I watched my own family face hardships that could have been mitigated with the right resources, support, and knowledge about managing money. This personal experience made me realize that financial literacy is an incredibly powerful tool for breaking barriers and creating opportunities. It became clear to me that if I could master the skills of accounting and financial management, I would be able to help others escape the constraints that financial ignorance often imposes. This scholarship, in memory of Michele L. Durant, resonates deeply with me because it emphasizes the importance of education in creating change. Like Michele, I understand the significance of lifelong learning. I am committed to using my education not just for my personal success but also to uplift my community. I want to teach others the vital skills they need to manage their finances, improve their economic standing, and ultimately gain greater control over their lives. Through financial literacy workshops, mentoring programs, and community outreach, I plan to empower people, particularly young women and families, with the tools they need to overcome the financial hurdles that have long held them back. I believe that when we understand how to manage our money, we gain the freedom to make better choices, pursue new opportunities, and change our futures. Additionally, as I advance in my education and career, I want to advocate for more opportunities for Black women in leadership roles. The barriers that women of color face, especially in higher-paying and high-status careers, are real. I am determined to break down these barriers, not just for myself, but for the generations that will follow me. I want to be a voice that pushes for equity and representation in all sectors, particularly in finance and business. Michele L. Durant’s life and legacy as a dedicated student and a trailblazer in her field are a powerful reminder of what is possible through perseverance and education. Her story motivates me to continue pursuing my dreams, to push through the challenges, and to give back to those who need support. This scholarship would not only help me continue my education but also allow me to expand my impact, ensuring that I can make a tangible difference in my community and beyond.

I am an accounting major with a passion for numbers, problem-solving, and making a real difference in the world. Growing up in a household where financial literacy wasn’t emphasized, I was often confused by the complexities of money, taxes, and budgeting. But instead of feeling limited, I became driven to understand these concepts deeply, to not only help my family manage but also to empower others to do the same. This drive to understand financial systems has shaped my journey toward STEM and fuels my ambition to contribute to the field of accounting with a focus on innovation and efficiency. I realized the importance of this field when I took my first economics class in high school. The teacher introduced us to real-world financial models and concepts that I had never been exposed to before. It was like a light bulb went off. I understood immediately that understanding these systems was key to making informed decisions in both business and personal finance. As someone from a family with limited financial education, I saw firsthand the impact that a lack of understanding could have on individuals and communities. That was the moment I decided to pursue accounting. However, as I continued my education, I also realized that the financial sector is dominated by a male majority. I often found myself as one of the only women in the room, particularly in advanced courses and discussions about business and finance. While this was initially intimidating, it also fueled my desire to push through the barriers and prove that women can excel in these spaces. I have always believed that diversity of thought and experience strengthens any field, and I am determined to contribute my perspective to the world of accounting, both in academia and in the workplace. Being a woman in a male-dominated field comes with challenges, but I see it as an opportunity to break stereotypes and inspire other women to pursue their passions, no matter how unconventional they may seem. I am passionate about breaking down the barriers that women, especially women from historically underrepresented backgrounds, face in STEM. In a field like accounting, where precision, critical thinking, and problem-solving are essential, I want to be a role model to others who may not see themselves reflected in the numbers they work with. I want to show them that they, too, can succeed in this field. This scholarship is a step toward making that dream a reality. By supporting my education, it will allow me to continue my journey and pursue a career where I can combine my passion for problem-solving with my desire to impact businesses and communities positively. I am committed to not only breaking barriers for myself but also to paving the way for the women who will come after me. I want to use my education and experience to contribute to a more equitable future, where women are equally represented in all fields of STEM, including accounting.

There is one problem that has consumed my thoughts and drives my actions every day: access to quality education for underrepresented communities. Growing up in a low-income, single-parent household, I saw how difficult it was to pursue higher education when you lack the resources and support that many others take for granted. My family struggled to cover basic expenses, let alone the rising costs of tuition, textbooks, and fees. While I understood that my education was the key to a better future, I also knew that for many people like me, it often felt out of reach. It was during high school that I truly understood the depth of this issue. I was part of a mentoring program that aimed to help students from low-income families prepare for college. I watched as the dreams of my peers began to fade because they faced overwhelming barriers: lack of financial resources, no guidance on how to navigate the application process, and no one in their lives who had attended college to guide them. It became clear to me that the system was not designed for students like them to succeed. I realized that too many talented students were being left behind simply because they didn’t have the support they needed. The problem goes beyond just financial barriers. It is about a lack of mentorship, resources, and access to knowledge. This gap in opportunity has long-lasting effects, perpetuating cycles of poverty and limiting social mobility. This realization ignited a passion in me to solve this problem. I am determined to create pathways for students who face these challenges. Students who, like me, deserve a chance at higher education but need more than just financial aid to succeed. I want to use technology and community-based resources to build mentorship programs, affordable educational tools, and resources that will empower students to successfully navigate the college application process. By combining my background in business with a passion for problem-solving, I aim to create scalable solutions that provide equal opportunities for students in underserved communities. I envision developing an online platform that connects high school students with mentors, resources, and workshops that guide them through every step of the process: from researching colleges and applying for scholarships to preparing for college life. My goal is to be part of a movement that helps students break through the systemic barriers that have historically held them back. The first time I realized how important this issue was when I saw my peers lose confidence in their dreams. I saw potential wasted because they didn’t have the tools or support to move forward. That moment strengthened my determination to make a difference. I am driven not only by my own desire to succeed but also by the opportunity to help others rise. This scholarship would allow me to continue my education and further my mission to empower students to reach their full potential. I am committed to making a tangible impact and ensuring that future generations of underrepresented students have the resources and support they need to succeed.

Being a first-generation college student has shaped every part of who I am. In my family, college was never seen as a real option. Most days were about surviving, not dreaming. But I chose to believe in something more. I chose to believe in myself, even when no one around me had walked this path before. What makes me different is that I carry that belief with pride, and I use it to support others who may not yet see their own potential. I come from a single-parent, low-income household where financial struggles were a constant part of life. Asking my family for help was never realistic because they were already doing everything they could just to stay afloat. Still, giving up was never something I allowed myself to consider. I knew that if I stopped, the weight would fall even heavier on the people I love. So, I kept going. I balanced school with work, stretched every dollar, and held tightly to my goals, even when everything around me said it would be easier to quit. What truly sets me apart is how I respond to struggle. I do not hide where I come from, and I do not try to blend in to feel accepted. I lead with the strength of my story, and I share it openly because I know someone is always listening. Even if they never tell me. Even if I never meet them. I know there is a younger version of me out there watching someone like me do what they were told was impossible. That is why I keep going. At Ball State University, I have found ways to serve that align with my values. I have volunteered at local food banks, helped prepare and donate sack lunches, and participated in community cleanups across Muncie. These are not just volunteer hours to me. These are acts of connection. Every bag of food packed, every piece of trash picked up, every smile shared without needing anything in return is a reminder that someone always notices kindness, even if they never say it out loud. Someone sees it and feels inspired. Someone feels less alone. There have been times I walked into a room and felt invisible, like nothing about me fit or belonged. I know what it is like to feel unseen. That is why I use every opportunity to let others know they matter, no matter where they come from or what they are facing. I speak up when it is hard. I show up when I am tired. I keep pushing when it feels impossible, because someone is always watching. Not for perfection, but for proof that they can keep going too. I believe in being unapologetically myself. I believe in the quiet power of showing love through service. And I believe that even the smallest act of compassion can change someone’s entire day or even their path in life. This scholarship would not only help me continue my education, it would also allow me to keep serving and inspiring others through everything I do.