Being born on the island of Saipan and raised deeply immersed in Chamorro culture, I learned early on that our identity as Pacific Islanders is entirely rooted in community and connection. Growing up, the boundaries between family and community were nonexistent. We move together, we heal together, and we lift each other up. Navigating higher education as a Pacific Islander means carrying that profound sense of collective responsibility into academic spaces that are often designed to be isolating and highly competitive. There is a beautiful Samoan proverb mentioned in this scholarship stating that the path to leadership is service. That exact philosophy has become the absolute compass of my academic and professional career. When I transferred to the university level as an untraditionally aged student, I was met with crippling impostor phenomenon. I felt completely out of place and disconnected from my peers. However, I survived that season by remembering the resilience woven into my Chamorro heritage. I committed to therapy, learned how to protect my mental health, and immediately got to work ensuring that no other student in my circle would ever have to feel that same isolation. I realized that my path to leadership in the arts had to be grounded in active service to others. Today, I put that service into action as a movement instructor in many spaces. Many marginalized youth and young adults carry immense trauma and anxiety in their bodies, yet they lack the vocabulary to articulate that pain. I use the dance studio to create a literal safe haven where judgment is entirely checked at the door. Before we even begin a piece of choreography, I lead my students through intentional breathwork and physical meditation, utilizing somatic practices to help them regulate their nervous systems. I teach them how to use movement as a storytelling tool to physically unravel trapped emotional weight and find their joy again. I am currently enrolled in my Master of Fine Arts in Dance program at Saint Marys College, which was just globally recognized as the first MFA program approved by the International Somatic Movement Education and Therapy Association. Upon graduation, I will officially become a Registered Somatic Dance Educator. I am pursuing this groundbreaking credential because I want to completely rewrite how higher education approaches the arts, prioritizing emotional wellness and cultural inclusion over rigid, elitist traditions. The second proverb of this memorial fund notes that a bird will fly away but will always return to its waters. I deserve this scholarship because my entire educational journey is dedicated to returning to my community. I am entirely self-funded, draining my savings to cover my tuition. This award would provide the critical financial support I need to finish my degree and become the university professor my community needs, allowing me to build accessible, healing arts curriculums for the next generation of Pacific Islander youth.

As a student, mental health is not just an abstract concept to me; it has been the defining factor in whether I stayed in school or walked away entirely. When I transferred to the University of California Riverside at twenty seven, I felt completely isolated as an untraditionally aged student. The impostor phenomenon hit me immediately, creating a constant, heavy anxiety that I did not belong. Right as I was trying to navigate that disconnection, my aunt passed away. The resulting grief was entirely paralyzing, and my immediate instinct was to drop out and retreat. I realized that my mental health was on a razor thin edge. Choosing to utilize campus counseling services and committing to therapy was what allowed me to process my grief and stay grounded. That experience taught me that academic success is impossible without actively protecting your emotional well being. Because of that journey, my advocacy for mental health is deeply embedded in my daily work within my creative community. As a movement instructor at spaces like The Dance Factory, I see firsthand how heavily isolation, anxiety, and trauma sit in the bodies of my students. Many people carry profound emotional weight but lack the verbal vocabulary to express it. I use my position to transform the dance studio into a literal safe haven for somatic healing and mental well being. In my classes, advocacy begins before a single piece of choreography is even introduced. I start every session with intentional meditation and deep breathing exercises, teaching my students how to regulate their nervous systems and ground themselves in the present moment. I then use movement as a tool for storytelling, allowing students to physically move through and unravel the trapped trauma or stress they are carrying. By structuring my classes around joy and vulnerability rather than rigid perfection, I create an environment where judgment is completely checked at the door. Now, as I pursue my Master of Fine Arts in Dance at Saint Marys College, my advocacy is officially becoming my life work. I am incredibly proud to be part of a cohort that was just approved by the International Somatic Movement Education and Therapy Association. We are officially the very first MFA in Dance program in the entire world to receive this recognition. Upon graduation, I will officially become a Registered Somatic Dance Educator. I will use this groundbreaking credential to become a university professor who rewrites traditional arts curriculums. By normalizing conversations about mental wellness and embedding certified somatic healing directly into the creative process, I am working to build an educational landscape where no student has to suffer in silence.

In the dance studio, a piece of choreography is essentially just a highly detailed blueprint. Before anyone steps onto a stage, every single eight count, transition, and formation must be meticulously planned. As a dance instructor and an incoming graduate student, I treat my career trajectory with the exact same level of precision. My ultimate goal is to become a university professor of dance to dismantle the traditional gatekeeping in formal arts education and build accessible, culturally inclusive curriculums for marginalized and untraditionally aged students. To reach that goal, I am currently executing a very specific, multi layered plan. At thirty-two years old, I just began the most critical phase of this blueprint by entering the Master of Fine Arts in Dance program at Saint Marys College this June. Because I started my academic journey later in life, attending Los Angeles Pierce College at twenty-five and transferring to the University of California Riverside at twenty-seven, I do not have the luxury of wasting time. My timeline is strictly mapped out. Over the next two years of my graduate studies, I will be balancing rigorous academic theory with practical application. My strategy involves using my current professional roles as live laboratories. While completing my coursework, I am continuing to teach hip hop, k-pop, and dance fitness classes, refining a fusion style I developed called Cardiography. This format uses joyful, popular music to make movement accessible to people who feel too intimidated to step into a formal technique class. By perfecting this methodology in community spaces now, I am actively building the curriculum I plan to introduce at the university level upon graduation. However, executing this plan requires significant resources, and my current budget is the biggest obstacle to my timeline. Graduate tuition is an immense financial undertaking. To simply enroll and cover the tuition, housing, and technology fees for this current semester at Saint Marys, I had to completely deplete my personal savings and maximize all of my available credit lines. Moving forward, my operating budget relies heavily on securing external funding to stay afloat. I need to cover ongoing tuition costs, textbooks, and the daily transportation expenses of commuting from my home in Vallejo to my classes and teaching jobs. The Joe Gilroy Memorial Scholarship would serve as a critical resource in my operational budget. Earning this award would allow me to pay down the high interest debt I accumulated just to start this program, freeing up my limited income to cover my daily living expenses and studio rental fees. It would provide the financial stability necessary to focus entirely on my academic research and pedagogical development rather than constantly worrying about my financial survival. I have the drive, the experience, and the exact blueprint needed to completely change how higher education approaches the arts. I am actively working my plan, and with the right financial resources, I will achieve my goal.

1. I found TXT when I was dancing with my K Pop cover teams at UCLA! Learning their choreography and diving into their discography was such an incredible bonding experience for my team, and it really solidified my connection to their music and performance style. 2. To me, one of the most important characteristics of a MOA is our shared appreciation for storytelling in the form of music and dance. MOAs are deeply empathetic and creative, always looking for the deeper meaning in the lyrics and the choreography, which builds such a supportive and expressive community. 3. Yes, my bias is Yeonjun! As a dance instructor, I am absolutely captivated by his performance style. His movements are so incredibly articulate and purposeful. Every single isolation and step he takes on stage is executed with such precision and intention, which is exactly what drew me to choose him as my bias. 4. Sooyoung from SNSD is my absolute ult bias! Girls Generation was the very first group I was ever exposed to when I was discovering the genre, and her energy and talent completely captivated me. She will forever hold that top spot in my heart. 5. It might be a little basic, but Crown is definitely my favorite song! The overarching metaphor of growing up and navigating all the confusing, painful things in life resonated so deeply with me. I first heard it during a time when I was transitioning into university life, dealing with intense impostor phenomenon and trying to find my footing. That message of finding power in your struggles meant the world to me. 6. I have not had the chance to see them live in concert yet, unfortunately! It is definitely a massive goal on my bucket list for the future. 7. My favorite album concept ties right back to Crown, so it has to be The Dream Chapter: STAR. It resonated with me so heavily during my times of anxiety and confusion as a student trying to find my place. When I listened to the tracks on that album, I felt like the music was directly speaking to me, gently inviting me into an unfamiliar space. I entered with caution, but what I ultimately found in that concept and in the fandom was a true place of belonging. 8. I am currently entirely self funded, which has been incredibly difficult. To pay for just this upcoming semester of my graduate program, I had to completely drain my personal savings and max out all of my credit cards. 9. This scholarship would be a massive lifeline for me. It could help cover the tuition for my upcoming semester and assist with basic living expenses like rent and bills. Most importantly, it would allow me to make payments on my maxed out credit cards, stopping the overwhelming accumulation of interest charges so I can actually focus on my education instead of stressing over my debt. 10. They influenced me to be a STAR and to share my rays with the world. Whenever I listen to their songs, I feel this amazing, positive energy flowing through my body, and as an instructor, I immediately want to share how good I am feeling with others! They inspire me to cultivate welcoming, inclusive spaces for my students, mirroring the exact same acceptance and joy that TXT has provided for me. 11. I am currently pursuing my Master of Fine Arts in Dance, and I plan to use my education to radically shift how the arts are taught in higher education. My ultimate goal is to become a university professor and completely dismantle the gatekeeping that makes formal arts training feel so exclusive. I want to build accessible, culturally inclusive curriculums specifically designed to support marginalized and untraditionally aged students who often feel like they do not belong in academic spaces. I will use my degree to create safe havens in the studio where the next generation of creative youth can express themselves freely and unapologetically.

There is a very specific kind of culture shock that happens when you step onto a massive university campus and realize you are operating on a completely different timeline than everyone else around you. When I transferred to the University of California Riverside, I was twenty seven years old. Most of the people sitting next to me were fresh out of high school, experiencing their first real taste of independence. Meanwhile, I had already lived an entire chapter of adulthood. I had started my academic journey at Los Angeles Pierce College at twenty five, fighting tooth and nail to build a foundation for myself. But the moment I arrived at UCR, all of that hard earned confidence completely evaporated. I was hit with a massive wave of the impostor phenomenon. The age gap made building a social circle feel incredibly daunting. I felt entirely disconnected from the typical college experience that everyone else seemed to be enjoying effortlessly. I was constantly carrying this heavy, unspoken anxiety that I was unwanted in those spaces, and I felt hyper judged for being an untraditionally aged student. Every time I walked into a room, my internal monologue told me I was too late, too old, and too far behind to ever truly catch up. Right as I was trying to navigate that overwhelming sense of isolation, my world completely stopped. My aunt passed away just as I was beginning my university journey. The grief was absolutely suffocating. When you lose someone you love, your immediate instinct is to drop everything and retreat to the safety of your family. I wanted nothing more than to pack up my apartment, leave UCR behind, and go home to mourn. The academic pressure combined with the profound emotional loss felt like entirely too much weight for one person to carry on their own. However, I had a very terrifying realization during that dark period. I knew myself well enough to understand that if I stepped back, I might not ever come back. I knew that if I gave up the momentum I had spent years building at community college, I would spiral back into a hole that I might not be able to climb out of. I was standing on a razor thin edge, trying to balance the immense gravity of my grief against the terrifying possibility of losing the future I had fought so hard to create. I knew I could not survive that chapter by simply white knuckling it. So, I made the conscious decision to ask for help. I took full advantage of the Counseling and Psychological Services available on campus and committed to regular therapy sessions for my entire time at UCR. Walking into that office was one of the most difficult but necessary things I have ever done. In therapy, I finally found a space where I did not have to pretend I had it all together. I unpacked the complicated layers of grieving my aunt while trying to survive midterms. I vocalized the deep shame I felt about my age and the impostor phenomenon that was constantly telling me I did not belong. Therapy gave me the crucial tools to separate my actual worth from my internal anxieties. It taught me how to stay grounded when I felt like the floor was falling out from under me. Healing is rarely a linear process, but taking care of my mental health completely shifted how I experienced the rest of my time at the university. Because I knew exactly what it felt like to be the odd one out, I became fiercely dedicated to making sure nobody else in my circle felt that way. I started mentoring other incoming transfer students, particularly those who were first generation or untraditionally aged, showing them the ropes and ensuring they knew they had every right to take up space. Today, at thirty two years old, I am bringing that exact same protective energy into my professional life. I currently work as an instructor at spaces like The Dance Factory, where I lead high energy pop, k-pop and hip hop classes as well as a swim instructor for Aquatech. My biggest rule in the studio and pool is that judgment gets completely checked at the door and pool deck. I intentionally build communities where people can show up exactly as they are, without having to explain their background or their timeline. I want my students to know that the studio is a safe haven where they can just move, breathe, and be seen. This summer, I am taking all of these lived experiences with me as I begin my Master of Fine Arts in Dance at Saint Marys College. Overcoming the overwhelming challenges of grief and isolation at UCR taught me that resilience is not about never breaking; it is about knowing how to rebuild the pieces. I am pursuing this graduate degree because I want to become a professor who creates accessible, deeply supportive arts curriculums. I want to be the kind of educator who recognizes when a student is silently struggling and knows exactly how to guide them toward the resources they need. Earning this scholarship would validate the hard fought journey it took to get here and support my ultimate mission to ensure the door to higher education remains open and welcoming for everyone, no matter when they decide to walk through it.

There is a very specific type of isolation that hits you when you look around a crowded room and realize you are on a completely different timeline than everyone else. For me, that realization hit hardest when I transferred to the University of California Riverside. I was a 27 year old transfer student stepping onto a campus filled with traditional first year students. Almost immediately, the impostor phenomenon kicked in. I struggled to make friends, feeling deeply disconnected and constantly worried that people were judging me for starting late. I had already fought hard to get there, having started community college at 25, but the age gap made me feel completely unwanted in a space I had worked so much to reach. Right as I was trying to navigate that overwhelming sense of not belonging, my aunt passed away. The grief was completely paralyzing. Every instinct in my body told me to pack up, go home, and just be with my family. But deep down, I knew what would happen if I stepped back. I knew that if I gave up the momentum I had built for myself, I would spiral back into a dark hole of depression that would be incredibly difficult to climb out of. I was standing on the absolute edge, balancing the weight of my grief against the fear of losing my future. That was the moment I realized I could not just push through on my own anymore. I decided to take advantage of the Counseling and Psychological Services on campus. I committed to going to therapy sessions my entire time at UCR. In those rooms, I finally learned how to talk about the unfiltered parts of my mental health. I unpacked the grief of losing my aunt, the crippling impostor phenomenon, and the anxiety of feeling like I was constantly running out of time. Therapy did not magically fix everything overnight, but it gave me the tools to stay grounded and keep moving forward when I wanted to shut down. That experience completely reshaped how I show up for the people around me. Because I know exactly what it feels like to be the odd one out, I make sure nobody in my circle feels that way. Today, I work as an instructor at spaces like The Dance Factory and Aquatech, and my absolute biggest rule in the studio, or the pool, is that judgment gets checked at the door and deck. I intentionally build communities where people can just show up exactly as they are, move their bodies, and feel seen without having to explain themselves. Now, at 32 years old, I am currently enrolled in my Master of Fine Arts in Dance program at Saint Marys College. I am pursuing this degree because I want to keep building spaces that protect the mental well being of marginalized and non traditional students. The Ethel Hayes Destigmatization of Mental Health Scholarship honors the power of bringing darkness to light. Going to therapy taught me that asking for help is not a weakness; it is the ultimate survival tool. I want to spend the rest of my career proving that no matter how late you start or how heavy the grief feels, you deserve to take up space and build a life you are proud of.

When scholarship committees ask what gives an applicant a competitive advantage, the standard response usually revolves around passion or academic potential. While I possess a deep passion for my field, my distinct advantage over other candidates is a proven, measurable track record of execution. I am not simply theorizing about how to make arts education more inclusive; I have already spent years actively building the infrastructure to do it. As a queer, first generation Filipino American navigating the performing arts, I learned early on that traditional educational spaces were not built for students like me. Rather than waiting for someone else to change the system, I became the architect of my own environment. That proactive mindset is exactly what separates me from the competition. When I arrived at community college and found a struggling dance program, I did not just focus on my own grades. I collaborated with my professors to completely revive the campus dance club, creating a safe haven for students who felt isolated. I became the very first dance major to graduate from the institution, but my true accomplishment was leaving behind a thriving, fully functioning community for the next generation. My competitive edge continued to sharpen at the university level. Through the Gluck Fellows Program of the Arts, I took my community building skills beyond the campus, traveling to underserved schools to host free interactive dance workshops. I stood in front of young children of color who had never taken a formal dance class and gave them the tools to explore their own rhythm. I did not just talk about accessibility; I physically brought the arts into rooms where they had historically been excluded. Today, I am leveraging that same drive in the professional world. I currently teach across multiple venues, utilizing a fusion style I developed called Cardiography. By blending high energy pop music with accessible movement, I am actively dismantling the intimidating walls of the traditional dance studio. People who would never step foot in a formal technique class feel completely comfortable walking into my space. This summer, I am entering the Master of Fine Arts in Dance program at Saint Marys College. My advantage in this applicant pool is that I am not asking for an investment in mere potential. You are investing in a community leader who already has the momentum and the blueprint for systemic change. I am pursuing this graduate degree to become a university professor so I can rewrite how arts curriculums are designed from the top down. I deserve this scholarship because my ambition is entirely focused on ensuring that the door to higher education and the arts remains permanently open for the youth coming up behind me.

In the opening track of her debut album, Olivia Rodrigo perfectly captures the overwhelming anxiety of youth with the lyric, "I feel like no one wants me, and I hate the way I am perceived." For a long time, that single line felt like the soundtrack to my entire life. Growing up as a queer, first generation Filipino American, I was constantly navigating spaces that felt completely at odds with who I was. My family championed traditional, stable paths in science and engineering, while I was harboring a deep, undeniable passion for movement and choreography. I spent years acutely aware of how I was being perceived by others, constantly feeling like a disappointment for not fitting into the rigid mold of the perfect academic student. That hyper awareness of perception carried over when I finally stepped into the formal dance world. Traditional arts education can be an incredibly intimidating environment, and I often felt like my background did not fit the classical standard. I hated the way I was perceived in those spaces, but Olivia’s music taught me something vital about frustration: it can be weaponized into fuel. Instead of shrinking to fit the expectations of others, I decided to become the architect of my own environment. My personal journey shifted from seeking acceptance to creating it. When I arrived at community college and found a struggling dance program, I did not just accept the deficit. I worked with my modern dance professor to revive the campus dance club, creating a safe haven for students who felt the exact same isolation I did. Later, as a university student, I traveled to underserved schools to host free interactive dance workshops, teaching children how to take unapologetic ownership of their movement and their bodies. Today, Olivia’s loud, rebellious pop anthems inspire the exact energy I bring to my career as a dance instructor. I developed a class format called Cardiography, which fuses high energy pop music with accessible choreography. Just as Olivia uses driving pop punk rhythms to make her deepest insecurities feel universal and empowering, I use joyful pop music to break down the intimidating walls of the dance studio. I want my students to know that they do not need to look or move a certain way to deserve a place on the floor. As I prepare to begin my Master of Fine Arts in Dance at Saint Marys College this summer, my ambition is to elevate that impact on a systemic level. I am pursuing this degree to become a professor and design curriculums that prioritize cultural expression and accessibility over rigid tradition. Olivia Rodrigo built her career by refusing to sanitize her feelings or hide her flaws. I want to build my legacy by teaching the next generation of creative youth that their unique, authentic selves are exactly what the art world needs.

When most people hear the word "build," they think of physical structures like houses or bridges. As a choreographer and dance educator, what I want to build is less tangible but equally structural: I want to build an accessible architecture for arts education. I want to construct spaces where underrepresented youth can experience the transformative power of movement without encountering the traditional gatekeeping of the fine arts world. Growing up as a first generation Filipino American, I often struggled to find spaces that felt safe or welcoming. In my experience, formal arts education was treated as an exclusive privilege rather than a universal right. Because the room was not built for me, I had to learn how to construct my own. This realization sparked my commitment to community building. When I arrived at community college and found a dying dance program, I collaborated with my professor to rebuild the campus dance club from the ground up. Later, through the Gluck Fellows Program of the Arts, I traveled to underserved schools to host free interactive dance workshops, giving children of color the tools to explore their own rhythm and claim their own space. Right now, I am actively building my community through Cardiography, a method I developed that fuses high energy choreography with fitness. By teaching at local studios and recreational spaces, I am dismantling the intimidating walls of the traditional dance studio, proving that you do not need formal training to experience the joy of movement. To scale this impact, I need stronger institutional tools, which is why I am beginning my Master of Fine Arts in Dance at Saint Mary's College this summer. My ultimate goal is to become a professor and build inclusive curriculums that bridge the gap between community based recreational movement and formal academic dance theory. I want to design arts programs that prioritize cultural expression and accessibility over rigid tradition. Building this inclusive future will profoundly impact my community by giving the next generation of creative youth a safe haven. It will ensure that students who feel awkward, marginalized, or out of place will always have a studio where they belong. By using my graduate education to restructure how we teach the arts, I am not just building a career; I am building an open door so that the artists who come after me never have to fight just to get inside the room.

To the average concertgoer, a great pop performance is about the spectacle of lights, costumes, and loud music. But as a dance instructor and choreographer who spends my life breaking down eight counts, I watch performances through a completely different lens. When Taylor Swift announced her twelfth studio album, The Life of A Showgirl, my mind immediately went to the single most physically demanding and theatrical performance of her career: the cabaret inspired chair routine for Vigilante Shit during the Eras Tour. That specific performance is not just a song; it is a masterclass in the technical architecture of being a true showgirl. What makes the Vigilante Shit performance so profoundly moving to me is the absolute empowerment and discipline it radiates. Pop choreography often relies on massive, sweeping movements to fill a stadium stage, but Taylor and her dancers do the exact opposite here. They utilize a minimalist, Bob Fosse inspired routine that relies entirely on intense core control, micro isolations, and unshakeable confidence. Every single tilt of the head and extension of the leg is meticulously calculated. As a queer, first generation Filipino American who spent years feeling out of place in rigid academic environments, watching a performer take complete, devotional ownership of her body and her narrative on a stadium stage is incredibly comforting and validating. It is deeply moving to see an artist strip away the stadium spectacle and force the audience to focus purely on her physical mastery of the space. This performance profoundly impacts how I approach my own work in the studio. It serves as a reminder that being a showgirl is not just about wearing sequins; it is about storytelling through deliberate, controlled movement. As I prepare to begin my MFA in Dance at Saint Mary's College, I am constantly looking for ways to bridge the gap between commercial pop performance and rigorous academic dance theory. The Vigilante Shit routine is the perfect intersection of those two worlds. Taylor Swift’s dedication to the craft of the showgirl inspires me to keep pushing the boundaries of my own choreography. I want to build a legacy where I create accessible, structurally brilliant movement that empowers my students to command their own stages with that same level of utter precision.

The best Love Island challenges are the ones that force couples to communicate under ridiculous physical pressure while exposing the cracks in their relationships. Drawing from my background as a dance instructor and choreographer, my brand new challenge is called The Heartbeat Hustle, a high energy test of rhythm, trust, and nonverbal communication. The setup is visually hilarious. The Islanders enter the challenge arena dressed in absurd, neon eighties workout gear. Each couple is physically bound together by a short, stretchy resistance band around their waists. The objective is to navigate a slippery obstacle course divided into three distinct rhythm stations, but they can only move forward if they are perfectly in sync. At the first station, the couple must perform a fast paced, synchronized pop dance routine. As a choreographer, I know that moving perfectly on the beat with another person requires intense eye contact and unspoken trust. If they miss the eight count or step out of rhythm, they are blasted with water cannons and have to restart the routine from the top. The second station introduces the classic Love Island drama. While keeping a steady jogging pace side by side on a giant, slippery dual treadmill, the couple must answer trivia questions about the rumors circulating in the villa. If they disagree on an answer, the treadmill speeds up, forcing them to run faster and communicate louder while trying not to fall into a pool of brightly colored slime at the back of the machine. The final stage is the ultimate trust fall. One partner is blindfolded while the other must verbally guide them through a maze of hanging obstacles to retrieve a golden heart. The catch is that the guiding partner is not allowed to use directional words like left or right; they can only use musical cues and counts to steer their partner to the finish line. The Heartbeat Hustle adds massive excitement to the show because it strips away smooth talking. You cannot fake physical chemistry or rhythm. It provides the audience with incredible physical comedy, exposes which couples lack true communication skills, and guarantees a wonderfully messy finish.

My connection to Sabrina Carpenter’s career started years ago with Maya Hart on Girl Meets World. Maya was fiercely loyal, fiercely protective of her friends, and unapologetically herself even when she felt completely out of place. Growing up as a queer, first generation Filipino student in a school system that heavily pushed science and engineering, I often felt like I did not belong. Maya’s fierce advocacy on screen inspired me to become the protector of my own community in real life. Her character's blueprint of loyalty is what drove me to revive a dying dance club at my community college and mentor incoming transfer students. I wanted to build the exact kind of safe, fiercely supportive spaces that Maya always fought for. As I grew up, Sabrina’s career evolved right alongside me. Watching her transition from a child actor to a bold, independent artist who completely owns her narrative was deeply validating. She refused to let her past roles put her in a restrictive box, and her evolution gave me the courage to break out of mine. I stopped trying to fit the mold of what a traditional academic student was supposed to be and leaned fully into my identity as an artist. Just as Sabrina took control of her career to write her own rules, I took control of my journey, pushing past the expectations placed upon me to officially step into an MFA in Dance program. Today, Sabrina is dominating pop culture because her music makes people want to move. Tracks like Espresso and Please Please Please are undeniably fun and bring people together. In the formal arts world, pop music and commercial dance are sometimes dismissed as being less serious than traditional contemporary styles. But Sabrina’s current era proves that art does not have to be rigid or brooding to be profoundly impactful. As a choreographer, her unapologetic joy is the exact energy I channel in my classes. I use pop music in a fusion method I call Cardiography to make movement accessible to everyone. By utilizing joyful, high energy pop music, I can break down the intimidating walls of the dance studio and invite everyone to find their rhythm. Sabrina Carpenter’s career has been a masterclass in evolution, loyalty, and joy. She taught me how to advocate for my community, how to own my authentic story, and how to use unapologetically fun art to bring people together.

To me, art is not simply a form of expression; it is the architecture of survival. Growing up as a queer, first generation Filipino American, I often felt like I was navigating spaces that were not built for me. My family championed traditional paths in science and engineering, and when I chose to pursue dance instead, I found myself in a historically rigid industry that rarely knew what to do with my background or my body. Dance became my sanctuary, but I quickly realized that a sanctuary is only as powerful as the number of people it can hold. The greatest challenge of my artistic journey has never been the physical movement itself. The real challenge has been the profound isolation of being a person of color in spaces where high quality arts education is often treated as an exclusive luxury. I attended a heavily engineering focused high school where the arts were essentially an afterthought. Rather than accepting that deficit, I realized I had to become the architect of my own community. I founded our school’s first dance club, creating a safe haven for students to escape academic pressure and move authentically. I learned early on that art is the most effective tool we have for interrupting cycles of isolation. This realization shaped my entire career and shifted my focus from personal performance to community empowerment. When I transitioned to community college, I found a dying dance program. Collaborating with my modern dance professor, we spent countless unpaid hours revitalizing the campus dance club and performance team. But my vision for impact truly solidified when I transferred to UC Riverside and joined the Gluck Fellows Program. We traveled across Southern California to perform and host free interactive dance workshops for underserved schools. Standing in front of young children of color who had never been given the opportunity to take a formal dance class, I saw my younger self. Giving them the tools to explore their own rhythm was not just teaching; it was a transfer of power. My vision for the future is deeply aligned with Sleep Deez’s mission of keeping the door open for the next generation. This summer, I am beginning my MFA in Dance at Saint Marys College of California. I am not pursuing this degree just to elevate my own choreography; I am pursuing it to gain the institutional knowledge necessary to change how arts education is structured. My goal is to bridge the gap between recreational, community based movement and formal academic dance. By developing inclusive curriculums, such as my fusion of cardio and choreography, I aim to dismantle the traditional gatekeeping that makes dance feel intimidating or inaccessible. I want to prove that you do not need to fit a specific mold or possess a certain background to deserve a place in the studio. A true artistic legacy is not defined by the personal accolades you collect, but by the spaces you leave behind for others to inherit. Sleep Deez built a legacy by ensuring that voices often left out of the conversation had a platform to be heard. I intend to use my creativity and my graduate education to do the exact same thing in the world of dance. I want to dedicate my life to ensuring that the next generation of creative youth never has to wonder if they belong in the arts. My ultimate goal is to build a culture where accessible, high quality arts education is a universal right, allowing every young artist of color to find their voice, claim their space, and choreograph their own future.

To me, selflessness is not just about doing nice things for people. It is about walking into a room, seeing what is missing, and building it yourself so the next person does not have to struggle. As a queer, first generation Filipino student in the dance world, I spent a lot of time looking for a space that felt like home. When I realized those spaces were not naturally built for someone like me, I decided I had to create them. I really started putting this into practice when I got to community college. The dance program there was basically running on fumes. Instead of just accepting it, my modern dance professor and I teamed up to bring the campus dance club and performance team back to life. We spent countless unpaid, late night hours planning and recruiting. It was never about getting a title or a resume booster; I just wanted to make sure other students had a safe, creative outlet. Even now, I still go back to teach free workshops there to keep the momentum going for the new kids. When I transferred to UC Riverside, I took this a step further by joining the Gluck Fellows Program. We traveled to underserved local schools and hosted free interactive dance workshops. Getting kids who had never taken a formal dance class to just let loose and move was incredible. Alongside that, I spent a lot of time mentoring incoming first generation transfer students, because I know exactly how isolating and confusing that transition can be if you have to walk it alone. Right now, my commitment to this work is hitting a major financial wall. I am starting my MFA in Dance at Saint Mary's College this summer so I can eventually become a professor and make arts education more accessible. But after being denied federal aid, I had to max out my credit cards just to cover the down payment for my summer intensive. I am paying the rest out of pocket and working weekends teaching children to swim just to keep things afloat. Michael Rudometkin believed in relationships, community, and leaving things better than he found them. That is exactly why I am fighting so hard for this degree. I want to make sure high quality arts education is something everyone gets to experience, not just those who can easily afford it. I want to spend my career keeping the door open for the next generation.

Growing up, everyone has their awkward rite of passage. For me, the awkwardness was not physical, as I am actually quite athletic, but rather how I navigate the world socially. My "awkward" thing is that I thrive in structured connection but feel completely lost in casual small talk. In unstructured social settings, I overthink interactions and miss the subtle cues that seem to come effortlessly to everyone else. While others easily mingle, I am usually the person standing slightly off to the side, trying to decode the hidden rules of the conversation. This internal awkwardness creates a stark contrast with my outward life. By day, I am a loud, high energy dance choreographer and an incoming MFA candidate, living boldly and physically in the studio. But beneath that extroverted performer exterior, I am a meticulous, unapologetic nerd whose ideal weekend involves hosting complex tabletop role playing games or debating the mechanics of Magic: The Gathering. I gravitated toward these hobbies because they offered what casual socializing did not: a clear framework. Breaking down the precise eight counts of a Korean pop choreography or following a game’s rule stack provided a structured, transparent way for me to connect with others without the anxiety of guessing hidden social expectations. Rather than holding me back, this quirk has become my greatest asset as an educator and community builder. Because I know exactly what it feels like to be alienated or out of the loop, I know how to intentionally build environments where no one is left behind. Isolation is one of the greatest hidden threats to our youth, and creating safe, structured spaces is a direct antidote to that harm. As an instructor at AquaTech and a mentor in the dance studio, I actively design transparent, welcoming environments. I use my own social awkwardness to disarm my students' insecurities. By openly acknowledging when I miss a cue or make a goofy mistake, I show them that perfection is not a requirement for belonging. As I begin my MFA in Dance at Saint Mary’s College this summer, my ambition is to elevate how we teach physical education and the arts on a systemic level. I want to design curriculums that act as safe havens for youth who feel awkward, marginalized, or socially out of place. Being a little different taught me how to intentionally build the inclusive communities I once struggled to find, and my life's work is ensuring the next generation always has a space where they make sense.

I grew up watching human connection function as a shield. As the youngest of three children, my earliest understanding of relationships was defined by my mother's courage. An Asian immigrant, she made the agonizing but necessary choice to leave an abusive, alcoholic partner while she was pregnant with me. She took on the roles of both mother and father, single-handedly creating a sanctuary for our family. From her, I learned that the most profound connections are not just about shared interests or proximity; they are about providing safety, advocacy, and unconditional support when the world feels hostile. This blueprint of connection shaped my entire trajectory, especially as I navigated my own feelings of isolation. Growing up as a queer, first-generation Filipino American, I often felt disconnected from my cultural roots and alienated by my passions. I was drawn to dance, which contrasted sharply with the traditional expectations placed upon me. When I attended a heavily engineering-focused high school, the arts were virtually non-existent. Remembering how my mother built a safe environment from the ground up, I took the initiative to create my school's first dance club. It wasn’t just about teaching choreography; it was about building a space where students could step away from immense academic pressure, express themselves authentically, and find a community that embraced them. That desire to foster supportive relationships became the core of my identity as an artist and educator. When I transitioned to community college, I saw a dance program that was fading. Collaborating closely with my modern dance professor, we spent countless hours, meeting day and night, to revitalize the school’s dance club and team. Through this process, I learned that connection requires active, sustained effort. I still return to that community today to provide free workshops, ensuring that the relationships we forged continue to support the next wave of students. As I transferred to UC Riverside for my undergraduate studies, my focus shifted toward expanding these connections beyond the campus walls. Serving as a mentor for first-generation students, I aimed to provide the same advocacy that my mother and my own mentors had given me. But it was through the Gluck Fellows Program of the Arts that I truly understood the transformative power of human connection on a larger scale. We traveled to underserved schools to perform and host interactive dance workshops for free. Connecting with children who had never experienced live dance, watching them light up as they found their own rhythm, solidified my belief that art is the ultimate tool for bridging divides and fostering empathy. My mother’s legacy of creating a safe haven continues to drive my long-term goals. This summer, I am beginning my MFA in Dance at Saint Mary's College of California. My mission is to use this advanced training to dismantle the financial and structural barriers that prevent underrepresented youth from accessing the arts. I want to build curriculums and accessible physical education programs that serve as safe spaces, proving that high-quality artistic training should not be a privilege, but a universal right. Human connection changed my life because one woman chose to build a safe space for her family; my life’s work is to expand that space so that the next generation of artists can thrive.

For years, looking in the mirror felt like staring at a ghost. As the youngest of three children raised by a single mother, I grew up acutely aware of the empty seat at my school performances and parent-teacher conferences. While my mother rarely spoke of him, she would often look at me and say I looked just like my father. As a child, this sparked a deeply confusing internal conflict: if I mirrored the man who was absent from our lives, did my mother genuinely love me, or was her care simply a maternal obligation? I navigated a maze of self-doubt and isolation, wondering why the man whose face I wore was not in my life. It wasn't until I was older that my mother finally revealed the truth. I had not just lost my father to absence; I had lost him to the destructive grip of alcoholism and domestic abuse. My mother made the agonizing but necessary choice to flee for the safety of her children while she was still pregnant with me. Processing this truth forced me to navigate a complex storm of grief, anger, and eventual clarity. I learned that my identity was not defined by his addiction or absence, but by the resilience it took our family to survive its fallout. Navigating this trauma eventually led me to therapy, where I was introduced to the life-changing practices of journaling and meditation. For most of my life, I had bottled up my confusion and hurt. Journaling taught me to write and speak my thoughts out loud, giving my emotions weight and existence rather than letting them quietly consume me. I also integrated this mindfulness into my passion for choreography, turning dance into an embodied, moving meditation. Through these tools, I am able to visualize my younger self. I speak to him through my art and my writing, letting him know that he is safe, that he is doing so much better than he ever thought possible, and that I am incredibly proud of his resilience. This resilience is entirely inherited from the biggest influence in my life: my mother. As an Asian immigrant raising three children on her own, she bravely took on the roles of both mother and father. She possessed the profound strength to escape an abusive, drunken partner and pave a safe path for us. Her sacrifice is the bedrock of my ambition. This deeply personal journey of healing is exactly why I am pursuing my MFA in Dance. I want to continue my education to master the intersection of movement, healing, and pedagogy. By advancing my degree, I aim to create accessible arts programs that serve as safe spaces for underrepresented students to process their own trauma, proving that they have the power to choreograph their own stories of survival.

In dance, we often focus on the "solo," the individual body moving in space. However, my journey from a high school student in an engineering-focused environment to an incoming MFA candidate at Saint Mary’s College of California has taught me that the most powerful art is never a solo act. To me, collaboration in the fine arts is the intentional act of bridging different perspectives, histories, and skills to create something more resilient than any one person could achieve alone. It is about the relationships formed in the "preparation" phase, the late-night rehearsals, the shared brainstorming sessions, and the mutual encouragement that transforms a performance into a community. One of my most inspiring collaborative experiences took place during my time at community college. I witnessed the decline of our campus dance program and felt a deep responsibility to help my professor revitalize it. We collaborated day and night, meeting in person and online to officially relaunch the dance club and the dance team. This wasn't just about choreography; it was about a shared vision. I learned that being a collaborator means being a sounding board and a support system. Today, I still return to that community to provide free workshops, maintaining the relationship that built that foundation years ago. My time as a Gluck Fellow at UC Riverside further expanded my definition of collaboration. In this program, the collaboration was between the performer and the community. We didn't just perform in schools; we hosted interactive workshops immediately after, allowing the students to collaborate with us in real-time. Seeing children who had never been exposed to formal dance move and create with us was a profound reminder that the artist’s role is to facilitate a conversation, not just a spectacle. It taught me that the most successful "events" are the ones where the audience feels like a co-creator of the experience. In my professional work as an instructor at The Dance Factory and DivaDance, and through my swim instruction at AquaTech, I continue to view collaboration as a tool for accessibility. My intended MFA focus is to bridge "Cardiography"—a fusion of fitness and dance—with formal arts education. This requires a deep collaboration between recreational spaces and academic institutions to dismantle the financial barriers that keep underrepresented students out of the arts. Pamela Branchini’s legacy of creating beautiful events through developed relationships resonates deeply with me. As a queer, first-generation Filipino artist, I know that my success is a result of the mentors who believed in me and the peers who danced alongside me. My goal is to spend my career as she did: fostering an environment where collaboration isn’t just a method of production, but a way of making every person feel they belong in the beautiful world of the fine arts.

In a traditional Asian household, success is often mapped out in rigid blueprints of engineering degrees or medical school, leaving little room for a queer, first-generation Filipino child who only wanted to dance. Growing up, my passion for movement was met with harsh backlash from my family. Dance was not viewed as a viable career, nor was it considered an acceptable pursuit for a young man. The pressure to conform to a preordained, culturally acceptable path felt like a suffocating weight. My mental health deteriorated as I constantly battled the expectations of my parents, hiding my truest self and my artistic ambitions just to keep the peace at home. When I finally defied those expectations to pursue a career in dance, I found that the studio was not the immediate sanctuary I had hoped for. Stepping into both academic and recreational dance spaces, I was intensely hyper-aware of my male body in rooms overwhelmingly populated by female dancers. I felt like an intruder. The choreography, the costuming, and the pedagogical language were rarely designed with my body in mind. As a queer individual, I was already navigating a complex relationship with my masculinity; in the dance studio, that identity was scrutinized and often misunderstood. I was alienated at home for choosing the arts, and isolated in the arts for being a male body navigating a historically gendered space. This dual rejection compounded a deeper, quieter ache: the profound disconnects from my Filipino heritage. As a first-generation Filipino American, I straddled two worlds without truly belonging to either. To my family, my queerness and my dedication to the arts were viewed as Western betrayals of our cultural values. I was stripped of my sense of cultural belonging, adrift in a liminal space where I was not "Filipino enough" for my relatives yet always felt like an outsider in mainstream American spaces. The mental and emotional toll of this isolation was staggering. There were many days when the loneliness felt insurmountable, replaced only by a heavy fog of imposter syndrome and cultural grief. Yet, it was through this exact struggle that I found my purpose. I realized that if a safe space did not exist for a queer, first-generation, Filipino male dancer, I had to create it. Movement became my lifeline, a way to process the trauma of rejection and the anxiety of not belonging. I began teaching and building inclusive dance communities because I desperately wanted to ensure that no other student ever felt the alienation I experienced. My journey through the arts became less about proving my family wrong, and more about creating a sanctuary for others whose bodies, identities, or backgrounds did not fit the traditional mold. Today, as I prepare to enter my graduate MFA program, I carry the scars of my LGBTQIA+ and cultural experiences not as burdens, but as blueprints for change. The backlash, the physical alienation, and the cultural disconnect have forged my resilience. I am dedicated to dismantling the barriers in arts education, ensuring that the next generation of queer and first-generation youth can step into any room, in any body, and finally feel like they belong.