Chappell Roan’s music has impacted me in ways I didn’t even know I needed. Her sound is bold, theatrical, messy, feminine, and unapologetically queer—and for people like me, who’ve spent years trying to figure out how to take up space in a world that wants us to shrink, her music is more than just art. It’s a permission slip. Her songs speak to duality—the campy and the wounded, the confident and the collapsing, the glitter and the grief. Tracks like “Pink Pony Club” and “Good Luck, Babe!” radiate with energy and self-expression, yet carry this raw emotional undercurrent that’s impossible to ignore. She captures that very specific feeling of being misunderstood but still determined to be loud about who you are. What I admire most is how Chappell turned rejection into reinvention. After losing major-label support, she didn’t give up—she got louder. She leaned even harder into her own vision and built a fanbase through authenticity, vulnerability, and absolute performance art. Watching her grow from a relatively unknown artist into someone commanding massive audiences while still staying true to her offbeat, drag-infused, radically honest style has been nothing short of inspiring. As someone who has also had to rebuild after rejection—whether in mental health, school, or identity—Chappell Roan’s journey reminds me that being “too much” is often your greatest strength. Her fearlessness gave me confidence to start showing up fully, without editing myself to be more palatable. She made me realize that power doesn’t always look like quiet composure; sometimes it’s pink latex, a cracked voice on stage, or crying in the bathroom at the club and still going back out to dance. I support her career because she represents everything the music industry—and the world—needs more of: truth, art, camp, and unapologetic self-expression. She’s building a space where weird girls, queer kids, and anyone who’s ever felt “too much” finally feel like enough. And honestly, we deserve that

If I had the chance to design a brand new Love Island challenge, it would be called “Loyal or Liar?”—a high-stakes, heart-racing test of trust, honesty, and relationship dynamics. The goal is to see just how well Islanders know their current partners, and whether the connections they’ve formed are as deep as they seem—or if they’re built on surface-level charm. Each couple is split into separate soundproof booths. One partner is asked a series of juicy, high-pressure questions about their past, preferences, feelings, and temptations in the villa. Their answers are locked in, and then their partner is brought out to guess how they responded. Each correct match earns the couple one point. The catch? If they answer incorrectly, the original answer is revealed to everyone. The questions range from flirty to deep: • “Have you ever considered coupling up with someone else in the villa?” • “What’s something you’ve lied about to a partner in the past?” • “Do you think your partner is more into you than you are into them?” • “Who in the villa do you find the most physically attractive (besides your partner)?” At the end of the challenge, the top two couples with the most points are given a dramatic choice: they can either split a romantic luxury spa date or choose a mystery envelope that contains “power cards”—which allow them to ask truth or dare questions to any Islanders in the villa. However, if both couples choose the spa date, no one gets it. If one couple chooses the envelope and the other chooses the date, both rewards go to the risk-taker. This twist guarantees drama, strategy, and unforgettable reactions. “Loyal or Liar?” brings out everything that makes Love Island so entertaining—real emotional stakes, relationship tests, playful chaos, and villa-wide consequences. It exposes cracks in “perfect” couples, sparks meaningful conversations, and gives viewers the honesty and vulnerability they crave. As a fan, I love challenges that aren’t just physical or flirty—but psychological. This game taps into what makes Love Island compelling: the tension between what people say, what they feel, and what they’re hiding. Plus, it’s all done in good fun, with just enough scandal to keep everyone on their toes. Ultimately, it’s a reminder that in the villa—and in life—loyalty always reveals itself in the small moments. And liars? They usually get caught on camera.

I’m a fan of Wicked because it tells the story of the “misunderstood girl” in a way that is raw, emotional, and empowering. Elphaba’s journey—from being labeled different and unlikable to becoming one of the most powerful and principled characters in the story—resonates with me on a deep, personal level. She’s judged for how she looks, how she thinks, and how loudly she stands up for what’s right. And instead of changing herself to fit in, she carves her own path. That’s the kind of strength I admire. The show flips the narrative on what it means to be “wicked.” It forces you to look deeper, question authority, and examine how easy it is to villainize someone simply because they don’t conform. I’ve been in that position before—written off, underestimated, or misunderstood because of how I spoke up, how I looked, or what I’d been through. Watching Elphaba navigate that same world and refuse to shrink herself was life-affirming. The music is unforgettable, but “Defying Gravity” is more than just a powerful ballad—it’s an anthem. Every time I hear it, I’m reminded that I don’t have to wait for permission to rise. I can walk away from what doesn’t serve me and still soar. Wicked isn’t just a musical—it’s a message. About friendship. About identity. About rewriting your own story even when the world mislabels you. It helped me see that the things that make us different are often the very things that make us strong. That’s why I’m not just a fan of Wicked—I see myself in it.

My top three Billie Eilish songs are “idontwannabeyouanymore,” “when the party’s over,” and “TV.” Each of them speaks to different versions of myself I’ve had to sit with, heal, and grow from. Billie’s music feels like it was written for people who feel things deeply but don’t always have the words. She gave me those words. “idontwannabeyouanymore” is my all-time favorite. The line “if teardrops could be bottled, there’d be swimming pools filled by models” hit me like a punch to the chest the first time I heard it. That lyric captures the crushing pressure of beauty standards, self-comparison, and the silent pain that so many of us carry but hide behind perfect smiles or perfectly filtered photos. As someone who struggles with mental health, body image, and self-worth, that song put into words the kind of sadness I never felt safe saying out loud. “when the party’s over” holds a special place in my heart because it reflects the part of me that used to live for chaos—until I realized it was destroying me. I used to be the “fun one,” the “party girl,” but that version of me was just a distraction from how lost I really felt. This song is raw, stripped down, and honest—exactly how it feels when the noise stops and you’re left with yourself. It helped me through the loneliness of getting sober and choosing peace over popularity. “TV” is painfully real. It speaks to disconnection, loneliness, and the heartbreaking moment you realize that the people you call friends don’t actually show up when it matters. I also admire Billie for how open she is about her mental health, and for challenging industry norms with her style. She’s body-positive, she wears what she wants, and she’s not afraid to say she’s struggling. As someone who’s lived through bipolar disorder, body image issues, and trauma, seeing a powerful artist who doesn’t pretend to be perfect makes me feel seen. Billie Eilish isn’t just an artist I love—she’s someone who helped me understand myself better

I’m a fan of Sabrina Carpenter because she’s the blueprint for unapologetic self-reinvention. She didn’t just survive the Disney machine—she outgrew it, outshone it, and turned it into a stepping stone instead of a label. What inspires me most about Sabrina is how she moved beyond the polished, predictable image expected of Disney stars and carved out an identity that’s fearless, witty, complex, and entirely her own. Sabrina didn’t let the industry define her. She redefined herself—through songwriting that’s clever and brutally honest, through performances that radiate confidence, and through a brand that feels authentic in a world that often rewards conformity. As someone who’s had to fight to be taken seriously—whether because of my background, my mental health, or my identity—I see pieces of that same fight in her. She’s proof that you can be soft and sharp, kind and bold, fun and powerful—all at once. Her confidence, especially in this latest era of her music, has genuinely influenced how I carry myself. Watching her go from a Disney teen actress to a chart-topping artist who knows her worth reminds me that transformation is possible—and that success is even more meaningful when it’s rooted in being true to yourself. Sabrina Carpenter taught me that you don’t have to shrink yourself to fit into someone else’s idea of who you should be. She reminds me that being underestimated can be your greatest power if you use it right. Her career has impacted me by showing that confidence isn’t something you’re born with—it’s something you claim. And I’m claiming mine, too

I chose to pursue higher education because I’ve always believed that learning is the most powerful tool for growth, independence, and impact. My mom, who came to the U.S. from Tajikistan as a teenager, instilled that belief in me from a young age. Even though she had to navigate a new culture, raise four children, and often carry the weight of everything on her own, she made it look easy. She prioritized our education, celebrated curiosity, and constantly reminded me that knowledge would be my way forward. That mindset shaped the way I see school—not as a requirement, but as an opportunity I’m lucky to have. As a first-generation college student, I didn’t have a detailed blueprint for how to get into or through college. No one in my family had filled out a FAFSA before or explained how to register for classes. But I’ve always been resourceful and determined. I asked questions, researched everything I didn’t know, and made sure I stayed on top of deadlines. I’ve taken full ownership of my education, not because I had to, but because I’ve always wanted to. That drive to learn is also what led me to psychology. I’m currently studying psychology at MSU Denver with plans to pursue a Ph.D. in forensic psychology and neuropsychology. I’ve always been fascinated by how the brain works, especially in high-stakes and complex situations—like criminal behavior, trauma, and mental illness. My goal is to conduct research that deepens our understanding of how neurological and psychological factors influence behavior, especially in violent or high-risk populations. I want my work to influence real-world systems: from how we assess and treat individuals in the justice system to how we approach mental health from a more compassionate and science-informed perspective. My experience as a first-gen student has made me deeply independent, resilient, and self-motivated. I’ve balanced full-time coursework with jobs, navigated everything on my own, and built a strong academic foundation in the process. But I didn’t get here alone—my mom’s quiet strength and her unwavering belief in education are the reasons I’m here. To me, pursuing higher education isn’t just about getting a degree. It’s about continuing a legacy my mom started the moment she decided to make education a priority—even when life made that difficult. I’m proud to be the first in my family to take this step, and I’m even more proud to use it as a foundation for everything I plan to do next.

Addiction, for me, started quietly. It didn’t come with flashing warning signs or a dramatic turning point—it crept in during a time when I was emotionally overwhelmed, mentally unwell, and doing everything I could to escape myself. I was 19, struggling with untreated Bipolar 1 and ADHD, trying to manage trauma from an abusive childhood, and juggling school, work, and survival. Substances gave me a sense of control, of comfort, of numbness—and for a while, that was enough. But slowly, I started to lose pieces of myself. My motivation, my clarity, my ability to show up fully as a student, daughter, sister, or friend. I found myself making reckless decisions. At one point, I became pregnant—completely unplanned and with someone I barely knew. I was using. I was disconnected. And when I made the incredibly painful decision to have an abortion, it broke something open in me. That was the moment I realized I could not keep living the way I was. I couldn’t keep numbing. I couldn’t keep running. Getting sober was not a magical fix. It was slow. Messy. Full of relapses, doubt, and painful honesty. But I committed to it. I sought help, held myself accountable, and started working on the deeper reasons why I had been trying to escape in the first place. I began healing—not just from addiction, but from the root of everything that had led me there: trauma, mental illness, shame, fear, and silence. Since becoming sober, my life has changed in ways I never thought possible. I am clear-minded, grounded, and intentional. I returned to school full-time, earned a 3.6 GPA, and secured a competitive research assistant position. I no longer just survive—I thrive. And more than anything, I’ve found purpose. I’m studying psychology at MSU Denver, with plans to pursue a Ph.D. in forensic psychology and neuropsychology. I want to understand the ways trauma, brain function, and environment influence behavior—especially in vulnerable populations like addicts and incarcerated individuals. My goal is to work at the intersection of research, rehabilitation, and justice, helping create systems that treat people as human beings, not broken problems. Addiction taught me the power of compassion. It showed me that people rarely choose pain, but they do what they can to cope with it. I want to use my education and lived experience to advocate for those who are still finding their way out—to remind them that they are not too far gone, and that healing is not only possible, but deeply worth it.

Being the first in my family to earn a college degree is more than a milestone—it’s a revolution. My parents came to the U.S. from Tajikistan as teenagers, refugees trying to rebuild their lives with no guidebook, no financial safety net, and very little knowledge of the American education system. I grew up watching them navigate a new world with courage, but I also saw the impact of generational trauma, poverty, addiction, and cultural silence. There were no college visits, no FAFSA walkthroughs, no “what do you want to be when you grow up” talks. I figured it out on my own, because no one else could. What it means to be the first is carrying the weight of everyone who never had the chance—my mother, who worked endlessly to keep us afloat; my father, whose addiction and violence fractured our family; and my siblings, who looked to me to set the example. I carry their stories with me into every lecture, every exam, every late night. I am not just doing this for myself—I’m breaking the cycle for all of us. Being first means giving my future children a life where college is not a foreign concept, but an expectation they step into with pride. In college, I’m pursuing a degree in psychology, with plans to specialize in forensic psychology and neuropsychology. My passion lies in understanding how trauma, environment, and brain function contribute to violent behavior. I’ve seen the damage that untreated mental illness, generational pain, and toxic masculinity can cause. My goal is to not just study this, but to reform systems—criminal justice, mental health care, and education—so they address the root, not just the symptoms. I want to work in research that directly impacts how we assess, treat, and understand individuals who have committed harm, while centering survivors and communities that have been silenced. My long-term goal is to earn a Ph.D. and become a leader in trauma-informed forensic research. I want to develop interventions rooted in both science and empathy—bridging the gap between what we know and what we do. I also want to mentor students like myself—first-gen, overwhelmed, and ambitious. I want to be the person I didn’t have when I was navigating it all alone. I’ve been through a lot: an unplanned pregnancy at 20, the painful decision to have an abortion, a psychiatric hospitalization during a manic episode, and years of feeling like I had to prove my worth. But none of it broke me. It taught me compassion, perspective, and persistence. It gave me the kind of insight no textbook could. Being first isn’t about perfection—it’s about persistence. And I am determined to rise, not just for me, but for everyone who comes next

One of the most profound and painful struggles I’ve ever faced was experiencing an unplanned pregnancy at 20 years old. I was in college, still finding my footing, using substances to numb emotions I hadn’t yet learned to process, and in no place emotionally, mentally, or financially to raise a child. I barely knew the father. The relationship was new, unstable, and lacking in trust. When I found out I was pregnant, I felt everything at once—shame, guilt, fear, confusion, and heartbreak. The decision to terminate the pregnancy was the most difficult choice I’ve ever made. It wasn’t made lightly. I thought about the life I could give that child and realized it wouldn’t be the life they deserved. It wouldn’t be fair to bring a baby into a situation where I was lost in my own pain, unsure of my path, and barely surviving myself. Still, the aftermath nearly broke me. The experience almost killed me inside. I carried the weight of that decision silently for a long time. I grieved the version of me that wanted so badly to be ready. I grieved the child I’ll never meet. But in that darkness, I also found clarity—and eventually, transformation. That moment became a turning point in my life. It forced me to confront everything I had been avoiding. I got sober. I focused on school. I began to heal, slowly and painfully, and rebuild a sense of self-worth. I started caring for myself not out of survival, but because I believed I deserved better. I poured myself into my education and found a deep purpose in psychology—particularly in understanding trauma, healing, and the complexity of human behavior. I now study psychology full-time at MSU Denver and plan to pursue a Ph.D. in forensic psychology and neuropsychology. I want to use my education to advocate for those who are often judged or misunderstood—people whose lives are shaped by pain, decisions, and circumstances most never see. I still carry that experience with me, but now I carry it with grace. I believe in redemption, in growth, and in second chances. I know I’ll be an incredible mother someday, when the time is right—when I can give my future children the love, stability, and presence they deserve. That decision didn’t define me, but it changed me. It made me softer, stronger, and more certain than ever that I’m here to help others rise from their own darkest moments—because I know what it takes to rise from mine

Living with Bipolar 1 and ADHD has deeply shaped how I see the world, how I treat others, and what I want to do with my life. My mental health journey hasn’t been linear or easy. I’ve experienced everything from the emotional whiplash of manic episodes to the complete unraveling of reality that came with a psychotic break. I ended up on a 72-hour hold in a psychiatric unit—a moment that felt, at the time, like the end of the world. But in hindsight, it was the beginning of something much bigger: clarity, compassion, and a sense of purpose I never expected to find. Going through psychosis was terrifying. I couldn’t tell what was real, and I felt completely alone—even in a room full of professionals. There’s a specific kind of fear that comes with losing control of your own mind. That experience shattered every illusion I had about mental illness being something distant or clinical. It’s messy. It’s painful. And it changes you. But it also teaches you. What I learned in the aftermath is this: we are all just trying to survive with what we’ve been given. The people we judge, ignore, or misunderstand are often carrying invisible battles. I’ve learned to give others grace—not because they always deserve it, but because we all need it at some point. I’ve also learned how important it is to be seen, not as a diagnosis, but as a whole person. That’s what I needed most when I was struggling, and that’s what I want to give others in my future career. These experiences didn’t break me—they reshaped me. They gave me perspective, resilience, and an unshakable desire to help others navigate what I’ve been through. I’ve realized that “hurt people hurt people” is only half the story. Sometimes, hurt people help people—because we understand what it means to be lost, afraid, and in pain. And we know what it means to come back from that. Now, as I study psychology with plans to pursue a Ph.D. in forensic psychology and neuropsychology, my lived experience gives me a lens I couldn’t get from a textbook. I want to work with individuals who have been dismissed, misdiagnosed, or criminalized because of their mental health. I want to build bridges between systems—mental health, criminal justice, and trauma care—and help transform them from the inside out. My mental health journey is not a weakness—it’s the foundation of my empathy, my passion, and my purpose. And it’s exactly why I will make a difference.

My greatest achievement to date is securing my dream research assistant position—an opportunity I worked hard for, advocated for, and ultimately earned through persistence and self-belief. It wasn’t a simple application or a matter of luck—it was a moment that tested how far I was willing to go for something I truly wanted, and it showed me exactly what I’m capable of. The position was with a professor whose work I deeply admire, someone whose research aligns with my own passion for forensic psychology and neuropsychology. I had been watching their work for a while and hoped that one day I’d have the chance to be part of it. When the opportunity opened, I was one of the top candidates. But due to course registration logistics and strict credit requirements, I was told I didn’t qualify on paper. Despite being a perfect fit in terms of experience, interest, and skill, I was temporarily disqualified because of technicalities. That could’ve been the end of the story—but I didn’t let it be. I asked questions, made phone calls, advocated for myself, and took the risk of requesting a course override. I refused to let paperwork block me from an opportunity I had earned. And eventually, it paid off. I got the position. Not because someone made an exception for me, but because I didn’t stop showing up until the system worked in my favor. That experience taught me that I’m not someone who backs down when something is difficult or inconvenient. I’ve spent my whole life navigating systems that weren’t built for people like me—first-generation, low-income, child of refugees—and I’ve learned that sometimes you have to push a little harder to be seen. I learned that persistence, confidence, and believing you deserve a seat at the table can open doors that might otherwise stay shut. What I hope to achieve next is a career rooted in research, justice, and impact. I plan to earn a Ph.D. in psychology and specialize in the neuropsychology of violent offenders. I want to explore how trauma, brain function, and environment interact to shape human behavior—and use that knowledge to improve the criminal justice system, advocate for ethical treatment, and support survivors. I want to bring real-world solutions to institutions that desperately need reform. Getting this research assistant position was more than an academic win—it was a turning point. It proved to me that I belong in the spaces I once thought were out of reach. And it showed me that when you fight for what you want, you’re already halfway there

Education is important to me because it’s the one thing that no one can take away. I grew up in a world where control was used as a weapon—where silence kept women in survival mode and generational trauma was passed down like tradition. I come from a family of refugees who didn’t have the luxury of choice, who came to the United States with nothing but grit. My parents were teenagers when they arrived here, and though they were brave, they were not prepared. I’ve watched my mother struggle, watched my father self-destruct, and witnessed how easily someone’s potential can be buried under circumstances beyond their control. Education is how I dig myself out—and how I make sure I never bury anyone else. For me, education represents freedom. It’s my escape from generational violence and financial instability. It’s how I reclaim my voice, my choices, and my future. I’ve worked multiple jobs, filled out every form on my own, and stayed up countless nights just trying to keep up—because no one in my family could show me how to do any of this. But I knew I had to figure it out. I needed to prove to myself, and to the next generation in my family, that we are not defined by what we were born into—we are defined by how hard we fight to rise out of it. My goal is to earn a Doctorate Degree in forensic psychology and neuropsychology. I want to understand how brain function, trauma, and environment influence violent behavior—not to excuse harm, but to prevent it. I want to contribute to research that changes the way we look at crime, mental health, and healing in our justice systems. I want to use my education not only to succeed personally, but to advocate for others who have been silenced, hurt, or dismissed by the systems meant to protect them. The legacy I hope to leave is one of transformation. I want to be remembered as the person who refused to settle for survival, who used her story as a catalyst for change, and who made it possible for others—especially women from immigrant families like mine as well as my future children—to believe that they, too, can do more than just make it. They can lead. They can heal. They can change the world. If I can be that example, then everything I’ve fought through will have been worth it.

My journey as a first-generation, low-income college student is rooted in resilience, survival, and a refusal to let my circumstances define me. Both of my parents came to the United States from Tajikistan as teenagers—refugees navigating an unfamiliar world with the hope of building a better life. My mother became a parent before she was fully grown, and my father fell into addiction and abuse. Their relationship was unstable, and when they eventually divorced, my mom was left raising four kids, two of whom she would later have with my stepfather. My stepdad was not abusive or overtly discouraging—he provided for us and took care of basic needs—but he was emotionally absent. He treated my two younger brothers, his biological children, with more leniency than he did me or my younger sister. That subtle difference in treatment left me feeling like I had to grow up faster, carry more weight, and earn everything twice over just to prove I mattered. But I didn’t let that stop me. I learned to depend on myself early. I became the second parent in the household, especially during the most turbulent times. The first man I ever stood up to was my biological father. Confronting him was the moment I began reclaiming my voice and my sense of power. I saw what silence and submission had done to the women in my family, and I vowed to live differently. My mother, despite her own trauma, always encouraged me to pursue education and independence. We didn’t have the money to fund college, and she couldn’t always guide me through the logistics—but she gave me something more valuable: the belief that I could do it on my own. And I have. I’m currently a full-time psychology student at MSU Denver, working multiple jobs while pursuing my dream of earning a Ph.D. in forensic psychology and neuropsychology. My goal is to explore the links between brain function, trauma, and violent behavior—to not only understand why people hurt others, but to change how we prevent, treat, and respond to those patterns. My work is fueled by personal experience and a deep desire to break generational cycles. College is not just an academic pursuit for me—it’s liberation. It’s how I reclaim my story, gain control over my future, and build a life where no one else has power over me. Education is my armor and my weapon—and I intend to use it to create real, lasting change