In His Absence, I Continued My father died when I was 24, and the ordinary shape of my life ended with him. He had been the person who asked what I was reading, who stayed up when a paper was due, and who treated school not as an obligation but as a way out of limits he had known. His death was sudden. One week he was making plans for the next semester; the next, the house was quieter than I knew how to bear, and every responsibility that had been shared became mine. Grief did not arrive as a single feeling. It came as exhaustion, as anger at small things, and as a fear that any plan I made would be interrupted again. For a time I considered stopping. Class felt irrelevant beside hospital paperwork, funeral costs, and the work of keeping a household upright. I missed assignments. I sat through lectures without hearing them. Friends spoke about internships and majors, and I could not imagine a future that did not begin with the sentence that he was gone. What returned me to school was not optimism. It was the memory of how he had spoken about education when money was tight and time was short. He believed that finishing what you start is a form of loyalty to the people who cannot finish with you. I did not feel loyal. I felt hollow. Still, I reopened the books. I asked for extensions when I needed them and refused them when I could do the work. I learned to study in the early morning, before the day required me to be the adult in the room. Some semesters I carried a reduced load. Others I worked [part-time job or caregiving role] and still met every deadline. The point was not to appear unbroken. The point was to remain a student. Losing him changed what I want from an education. I no longer treat a degree as a private achievement. I treat it as proof that a family can be altered by death and still produce someone who keeps a promise. My father wanted me to have choices he did not have. Continuing meant I would not let his absence become the reason those choices closed. There were days I resented that standard. There were also days when a completed exam or a finished paper felt like the only stable thing I could offer the people still here, including myself. The loss has not become smaller. Anniversaries still stop me. Certain songs and certain rooms still require me to leave. What has changed is my certainty that grief and purpose can occupy the same life. I am pursuing [your field or degree] because the work matters to me, and because stopping would have confirmed the fear I felt in the first months: that his death had ended more than one future. It did not. I am still here, still enrolled, and still willing to do the slow work of becoming the person he expected to see graduate. This scholarship exists for students who have lost someone close and have chosen, anyway, to continue. I am applying because that description is exact. My father’s death marked me. It did not release me from the goals we had already set. I intend to finish them.

I love math because it is one of the few places in life where the truth is non‑negotiable. You can argue about opinions, make excuses, or spin a story, but the numbers don’t bend. If an equation balances, it’s right; if it doesn’t, no amount of charm or talking can fix it. That honesty is comforting to me. In a world where so much feels uncertain, math offers a space where the rules are clear and consistent. What fascinates me most is how math can reveal order inside what looks like chaos. At first glance, the night sky seems like a random scattering of lights. But with math, we can describe the motion of planets with precise equations, predict eclipses down to the second, and understand how gravity shapes orbits over millions of years. Something that once looked mysterious becomes understandable—not because we guessed well, but because the math matches reality. The same thing happens in everyday life. If you look at a busy highway, it seems like cars are just streaming randomly. Yet with the right mathematical models, you can predict traffic patterns, identify bottlenecks, and design better roads or signal systems. In finance, math helps explain why certain risks are more dangerous than they appear. In technology, it underlies everything from computer graphics to encryption. Beneath the surface of almost any complex system, there is a mathematical structure that helps us see what’s really going on. Math has also shaped the way I think and solve problems. It trained me to break big questions into smaller parts, to check my assumptions, and to accept when I’m wrong and try again. There’s no way to bluff your way through a proof or a calculation; you either put in the work or you don’t. That discipline carries over into other areas of my life, from education and parenting to rebuilding after setbacks. Ultimately, I love math because it’s a universal language of truth. It doesn’t care where you come from, what you look like, or what your past is. If you learn the language and respect its rules, it lets you understand and even predict parts of the universe that once seemed completely out of reach.

Information technology first captured my attention when I was a kid sitting at my neighbor’s computer. He was an older kid I thought was incredibly cool, and one day he showed me how to create a folder, name it, put files inside, and click through the directory structure. Watching information organize itself on the screen felt like magic: suddenly there was a system, a logic, a way to make chaos tidy. That simple moment—navigating folders on an old computer—was my first glimpse into how powerful technology could be. I’m now a Mexican-American, first-generation college student, an underrepresented minority in IT, a parent of disabled children, and an adult learner rebuilding life after addiction and incarceration. For a long time, technology was something I interacted with only as a user. But that early fascination never left. When I started working in technical operations roles—especially ATM monitoring and network support—that childhood curiosity came back. I didn’t just want to click buttons; I wanted to understand what was happening behind them. On the job, I’ve worked with ATM networks, ticketing systems, and basic server and network troubleshooting. I’ve been on incident calls at 2 a.m., helping coordinate responses when systems go down and customers can’t access their money. Those experiences taught me that information technology is the invisible backbone of modern life. If the infrastructure fails, people feel it immediately. Outside of work, I’ve pursued IT skills on my own: learning Python and SQL, studying networking and operating systems, and enrolling in the TechMaster AI & ML Engineering program with SkillUp. My personal projects have included small scripts to analyze logs, organize data, and automate repetitive tasks—in a way, grown-up versions of that first folder I learned to create as a child. Each step has reinforced that I’m not just interested in using technology; I’m driven to build and maintain it. What I find most compelling about IT is the mix of structure and impact. The same principles that underpin a simple file directory scale up to complex systems: hierarchy, access, security, and reliability. I want to work in roles where I design and support those systems, making them more resilient, easier to use, and more accessible to people who don’t have technical backgrounds. Coming from an underrepresented background shapes my goals. I know how limited access, language barriers, and financial instability can keep people from fully benefiting from technology. Long-term, I want to move into positions where I not only keep systems running, but also advocate for designs and processes that serve marginalized users better. I also hope to mentor other minority and non-traditional students, showing them that there’s room in IT for people whose paths have not been straight. This scholarship would help me continue my IT education while working full-time and supporting my family, reducing the need for loans and giving me more time to focus on mastering the skills I need. From that first folder on my neighbor’s computer to the complex systems I work with now, information technology has been the thread pulling me forward. I’m determined to follow it into a career that supports my family, serves my community, and opens doors for others like me.

I’m approaching my education with the same philosophy I’m using to rebuild my finances: live on less than I make, avoid new debt whenever possible, and attack existing balances with intensity. As a BIPOC, non‑traditional student, a parent of disabled children, and the only income in my household, I don’t have the luxury of pretending student debt is just a problem for “future me.” If I’m not intentional now, loans could follow my family for decades. I’m a big believer in the Dave Ramsey debt snowball method. I’ve listed all my current non‑student debts from smallest to largest, and I’m paying them off one by one. I make minimum payments on everything, then throw every extra dollar from overtime and careful budgeting at the smallest balance until it disappears. Each payoff gives me a sense of progress and frees up more cash flow to attack the next debt. It’s not just about math; it’s about motivation and changing habits that have kept my family under constant financial pressure. At the same time, I’m working hard not to pile new debt on top of the old. That’s where scholarships like this become essential. Every dollar of tuition or books that I can cover with scholarship funding is a dollar I don’t have to borrow and a payment I won’t be making years from now. Instead of trading today’s financial stress for tomorrow’s, I’m trying to move toward a future where my degree opens doors instead of becoming another bill. Because I’m working full‑time while in school, our budget is tight. We live simply, cut non‑essentials, and plan carefully around my children’s medical and educational needs. I study at night and on weekends, knowing that each class brings me closer to a tech career with a more stable income and better benefits. My goal is to graduate with as little student debt as possible so that more of that future income can go toward building savings, supporting my kids, and giving back to my community instead of servicing loans. Ultimately, I’m trying to change the financial story my children grow up in. I want them to see that it’s possible to pursue education, support a family, and still stay in control of money—instead of letting debt control us. With discipline, hard work, and help from scholarships like this one, I’m determined to walk across a graduation stage not just with a degree, but with a financial foundation strong enough to carry my family forward.

Recovery, to me, means finally choosing life over numbness—every single day. I grew up in a family where addiction was almost expected. My father struggled, my grandfather struggled, and my siblings and I all had our own battles. For most of my adult life, alcohol and opiates were mine. They were the way I coped with stress, shame, and the feeling that I was failing the people who depended on me. Almost every serious legal and financial problem I’ve had came from that use; I’ve even wrecked two cars because of drinking. My turning point really was rock bottom. I found myself in jail again—about the fifth time for alcohol-related charges—and I finally saw the pattern clearly. If I kept going, I was going to lose my family, my future, and maybe my life. In October, I quit drinking and began the hard work of walking away from opiates as well. Since then, recovery has meant living one honest day at a time: facing problems instead of escaping them, feeling emotions I used to numb, and taking responsibility for the harm I caused. It’s not about becoming perfect; it’s about becoming trustworthy. For me, that looks like showing up for my wife and kids, pursuing education so I can build a stable career, and proving—mostly to myself—that our family story can change. Ultimately, recovery means hope: the belief that through hard work, honesty, and refusing to give up, I can turn lost dreams into something real again.

Growing up with a single mother meant that strength and perseverance weren’t abstract values in my house—they were what kept the lights on. My father left when I was very young, and my mom suddenly became the sole provider and emotional anchor for four children ranging from a toddler to a late teenager. She stepped into that role without a safety net, and watching her do it has shaped my ambition, my drive, and the impact I hope to make with my own life. My mother worked long, grueling hours as a waitress, often juggling two jobs at once. Her workday meant being on her feet, smiling at strangers, and staying patient no matter how she was treated. When her shift ended, she came home to overdue bills, misbehaving kids, car problems, and frequent moves. From an adult perspective, I can see how overwhelming that must have been: managing rent, food, and transportation while trying to raise four very different children on her own. But as a kid, what I remember most is that she didn’t crack in front of us. She might have been scared or exhausted, but she did not let that stop her from doing what needed to be done. That example built my ambition. I learned early that work isn’t optional when people rely on you. There were no days when my mom decided she was too tired to go in; there was no one else to pick up the slack. That reality planted in me a deep desire to build a future where my own children don’t have to watch me struggle the way I watched her. It’s why I’m pursuing higher education and pushing toward a tech career that can provide real financial stability. I don’t just want a job; I want a career that allows me to be present for my family while still meeting their needs. Her life also fueled my drive. When things are hard now—long shifts, tight budgets, late-night studying—I hear her unspoken lesson: quitting only makes things harder. Seeing her persevere through years of stress taught me that feelings are real, but they can’t be the only factor in your decisions. You get up, you show up, and you keep moving forward, especially when others depend on you. That mindset carries me through moments when self-doubt creeps in or when the path to a degree feels too long. The impact of my upbringing goes beyond my own goals. Because I know what it’s like to grow up in a single-mother household, I feel a responsibility to use whatever success I achieve to ease the path for others. I want my children to inherit stability instead of instability, and I want to model for them the same resilience my mother modeled for me—but with fewer financial crises and more choices. Long term, I hope to mentor other first-generation students and children of single parents, showing them that our background can be a source of strength rather than a limitation. In many ways, my mother’s story is the foundation of my own. Her quiet determination shaped my ambition; her relentless work ethic fuels my drive; and the life I’m building for my family is the impact of her example echoing forward into the next generation.

Addiction has been a thread running through my family for generations. My father struggled with it, my grandfather struggled with it, and my siblings and I have wrestled with it in different ways. For most of my adult life, alcohol was my own battle. I was a heavy drinker, using it to dull stress, numb emotions, and push away the sense that I was falling short of the life I wanted to provide for my family. It was familiar, almost expected, but it was also slowly dismantling my health, my relationships, and my sense of self-respect. The turning point came when I finally admitted to myself that if I kept going, I would lose everything that really mattered—my wife, my children, and any chance of building a secure future for them. In October, I quit drinking. It wasn’t dramatic or glamorous; it was a quiet, painful decision to stop reaching for the same escape and start facing life as it is. Since then, sobriety has been a daily choice. There are days when the old patterns feel close, when stress or exhaustion whispers that one drink would make everything easier. On those days, I remind myself that “easier” is exactly what almost destroyed me. My plan going forward is simple but demanding: maintain sobriety one day at a time and build a life that makes it easier for my children not to repeat my path. I am the only person working and providing for my family, and I’m pursuing education in a tech-related field so that I can move from financial instability to genuine security. My goal is to earn enough, through honest work and advanced skills, to give my family a stable, loving home while I’m here and to put things in place for my disabled son to be cared for when I’m gone. I want money to be a tool we manage, not a constant crisis that drives us toward substances to cope. Education is central to this plan. It represents a break in the pattern—a way to replace desperation with opportunity. By gaining technical skills and moving into a better-paying, more sustainable career, I can reduce the daily pressure that so often feeds addiction. I can show my children that there are other ways to handle pain and stress: talking about it, seeking help, working toward long-term goals, and taking pride in small, steady progress. The impact I hope to have starts at home but doesn’t end there. I want to be a living example to anyone who knows me that addiction does not have to be the final word. I want people to see that a person with my history can choose a different path, commit to it, and keep walking even when it’s hard. My story is not one of instant transformation; it’s one of stubbornness in the best sense—getting up after every setback, holding on to my ideals, and refusing to give up on myself or my family. This scholarship would support that ongoing transformation. It would ease the financial strain of going back to school while supporting a family and maintaining sobriety, allowing me to focus more on learning and less on choosing between tuition and basic needs. More than anything, it would be a vote of confidence that the work I’m doing—to break generational patterns, build a stable future, and show that addiction can be overcome—is worth investing in.

My “awkward thing” lines up surprisingly well with Charles’s: I’m left-handed too. In my early school years, teachers were convinced I was just doing it wrong. They kept moving the pencil to my right hand, correcting my grip, and twisting my paper around, until it finally sank in that I wasn’t being stubborn—I was genuinely left-handed. Even after that, people commented on how “strange” it looked when I wrote, as if my hand itself were a small act of rebellion. On top of that, I’ve always been a science nerd in spaces where that wasn’t exactly popular. While other kids were trading sports stats or talking about whatever was trending, I was the one asking why the sky is blue, how hard drives store data, or what would happen if you fell into a black hole. I could happily spend an afternoon reading about physics or tinkering with a computer while everyone else was outside. It wasn’t the kind of thing that got you invited to every party, but it did light up my brain in a way nothing else did. I’m also short, which gave classmates easy material for teasing. I heard names like “midget” and “short stack” more times than I can count. In group photos I was always in the front by default, and in PE I was usually the last pick, not because I lacked effort, but because people assumed my height meant I wouldn’t be good at anything physical. After a while, that kind of teasing gets into your head. I learned to laugh it off, but there were plenty of nights when it didn’t feel funny. In the middle of all those everyday awkwardnesses, I was hit with something much heavier: about a year ago, I lost a close family friend—someone I considered a little brother—to gun violence. That loss shattered any illusion that “weirdness” or teasing were the biggest problems in my world. Grieving him while going to work, caring for my kids, and trying to stay on track with school forced me to grow up even more. It deepened my sense that life is fragile, that people are more than the labels others slap on them, and that I want to use my own life for something meaningful. When I put all of this together—being left-handed like Charles, being the science nerd, being short, and carrying the grief of losing someone I loved—I see a pattern. The things that made me stand out or feel small have also made me more empathetic, more determined, and more willing to be myself. They’ve taught me to notice the quiet kid in the corner, to respect differences that others might call “weird,” and to refuse to judge anyone by surface impressions. My awkwardness isn’t something I’m trying to outgrow; it’s become the foundation of the person I’m choosing to be.

Being a first-generation college student means I am trying to build something my family has never had: stability rooted in education. I am the only person working and providing for my household, and I am also the parent of disabled children. Every decision I make—every overtime shift, every late-night study session—is shaped by the awareness that my kids depend on me not just for today’s needs, but for the future they cannot yet secure for themselves. Our life is a constant balancing act. My days often begin before sunrise and end long after my children are asleep. There are therapies, medical appointments, school meetings, and the emotional work of advocating for a child who navigates the world differently. At the same time, there is rent to pay, food to buy, and all the quiet costs of simply existing. In the middle of that, I’ve chosen to return to school and pursue a tech-related field. It would be easy to call this impossible, but I can’t accept that. My children’s futures are too important. What drives me is the conviction that education is the most powerful way I can change our story. Advancing in technology—through programs like SkillUp and further academic study—offers the chance to move from survival to stability. I want to go from “just getting by” to building a career that provides a solid income, health benefits, and long-term security. My dream is to create a life where my son, as a disabled person, has the resources, support, and legal and financial protections he needs even when I am no longer here to fight for him. The challenges have been real. There are nights when exhaustion feels heavier than hope, when the gap between my current bank account and the cost of tuition seems too wide. It is hard to concentrate on assignments after a 10–12 hour day and the emotional intensity of caregiving. But each time I consider stepping back, I picture my child as an adult, needing specialized care or services, and I know I have to keep going. My determination is not abstract—it is tied to a face, a name, and a future I refuse to leave to chance. This scholarship would not simply make school more affordable; it would buy me time and breathing room. Fewer hours of overtime would mean more focused study, more rest, and more presence with my children. It would move my dreams from “maybe someday” to “step by step, this is happening.” I am not looking for an easy path—I have never had one. I am looking for a fighting chance to turn hard work, love for my family, and a deep sense of responsibility into a degree, a career, and a future where my children are safe and cared for. That is what being a first-generation student means to me, and that is why I am determined to do everything in my power to succeed.

I am a proud Mexican-American and a first-generation college student, and I carry my grandparents’ journey from Mexico with me into every classroom I enter. They came to this country with limited formal education, but with an unshakable belief that their children and grandchildren could have opportunities they never did. I see my own ambition as a continuation of their courage. Where they crossed borders and worked exhausting jobs, my task is to cross academic thresholds and use education to honor their sacrifices. Growing up, I watched my family work hard in jobs that were often overlooked or underappreciated. They cleaned buildings, worked in trades, and did whatever was necessary to keep food on the table. We lived with the reality that one missed paycheck or one medical bill could change everything. At the same time, I heard the outside world talk about people like my grandparents as if they were the problem—lazy, criminal, unproductive. Those stereotypes did not match the people I saw coming home late, hands rough and backs aching, still making time for family. Realizing that gap between reality and perception lit a fire in me. I am ambitious not only for myself, but for what my success can represent. I want to show that a Mexican-American student can excel in demanding fields, graduate from college, and build a career that contributes meaningfully to society. In the current political climate, immigrants and their descendants are often reduced to talking points about crime or “burdens.” I want my life to be a quiet but undeniable counterargument: a record of hard work, ethical choices, and service. Every class I complete, every skill I gain, chips away at those false assumptions. Being first-generation means I am learning everything from scratch—financial aid forms, degree requirements, how to balance full-time work and coursework. I don’t have a roadmap from my parents; instead, I am building one that younger relatives can follow. That requires discipline and resilience. I work long shifts to support my family, care for my children, and still push myself through lectures, assignments, and late-night studying. When I am tempted to give up, I picture my grandparents crossing the border with less than I have now and no guarantee of success. If they could keep going, so can I. I am passionate about being a first-generation Mexican-American student because I know how powerful it will be when my children and younger cousins see someone with our last name and our history walk across a graduation stage. I want them to understand that our heritage is not a limitation; it is a source of strength. My goal is to turn my degree into a career that provides stability for my family and positions me to mentor other students from similar backgrounds, helping them navigate a system that was not built with us in mind. This scholarship would support more than my tuition; it would support a vision of what Mexican-American ambition can look like—hardworking, disciplined, and committed to proving that our community is not defined by stereotypes, but by perseverance, contribution, and pride in where we come from.

I’m interested in STEM because it connects my curiosity about how things work with my desire to make life tangibly better for people like my family and community. As an Indigenous South/Central American person of color, I grew up seeing both the power and the absence of technology—how reliable systems can keep things running smoothly, and how gaps in access or understanding can shut people out. STEM, and computer science in particular, gives me a way to move from being just a user of technology to someone who understands and builds it. I’m especially drawn to computing, AI, and data because they sit at the center of so many modern systems: finance, healthcare, education, and communication. I’ve already worked in technical operations roles, keeping networks and ATM systems up, and I’ve seen how much depends on resilient, well‑designed infrastructure. My long‑term goal is to become an AI/ML engineer and technical leader who designs systems that are reliable, fair, and accessible. I want to work on tools that help organizations predict and prevent problems, allocate resources more intelligently, and extend services to people who are often overlooked—whether that’s through smarter monitoring, better risk models, or more inclusive user experiences. The impact I hope to make is both technical and social. Technically, I want to build systems that reduce downtime, improve security, and handle data responsibly. Socially, I want to be visible in these spaces as a minority STEM professional, mentor other underrepresented students, and advocate for practices that consider bias, accessibility, and equity from the beginning. I know that algorithms and infrastructure are never neutral; they reflect the values and blind spots of the people who design them. My background gives me a different perspective on what can go wrong and who gets left out, and I intend to bring that perspective into every team I join. My path into STEM hasn’t been simple. I’m a first‑generation college student, an older, non‑traditional learner, a full‑time worker, and a parent of disabled children. I’ve also had to rebuild my life after periods of incarceration and years of struggling with mental health. Balancing long shifts, caregiving responsibilities, and coursework means that my “study time” often starts when most people are going to bed. Financially, every class and textbook competes with rent, healthcare, and my kids’ needs. There have been many points where it would have been easier to accept that STEM wasn’t meant for someone with my history. Those challenges, however, have sharpened my commitment. They’ve taught me resilience, time management, and the importance of using every opportunity carefully. They’ve also shown me how much it matters for people from underrepresented backgrounds to gain technical skills and a voice in how systems are built. This scholarship would not only ease the financial strain of continuing my STEM education; it would also affirm that the perspective I bring—as a minority, a caregiver, and a returning student—is valued in the future of science and technology.

My adult life has been shaped by a consistent theme: using my specialized knowledge of technology—and more recently, financial literacy—to help other people. Inside and outside of work, I gravitate toward situations where someone is confused, overwhelmed, or stuck, and I do what I can to guide them toward a solution. I don’t earn anything extra for that help; I do it because I genuinely enjoy seeing someone feel more confident and less stressed after we’ve worked through a problem together. Since around the age of twenty, most of my professional roles have centered on tech-related services, troubleshooting, and support. In my current job, that often means working 16-hour days when operations demand it, staying long past my scheduled time to keep systems stable and customers supported. During those extended shifts, I’m not just finishing my own work—I’m training new employees, answering questions, and helping people in other departments whose issues don’t technically fall under my responsibilities. If a colleague is frustrated by a system I understand, I’ll sit with them, walk them through it step by step, and stay until they feel comfortable using it on their own. My altruism doesn’t end when I clock out. On social media, I participate in community and low-income assistance groups where people ask for help with everything from basic tech problems to questions about budgeting or benefits. I answer questions related to my field of experience, explaining concepts in plain language and helping people troubleshoot issues they can’t afford to pay someone else to fix. When I have items to give away, I try to donate them to families in those groups who clearly need them most. None of this brings me financial gain; I do it because I believe knowledge and resources are most valuable when they’re shared with people who need them. My perseverance is most visible in how I show up for my 6-year-old son, who has a disability and requires intensive, ongoing care. Our family’s schedule, budget, and energy are shaped around his needs. There are days when I work long shifts, come home to medical routines that demand patience and calm, and still find time to move my education forward. Caring for him is not something I can step away from—it is a lifelong commitment, and it has taught me what it means to keep going even when I am physically and emotionally drained. Stability and consistency are also central to how I approach my career. I have worked at the same company for about twelve years, never received a negative performance review, and been selected for promotions when opportunities arise. That track record reflects more than just competence; it reflects persistence, reliability, and a willingness to adapt as technology and job demands change. When new responsibilities or challenges appear, I take them on, learn what I need to learn, and do my best to leave things better than I found them. All of these pieces—working long shifts to support operations and train others, using my tech and financial knowledge to help strangers online, donating to those in need, caring daily for a disabled child, and steadily building a career over more than a decade—are connected by the same core belief: that my skills and energy should be used in service of others. To me, altruism is not a single heroic gesture. It is the choice, over and over again, to show up for people—at work, at home, and in my community—even when there is no direct reward, simply because I want their lives to be a little easier and their futures a little brighter.

As an undergraduate student enrolled in the Computer Science associate degree program at Rasmussen University, I meet the criteria for this scholarship through both my academic focus and my commitment to advancing in technology. My education reflects not only my interest in the field, but also my dedication to applying technical knowledge in real-world environments where it can make a meaningful impact. One project that stands out as a defining moment in my technology journey was leading and helping oversee a full transition from analog phone systems to Voice over IP (VoIP) within a hospital environment. This was not simply a technical upgrade—it was a transformation of a critical communication infrastructure that directly impacted patient care, staff coordination, and emergency responsiveness. Over the course of an intensive week, I worked 16-hour days alongside a small team to ensure every detail was executed with precision. My responsibilities spanned both physical and logical layers of the deployment. I helped install and configure new VoIP hardware across multiple departments, ensuring each device was properly connected, powered, and tested. On the backend, I assisted in configuring the system architecture, mapping extensions to departments and individuals, and designing intuitive phone trees that allowed patients and staff to quickly reach the right resources without confusion. One of the most delicate aspects of the project involved setting up voicemail systems and customer-facing messages. In a hospital setting, tone, clarity, and accessibility matter deeply. Every recorded message had to reflect professionalism, empathy, and accuracy. I took great care in reviewing these elements, knowing that even small improvements could reduce stress for patients and improve operational flow for staff. Despite the long hours, I never viewed the workload as a burden. There was a sense of purpose that carried me through each day. Walking through hospital corridors late at night, seeing newly installed phones come online one by one, and watching the system gradually take shape was incredibly rewarding. Each successfully configured extension and each completed test call felt like a step toward something meaningful. What fueled me most was the understanding that this system would serve as a backbone for critical communication. In healthcare, seconds matter. A properly routed call, a clear voicemail, or a reliable connection can make a real difference in outcomes. That awareness gave weight to every decision I made and inspired me to approach the project with both technical rigor and personal accountability. By the end of the week, when the system was fully operational, the sense of accomplishment was profound. Seeing hospital staff confidently using the new phones, hearing positive feedback from administrators, and knowing that we had delivered a seamless transition reinforced why I am passionate about technology. It is not just about systems and code—it is about impact. This experience solidified my desire to continue pursuing a career in technology. I am driven by opportunities to solve complex problems, improve systems, and create solutions that genuinely help people. Technology, when implemented thoughtfully, becomes an invisible force that empowers others to do their best work. Being part of that process is deeply fulfilling, and it continues to inspire me to grow, learn, and contribute at a higher level.

Something I want to build is a life where stability, education, and compassion all reinforce each other—for me, my children, and my community. I don’t just mean a career or a degree, but an entire structure that can hold the weight of our history: Indigenous South/Central American roots, a family shaped by disability and mental health, a past that includes incarceration, and a present where I work long hours while returning to school. On a practical level, I’m building a career in computer science and AI. I want to move from keeping systems running to designing them—creating tools that make essential services more reliable and more humane. That might look like smarter monitoring for financial networks, or data systems that help people access resources without getting lost in bureaucracy. For me, building software isn’t just about efficiency; it’s about reducing the kind of invisible friction that wears people down, especially those already carrying extra burdens. At the same time, I’m building a different kind of family legacy. My father’s generation survived war, ranch work, and poverty. My generation is navigating disability, mental illness, and the weight of criminal records. I want my children’s generation to inherit something different: a home where education is normal, therapy is not taboo, and they see a parent who didn’t give up even when it would have been easier to settle. That means building routines, boundaries, and support systems that let them feel safe while watching me stretch toward something better. I’m also committed to building community spaces—formal or informal—where people like me feel they belong in STEM and in higher education. That could mean mentoring other non‑traditional students, sharing what I’ve learned about admissions and financial aid, or simply being the visible Indigenous, Latinx, formerly incarcerated person who shows up and does the work. Representation isn’t everything, but it can be the first crack in the wall of “people like us don’t do that.” Ultimately, what I’m building is a bridge: from instability to stability, from shame to openness, from survival to contribution. If I succeed, the impact won’t stop with my résumé. It will show up in my children’s choices, in the students I encourage, and in the systems I help design—quiet, cumulative changes that make it a little easier for the next person standing where I stand today.

I have never known a life that was separate from mental health. I grew up, and now live, in a family where depression, PTSD, anxiety, and other diagnoses are not abstract terms but part of our daily vocabulary. That constant closeness to mental illness has shaped my goals, my relationships, and my understanding of the world in ways I can’t ignore. My earliest introduction came through my father, a Vietnam veteran who carried PTSD home with him. I didn’t have the language for it as a child, but I saw it in his reactions to loud noises, in his sleepless nights, and in the way certain topics or memories seemed to close him off. I learned early that someone can be strong and loving and still be fighting an invisible battle inside. That experience taught me to respect struggles I can’t see and to question the idea that “toughness” means never being affected by trauma. As I got older, mental health stopped being something that happened “around” me and became something I lived myself. I have struggled with depression and borderline personality disorder, and I know what it feels like when your own mind turns into hostile ground—when emotions swing hard, when hopelessness creeps in, and when shame makes it hard to ask for help. Those experiences have humbled me. They taught me that willpower alone can’t fix everything and that needing therapy, medication, or support is not a moral failure. My family life is deeply intertwined with mental health as well. My son’s disability is rooted in mental illness, and parenting him has forced me to think about care, patience, and advocacy in a new way. I’ve had to learn how to fight for accommodations, navigate systems that don’t always understand him, and balance high expectations with deep compassion. My wife lives with trichotillomania, OCD, PTSD, depression, and anxiety. My sister is bipolar. Addiction and mental health issues weave through our extended family story. Living in this kind of environment means that crisis, recovery, and everything in between are familiar rhythms. All of this has changed how I approach relationships. On a practical level, it has made communication and boundaries essential. When multiple people in a family are managing their own symptoms, we can’t afford to ignore how our actions affect one another. I’ve had to learn to say, “I’m not okay right now,” and to listen when others say the same. I’ve learned to take small signs seriously, to ask follow‑up questions, and to make space for people to be honest instead of rewarding them only when they pretend everything is fine. My understanding of the world has also shifted. I’ve seen firsthand how stigma makes everything worse: how people delay getting help because they’re afraid of being labeled, how families hide what they’re going through, and how institutions sometimes punish symptoms instead of addressing needs. That has made me skeptical of quick judgments about “lazy,” “difficult,” or “unreliable” people. I’m more likely to ask what might be happening beneath the surface and what kind of support might change the outcome. These experiences strongly influence my goals. Academically and professionally, I want to be part of building systems—whether in technology, education, or community support—that take mental health seriously instead of treating it as an afterthought. I’m drawn to work that combines problem‑solving with empathy: creating tools that make resources more accessible, improving processes so they’re less punishing for people with mental health conditions, and mentoring others who feel like their history disqualifies them from success. On a personal level, my main goal is to break the pattern of silence and shame that has surrounded mental illness in so many families, including my own. I want my children to grow up seeing that asking for help is normal, that therapy and treatment are acts of strength, and that their worth is not defined by any diagnosis. I try to model this by being open about my own struggles, sticking with treatment, and continuing my education even when episodes make everything harder. In short, my experience with mental health has made me more patient, more determined, and more aware of how fragile and precious stability can be. It has convinced me that success isn’t just about individual achievement, but about creating environments where people who are struggling can still learn, work, and belong. That vision guides how I show up in my family, in school, and in the career I’m working so hard to build.

I’m really embarrassed to admit this, but for the sake of this scholarship I’ll open myself up and share something that feels a little vulnerable: I’ve been deeply inspired by Sabrina Carpenter—by her Disney Channel work, her music, and the way she’s built her career. What stands out to me most is her combination of playfulness and professionalism. She started young on Disney, which could have easily locked her into one image forever, but she has steadily grown past that in a way that feels intentional and self‑aware. Watching her move from child actor to respected musician showed me that you can honor where you started without letting it define your ceiling. As someone returning to school later in life and trying to shift into a more technical field, that example matters. It reminds me that my earlier mistakes, jobs, or labels don’t have to be the whole story. Her music, in particular, has carried me through some rough times. I won’t quote lyrics here, but there are songs where she leans into heartbreak and insecurity with a kind of sharp honesty and humor that I really connect with. When she sings about feeling overlooked or second‑best and still choosing to show up with confidence, I hear my own struggles with imposter syndrome in school and work. Those songs have become a soundtrack for nights when I’m exhausted from a long shift, trying to convince myself that I belong in higher education and that my goals are worth the effort. On the other side, she has songs that celebrate self‑worth and owning your complexity—being messy, emotional, ambitious, and still deserving of love and success. Those tracks helped me reframe the way I talk to myself. Instead of beating myself up for every misstep, I’m learning to see my personality and past as raw material for growth. If she can write openly about her flaws and still stand onstage with that much confidence, I can sit in a classroom or walk into a new job interview without pretending to be perfect. What I also appreciate is how she uses humor and wordplay while still taking her craft seriously. That mix of lightness and discipline is something I want to bring into my own career. In STEM and technical work, it’s easy to become rigid or detached, but her example reminds me that you can be precise and still be human, hardworking and still playful. It encourages me to show up as my full self in professional spaces instead of hiding the parts of me that don’t fit a stereotype. Ultimately, Sabrina Carpenter’s path inspires me because it demonstrates resilience, reinvention, and authenticity. She took a platform that could have been temporary and turned it into a lasting, evolving career through consistent effort, creative risk‑taking, and a willingness to be vulnerable in front of millions of people. When I’m tempted to think I’ve missed my chance, her story pushes me to keep investing in my education and skills, trusting that with persistence and honesty, I can also build a life that reflects who I really am.

Calculus matters to me because it is the language we use when the world refuses to stay still. Algebra is powerful for dealing with fixed quantities, but most real systems in STEM are constantly changing—populations grow, voltages oscillate, data streams in, and machines accelerate or slow down. Calculus gives us a disciplined way to describe, predict, and control that change. In my view, its importance starts with the idea of the derivative. Conceptually, a derivative answers a simple but profound question: “How fast is this changing right now?” Whether it is the speed of a car, the rate at which a current flows, or the way a learning algorithm’s error decreases as we train it, we often care more about the rate of change than the value itself. Calculus lets us move from vague intuition—“this seems to be increasing”—to precise, testable statements about how a system behaves. The integral is equally important because it handles accumulation. Many problems in STEM involve adding up infinitely many tiny contributions: the total distance traveled when speed is changing, the amount of charge that has flowed over time, or the total probability over a continuous range of outcomes. Without calculus, we would be stuck with rough approximations or ad‑hoc methods. Integrals give us a structured framework for turning local behavior into global results. Beyond specific formulas, calculus is important to me because of the mindset it builds. It teaches you to think in terms of limits: to zoom in on a process until small changes become clear, and to let step sizes shrink toward zero. That habit of mind—of refining approximations, checking behavior as you approach extreme cases, and constantly asking “what happens as we push this further?”—is essential in any serious STEM work. It trains patience, rigor, and the ability to handle abstraction without losing touch with concrete reality. In more applied terms, calculus sits at the foundation of many tools I care about. Physics relies on it to describe motion, energy, and fields. Engineering uses it to design stable structures, efficient circuits, and control systems that don’t oscillate out of control. In computer science and data science, calculus underlies optimization methods like gradient descent, which power modern machine learning. Even if software hides the details, someone had to use calculus to design the algorithms and understand why they work. For me personally, valuing calculus is also about respect for the deeper structure of STEM. It’s easy to treat technology as a collection of black boxes: we press buttons, run code, or plug in numbers and get answers. Calculus reminds me that under every simulation, every numerical method, and every visualization, there is a mathematical backbone. Learning calculus is a way of “lifting the hood” and taking responsibility for understanding what’s really happening, instead of relying blindly on tools. Finally, I believe calculus plays an ethical role in STEM. When we model real systems—like disease spread, climate trends, or financial risk—we are often making decisions that affect people’s lives. Using calculus to build and analyze those models forces us to think carefully about assumptions, stability, and sensitivity to change. It doesn’t guarantee we’ll get everything right, but it gives us a disciplined framework for being transparent and accountable about how we reached our conclusions. In short, calculus is important to me because it is both a practical tool and a way of thinking. It connects local change to global behavior, grounds complex technology in clear principles, and shapes the habits of mind that serious STEM work demands.

My father served in the U.S. Army in Vietnam, and growing up as his child has shaped the way I look at work, responsibility, and my future more than anything else. I didn’t just hear stories about discipline and sacrifice—I watched how those values showed up in everyday life long after he came home. One of the clearest lessons he taught me is that there are no free rides. In our house, nothing “just happened.” If there was food on the table, a roof over our heads, or a repaired car in the driveway, it was because someone worked for it. My father never framed this as a harsh rule; it was simply reality. He had seen what it meant to be responsible for other people’s lives and to carry out orders in extreme conditions. After that, paying bills on time and keeping your word were the minimum standard, not something to brag about. At the same time, I saw the quieter costs of his service—physical wear, emotional weight, and the way certain sounds or news stories could pull him back to difficult memories. He didn’t talk about those experiences often, but their presence was obvious. Watching him manage that burden without using it as an excuse to give up taught me that hardship doesn’t exempt you from responsibility. It does, however, give you a deeper understanding of what other people might be carrying. Those lessons directly shape my career goals. I’m pursuing higher education and a career in technology not only because I find it intellectually exciting, but because I see it as a way to build a stable, meaningful life that I’ve genuinely earned. My father’s example makes it impossible for me to treat school as something casual; if I’m given the chance to learn, I have an obligation to show up fully, do the work, and respect the opportunity. When I face long days of work and classes, I remember that he faced far worse conditions for far less recognition, and he still did his duty. His influence also pushes me to think beyond myself. He taught me that service isn’t limited to wearing a uniform; it’s an attitude you carry into any role. In my future career, I want to build systems and tools that are reliable, accessible, and fair—especially for people who don’t have many safety nets. That means approaching my work with the same seriousness he brought to his: understanding that other people’s lives and livelihoods may depend on whether I do my job well. Being the child of a Vietnam veteran has given me a grounded, no‑excuses view of adulthood. It has taught me that everything worthwhile—trust, education, stability—has to be paid for with effort, integrity, and persistence. My goal is to honor that legacy by becoming a professional who works hard, takes responsibility, and uses my skills to serve others, just as my father did in his own way.

Selected paragraph (Epictetus, Enchiridion, section 1, public‑domain translation): “Some things are in our control and others not. Things in our control are opinion, pursuit, desire, aversion, and, in a word, whatever are our own actions. Things not in our control are body, property, reputation, command, and, in one word, whatever are not our own actions. The things in our control are by nature free, unrestrained, unhindered; but those not in our control are weak, slavish, restrained, belonging to others. Remember, then, that if you suppose that things which are slavish by nature are also free, and that what belongs to others is your own, you will be hindered. You will lament, you will be disturbed, and you will find fault both with gods and men. But if you suppose that only to be your own which is your own, and what belongs to others such as it really is, then no one will ever compel you or restrain you. You will find fault with no one or accuse no one. You will do nothing against your will. No one will harm you, you will have no enemy, nor will you suffer any harm.” Essay My central thesis is that Epictetus is not merely drawing a boundary between what we can and cannot control; he is arguing that human dignity, moral responsibility, and inner freedom all depend on respecting that boundary. His aim is to relocate our sense of power from external circumstances to the inner life, and in doing so, he offers a practical path for living ethically and steadily in a chaotic world. At first glance, his opening lines sound almost obvious: “Some things are in our control and others not.” Of course this is true; everyone knows we can’t stop time, reverse aging, or legislate other people’s opinions. Yet Epictetus turns this common‑sense observation into something radical by insisting that the only things truly “in our control” are our opinions, pursuits, desires, aversions—in short, “whatever are our own actions.” Everything else—body, property, reputation, authority—belongs to the realm of what is “not in our control.” We may influence these things, but we can never own them in the same way we own our choices. This distinction cuts against our usual way of thinking. Modern culture teaches us to measure success externally: job titles, income, health, looks, social status. Epictetus relegates all of those to the second category—to the things that are “weak” and “belonging to others.” That is not because he despises them, but because he believes anything exposed to chance can never be a reliable foundation for a meaningful life. If my identity rests on a career, an image, or even the functioning of my body, then illness, layoffs, or public opinion can destroy me. By calling these things “slavish,” he means that dependence on them enslaves us to factors we can neither predict nor command. In contrast, he describes the things in our control as “free, unrestrained, unhindered.” Here he is reclaiming the idea of freedom. Instead of seeing freedom as the ability to do whatever we want, he defines it as mastery over our own will. Opinions, desires, and choices are truly ours because, in principle, no one can force us to think or value something without our consent. Of course, habit and pressure can make resistance very difficult, but the underlying claim is that within the realm of judgment and intention, we are sovereign. That is why for Epictetus the central moral project is training this inner power—clarifying our judgments, disciplining our desires, and aligning our actions with reason and virtue. The next part of the paragraph warns us what happens when we ignore this boundary. If we confuse externally conditioned things with those that are “free by nature,” we become chronically frustrated. We “lament” and “find fault with gods and men” because we expect the universe to deliver what it never promised. In modern terms, Epictetus is describing a cycle of entitlement and resentment: we demand that life guarantee us comfort, status, and admiration, and when it doesn’t, we blame everyone and everything. This is, in his view, the posture of an “ill‑educated” person—someone who has not yet learned where real power lies. What is striking is that he does not deny the reality of injustice or suffering. He knows that bodies get sick, that wealth is unevenly distributed, that reputations can be destroyed by lies. His point is not that these things do not matter, but that our deepest harm comes from surrendering our judgment to them. If I believe my worth depends entirely on public approval, then slander doesn’t just hurt my name; it collapses my identity. But if I see my core value as grounded in the quality of my character and choices, then others can injure my circumstances without penetrating that inner core. When Epictetus says that, properly understood, “no one will harm you,” he is using “harm” in a moral and spiritual sense, not a physical one. Harm is not whatever causes pain; harm is whatever corrupts the soul—whatever drags us away from wisdom, justice, courage, and self‑control. You can lose money without being harmed if you respond with integrity; you can gain power and be deeply harmed if you compromise your principles to get it. In this view, our greatest danger is not what happens to us, but how we choose to respond. This idea has profound implications for personal responsibility. If our ultimate good lies in our own actions, then we can never use circumstances as a complete excuse for vice. Conditions can explain, influence, and tempt, but they cannot force us to abandon our values. Epictetus is clear that some roles are heavier than others—poverty, disability, marginalization, or past incarceration, for example, place real burdens on a person’s path. Yet his teaching insists that even in those conditions, there remains a zone of freedom where we can decide whether to become bitter or better, selfish or generous, cowardly or courageous. That is where our dignity lives. At the same time, this doctrine can easily be misunderstood as a call to passivity: if externals are not “ours,” why bother trying to improve them? Epictetus does not say we should ignore bodies, property, or reputation; he says we should treat them as “belonging to others”—meaning they are on loan from the wider order of things. We can and should manage them responsibly, just as a steward manages resources for a household. The key is that our happiness does not depend on our success in managing them. We are called to play our part with diligence, but to hold outcomes with an open hand. In practice, this means that a person guided by Epictetus’s view can be both ambitious and at peace. They can pursue an education, a profession, or community leadership, not as a way to prove their worth, but as a way to exercise their inner capacities for reason and service. When obstacles arise—a failed exam, a denied promotion, discrimination—they may feel disappointment, but they do not interpret these events as proof of their own worthlessness. Instead, they return to the question: “What is still in my control here? How can I respond in a way that strengthens my character and benefits others?” Another important thread in the paragraph is the relationship between this inner freedom and our treatment of others. Epictetus says that when we keep the boundary clear, we will “find fault with no one or accuse no one.” This does not mean we ignore injustice or never name wrongdoing. Rather, he is criticizing the habit of blaming others for everything that goes wrong in our lives. When we recognize that our judgments and choices are ours, we can protest injustice without turning every disappointment into proof that the world is against us. We can confront wrongs while still acknowledging our own agency. This attitude fosters humility and charity. If I see my main work as governing myself, I am less likely to spend my energy micromanaging or condemning others. I become more patient with their flaws, knowing how difficult it is to master my own. At the same time, I am less vulnerable to manipulation, because my sense of value is not in the hands of those who praise or blame me. In this way, Epictetus’s teaching supports both personal resilience and healthier relationships: I can be firm without being harsh, compassionate without losing my own center. We can also see in this paragraph a blueprint for leadership. A leader who understands that only their own actions are truly theirs will focus on setting an example rather than on controlling every outcome. They will emphasize honesty, reliability, and fairness in their own conduct, trusting that these qualities exert an influence beyond formal authority. Such a leader does not promise followers that they can control everything; instead, they invite them into the same disciplined freedom: to do their duty as best they can and to accept results with dignity. This kind of leadership is especially important in communities facing instability, because it anchors people in something sturdier than shifting circumstances. Epictetus’s teaching is demanding. It asks us to relinquish some cherished illusions—the illusion that we can guarantee success if we just try hard enough, the illusion that our happiness depends on being treated fairly, the illusion that avoiding pain is the highest good. In their place, he offers a harder but richer path: to accept that we are not sovereign over the world, but that we are responsible for the quality of our own souls. This is not a one‑time insight; it is a lifelong discipline of re‑aligning our expectations and desires with reality. Applied to a modern student’s life, this paragraph might look like the following: recognizing that we cannot control whether our classmates respect us, but we can control whether we respect them; accepting that admissions committees, hiring managers, or scholarship boards may say “no,” but refusing to let that “no” define our sense of purpose; acknowledging that family obligations, financial constraints, or past mistakes limit some options, yet still committing to cultivate integrity, diligence, and compassion within those limits. The externals vary from person to person; the inner work is universal. Ultimately, Epictetus’s underlying meaning is that the path to a meaningful, honorable life does not run through dominating the world, but through mastering ourselves. Every time we choose to govern our reactions instead of our circumstances, we step into the freedom he describes: a freedom where no one can compel us to compromise our values, where no misfortune can force us to abandon our commitment to what is right. In a world that often rewards appearance over substance and power over character, his message remains both countercultural and deeply needed.

Faith has become the backbone of my life, not because things have been easy, but because they haven’t. As an Indigenous South/Central American person of color, a first‑generation college student, a full‑time worker, and a parent of disabled children, I live with more responsibilities than I ever imagined. On my own strength, I would have given up long ago. The continued guidance of Jesus Christ is what turns exhaustion into perseverance and setbacks into lessons instead of dead ends. I didn’t always see faith this way. When I was younger, I treated it as something that belonged to Sundays and special occasions. That changed when adult life became more complicated: long shifts of 10–12 hours, weekends spent working instead of resting, financial strain, and the emotional weight of caring for my children’s medical and educational needs. In those moments, I realized that if my faith was real, it had to live in the middle of chaos—inside hospital waiting rooms, late‑night study sessions, and quiet prayers whispered at the kitchen table. Faith in Christ has reshaped how I understand my responsibilities as a parent and community member. I believe God entrusted my children to me, not by accident, but with purpose. Their disabilities do not make them a burden; they make my calling clearer. When I get up for work before dawn or stay up late to finish homework, I remember Christ’s example of sacrificial love. He cared for those who were overlooked and carried heavy loads for others. Following Him pushes me to be present, patient, and trustworthy for my family, even when I am tired or afraid. Prayer has become a daily discipline. I ask Jesus for wisdom when I have to choose between overtime and time at home, between another class and another bill. I ask for peace when anxiety about the future threatens to overwhelm me. Little by little, faith has trained me to move from reacting impulsively to making decisions rooted in trust and discernment. Instead of asking, “What do I feel like doing right now?” I ask, “What honors God, protects my family, and moves us closer to the future we’re called to?” This perspective has directly shaped my academic and career goals. I see higher education as one way of fulfilling my obligations as a father and community member. By pursuing a degree in computer science and working toward roles in technology and AI, I am seeking not just personal advancement, but the ability to provide stability and resources for my family. At the same time, I want to be a bridge for others—especially Indigenous and Latinx students—who may not see themselves reflected in these fields. My faith teaches me that gifts are given to be shared, not hoarded. If I gain knowledge, I am responsible for using it to uplift others. Faith also calls me to integrity. Jesus’ teachings about honesty, humility, and service challenge me to conduct myself in a way that would make my children proud. That means doing my coursework honestly even when shortcuts are tempting, showing up to work with reliability, and treating classmates and coworkers with respect. I want people to see consistency between what I say I believe and how I actually live. Looking to the future, I hope to combine my technical skills with my faith by contributing to work that benefits marginalized communities—whether through more accessible financial tools, better support systems, or mentoring programs for students who share my background. I want my children to grow up seeing that their parent used faith not as an escape from responsibility, but as the strength to face it. This scholarship would help lighten the financial load that often makes this path feel overwhelming. It would allow me to devote more energy to my studies and my family, instead of constantly choosing between extra shifts and academic progress. Most of all, it would affirm that the values I am striving to live out—faith, perseverance, stewardship, and service—are worth investing in, and that a life guided by Jesus Christ can still flourish in classrooms, workplaces, and communities that desperately need hope.

I am a first-generation college student, but my story stretches back further than my own life. On my father’s side, I am only the second generation of my family to live in the United States. On my mother’s side, I am only the second generation not living in a log cabin on a ranch in Montana. I carry the history of Indigenous South and Central American ancestors, ranchers, and immigrants who worked hard so that someone in our family could one day sit in a college classroom. That “someone” turned out to be me. Growing up, college was more of an idea than a roadmap. No one in my immediate family could tell me how to navigate financial aid, prerequisites, or admissions. What they could tell me was that education mattered, even if they hadn’t had the chance to pursue it. My parents and grandparents taught me through example: long hours, physical labor, and a constant awareness that one injury or one bad season could put everything at risk. I saw how limited options can trap people in cycles of hard work without security. That reality pushed me toward education, not because it was easy, but because it offered a different kind of future. Being Indigenous and a person of color in this country also shaped my journey. I became aware early on that systems were not designed with people like my family in mind. From underfunded schools to subtle and overt bias, there were many moments where it felt like I was being quietly steered away from ambitious goals. Instead of accepting that, I decided that one of the most powerful things I could do was step into spaces where we are rarely seen and refuse to disappear. Going to college is my way of saying that our stories and perspectives belong in these rooms. My chosen path—computer science and technology—comes from both curiosity and responsibility. I’ve always been fascinated by how systems work beneath the surface, whether it was watching someone create folders on a computer as a kid or later learning how networks and software keep critical services running. Over time, working in technical roles and supporting my family, I realized that technology is one of the main engines driving opportunity today. I want to be someone who not only understands these systems, but who helps design them in ways that serve communities like mine rather than leaving us behind. What motivates me most is the idea of “reaching back,” much like Dinakara Rao did. I am not pursuing a degree just for personal advancement. I want to be able to offer my children, younger relatives, and community members something different from what we had: guidance through the maze of higher education, access to careers that provide stability without sacrificing health, and proof that we can succeed in fields where we have historically been excluded. I see my future career as a bridge between my community and the opportunities that technology and education can provide. As a first-generation student, I have had to figure out each step largely on my own while balancing full-time work and parenting. There are moments of doubt and exhaustion, but I remind myself that I am part of a much longer story—a story that started in log cabins and faraway villages, crossed borders and generations, and now sits in lecture halls and late-night study sessions. That legacy, and the desire to honor it by building a better future for those who come after me, is what keeps me moving forward.

Incarceration has shaped my life in ways I can’t ignore, but it no longer defines who I am or who I intend to become. As a younger person, I was incarcerated several times for various offenses. At the time, I thought of each sentence as something to “get through.” Only later did I realize how deeply those choices and records would follow me. Being locked up affected more than my freedom; it changed how people saw me. I saw firsthand how a criminal record closes doors that others take for granted. Job applications suddenly ended the moment I checked a box. Landlords stopped returning calls. Even simple things—like being trusted with responsibility—became harder because “formerly incarcerated” was the first label people saw. The stigma is real, and it doesn’t disappear when the sentence ends. Those experiences forced me to confront the impact of impulsive decisions. In jail, your world shrinks. You have too much time to replay what you did and too few ways to change it. That painful reflection taught me the value of thinking ahead. I began asking myself questions I hadn’t before: What are the consequences of this choice? Who will be affected? Will this decision move me closer to the person I want to be, or further away? Learning to slow down, think critically, and resist acting on the first impulse has been one of the most important lessons of my life. Incarceration also made me see how much my actions affect my family. While I was inside, they were the ones dealing with worry, financial strain, and the embarrassment of explaining where I was. Realizing how much they suffered because of my choices changed my sense of responsibility. I no longer measure success only by what I achieve for myself, but by the stability and trust I can offer the people who stood by me. These experiences now shape my academic and career goals. I am pursuing higher education because I want to build a future where my past does not limit my potential to contribute. My goal is to become a productive, trustworthy member of society with a career that allows me to support my family and give back to my community. Education is my path to skills and credibility that no one can take away. Being formerly incarcerated means I often feel like I’m starting several steps behind, but it also means I bring a strong sense of purpose. I know what it’s like to be written off. I want to prove—to myself and others—that people can change when they are given meaningful opportunities and are willing to do the hard work. This scholarship would help me continue that work by easing some of the financial pressure of school, allowing me to focus more on learning and less on whether I can afford to stay enrolled. It would be an investment in someone who has learned from their mistakes and is committed to building a different kind of future.

When I was a kid, one of my sister’s older friends sat me down at a kitchen table and taught me how to play chess. I was hooked immediately. I wasn’t naturally talented; I lost far more games than I won, and I used to get furious with myself when I blundered a piece or walked into a simple tactic. But I kept coming back to the board, replaying positions, asking for rematches, and trying to understand what I could have done differently. That cycle—failing, analyzing, and trying again—became one of the most important patterns in my life. Chess was my first introduction to disciplined critical thinking. Every move forces you to evaluate threats, weigh trade‑offs, and notice what you might be overlooking. As a Mexican and Indigenous South/Central American person, I grew up seeing how decisions can ripple through a family and community. Chess gave me a safe place to practice that awareness. On the board, a careless move costs a game; in real life, an unexamined choice can affect my education, finances, or ability to care for the people who depend on me. Learning to pause, think through options, and foresee possible outcomes has become a core life skill. The game also taught me strategic, forward thinking. Beginners focus on the move right in front of them; stronger players think several moves ahead. I started to see that mindset everywhere. In school, it meant planning assignments and studying in advance instead of reacting at the last minute. As an older student working full‑time and raising disabled children, it means mapping out weeks ahead: which nights I can study, which days I can take long shifts, how to align my schedule with my kids’ appointments. Chess trained me to build a plan, adjust when circumstances change, and keep long‑term goals in view even when I’m tired or stressed. Another lesson chess taught me is resilience. No matter how carefully you play, you will make mistakes. I used to obsess over every loss, but eventually I learned to treat each game as information rather than a personal failure. That perspective helps when I hit setbacks in school or life. A bad grade, a missed deadline, or a rough week at work doesn’t mean I’m finished; it just means I need to review what happened and make a better move next time. Chess also reinforced the value of initiative and sacrifice. Sometimes you must give up a piece to gain a better position later. In my life, that has meant sacrificing free time, hobbies, and short‑term comfort to pursue education. As a BIPOC student, I know that advanced education and technical skills can open doors that might otherwise stay closed. When I choose to study late or enroll in another course, I remind myself that I am investing in a future where I can better support my children and represent my communities in spaces where we are often missing. Even though I don’t play as often now, the habits chess built—critical thinking, strategic planning, resilience, and thoughtful sacrifice—guide how I move through the world. On the board and in life, I try to see the whole position, respect my opponent, and make the best move I can with the resources I have. Those skills will continue to shape my education and career, and this scholarship would help me carry the lessons I first learned over a chessboard into an upper‑level education and a brighter future.

I’m an older, non‑traditional student, a full‑time worker, and a parent of disabled children. Returning to school in those circumstances has been the hardest thing I’ve ever chosen—and also the most important. My workdays are long. I regularly work 10–12 hour shifts, often three to four days a week, and I still pick up weekends when I can. That schedule isn’t optional; it’s what keeps my family housed, clothed, and cared for. On top of that, my children’s disabilities mean that home life is never “off duty.” There are therapies, medical appointments, school meetings, and the constant emotional work of advocating for them in systems that don’t always understand their needs. By the time the house is quiet, most people would be ready to collapse. That’s when I open my laptop and become a student. One of the biggest challenges in returning to school has been learning how to protect time for myself without feeling guilty. When I’m studying, there’s always a voice in my head asking whether I should be doing one more load of laundry, prepping tomorrow’s meals, or checking on insurance paperwork. I’ve had to consciously reframe school as part of caring for my children, not a distraction from them. Earning this degree is how I’ll create a more stable and sustainable future for us, with work that offers better pay, more predictable hours, and benefits that make it easier to support their needs. Another challenge has been sheer exhaustion. Some days, I go from a 12‑hour shift straight into coursework, and my brain feels like it has nothing left to give. I’ve learned to break assignments into smaller pieces, to study in short bursts during lunch breaks, and to use every bit of structure I can—calendars, checklists, and late‑night study sessions after the kids are asleep. I don’t have the luxury of a traditional campus experience or large blocks of free time, so I’ve had to build my own version of consistency out of chaos. Financial strain is an ongoing reality. Between medical expenses, everyday costs of raising children, and the price of tuition, books, and technology, there is never much margin. When something unexpected happens—a car repair, a change in insurance, a new medication—I feel it immediately in our budget. There have been moments when I’ve wondered whether I can afford to stay in school at all, even though I know how critical this degree is for our long‑term stability. Despite these challenges, I keep going because I want my children to see that their parent didn’t give up on building a better future, even when it was difficult. I want them to know that their disabilities do not make them a burden; they are the reason I’m fighting this hard. Returning to school has taught me resilience, time management, and how to ask for help when I need it. The Jerrye Chenes Memorial Scholarship would make a tangible difference. It would ease the constant pressure of choosing between overtime hours and coursework, between paying a bill immediately and buying a required textbook. With this support, I could reduce some of the extra shifts I take just to stay afloat, freeing up time and mental energy to focus on learning. That would not only improve my academic performance, but also allow me to be more present for my children. I may be a less conventional student, but I am deeply committed. I’m juggling full‑time work, long hours, disabled children, and school because I believe the education I’m pursuing will change our lives. This scholarship would help turn that belief into reality.

I chose computer science because I have always been drawn to what happens behind the screen and how people interact with systems. One of my earliest memories is sitting at a computer as a six‑year‑old while an older neighbor I thought was incredibly cool showed me how to create a folder, name it, and put files inside it. Seeing information organized and nested, watching the computer respond to simple choices, made technology feel like a structured kind of magic. That early fascination never left. As I grew up, that curiosity turned into a career. I’ve worked in roles like ATM dispatch and monitoring and network support, where my job is to keep critical systems running and troubleshoot problems under pressure. Along the way, I started teaching myself Python, SQL, and other tools so I could automate small tasks and understand the data behind the systems I was supporting. I realized that what I enjoyed most was not just fixing issues but understanding why they happened and how to design things better. Studying computer science is my way of formalizing that knowledge so I can move from “keeping things alive” to actually building and improving them. In the short term, my goal is to transition into a technical role focused on AI, machine learning, and data‑driven systems. I want to work on intelligent monitoring, automation, and analytics for large infrastructures, especially in financial technology where reliability and access are critical. Long term, I see myself in a leadership position as an AI or data engineering manager, guiding teams that design fair, robust systems and mentoring new engineers from marginalized backgrounds. I want to be the person who can translate between business needs, technical realities, and community impact. My Indigenous South American and Mexican lineage means I am part of an underrepresented minority in this field. That reality shapes my goals in several ways. It motivates me to persist, because every time I show up in a classroom, a technical meeting, or a leadership role, I broaden the image of who belongs in computer science. It also keeps me focused on equity. My family’s experiences have shown me how harmful it can be when systems are built without our communities in mind. I want to design tools and algorithms that consider language, culture, and economic barriers so they serve a wider range of people, not just those who already have access and privilege. Being underrepresented also creates a sense of responsibility. I plan to use my future position to mentor Indigenous, Latinx, and other underrepresented students, advocate for fair hiring and promotion practices, and push for inclusive policies wherever I work. My goal is not just to succeed individually, but to hold the door open and make it easier for those who come after me. This scholarship would have an immediate impact on my ability to pursue these goals. I am balancing full‑time work, a demanding academic schedule, and family responsibilities, including care for disabled children. Tuition, books, and technology costs compete directly with essentials like housing and healthcare. Scholarship support would reduce that strain, allowing me to take on fewer extra shifts, concentrate on my coursework, and progress steadily toward graduation. It would be an investment not only in my education, but in the perspective of an Indigenous South American and Mexican student who is committed to building a more inclusive and equitable technology landscape.

My activism started inside my own family. As a non‑binary person, I had the rare experience of growing up with openly queer relatives: my sister, my aunt, and my cousin, who are gay and lesbian. Because of them, LGBTQIA+ identity was never an abstract concept or a news headline; it was woven into everyday life, sitting next to me at the dinner table and showing up at holidays and family group chats. Each of them came out in different ways and at different times. I watched them navigate everything from awkward questions to outright disapproval, and still choose to live openly. They brought their partners, corrected people on pronouns, and made it clear that their identities were not up for debate. Their courage showed me that authenticity can be a form of resistance, especially in environments where silence is expected and prejudice is normalized. Seeing them insist on being fully themselves gave me the courage to recognize and claim my own non‑binary identity, rather than treating it as something I could ignore to make other people more comfortable. What affected me most was how they blended daily life with daily activism. They weren’t constantly at rallies, but they consistently used their voices. If someone made a joke at the expense of queer or trans people, they pushed back. If a form, policy, or conversation erased our identities, they spoke up. Watching this taught me that activism isn’t only about big moments; it’s also the ongoing, sometimes exhausting practice of speaking up when it would be easier to stay quiet. Following their example, I began practicing verbal activism of my own. I make a point of challenging homophobic and transphobic comments in social and professional spaces, and I share information that helps people understand LGBTQIA+ issues and intersectionality. I’ve also moved into more visible forms of action: attending local marches, Pride events, and sit‑ins that connect queer rights with racial justice, disability justice, and economic equity. Being physically present in those spaces reminds me that our struggles are linked and that change is built by bodies and voices, not just ideas. These experiences shape my future activism in specific ways. I plan to keep combining everyday verbal advocacy with organized action, pushing for inclusive policies in my workplaces and communities while staying engaged in local movements. Most of all, I want to be for others what my sister, aunt, and cousin were for me: a visible, supportive queer family member who proves that living truthfully is possible, powerful, and worth defending.

My interest in computer science started when I was about six years old. A neighbor across the street—an older kid I thought was the coolest person in the world—sat me down at his computer and showed me how to create a folder, name it, put files inside, and click through the folder hierarchy. It was a simple act, but to my six‑year‑old brain it felt like magic: information could be organized, hidden, revealed, and shaped by what you told the machine to do. That small moment stuck with me. Over the years, working in ATM dispatch and monitoring, troubleshooting networks, and later teaching myself Python and SQL, I realized that computer science is the formal language behind that magic. It’s the discipline that turns curiosity and structure into real systems, and that’s what pulled me toward a CS degree. My goal after receiving my degree is to move from technical operations into AI and machine learning engineering, and eventually into an AI leadership role. I want to design intelligent monitoring and proactive resolution systems for large, mission‑critical infrastructures—starting with the kind of ATM and network environments I already manage. Longer term, my dream job is to serve as an AI/ML engineering manager or director of AI/ML operations, leading teams that build reliable, data‑driven systems that keep financial and other essential services running smoothly. I see computer science as the foundation that will let me move confidently from “keeping systems alive” to actually architecting the next generation of those systems. I believe I’m a strong candidate for this scholarship because I bring a combination of genuine passion, real‑world experience, and high stakes. I’m not pursuing this degree out of vague interest; I’m a working technical manager who has already committed to Skill Up’s AI & ML program, adjusted my budget to pay for it, and built a demanding schedule around full‑time work and caring for two disabled children. I’ve already shown I can handle responsibility, learn independently, and follow through on long‑term goals. This scholarship wouldn’t be a casual bonus—it would directly reduce the financial strain of an education I am already all‑in on and accelerate my ability to transition into higher‑impact, higher‑earning roles. In short, I’m someone who has skin in the game, a clear plan, and a very personal reason to succeed, and I would honor this investment by seeing it through and using it to create real, measurable change in my career and my family’s future.

When the world ended, the argument over the microwave had already been going on for eleven years. It started on a Tuesday when the last two humans on Earth—Lena and Dev—found the only working microwave in the ruins of Denver. Beige, boxy, and stubborn, it had survived three EMPs, four grid collapses, and one intern who once tried to heat tinfoil in it. In a world stripped of almost everything, it might as well have been a throne. “Left side,” Dev said, balancing a dented can of soup. “We put it on the left side of the counter.” “Right side,” Lena replied, clutching a chipped mug of instant coffee. “So it doesn’t block the sunlight.” “There is no sunlight,” Dev said. “Just ash‑filtered disappointment.” “Which hits the left side first,” she answered. “Right side. Non‑negotiable.” Before the collapse, people argued about politics and whose turn it was to do the dishes. Lena and Dev argued about countertop geometry. Both were engineers in the Before Times—he worked on traffic systems, she on satellites—and the apocalypse hadn’t shaken their belief that every problem had an optimal solution. It had only made the problems stupider. Dev drew diagrams in the dust: efficient walk paths, door‑swing angles, imaginary heat‑dispersion curves that meant nothing now that electricity came from a bicycle generator. Lena thought in terms of “future layouts” for a kitchen that no city planner would ever map again. They tried compromise once. For a week, the microwave sat exactly in the center of the counter. No one spoke about it. The tension was so thick even the canned peas tasted like conflict. Over time, the argument became ritual. Mondays were for formal debates scratched into concrete with charcoal. Fridays were mock trials with the microwave as Exhibit A. On especially bleak nights, they invented saints of Left Placement and Right Placement and recited half‑serious prayers to the God of Power Stability. “This is ridiculous,” Dev said one night. “Of course it is,” Lena answered. “But ridiculous is all we have left.” Because it wasn’t really about the microwave. It was about proving to themselves that some choices still mattered. That after the data centers died and the satellites turned into cold stones, there were still preferences worth defending and futures worth imagining. Then, one morning, the sky finally cracked. A single blade of sunlight forced its way through the clouds, spilled through the broken kitchen window, and landed squarely on the right side of the counter. Dust motes spun around the microwave like it had been appointed. Lena stared. Dev squinted, then laughed. “Well,” she said, “that’s data.” “Looks like the universe voted,” he replied. Together they slid the microwave three inches to the right. Such a tiny scrape across the counter, yet it felt like signing a treaty. Two weeks later, the power failed for good. The microwave never warmed another meal. They left it on the right side anyway.

My primary goal is to transition from ATM operations management into AI and machine learning engineering, and eventually into an AI leadership role where I can design and oversee intelligent systems. I want to combine my existing experience managing critical technical operations with advanced STEM skills so I can increase my earning potential, provide long‑term stability for my two disabled children, and contribute to building reliable, data‑driven systems. To reach this goal, I have built a structured, multi‑step plan. First, I enrolled in Skill Up’s TechMaster Certificate Program in AI & ML Engineering, which provides hands‑on training, labs, and preparation for Microsoft certifications. In parallel, I am pursuing an Associate’s degree in Computer Science through Rasmussen University to deepen my understanding of algorithms, data structures, and core computing concepts. Together, these programs give me both practical and theoretical foundations. From a resource and budget standpoint, I have adjusted my finances to support tuition and monthly program costs. I reduced discretionary spending and temporarily scaled back some investing so I can fund these programs without taking on high‑risk debt. I treat this as a strategic reallocation rather than a loss, because the skills and credentials I gain should enable me to move into higher‑paying roles within a few years. I also plan to apply for scholarships and, where possible, make use of employer tuition benefits or certification support. Time management is another key resource. I typically work long days, but I am able to scale back to my required eight hours when needed. I’ve built a study schedule that uses a mix of daytime and evening blocks: shorter, focused sessions on weeknights and one deeper “anchor” session on the weekend. My aim is to consistently dedicate 10–15 hours per week to coursework, while staying present for my children and maintaining performance at work. I know this schedule will be difficult, but I have accepted that discomfort as part of the process. Once I complete the TechMaster program and have a strong base in AI/ML and computer science, my next step is to sit for Microsoft and cloud‑related certifications aligned with my training. I plan to use the program’s labs, official documentation, and targeted exam prep resources to pass these exams. With those credentials, I will be positioned to pursue roles such as AI Engineer, Machine Learning Engineer, or Technical Project Manager focused on AI initiatives. A key part of my plan is to leverage my current role rather than start over from zero. At Brinks, there is a clear opportunity to design an intelligent monitoring and proactive resolution system for ATM networks. My long‑term vision is to either lead that initiative internally or use it as a model for similar systems at other organizations. If internal opportunities don’t materialize, I will seek external roles where my combination of operations experience, AI/ML training, and certifications is valued. I have also considered alternate paths and risks. If progress in AI engineering is slower than expected, my computer science degree still opens doors in software development, data analytics, and other technical roles. If financial pressure increases, I can temporarily slow my course load while maintaining momentum. In every case, I intend to keep moving forward, even if the exact path shifts. Overall, my plan is deliberate and multi‑layered: gain formal training in AI and computer science, manage my budget to support that training, systematically add certifications, apply what I learn in real operations, and then step into roles that align with both my skills and my responsibilities as a father and provider.

My primary goal is to transition from ATM operations management into AI and machine learning engineering, and eventually into an AI leadership role where I can design and oversee intelligent systems. I want to combine my existing experience managing critical technical operations with advanced STEM skills so I can increase my earning potential, provide long‑term stability for my two disabled children, and contribute to building reliable, data‑driven systems. To reach this goal, I have built a structured, multi‑step plan. First, I enrolled in Skill Up’s TechMaster Certificate Program in AI & ML Engineering, which provides hands‑on training, labs, and preparation for Microsoft certifications. In parallel, I am pursuing an Associate’s degree in Computer Science through Rasmussen University to deepen my understanding of algorithms, data structures, and core computing concepts. Together, these programs give me both practical and theoretical foundations. From a resource and budget standpoint, I have adjusted my finances to support tuition and monthly program costs. I reduced discretionary spending and temporarily scaled back some investing so I can fund these programs without taking on high‑risk debt. I treat this as a strategic reallocation rather than a loss, because the skills and credentials I gain should enable me to move into higher‑paying roles within a few years. I also plan to apply for scholarships and, where possible, make use of employer tuition benefits or certification support. Time management is another key resource. I typically work long days, but I am able to scale back to my required eight hours when needed. I’ve built a study schedule that uses a mix of daytime and evening blocks: shorter, focused sessions on weeknights and one deeper “anchor” session on the weekend. My aim is to consistently dedicate 10–15 hours per week to coursework, while staying present for my children and maintaining performance at work. I know this schedule will be difficult, but I have accepted that discomfort as part of the process. Once I complete the TechMaster program and have a strong base in AI/ML and computer science, my next step is to sit for Microsoft and cloud‑related certifications aligned with my training. I plan to use the program’s labs, official documentation, and targeted exam prep resources to pass these exams. With those credentials, I will be positioned to pursue roles such as AI Engineer, Machine Learning Engineer, or Technical Project Manager focused on AI initiatives. A key part of my plan is to leverage my current role rather than start over from zero. At Brinks, there is a clear opportunity to design an intelligent monitoring and proactive resolution system for ATM networks. My long‑term vision is to either lead that initiative internally or use it as a model for similar systems at other organizations. If internal opportunities don’t materialize, I will seek external roles where my combination of operations experience, AI/ML training, and certifications is valued. I have also considered alternate paths and risks. If progress in AI engineering is slower than expected, my computer science degree still opens doors in software development, data analytics, and other technical roles. If financial pressure increases, I can temporarily slow my course load while maintaining momentum. In every case, I intend to keep moving forward, even if the exact path shifts. Overall, my plan is deliberate and multi‑layered: gain formal training in AI and computer science, manage my budget to support that training, systematically add certifications, apply what I learn in real operations, and then step into roles that align with both my skills and my responsibilities as a father and provider.

I chose a STEM career because it sits at the intersection of how the world works and how the world can change. Technology is no longer a niche field; it shapes finance, healthcare, transportation, communication, and security. My work background in ATM dispatch and monitoring already puts me close to critical systems that keep everyday life moving. As I saw more automation, data, and AI creeping into those systems, I realized I didn’t want to stay on the outside as the person who reacts when things break. I wanted to become the person who designs and builds the intelligent systems that prevent problems, improve efficiency, and create new possibilities. That realization led me toward STEM, specifically computer science and artificial intelligence. I am now pursuing formal training in AI and machine learning, along with a computer science degree, because I want a deep foundation, not just surface‑level familiarity. STEM appeals to me because it rewards curiosity, persistence, and problem‑solving. When I write code, troubleshoot a network, or think about how to turn operational data into predictive models, I feel a sense of ownership over real problems and real solutions. I also know that STEM skills are in high demand and can significantly increase my earning potential. As a parent of two disabled children, that matters. I chose this path not only because I enjoy the work, but because it is one of the most powerful ways I can provide stability, opportunity, and long‑term security for my family. Being a person of color in STEM adds another layer of meaning to my goals. In many technical spaces, especially in leadership and advanced engineering roles, people who look like me are still underrepresented. That lack of representation can quietly send a message to younger students and professionals that these spaces are “not for them.” I want to challenge that message by example. My aim is not just to earn a job title or salary; it is to become visibly competent and successful in roles like AI engineer, solutions architect, or AI/ML operations leader so that others from similar backgrounds can see a path for themselves. My impact as a person of color in STEM will come in two ways: through the work I do and the people I influence. On the technical side, I hope to design systems that make everyday life more reliable and fair—such as intelligent monitoring that reduces downtime in underserved areas, or data‑driven tools that help organizations allocate resources more equitably. Coming from operations, I understand how failures and inefficiencies hit real people, not just metrics. I want to bring that perspective into AI and software design, so systems are built with resilience, accessibility, and real‑world consequences in mind.