I have always believed that the arts are bigger than the person standing on the stage. Music, theater, and the arts have a way of bringing people together who might never have found a reason to stand in the room otherwise. The Arts give us a way to communicate and understand one another on different types of levels. As a percussionist, I have experienced what it means to be one small part of something much bigger. In an ensemble, every instrument matters. You have to listen to the people around you, trust them, and do your part to the best of your ability. I have learned those lessons as a member of the marching band, jazz band, and on the stage in plays I have participated in. The experiences have shaped not only the musician I am becoming, but also the person I want to be. One of the things that matters most to me is helping others experience that feeling too. I have volunteered a lot of my time working with younger musicians, whether they need help with a difficult rhythm, a part they are struggling to understand, or just give them encouragement to keep on practicing. I have learned that sometimes the most important thing you can give someone is the feeling that they belong. That is the kind of impact that I want to have through the arts. I am currently a freshman at Michigan State University majoring in Music Composition and Jazz Studies, to become a composer for theater and film. I want to take the sounds and traditions that have really inspired me, especially jazz, and bring them into new spaces through technology and composition, merging them into a whole new story. I want to create music that makes people feel something, but I also want to help create opportunities for other artists to discover their own voices. The arts shouldn’t just belong to the people who can afford them or the people who already believe they are talented enough. They should be places where people can walk in unsure of themselves and walk out believing they can create something spectacular! Each and every one of us was born with talents that are uniquely ours, and they should be shared with the world. That is the kind of community I want to help build. Ruth Jensen’s story reminds us that life in the arts does not end with the work we create. It continues through the people we inspire and the traditions we protect. It also continues in the opportunities we give the next generation. I want my music to do more than make noise; I want it to inspire the next generation to keep on creating.

Some hardships arrive all at once. Others slowly reshape your life without you realizing it at first. One of the biggest struggles I have faced was growing up in a home affected by abuse and then watching my mother make the difficult decision to leave everything behind to protect our family. When she left, we were not just walking away from a house. We were walking away from stability, security, and the life we had known. Suddenly, everything changed. Financial struggles became part of daily life, and there were many moments where uncertainty felt overwhelming. As a kid, it was difficult to fully understand why life suddenly felt so unstable. I watched my mom work tirelessly to rebuild our lives while carrying responsibilities that no one should have to carry alone. Even during the hardest times, she continued encouraging me to focus on school, music, and my future. Looking back now, I realize how much strength that took. For a while, I struggled internally with fear, anger, and insecurity. It is hard to feel confident when your world feels like it is falling apart. I worried about the future and about whether I would ever be able to move beyond the tough times my family was facing. There were times when it would have been easy to become discouraged or give up on my dreams. Instead, I found outlets that helped me heal and grow. Music became one of the most important parts of my life. Through marching band, jazz band, my church worship band, and theater productions, I found a sense of belonging and purpose. Performing gave me confidence during a time when I felt uncertain about myself. Theater and music introduced me to mentors, teachers, and friends who reminded me that my circumstances did not define my future. I also learned that overcoming hardship requires action, not just hope. I pushed myself academically and maintained a 3.95 GPA while balancing extracurricular activities and leadership opportunities. I became involved in community service through organizations like the National Technical Honor Society and worked to encourage other students in band and theater programs. I wanted other students to feel supported because I understood how important encouragement can be during tough times. One of the biggest lessons I learned is that resilience is not about pretending everything is fine. Resilience means continuing to move forward even when life feels hard and edgy. It means learning how to turn pain into motivation instead of allowing it to become a barrier. This experience changed the way I see people and relationships. I became more empathetic toward others because I understand that a lot of our struggles are invisible. Someone can seem fine on the outside while carrying hurts that no one else sees. Because of that, I try to be someone who encourages others, listens carefully, and creates positive spaces where people feel valued. The lasting impact of this hardship continues to shape my goals for the future. I plan to attend Michigan State University to study Music Composition and Jazz Studies, to compose for theater and film. I want to create music that connects with people and tells meaningful stories because I know how powerful art can be during difficult times. Most importantly, I want my life to reflect the same perseverance my mom showed when she rebuilt our lives. Her courage taught me that even after such a painful time, it is still possible to create something meaningful, hopeful, and lasting from the struggle.

Music has never been just an activity in my life; it has been a bridge between silence and expression, between struggle and hope, between myself and my community. I have never believed that music belongs only on grand stages. For me, it lives in football stadiums, church sanctuaries, rehearsal rooms, and anywhere a rhythm can steady a heartbeat. I am "the big boom in the stadium," the bass 5 drummer for the Port Huron Marching Machine. When I strap on the drum, I don't just keep time, I anchor it. The low pulse of the bass drum is felt before it is heard. It vibrates through bleachers and ribcages. During halftime shows and Friday night games, I have watched our hometown crowd move together because of a rhythm that began in my hands. In those moments, music unifies. It does not matter who you are, what you believe, or what kind of week you have had. For a few minutes, we are one. At Colonial Woods Missionary Church, I play drums for our high school worship band. There, music takes on a different texture. It is softer, prayerful, and intentional. I have seen how a steady rhythm beneath a worship song can help someone breathe more deeply, sing more confidently, or find comfort during a difficult time. Music in church is not about performance; it is about praising God, giving him glory, and creating a space where people feel safe enough to pray and worship. Beyond performance, I have also worked to build community through collaboration. As a member of our high school jazz band, wind ensemble, concert band, and symphonic band, I have supported younger musicians and offered encouragement during sectionals, helping them learn sticking patterns and reminding them that mistakes are part of mastering music. Music is not just about precision; it is about perseverance. When a freshman finally finds their tempo or plays through a challenging measure without stopping, the joy is contagious. That is a shared victory for the whole group, even if there is no applause. Music has also given me a way to transform adversity into artistry. Rhythm has been my outlet when words were not enough. Instead of allowing hardship to silence me, I have let it shape my sound, turning my pain into power and doubt into drive. When I perform, I bring that resilience with me. Audiences may not know the full story behind every beat, but they feel the authenticity. Frank Vail believed that the greatest music is found in shared spaces. I strive to live that truth. Whether in a packed stadium, a church pew, a rehearsal hall, or a small gathering of friends, I bring music that is intentional and inclusive. I do not play to be heard alone; I play so others feel invited into something larger than themselves. As I pursue a degree in music, my ambition is not simply to refine my craft but to expand my impact. I want to continue creating spaces where rhythm builds confidence, where melody fosters belonging, and where community is strengthened one measure at a time. If awarded the Frank Vail Music Memorial Scholarship, I will carry forward the legacy he embodied, one where music is not confined to performance but shared generously, faithfully, and with a spirit that resonates long after the final note fades.

Growing up, art wasn’t just something I saw; it was something I lived. My mom is an artist in every sense of the word; she painted our world with color even when life tried to drain it away. She is the kind of mom who can take the broken, the ordinary, the overlooked, and turn them into beauty. When the world told us no, she created a yes out of scraps of hope, paint-stained hands, and fierce determination. From the time I was little, art surrounded me. My mom filled our home with brushes, sketchpads, fabric, and imagination. She showed me that creativity wasn’t just about talent; it was about resilience. When we didn’t have much money, she made costumes out of thrift store finds. When our lives were chaotic, she created calm through the rhythm of design and color. She didn’t just teach me art; she taught me how to see the possibilities in the impossible, to find light where there was once only shadow. The arts have given me the language to express everything I couldn’t say out loud. Through music and theater, I found my voice. When I sit behind the drum in my high school band, I feel my mom’s lessons in every beat, the power of timing, balance, and emotion. When I step onto a stage in a school play, I carry her creativity in my movements and her courage in my voice. When I help her with her set designs, I think of her steady hands guiding mine, reminding me that art isn’t just about what people see, it’s about how they feel. My mom never stops pushing me to create, even when the world seems to be pushing back. She has made sacrifices that no one saw, working long hours, giving up her own art shows, and pouring everything she had into making sure I had a chance to pursue my passions. She believed in my talent long before I believed in myself. She fought for my opportunities, found ways to get me into music programs, and cheered from every seat she could afford, sometimes even from the hallway when tickets ran out. What she gave me was more than an education; it was a foundation. Because of her, I learned that art isn’t a luxury; it’s a lifeline. It’s the thing that connects us to humanity, to emotion, to each other. She taught me that creativity is courage, that performance is storytelling, and that music can be a prayer. Music didn’t just shape my skills; it shaped my whole person. It gave me confidence, purpose, and a direction for my future. I plan to pursue music and theater in college, not just for myself, but for every kid who’s been told they shouldn’t dream big. My mom has taught me that even when life feels unfinished, we are all still a masterpiece in progress. And because of her, I’m learning to live passionately and leave my own mark on the world.

Art has never been a solo act for me. Whether I’m sitting at my drum, under the stage lights, or helping paint the final stroke on a theater set, I’ve learned that the real masterpiece isn’t the performance itself, it’s the collaboration with friends that makes me feel connected. My journey through music, theater, and the arts has taught me that creativity brings a multitude of people together and gives them a place to belong and feel appreciated. From the moment I joined the PH Marching Machine, I understood that the heartbeat of any great performance comes from unity. As the section leader on the drumline, the “big boom in the stadium”, I’ve experienced firsthand how dozens of rhythms merge into one voice. Marching band is more than sound and motion; it’s trust. You depend on everyone around you to stay in step, on beat, and in sync. The feeling of taking that first powerful step onto the field, surrounded by people who have worked, sweated, and dreamed beside you, is unmatched. It’s not about being the loudest drum; it’s about lifting the entire band together and performing for our community. That same spirit of collaboration lives onstage with our high school drama program. Theater has taught me that no performance shines without the combined light of every actor, technician, costumer, and designer. As Uncle Fester in "The Addams Family" or the Baker in "Beauty and the Beast", I may stand in the spotlight, but the magic only happens because of what’s happening in the wings. Every painted backdrop, every carefully timed lighting cue, and every laugh shared during rehearsals adds dimension to the play. I’ve also helped behind the scenes, assisting my mom with set design, costumes, and promotional materials. I have watched how artistic collaboration builds more than productions. It builds families. I’ve seen how art connects people who might otherwise never feel seen. During late-night rehearsals, we share more than scripts and scores; we share struggles, dreams, and laughter. It’s in those moments that I see how creativity can unite people from completely different worlds. Collaboration in the arts means partnership, communication, and trust in many different people from different walks of life. It means being brave enough to rely on others and generous enough to lift them up. Looking forward, I plan to study music and and possibly theater, where I hope to expand my craft while continuing to work with others who believe in the power of art. I want to inspire others to discover what collaboration can create: connection, confidence, and courage. When I think about every performance I’ve been part of, whether a marching band halftime show, a church worship set, or a high school musical, I don’t remember the perfect notes or lines. I remember the laughter during warm-ups, the high-fives after curtain calls, and the quiet moments when teamwork turned chaos into beauty. That’s what collaboration means to me: people coming together to create something that none of us could have achieved alone. In the end, I don’t just want to perform, I want to build communities through performance. Collaboration is the rhythm that drives every note I play and every role I take on. It’s the art within the art, the heartbeat of everything I do.

Music, for me, has always been more than performance; it has been survival and healing. Every note I play and every character I portray on stage is connected to the life I’ve lived and the person I’ve become. My journey has been marked by both fear and courage, pain and purpose, but through music, I’ve found a voice strong enough to rise above the noise of my past. For much of my childhood, fear lived in my home. My father’s anger was unpredictable, and silence became my safety. When my mother found the strength to protect us with a Personal Protection Order, our lives changed forever. We began to rebuild, not just our home, but our sense of peace. My mother, who has always been my greatest example of resilience, encouraged me to pour my emotions into music and performance instead of letting anger consume me. Art became my way to tell the truth without speaking directly about the pain. As a drummer, I discovered that rhythm mirrors emotion. Some days it’s soft and steady, like the calm after a storm; other days it’s thunderous, echoing the strength I once had to hide. Playing the big bass drum for the PH Marching Machine, I became “the big boom in the stadium,” not just for my school, but for myself. Every strike of the drum reminds me that even through struggle, I can create something powerful and alive. Performing in the jazz, concert, and symphonic bands taught me discipline and teamwork, while playing drums for my church worship band showed me that music can also be a form of faith, a prayer of gratitude for making it through the hardest parts of life. Theater has been my second home, where I can explore parts of myself that words alone can’t express. I’ve had the privilege of playing roles like Uncle Fester in The Addams Family, the Baker in Beauty and the Beast, and Nicely Nicely Johnson in Guys and Dolls. Each character has taught me something about humanity, how humor can hide pain, how love can transform, and how joy can exist even in the darkest scenes. Theater allows me to transform my experiences into empathy. When I step on stage, I don’t just act; I connect with the audience through honesty. My passion for music and theater comes from how they’ve changed my life. They gave me confidence, purpose, and a way to process what I’ve been through. That’s why I want to dedicate my career to helping other young people especially those facing difficult circumstances discover the same healing power of the arts. I plan to study music and possibly theater, where I can continue growing as both a performer and a leader. My dream is to eventually teach or mentor youth through community programs, school arts departments, and church organizations. I want to help kids find their voices through rhythm, song, and storytelling, the same way I found mine. I believe that art can save lives, not just entertain them. When young people are given instruments, scripts, and stages, they find belonging, purpose, and courage. I want to give back by showing that creativity replaces fear and expression replaces silence. My life story is written into every performance. The perseverance it took to rise above fear gives depth to the characters I play. The faith I found through hardship gives soul to the music I perform. My art is my voice, my strength, and my story, and my purpose is to pass that voice on to others so the next generation can keep the music playing.

Music, for me, has always been more than performance; it has been survival and healing. Every note I play and every character I portray on stage is connected to the life I’ve lived and the person I’ve become. My journey has been marked by both fear and courage, pain and purpose, but through music, I’ve found a voice strong enough to rise above the noise of my past. For much of my childhood, fear lived in my home. My father’s anger was unpredictable, and silence became my safety. When my mother found the strength to protect us with a Personal Protection Order, our lives changed forever. We began to rebuild, not just our home, but our sense of peace. My mother, who has always been my greatest example of resilience, encouraged me to pour my emotions into music and performance instead of letting anger consume me. Art became my way to tell the truth without speaking directly about the pain. As a drummer, I discovered that rhythm mirrors emotion. Some days it’s soft and steady, like the calm after a storm; other days it’s thunderous, echoing the strength I once had to hide. Playing the big bass drum for the PH Marching Machine, I became “the big boom in the stadium,” not just for my school, but for myself. Every strike of the drum reminds me that even through struggle, I can create something powerful and alive. Performing in the jazz, concert, and symphonic bands taught me discipline and teamwork, while playing drums for my church worship band showed me that music can also be a form of faith, a prayer of gratitude for making it through the hardest parts of life. Theater has been my second home, where I can explore parts of myself that words alone can’t express. I’ve had the privilege of playing roles like Uncle Fester in The Addams Family, the Baker in Beauty and the Beast, and Nicely Nicely Johnson in Guys and Dolls. Each character has taught me something about humanity, how humor can hide pain, how love can transform, and how joy can exist even in the darkest scenes. Theater allows me to transform my experiences into empathy. When I step on stage, I don’t just act; I connect with the audience through honesty. My passion for music and theater comes from how they’ve changed my life. They gave me confidence, purpose, and a way to process what I’ve been through. That’s why I want to dedicate my career to helping other young people especially those facing difficult circumstances discover the same healing power of the arts. I plan to study music and possibly theater, where I can continue growing as both a performer and a leader. My dream is to eventually teach or mentor youth through community programs, school arts departments, and church organizations. I want to help kids find their voices through rhythm, song, and storytelling, the same way I found mine. I believe that art can save lives, not just entertain them. When young people are given instruments, scripts, and stages, they find belonging, purpose, and courage. I want to give back by showing that creativity replaces fear and expression replaces silence. My life story is written into every performance. The perseverance it took to rise above fear gives depth to the characters I play. The faith I found through hardship gives soul to the music I perform. My art is my voice, my strength, and my story, and my purpose is to pass that voice on to others so the next generation can keep the music playing.

Art, for me, has always been more than performance; it has been survival, expression, and healing. Every note I play and every character I portray is connected to the life I’ve lived and the person I’ve become. My journey has been marked by both fear and courage, pain and purpose, but through theater and music, I’ve found a voice strong enough to rise above the noise of my past. For much of my childhood, fear lived in my home. My father’s anger was unpredictable, and silence became my safety. When my mother finally found the strength to protect us with a Personal Protection Order, our lives changed forever. We began to rebuild not just our home, but our sense of peace. My mother, who has always been my greatest example of resilience, encouraged me to pour my emotions into music and performance instead of letting anger consume me. Art became my way to tell the truth without speaking about the pain directly. As a drummer, I learned that rhythm can mirror emotion. Some days it’s soft and steady, like calm after a storm. Other days, it’s thunderous like an echo of all the anger, strength, and energy I once had to hide. Playing the big bass drum for the PH Marching Machine, I became “the big boom in the stadium,” not just for my school, but for myself. Every strike of the drum reminds me that even through struggle, I can create something powerful and alive. Performing in the jazz, concert, and symphonic bands taught me discipline and collaboration, while playing drums for my church worship band reminded me that music can be a prayer, a way to give thanks for making it through. Theater has been my second home, where I can explore parts of myself that words alone can’t express. I’ve had the privilege of playing roles like Uncle Fester in The Addams Family, the Baker in Beauty and the Beast, and Nicely Nicely Johnson in Guys and Dolls. Each character has taught me something about humanity, how humor can hide pain, how love can transform, and how joy can exist even in the darkest scenes. Theater allows me to transform my experiences into empathy. When I step on stage, I don’t just act; I connect with the audience through honesty. My life story is written into every performance. The perseverance it took to rise above fear gives depth to the characters I play. The faith I found through hardship gives soul to the music I perform. My mother’s creativity and courage taught me that art can build bridges, heal wounds, and bring people together. In both theater and music, I’ve discovered who I am: not defined by what I’ve survived, but by what I create from it. My art is my voice, my strength, and my story. It’s proof that beauty can come from brokenness, and that even after the silence, the music still plays.