“Don’t go to New York, that’s where all the crime is.” My father says, not pulling his eyes away from the football game playing on the same television set his parents have owned since he was a child. “Not the drugs, though.” My uncle says, standing beside me, looking around the room as if he’s telling the funniest joke the world has ever heard. “They’re all here.” I come from a family where every other cousin is a cop, and I hear the stories of drug charges over every meal. I listen to them laugh about seeing the same men and women every few months because they can’t stop selling. “You see, biggest problem we’ve got now is that they keep on dyin’ before their court dates.” The breakfast table erupts into guffaws and hoots and hollers, and I smile politely, wondering what about a man’s death is funny. I see the smoke-filled bathrooms, as has every high schooler. I stand in front of the sinks, saying excuse me to the girls sitting on the counter so that I can fix my lipstick while they shove their cotton candy-flavored vapes down their bras as the principal walks in. I know how easy it is to be annoyed with it. Stupid teenagers with stupid drugs. Not individuals, statistics. Underage drug use in rural communities, up by whatever percentage we’ve come to. But I’ve also seen the other side. I’ve run downstairs with my hair still wet and my pajamas half on, begging my mom to let my friend spend the night. “It’s a school night, Ella.” She says, but there’s a hesitation in the way she speaks. She can hear the fear in my voice. “Please Mom,” I say. “It’s not safe for her at home right now.” I text my best friend, and she’s at the door in seconds. She had been circling the neighborhood. As we lay in my bed, she moves closer and whispers “I’m really glad that you’re my friend.” I’ve been told many times before that I talk about issues far beyond my age and education. That I should leave the lawmaking to the men in Washington. But the men in Washington do not know the kids in small towns trying their darndest to get through high school. They know the numbers, but they do not know the people. I do. I know that everyone with an addiction will find a way around the laws. I know that regulation and rehabilitation are deathly important to our country. I know that few will listen to a girl who hasn’t even gotten her high school diploma yet. I have always wanted to be a politician, which sometimes feels odd to say. They are the butt of so many jokes, and often seen as seperate from the rest of America. However, I want to make a difference in this world. I want to protect the lives of those like Charles, lives that deserve to be long and fulfilling. I want to make America a safer place, a place where everyone is seen as human and treated as such. This scholarship would provide me with much needed funds to pursue the education I need to be taken seriously in the world of politics, and it would be a step closer to becoming one of the men in Washington, one of the ones who truly understands what the people want and need.

As a child, the feedback listed on my report cards was consistent: a joy to have in class, excelling beyond her peers, and an all around kind, happy girl. I wore my smile like a shield, forcing everyone to ignore the possibility that anything else could lie beneath. My father’s abuse cast a shadow over my life, swallowing me in the darkness. Each day felt like a desperate search for the light, a battle where winning was never certain. I’d like to say that I knew when it began, that I remembered a man full of love who slowly rotted into an unrecognizable figure, but I do not. I never knew a time when I didn’t have to tiptoe around him. I became adept at reading the room, knowing instantly when it was safe to joke with my brother and knowing when silence was my only option. I knew who was coming by the sound of their footsteps, knowing that I needed to brace myself if they were his. Change came when I was thirteen. My brother had never been the target of our father’s abuse, but this particular Sunday, I awoke to the sounds of his screams. I snuck up the stairs, eyes wide as I watched. I stole my father’s phone off the ground while he wasn’t looking, and ran. My fingers shook as I dialed the number for my local Child Protective Services office. I was terrified as it rang, hundreds of questions running through my mind. Would they believe me? Would this just make everything worse? In the following days, nothing felt real. Social workers came and went, asking me questions that I rarely knew how to answer. Each visit felt like an interrogation, like I was being forced to share my deepest secrets. Despite how scared I was, I felt a surge of power. For the first time, I found my voice, and I was learning how to scream. Immediately after I made the call, I was returned to the custody of my mother, but I feared the day when I would have to face my father again. I would have to confront the very person I feared most. There were moments when I thought that I wasn’t strong enough to go through with it and that I had deserved the abuse. But I pushed through. I channeled my anger into resilience. Each time he shouted, I saw him for what he truly was: an angry, selfish man, who couldn’t deal with the concept of someone disagreeing with him. I spent years wishing that the abuse had never happened. Nights were spent longing for fatherly love, pangs of jealousy hitting me each time I saw a friend laughing with her dad. Now, I wouldn’t change a thing. Not because I’m glad that it happened, but because it has made me who I am. I’ve learned to embrace discomfort, sitting with my pain and digging to the root instead of shying away. Life’s obstacles are not things to overcome, but opportunities for growth. I was never a victim. I am a survivor. Standing on the cusp of adulthood, I carry my grit and determination with me. As a prospective political science major, I plan to run for national political office, something not typically done by individuals of my background. I refuse to let my past define me, instead using it as a foundation where I not only thrive but empower others to do the same. Through every struggle, I have learned that grit is not simply enduring; it’s fighting for a brighter tomorrow.

Mental wellness is integral to my life, especially due to the challenges I have faced as a student facing both internal and external stressors. Growing up in a small farming town with a strong Christian influence, my identity as a queer woman has presented significant hurdles, influencing all aspects of my health. A memory that I think shows these struggles well is from my early middle school years. The word “DYKE” was scrawled on my locker, and though the letters were small, it was a potent symbol of the prejudice I faced. The jeers and snickers from my peers intensified the sting of this message, making my cheeks flush and my eyes well up with tears. This incident, while it may seem minor to some, was a stark reminder of the discrimination that overshadowed my life. Each day, I have grappled with the dissonance between my identity and my community’s expectations, leaving me feeling isolated and misunderstood. Maintaining mental wellness during such difficult times required resilience and a strong support system. The conflict between my Christian upbringing and my queer identity was especially challenging. My faith, which emphasized love and acceptance, felt at odds with the societal rejection I faced. This internal battle was not just about reconciling my beliefs; it was about finding a space where I could be authentic without feeling the need to compromise my identity or values. Physical wellness also became a struggle. The stress of navigating a hostile environment took a toll on my body. I found myself dealing with anxiety and its physical effects, like fatigue and frequent headaches. Balancing academic responsibilities with the emotional weight of discrimination and the pressure to fit into community expectations was a constant challenge. I often felt overwhelmed, and maintaining a healthy lifestyle seemed like an impossible task. However, these obstacles have also shaped my goals and strengthened my determination. They have fueled my ambition to become a politician committed to building an inclusive and tolerant society. My personal experiences with marginalization have highlighted the urgent need for systemic change. I aspire to create policies that protect and empower individuals, regardless of their sexual orientation, gender identity, or religious beliefs. My dedication to this cause is driven by a deep empathy for those who, like me, have experienced the pain of exclusion. Additionally, my journey has given me a nuanced understanding of intersectionality. I recognize that LGBTQIA+ issues are connected to broader social justice movements, including racial, gender, and economic inequalities. This awareness shapes my policy priorities, ensuring that solutions address the complex nature of discrimination. My aim is to promote equity and inclusivity, fostering an environment where diverse identities are celebrated and respected. Despite the challenges I’ve encountered, my experiences have underscored the critical role of mental and physical wellness in navigating personal adversity and achieving meaningful change.

Mental and physical wellness are integral to my life, especially due to the challenges I have faced as a student facing both internal and external stressors. Growing up in a small farming town with a strong Christian influence, my identity as a queer woman has presented significant hurdles, influencing all aspects of my health. A memory that I think shows these struggles well is from my early middle school years. The word “DYKE” was scrawled on my locker, and though the letters were small, it was a potent symbol of the prejudice I faced. The jeers and snickers from my peers intensified the sting of this message, making my cheeks flush and my eyes well up with tears. This incident, while it may seem minor to some, was a stark reminder of the discrimination that overshadowed my life. Each day, I have grappled with the dissonance between my identity and my community’s expectations, leaving me feeling isolated and misunderstood. Maintaining mental wellness during such difficult times required resilience and a strong support system. The conflict between my Christian upbringing and my queer identity was especially challenging. My faith, which emphasized love and acceptance, felt at odds with the societal rejection I faced. This internal battle was not just about reconciling my beliefs; it was about finding a space where I could be authentic without feeling the need to compromise my identity or values. Physical wellness also became a struggle. The stress of navigating a hostile environment took a toll on my body. I found myself dealing with anxiety and its physical effects, like fatigue and frequent headaches. Balancing academic responsibilities with the emotional weight of discrimination and the pressure to fit into community expectations was a constant challenge. I often felt overwhelmed, and maintaining a healthy lifestyle seemed like an impossible task. However, these obstacles have also shaped my goals and strengthened my determination. They have fueled my ambition to become a politician committed to building an inclusive and tolerant society. My personal experiences with marginalization have highlighted the urgent need for systemic change. I aspire to create policies that protect and empower individuals, regardless of their sexual orientation, gender identity, or religious beliefs. My dedication to this cause is driven by a deep empathy for those who, like me, have experienced the pain of exclusion. Additionally, my journey has given me a nuanced understanding of intersectionality. I recognize that LGBTQIA+ issues are connected to broader social justice movements, including racial, gender, and economic inequalities. This awareness shapes my policy priorities, ensuring that solutions address the complex nature of discrimination. My aim is to promote equity and inclusivity, fostering an environment where diverse identities are celebrated and respected. Despite the challenges I’ve encountered, my experiences have underscored the critical role of mental and physical wellness in navigating personal adversity and achieving meaningful change.

DYKE is written on my locker, though it’s not all across it like in the movies. The letters are small, just out of view, but perfectly big enough for my twelve-year-old eyes to read. My cheeks are hot and my eyes can already feel the pinpricks of held-back tears, my ears burning hotter and hotter with each snicker and laugh that I hear around me. I wipe it off with the corner of my sweater and run to my next class.  Growing up in a tightly-knit farming town, and coming from a Christian family, my identity as a queer woman has been challenging, to say the least. I wasn’t the first queer teen at my church, but I had grown up watching them leave, one by one. A choice was presented to me: shun my faith, or live a lie.  The tension between my faith and my queer identity caused a constant internal conflict. The teachings I had grown up with preached love and compassion, but the promised unconditional love didn’t seem to apply when it came to folks who loved a little differently. My choice wasn’t just about my own beliefs; it was about reconciling who I am with the expectations that were placed upon me.  This struggle shaped my aspiration to become a politician. The pain of feeling marginalized and discriminated against within my own hometown fueled my desire to create a more inclusive and tolerant society. It became clear that if I wanted to foster a nation where everyone could live authentically, I needed to pursue systemic change. My experiences showed the necessity of policies that protect and empower individuals regardless of their sexual orientation, religious background, or gender identity. Being raised in a small town taught me the importance of family and community, but it also highlighted the dangers of this. I have witnessed firsthand how exclusionary practices harm those who do not fit the conventional mold created by the community. I continue to practice my Christian faith, wearing a cross around my neck each day and praying each night, and my dual perspective of being a queer Christian has profoundly affected my approach to politics. I am committed to creating an environment where diverse identities are not only accepted but celebrated. My goal is to ensure that policies are inclusive and equitable, addressing the needs of those who are often overlooked. Partly due to my own experiences, I have developed a deep empathy for those who are marginalized and misunderstood. This empathy has strengthened my commitment to listening to all perspectives and advocating for policies that help instead of harm. I believe in fostering candid conversation between opposing sides, rather than encouraging division, to create meaningful and lasting change. Additionally, my experiences have given me a nuanced understanding of intersectionality. I recognize that LGBTQIA+ issues do not exist in a vacuum but are intertwined with other social justice struggles, including racial, gender, and economic inequalities. This intersectional approach drives my policy priorities, ensuring that solutions address the multifaceted nature of discrimination. The challenges I faced growing up in a small farming town with a strong Christian influence have been key in shaping my goals as an aspiring politician. The false need to choose between abandoning my faith or living a lie highlighted the need for a more inclusive and understanding society. My journey has prepared me to advocate for policies that honor diversity, promote equality, and respect every individual’s dignity. Through my work, I aim to turn personal adversity into systemic change, creating a world where everyone has the opportunity to live authentically without fear.

It is not often that my memories are clear, and it is far more common for them to appear blurry with slurred speech, like I’m wearing glasses that aren’t my prescription and I’ve got cotton stuffed in my ears. However, my memory of being diagnosed with OCD is clear as day. I’m ashamed to admit that before my diagnosis, I associated OCD with cleanliness and order—images of meticulously organized spaces and repetitive rituals. It never occurred to me that my own experiences might fit the description. When my therapist first mentioned OCD, I was confused and dismissive, my cluttered room and disorganized bookbag starkly contrasting with the stereotypical image. Initially, I grappled with the diagnosis, struggling to reconcile it with the cluttered reality of my life. However, as I delved deeper into understanding OCD, I recognized that the behaviors I had dismissed were, in fact, compulsions. This realization was a turning point, leading me to discover how my unique traits could be harnessed productively. Throughout my education, I have developed meticulous organizational skills, and an acute attention to detail, both of which are necessary for a career in law and politics. Not only have these skills helped me excel in my schoolwork- earning me a 3.9 GPA and placing me in the top percentage of my class- but they have also given me the ability to analyze complex situations from multiple perspectives, which will be an essential skill once I am a lawyer. Additionally, my neurodiversity has given me a deep sense of empathy and understanding towards others facing their own challenges. I rarely talk about my OCD, even with the people closest to me. If I do not talk about my own struggles, why should I assume that no one else around me is struggling? Working in law and politics, I will need to connect with diverse groups of people, and understand their struggles in order to effectively advocate for them. A key value of the United States government is representation, and these skills will help me achieve that effectively. I’ve had the opportunity to talk to many already working in our government, and I understand just how stressful the environment can be. After receiving my OCD diagnosis, I've developed several strategies to manage stress and maintain focus, such as structured routines, mindfulness techniques, and periodic self-assessment. These methods have not only enhanced my academic performance but also prepared me for the demanding environment of law and politics. My unique neurodiverse perspective has given me a distinctive and important set of skills and insights that I am more than eager to utilize in college and in my future career. In conclusion, my journey with OCD has equipped me with a unique set of skills that are invaluable in law and politics—an unwavering attention to detail, a deep empathy for diverse perspectives, and strategic problem-solving abilities. I am eager to leverage these attributes in college and my career, creating a more inclusive and representative governance that addresses the multifaceted needs of our society.

"Dazzling starlet, Bardot reincarnate. Well, aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist?" Olivia Rodrigo's "Lacy" is about jealousy at its simplest. Lacy is so kind that you cannot in good faith be mad at her, though she has everything that you have ever wanted. She is beautiful, smart, stylish, and accomplished—everything a girl could want to be. As a queer neurodivergent low-income teenager, I struggle with jealousy much more than I would like to admit. The jealousy I feel towards the straight girls at my school, at their easy, casual friendships, the way they lean against one another without a thought in the world. The neurotypical teenagers, watching them converse about their normal interests in their normal tones with normal body language. And my fellow seniors, applying to college without a second thought about tuition. Knowing that they can choose the school that's the best fit for them, and not the cheapest, adds to my envy. Listening to their complaints about how stressful homework is, knowing that they aren't spending every free moment applying to every scholarship they can get their hands on. These experiences highlight the disparities and challenges faced by someone of my background, and these feelings of envy and frustration are relentless companions. Music has always been a source of catharsis for me. Singers and songwriters put emotions I could never quite untangle into words that I still couldn't fully understand but knew were exactly what I was feeling. I've been a dedicated Livie since the release of "Driver's License," desperately awaiting each new song and Instagram post. "Lacy" truly resonated with me the first time I heard it, bringing me to tears. The song captures the essence of the jealousy that gnaws at me every day. Olivia Rodrigo's words convey the rawness of adolescent envy, making me feel seen and understood. The lyric "Dazzling starlet, Bardot reincarnate. Well, aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist?" encapsulates my struggles with this emotion succinctly and powerfully. The essence of adolescence is often portrayed through the lens of friendship, ambition, and identity. Navigating these facets while feeling overshadowed by others who seem to have it all is a uniquely poignant challenge. Olivia Rodrigo's lyrics give voice to these feelings, making "Lacy" an anthem for anyone who has felt less than or envious of those who appear to lead a more charmed life. The lyric from Olivia Rodrigo’s "Lacy" serves as a poignant reminder of the complexities and emotional turbulence of adolescence. It not only articulates the pangs of jealousy but also validates the deep-seated longing for equality and understanding. Through her music, Olivia Rodrigo bridges the gap between personal struggles and universal emotions, allowing listeners like me to find solace and connection in her words.

“Don’t go to New York, that’s where all the crime is.” My father says, not pulling his eyes away from the football game playing on the same television set his parents have owned since he was a child. “Not the drugs, though.” My uncle says, standing beside me, looking around the room as if he’s telling the funniest joke the world has ever heard. “They’re all here.” I come from a family where every other cousin is a cop, and I hear the stories of drug charges over every meal. I listen to them laugh about seeing the same men and women every few months because they can’t stop selling. “You see, biggest problem we’ve got now is that they keep on dyin’ before their court dates.” The breakfast table erupts into guffaws and hoots and hollers, and I smile politely, wondering what about a man’s death is funny. I see the smoke-filled bathrooms, as has every high schooler. I stand in front of the sinks, saying excuse me to the girls sitting on the counter so that I can fix my lipstick while they shove their cotton candy-flavored vapes down their bras as the principal walks in. I know how easy it is to be annoyed with it. Stupid teenagers with stupid drugs. Not individuals, statistics. Underage drug use in rural communities, up by whatever percentage we’ve come to. But I’ve also seen the other side. I’ve run downstairs with my hair still wet and my pajamas half on, begging my mom to let my friend spend the night. “It’s a school night, Ella.” She says, but there’s a hesitation in the way she speaks. She can hear the fear in my voice. “Please Mom,” I say. “It’s not safe for her at home right now.” I text my best friend, and she’s at the door in seconds. She had been circling the neighborhood. As we lay in my bed, she moves closer and whispers “I’m really glad that you’re my friend.” A boy sits down next to me. I’ve barely talked to him in the past two years, but he was one of the first friends I made at my new school. His body language is different, and it takes me a minute to realize that I have only ever seen him high. “I’m four months sober now.” A smile breaks out onto my face, and spreads to his before we start talking about the theater team’s latest production. I’ve been told many times before that I talk about issues far beyond my age and education. That I should leave the lawmaking to the men in Washington. But the men in Washington do not know the kids in small towns trying their darndest to get through high school. They know the numbers, but they do not know the people. I do. I know that everyone with an addiction will find a way around the laws. I know that regulation and rehabilitation are deathly important to our country. I know that few will listen to a girl who hasn’t even gotten her high school diploma yet. I’ve read the resumes of every governor, senator, and president I could get my hands on, and I know what to do. I’ll get my law degree, and fight for my clients as hard as I can, using arguments that cannot be denied. I’ll work my way up to a national position, and I will be the man in Washington. I will embrace finding solutions to help those struggling instead of punishing them.