The page in front of me looked simple enough, just a few sentences that should have been easy to read. But the longer I stared, the more the words refused to make sense. I knew the letters and their sounds, yet when they came together, my brain could not untangle them. I sat there embarrassed and angry, wondering why something that seemed effortless for everyone else felt impossible for me. I didn’t learn how to read and write fluently until I was thirteen years old. By then, I had already spent years believing something was wrong with me. Dyslexia didn’t just make school harder; it shaped how I saw myself. I wasn’t lazy or uninterested. I simply couldn’t read and write the way everyone else seemed to, no matter how hard I tried. Growing up with dyslexia was not just an academic challenge but an everyday one. Because I was homeschooled, there weren’t other students to compare myself to, but the frustration was still heavy. My mom worked tirelessly with me, trying program after program, hoping something would finally unlock reading. When they didn’t work, I could see the disappointment on her face: not disappointment in me, but disappointment for me. Still, I carried that weight and began to feel like my brain wasn’t worth the effort she was putting in. Everything shifted in 2020 when I began NILD therapy. For the first time, learning felt possible instead of defeating. The process was slow and often frustrating, but it rebuilt the way I approached reading and writing. For the first time, I could see a path forward. That experience changed how I see both myself and others. I know what it feels like to be underestimated, and it shaped how I lead and work today. Working with my parents in their landscaping business became the first place where my abilities felt visible. What started as helping on job sites grew into a full internship and eventually my own small business. I learned how to manage clients, scheduling, budgeting, and the physical work of landscaping while still in high school. Even though reading and writing didn’t come naturally, problem solving and hands-on learning did. Those same values guide how I lead as captain of my women’s rugby team. Rugby is demanding, but it is built on trust. I try to lead with patience and clarity because I know how powerful it is when someone believes in you before you fully believe in yourself. My experience with dyslexia is the reason I want to pursue higher education. Learning once felt like a door closed to me, which is why I refuse to take it for granted now. Dyslexia did not define my limits; it strengthened my perseverance. I hope to carry that determination into college and use what I have learned to encourage other students who feel overlooked, just as I once did.

The classroom was quiet except for my voice, hesitant and stumbling over words everyone else seemed to read effortlessly. Letters blurred together, and simple sentences felt impossible. I felt the silence, eyes waiting, my face burning. I wasn’t just embarrassed; I was angry. Angry that something so simple felt impossible and that no matter how hard I tried, I still fell short. If I am honest, I wasn’t only mad at myself. I was mad at my Creator. If God made me, why did He make me like this? Why did reading feel like proof that something was wrong with me? I grew up in a Christian household. I knew the stories and the character I was supposed to portray. But knowing about God is different from trusting Him. My academic struggles pushed my faith into the background. I did not stop believing; I just stopped understanding. Confusion slowly became resentment. Over time, I realized my anger revealed how much I expected from God. I expected ease and happiness. Instead, I learned that faith is not built in comfort but in dependence. The weaknesses I resented became the places where I developed perseverance and humility. I once believed faith meant relief, that God would remove the struggle. Instead, I learned it means walking through difficulty with purpose. The easier path would have been bitterness or self-pity. But following Christ is not about choosing what is easy. Learning to read felt like walking a narrow road that was slow, frustrating, and refining. Yet God used that frustration to shape me. What felt like inadequacy became resilience. My struggles taught me empathy for those who feel unseen and gave me the compassion I once longed for. Through that process, my relationship with Jesus shifted from inherited belief to personal surrender. Instead of asking, “Why did You make me this way?” I began asking, “How can You use me this way?” My faith became less about answers and more about trust. While learning to read changed my perspective, I did not truly begin to grow until I joined my rugby team. It was a non-Christian environment where, like many others, I hid my faith because I was afraid of standing out. But hiding soon felt worse than speaking up. Slowly, I stepped out of my shell. I talked to teammates about my faith, invited them to church, and let my beliefs show in how I encouraged others and handled adversity. Now, as a captain of my rugby team, everyone knows where I stand. I say that not with pride in myself but with gratitude. I give that glory to God. The girl who once questioned her Creator now leads with confidence rooted in Him. My struggles did not disqualify me; they prepared me. As I continue my educational journey, I do not simply want to attend college. I want to make it my ministry. I want classmates and teammates to see integrity in my work, humility in my leadership, and compassion in my interactions. I want my actions to glorify God long before my words do, and I want the courage to speak openly about the faith that transformed me. My faith did not remove my struggles; it gave them purpose. What once caused anger now fuels resilience. What once felt like weakness now shapes leadership. I move forward not only to grow academically but determined to grow spiritually, confident that the same God I once questioned will continue to refine and guide me.

At twelve years old, I remember closing a book and pretending I understood it. I nodded when people talked about stories they loved, hoping no one would ask me to read out loud. The truth was simple and heavy: I still could not read on my own. Growing up homeschooled with dyslexia shaped nearly every part of who I am. Because I was homeschooled, there was no hiding in the back of a classroom or blending in with the crowd. Every struggle was visible. I often questioned whether I was smart enough or capable enough to succeed academically. Not being able to read independently until twelve left me deeply insecure. I felt defined by what I could not do. But being homeschooled also meant I had to face my challenges directly. There was no avoiding them. Dyslexia forced me to work harder than I ever expected. It taught me discipline, persistence, and resilience long before I understood those words. Learning to read was not a small milestone for me; it was the result of years of repetition, frustration, and refusal to give up. What once felt like a weakness slowly became evidence of strength. Instead of shrinking back, I began choosing growth. I listened to audiobooks, practiced reading aloud even when my voice shook, and rewrote notes until they stayed in my memory. I learned to advocate for myself and to ask for help without shame. Most importantly, I stopped seeing dyslexia as something that disqualified me and began seeing it as something that shaped me into someone relentless. I want to make a change in my life because I refuse to let my starting point determine my future. The steps I have taken reflect that decision. I pursue challenges rather than avoid them. I lean into discomfort. I work beyond what is required because I know what it means to fight for progress. This scholarship would allow me to continue that momentum. Financial support would ease the burden of higher education; but beyond that, it represents belief, belief that perseverance matters and that growth deserves opportunity. For someone who once doubted her own ability to read, that belief is powerful. When I was younger, I often felt like no one truly saw the potential in me. I felt defined by delay rather than possibility. What I want to pay forward is the gift of being seen. I want to be the person who recognizes potential in a child before they recognize it in themselves, especially the student who learns differently or feels overlooked. I know what it feels like to need someone to say, “You are capable. You are not behind. You are becoming.” If I can help even one student replace insecurity with confidence, then my struggle will have purpose beyond myself. Learning to read at twelve did not make me late. It made me relentless. And that relentlessness is what I will carry with me into college, into my career, and into the lives of others I hope to impact.

My third rugby practice ever ended with me sprinting as fast as I could, heart pounding, clutching the ball like my life depended on it. I had been thrown into my first scrimmage with the A team, barely understanding the rules or even where I was supposed to be on the field. I saw open space, panicked, and took off. Somehow, I broke through the line and scored, only to realize I had scored in my own try zone. I stood there frozen and embarrassed, waiting for laughter or criticism. Instead, my teammates jogged over, clapped me on the back, and calmly explained what I had done wrong. No one made me feel small. They encouraged me and showed me how to improve. That was the moment I knew I loved rugby. I joined my team halfway through my freshman year as a homeschooler stepping into a public-school sport for the first time. I did not know anyone, and I also knew almost nothing about rugby. The game was fast and physical, which felt overwhelming at first, but what immediately stood out was the culture. Rugby has a place for everyone because every body type, background, and skill set brings something valuable to the field. Mistakes were not something to fear. They were part of learning. Through rugby, I met some of the most amazing people in my life, including my best friend. Even as teammates have moved to different teams or paths, those relationships have only continued to grow stronger. Rugby family, I learned, is not limited to one roster or one season. It is built on shared experiences, trust, and the way teammates continue to show up for each other long after the final whistle. That sense of belonging meant more to me than most people realized. Growing up with a learning disability meant struggling to read for much of my life, and being homeschooled meant that social interaction did not always come easily to me either. I knew I was not dumb, but traditional classrooms rarely allowed me to show how I learned best, and I often felt overlooked. I wished someone would see my potential instead of focusing on what I could not do. Rugby gave me that space. Learning on the field was physical and visual and built on trust rather than criticism. For the first time, I felt understood and confident in who I was. Rugby also taught me how to lead. I took the encouragement I had once needed and made it the foundation of how I treat my teammates through captaincy, communication, and consistent support. Today, I am a captain of the Sussex Hamilton rugby team in Wisconsin, a role that still amazes me when I think back to that first scrimmage. Being captain means creating an environment where people feel safe to fail and confident enough to grow. Rugby family, to me, means knowing you are never alone in your progress. It is built through shared effort and the willingness to lift each other up when it matters most. I am deeply grateful for my teammates and the coaches who have consistently believed in me. Looking ahead, I plan to continue playing rugby in college and challenge myself at the next level. My goal is to try out for the Wisconsin Women’s Rugby team and, with dedication and growth, hopefully move up from there. More than anything, I hope to join a new rugby family, one where I can keep growing as a leader, build meaningful relationships, and offer the same encouragement that once changed everything for me.