Before I ever said the words out loud, I prayed they’d still love me. I am a queer Black woman raised in a predominantly Black and Hispanic city and a devout Christian household—an identity that can feel isolating in itself. Black Christian families aren’t exactly known for embracing homosexuality, yet I held onto hope. I wanted to believe that love would stretch far enough to make room for me. Conversations with family and peers could be warm, sometimes too warm—cozy until they turned. One moment they’d compliment my outfit, and the next they’d make a joke about the LGBTQ+ community, unaware of the sting it carried. They’d misgender a trans student in passing, laughing like it meant nothing. Or I’d sit in church, where a preacher’s narrowed eyes found mine as he condemned people like me. Suddenly, I wasn’t a daughter, a friend, or a classmate. I wasn’t human. I became a sinner. Attention-seeking. Broken. This was my initiation into the LGBTQ+ community—not through a warm embrace, but through exile. I realized that people like me were seen as diseased, needing to be cured by shame and prayer. The community I thought I could lean on expected me to bear that weight alone. Art saved me. Painting became the language I turned to when words were too heavy. It gave me a place to breathe, to build figures and faces I understood—ones that reflected what I couldn’t yet say aloud. I made it my mission to represent queer people in my work, especially Black queer individuals whose stories are so often overlooked. In high school, I joined the art club and found others who understood the weight of difference. The queer art world became a refuge—one that offered me safety, reflection, kindness, and confidence. So I began painting myself. Over and over. Different angles, different outfits, always calm—always at peace. I needed to see myself whole. Through that, I developed a new painting style—one still grounded in realism, but defined by stark contrasts between light and dark, with a fiery, almost incandescent light source cutting through cooler atmospheres. When I posted one of those portraits online, my former art instructor commented, “I love seeing you see you.” That moment made my artistic purpose undeniable for me. I needed to strip away the people-pleasing, the silence, the carefulness—and meet myself. I am someone who is passionate and determined to make others feel loved and safe. My work will always reflect that. Now, as a Visual Art major at Boston University, I’m learning new ways to amplify that mission. I want my art to make viewers pause, to see the human in the queer individual, to feel something real. I want to be a part of the artistic lineage that changes how we’re seen. Receiving this scholarship would mean I can sustainably work toward this lifelong goal of queer representation in artwork and focus on my studies. As someone from a working-class family and a first-generation college student, the cost of tuition, supplies, and living expenses in Boston presents a real barrier. This scholarship would directly support my ability to focus on both my creative and academic growth without being burdened by constant financial strain. It would mean a great deal to have some ease in the financial aspect of attending a higher education to give back to my community. I see myself not just as someone in the LGBTQ+ community, but someone who creates for it—someone who gives back through representation, visibility, and care. This support would be a step toward making that vision sustainable.