After the birth of my second child, I found myself in a place I didn’t expect to be—a dark, heavy fog that wouldn’t lift no matter how much I loved my family or how grateful I felt for the life I had. I was in the thick of postpartum depression, and like so many women, I tried to power through. I told myself I was just tired. That I needed to be stronger. That asking for help would mean I was failing. But pretending I was okay didn’t make me okay. What finally pushed me to prioritize my mental and emotional health wasn’t a breaking point—it was the slow realization that surviving wasn’t the same as living. I was going through the motions, but I wasn’t really present. And that wasn’t the kind of mother, wife, or woman I wanted to be. So I made the decision to ask for help. I opened up to my doctor. I started therapy. I leaned on trusted friends and let them in, even when it felt uncomfortable. I set boundaries, began naming my needs out loud, and gave myself permission to rest—even when the laundry wasn’t done or the inbox wasn’t cleared. It was one of the bravest things I’ve ever done. That season taught me that mental and emotional health isn’t something we can afford to put last on the list. It’s the foundation of everything else. When I made space for healing, I became more grounded in my identity. I learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s what gives us the capacity to connect with others in a real and lasting way. Now, as a working mother of four, a foster parent, a student earning my MBA, and someone living with a chronic illness, I carry those lessons with me every day. I no longer see self-care as optional. It’s strategic. It’s how I sustain the life I’ve built and show up for others with honesty and resilience. This experience continues to shape how I prepare for the future. In school, I’ve learned to advocate for flexibility when I need it, and to extend that same grace to others. In work, I prioritize healthy team dynamics and open conversations about burnout and balance. And in life, I’ve made it part of my mission to create spaces—especially for women and caregivers—where people feel seen, supported, and safe to be human. Postpartum depression challenged everything I thought I knew about strength. But what I’ve learned is this: real strength isn’t about pushing through at all costs. It’s about recognizing when to pause, when to ask for help, and when to choose yourself—so you can keep choosing the people and the purpose you love. And that’s exactly what I plan to do with the future I’m building.

iving with a chronic illness has taught me lessons I never asked to learn—but ones that have made me more compassionate, more resilient, and more committed to leading a life of impact. My condition doesn’t have the courtesy of a schedule. It flares up unexpectedly, often turning carefully planned days into long hours of pain, fatigue, and recovery. There have been times I’ve had to cancel meetings, rearrange childcare, or delay assignments simply because my body said “no” when my mind and heart were ready to say “yes.” It’s frustrating. It’s humbling. It forces me to live with a kind of flexibility and grace I never knew I’d need. But I’ve learned not to see that as weakness. It’s a different kind of strength. Navigating life with this condition while raising four young children, working full-time, pursuing my MBA, and serving as a foster parent requires a deep well of determination. Some days, success looks like checking everything off my to-do list. Other days, it’s getting out of bed and giving myself permission to move slowly. Either way, I’ve learned to measure progress with compassion—not perfection. What inspires me to keep going is the belief that my story—and the way I show up in the world despite the hard parts—can be a source of hope for others. I don’t hide the messy parts of my life. I’m honest about the hard days. Because I believe vulnerability is a bridge to connection. When I share my reality, others feel less alone in theirs. That’s especially important for the women I work with and the children I care for—many of whom are navigating trauma, instability, or invisible struggles of their own. I’ve made it my mission to create spaces where people feel seen and safe. As a foster parent, my home is a sanctuary for children in crisis. As a volunteer at Safe Harbor in Richmond, I stand beside survivors of domestic violence, offering not just resources but lived understanding. And as I pursue my MBA, my long-term goal is to build a business that provides transitional housing and holistic support to women and families rebuilding their lives after trauma. My chronic illness has, in some ways, forced me to slow down—but it has never stopped me. If anything, it’s sharpened my clarity about what matters: people, community, justice, healing. I know what it feels like to live with a body that betrays you and a world that doesn’t always accommodate invisible pain. That’s why I lead with empathy. That’s why I build systems with flexibility and humanity baked in. That’s why I keep going. I may not always control how I feel physically, but I choose how I respond to it. I choose to lead. I choose to show up. I choose to empower others—not in spite of my condition, but because of what it’s taught me about resilience, grace, and the quiet power of continuing on, even when it's hard.

Education is one of the most powerful tools we have to break the cycles that keep intimate partner violence hidden, normalized, and repeated across generations. It creates awareness, fosters empathy, and equips both survivors and communities with the resources and strategies to seek safety, accountability, and healing. But education isn’t just found in textbooks—it’s also in the lived experiences we carry, the hard lessons we survive, and the purpose we find on the other side of pain. Several years ago, I found myself in a hospital bed with nothing to my name—physically battered, emotionally broken, and financially ruined. My ex-husband, who had abused me behind closed doors for years, left me penniless after draining our bank accounts and disappearing. I had no savings, no sense of safety, and no roadmap for what came next. That moment—raw and terrifying as it was—became the catalyst for everything I’ve built since. I carry that experience with me every day. Not with shame, but with clarity. I know what it’s like to feel trapped. I know the fear of starting over with nothing. And I know what a difference it makes to have someone believe in you, house you, feed you, and remind you that your life is still worth fighting for. That’s why I now volunteer with Safe Harbor in Richmond, VA—an organization that provides shelter, counseling, and support to survivors of domestic violence, sexual assault, and human trafficking. I show up not as a savior, but as someone who understands. I’ve sat on that bathroom floor. I’ve heard the same excuses, felt the same isolation, and faced the same judgment. My presence lets others know they’re not alone—and more importantly, that this isn’t the end of their story. I also serve as a foster parent, opening my home to children in crisis. Many of the children who come through my doors are there because their parents—often mothers—are fleeing violence, addiction, or housing insecurity. I believe in family reunification when it’s safe and possible, and I see foster care not as a substitute for parenting but as a bridge. While parents access the support they need to heal, my home becomes a safe place for their children to be loved and cared for without judgment. It’s a continuation of the same mission: creating safety and stability during life’s most vulnerable moments. Now, as I pursue my MBA at William & Mary, I am investing in the education that will allow me to take this work further. My long-term goal is to start my own business that provides safe transitional housing for survivors of domestic violence—particularly women and mothers. I want to create more than just shelter. I want to build places where healing is honored, children are safe, and women are empowered to rebuild their lives with dignity. My business model will center survivors: employing them, listening to them, and designing services around what they say they need, not what others assume. This degree is a step toward financial literacy, business ownership, and leadership rooted in compassion. It’s how I plan to take what once broke me and turn it into something that builds others up. Because violence may have changed my life, but it did not take my voice, my purpose, or my power to create change.

I am worth the dreams I aspire to achieve because they are deeply rooted in service, resilience, and a fierce commitment to building a better world—not just for myself, but for the generations that come after me. I wear many hats: I am a mother to four children under the age of four. I am a foster parent, a disabled Army veteran, a full-time Director of Sales, and a graduate student pursuing my MBA at William & Mary. Life has never been simple or still—but I’ve learned that purpose is often found in the middle of the mess. I’ve never had the luxury of waiting for the perfect moment to chase my goals. Instead, I’ve learned to build while balancing the weight of responsibility, motherhood, service, and sacrifice. I volunteer as a foster parent because I believe in showing up for children when the system hasn’t. My home is often full of laughter, chaos, and healing—and while I can’t undo the past for the children who enter our lives, I can help shape a future where they know they are safe, wanted, and worthy. This work, unpaid and unglamorous, is one of the greatest honors of my life. But I also know that systemic change requires voices in rooms where policies are shaped, businesses are built, and decisions are made. That’s why I returned to school to pursue my MBA. I want to challenge what leadership looks like. I want to build businesses rooted in empathy, lead teams that prioritize people, and create pathways for other women—especially veterans, caregivers, and foster parents—to step into their full potential. I believe representation is a form of revolution. I didn’t grow up seeing someone like me in those spaces. I want to be that for someone else. I am currently juggling full-time work, graduate school, parenting, and a legal battle after giving my life savings to a builder to build a home to hold many children—all while maintaining my commitment to my family, my faith and my community. And still, I choose joy. I choose purpose. I choose to keep moving forward even when it would be easier to sit still. Because I believe that my dreams aren’t just about ambition—they’re about impact. Every goal I chase is tied to a ripple effect of service. This scholarship would not just alleviate a financial burden—it would be a declaration of belief in the kind of world I’m working to build. A world where women are not penalized for caregiving, where veterans are supported in their next chapter, and where love and leadership can coexist. I am not perfect, but I am persistent. I do not have all the answers, but I lead with empathy and strength. And I know, without a doubt, that I am worth the dreams I aspire to achieve—because I’ve already given so much of myself in pursuit of them. With your support, I will continue to rise—and lift others with me.