A city will always reveal who it chooses to invest in and who it chooses to ignore. That realization is what inspired me to pursue a career in real estate and eventually become a real estate attorney. Growing up in Atlanta allowed me to experience both the beauty of the city and the inequalities that exist within it. As a student at Georgia State University, I walk through downtown Atlanta every day and constantly witness the contrast between growth and hardship. On one side, there are luxury developments, student housing, and businesses designed to create opportunity. On the other side, there are people experiencing homelessness sleeping near the same sidewalks and buildings thousands of students pass every day. Seeing those realities side by side changed the way I view housing, development, and responsibility. One of the biggest reasons I chose real estate is because I want to help address the housing issues that continue to impact communities across Atlanta. Gentrification has transformed many neighborhoods, but too often it displaces the very people who built those communities in the first place. Families who have lived in certain areas for generations are being pushed out because they can no longer afford rising rent and property taxes. I believe development should improve communities without erasing their culture, history, and identity. My goal is to help create equitable development that benefits current residents instead of forcing them out of the communities they call home. I am especially passionate about studying the long term effects of redlining and discriminatory housing practices. Although redlining was outlawed decades ago, its effects are still visible today through wealth gaps, underfunded neighborhoods, and unequal access to housing opportunities. Many communities in Atlanta continue to experience disinvestment because of decisions made generations ago. I want to become a real estate attorney so I can better understand housing law, advocate for fair housing policies, and help protect vulnerable communities from unfair practices. What impacts me most is seeing how protected and supported students are at Georgia State compared to many unhoused individuals living directly outside campus boundaries. Students have access to security systems, housing, meal plans, and support services, while many people nearby struggle to access even the most basic stability or protection. That contrast forced me to think differently about community and responsibility. I want to help create communities where vulnerable populations are not ignored, but instead supported and given opportunities to rebuild stability and dignity. When I see abandoned buildings throughout Atlanta, I do not just see empty spaces. I see opportunities for rehabilitation centers, transitional housing, mental health facilities, youth programs, and affordable housing developments that directly serve the community. I believe real estate should be used as a tool for healing and rebuilding communities, not just generating profit. My vision for Atlanta is deeply connected to preserving the city’s history while encouraging growth. Downtown Atlanta has incredible culture and potential, yet some areas still lack the investment and care seen in Midtown. I want to help revitalize downtown Atlanta by encouraging safe and community focused development while preserving the identity that makes the city unique. Ultimately, I chose real estate because I want to help build a future where development does not come at the cost of displacement, where neglected spaces are transformed into places of hope, and where every person is treated as someone worthy of safety, dignity, and opportunity.

Suicide is often called a selfish decision, but I have come to see it differently. When someone is in that much pain, they are searching for a way to escape suffering that feels unbearable. The world spends a lot of time debating what comes after death. People talk about heaven, hell, reincarnation, light, darkness, the universe, or even the possibility of an endless abyss. There are countless beliefs about what the other side might look like for the person who dies. But almost no one talks about the other side of the coin, the one experienced by the people left behind. I know that side intimately. It is standing in a funeral home looking at the still body of a nineteen year old boy and realizing that the person inside that casket was once your brother. It is watching the final moments of a life being lowered into the ground and understanding that nothing will ever bring that person back. There are no philosophies or ideologies that prepare someone for that moment. We do not theorize about it the way we theorize about the afterlife. We do not imagine it in abstract ideas. The people who survive the loss do not need theories, because we live on that side every day. My brother Max was nineteen when he died. I was in the middle of my summer college program when I got the news, and it felt like my world shut down instantly. Everything stopped. My plans, my classes, my routines. Grief did not arrive as a single emotion. It came as a wave of sadness, anger, confusion, and disbelief. At first, I thought what he did was selfish. I struggled to understand how someone could leave behind the people who loved him. But over time, I realized that Max had been carrying pain that I could not see. He was strong minded and deeply caring toward others. He was the kind of person people relied on. Yet he rarely allowed anyone to see when he needed help himself. Some of the strongest people in our lives are also the ones who feel they must carry their struggles alone. The hardest part of grief is not just the moment of loss, but the quiet reminders that follow. It is having an obituary folded away in a box. It is opening old messages and seeing them turn green because the number is no longer active. It is realizing that all that remains are photographs, videos, and memories frozen in time. I am twenty years old now, which means I am older than my brother will ever be. That is a strange and heavy realization to carry. Even through the pain, Max’s life continues to shape the way I move through the world. His loss has taught me to listen more carefully, to check on people even when everything seems fine, and to understand that silence can hide struggles deeper than we realize. If anything good can come from such a tragedy, it is the reminder that compassion and awareness can save lives. The world may continue debating what happens after death, but the people left behind know exactly what the other side looks like. It looks like learning how to live with absence. It looks like carrying memories where a person once stood. And it looks like honoring the life of someone you loved by making sure others never feel as alone as they might have felt. Max will always be my brother. His life, and his loss, will always be part of my story.

The most difficult obstacle I have ever faced was losing my friend Max, who was like a brother to me. His death by suicide shattered my sense of stability and forced me to confront grief in a way I never had before. In the aftermath, I struggled emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. There were moments when I questioned everything, including how I was supposed to keep moving forward when the pain felt unbearable. During that season, my faith became my lifeline. At first, it was not easy. Prayer felt heavy, and silence often felt louder than comfort. I did not always have the words to say, but I continued to turn to God anyway. I leaned on the belief that even when I did not understand the plan, I was not walking through it alone. My faith reminded me that God meets us in our weakest moments, not just our strongest ones. Relying on my faith did not erase the pain of losing Max, but it gave me the strength to face it. Through prayer, reflection, and support from my family, I slowly began to find grounding again. I learned that faith is not about avoiding grief, but about trusting God while carrying it. There were days when simply getting out of bed felt like an act of faith, but each small step forward became proof that healing was possible. Through my faith, I also found purpose in my pain. Instead of allowing grief to consume me, I felt called to honor Max’s life by helping others. This led to the creation of the To the Max Foundation, which focuses on mental health awareness, early intervention, and encouraging open conversations before crisis takes hold. Building and supporting this foundation while continuing my education required perseverance, discipline, and trust in God’s guidance. I often prayed for clarity, strength, and the ability to serve others with compassion, even while still healing myself. My faith also helped me remain committed to my education during this time. There were moments when walking away felt easier than continuing, but my belief in God reminded me that perseverance is part of my calling. Education became a way to honor Max’s life and to prepare myself to serve others more effectively in the future. Through faith, I learned that setbacks do not mean failure, and that growth often happens in seasons of struggle. This experience taught me that faith is not passive. It requires trust, action, and resilience. Relying on God through one of the darkest moments of my life strengthened my character and reshaped my purpose. While the loss of Max will always be part of my story, my faith has allowed it to become a source of strength rather than defeat. It continues to guide me as I move forward with compassion, determination, and a commitment to helping others find hope in their own difficult moments.

The day Max killed himself changed everything about who I am and how I see the world. Max was my friend, but more than that, he was like a brother to me. His suicide forced me to confront grief in its most painful form and to navigate emotions I never thought I would survive. In the weeks and months after his death, I felt overwhelmed by shock, guilt, anger, and a deep sadness that followed me everywhere. There were moments when I questioned myself endlessly, replaying conversations and wondering what I could have done differently. Grief affected my ability to focus, to feel motivated, and even to imagine a future for myself. Continuing school while carrying that weight was one of the hardest things I have ever done. During this time, I turned inward to survive. Journaling became one of the few ways I could release emotions I did not know how to speak out loud. Writing allowed me to be honest about my pain, my confusion, and my fear of forgetting Max while still trying to move forward. I also practiced meditation and quiet reflection, which helped me slow my thoughts and ground myself when my emotions felt uncontrollable. These practices did not take the pain away, but they helped me learn how to live with it. Max has become one of the biggest influences in my life, even after his death. Losing him showed me how real and urgent mental health struggles are and how easily they can be hidden. I realized how many people suffer silently and how often warning signs are overlooked. Out of that realization came the decision to create something meaningful in his honor. This is how The To the Max Foundation was born. The To the Max Foundation exists to bring awareness to mental health, educate people on early warning signs, and encourage open conversations before it is too late. Being involved in building and running this foundation gave my grief direction. Instead of allowing Max’s death to destroy me, I chose to let it shape me into someone who shows up for others. Through this work, I have learned how to lead with compassion, responsibility, and purpose, even while still healing myself. My desire to continue my education is deeply connected to this experience. College represents growth, structure, and the ability to turn pain into action. Education gives me the tools to advocate for others, to understand systems that affect mental health and stability, and to create change that lasts. Continuing my education is my way of honoring Max by choosing life, purpose, and progress. The people who influence me most are those who continue showing up despite loss. My family has been my strength, reminding me that I am not alone even when grief feels isolating. Max also remains a guiding influence in my life. His story motivates me to speak up, to care deeply, and to help others feel seen before they reach a breaking point. Losing Max changed me forever, but it did not end me. It taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of using your voice. Through journaling, meditation, education, and The To the Max Foundation, I have learned that healing is possible and that even the most painful loss can become a source of purpose. I carry Max with me in everything I do, and I will continue moving forward for both of us.

I learned early that without education, your voice is easy to ignore. I watched decisions get made about people who never had a seat at the table, families displaced, communities erased, and stories rewritten without consent. For me, education is not just about earning a degree. It is about gaining the access, credibility, and authority to step into rooms where change happens and to make sure people like my family and my community are no longer spoken over or left behind. As a first-generation college student, pursuing higher education has been both empowering and overwhelming. I carry the hopes of those before me who never had the opportunity to attend college, while navigating a system they cannot guide me through. There are moments when the pressure feels heavy, but it also fuels me. I know that every class I complete and every degree I pursue is proof that circumstances do not have to dictate outcomes. Education is my way forward, even when life tries to stop me. The loss of my brother, Max, changed the course of my life. His death forced me to confront how deeply instability, lack of support, and untreated mental health struggles can impact families. Grief nearly pulled me under, but it also clarified my purpose. I realized that stopping was not an option. If anything, moving forward became necessary. Continuing my education through that pain taught me resilience and reminded me that growth does not mean forgetting loss. It means carrying it with intention and using it to fuel change. I plan to pursue multiple degrees, including a law degree, to become a real estate attorney focused on development and housing justice. Living in downtown Atlanta, I see gentrification unfold every day. Historic Black neighborhoods are being reshaped as homes, churches, and community spaces are torn down to make room for luxury developments that exclude the very people who built the culture of the city. Education gives me the tools to challenge this legally and strategically. With the authority of a law degree and the knowledge gained through higher education, I want to help create spaces that prioritize affordability, preservation, and community ownership. I want to be part of developing downtown Atlanta in a way that protects people instead of pushing them out. The legacy I hope to leave is one of perseverance and impact. I want future generations in my family to see that going through hardship does not mean you stop moving forward. I want them to see that education can turn pain into power and loss into leadership. By earning multiple degrees and using them to serve others, I hope to leave behind more than success on paper. I want to leave behind neighborhoods strengthened instead of erased and systems challenged instead of accepted. Education is important to me because it gives me the status, the structure, and the authority to make real change. My legacy will be built through persistence, purpose, and a refusal to let loss or circumstance define my limits. I am pursuing education not just for myself, but to prove that progress is possible and that forward motion is an act of courage.

Jim Maxwell’s legacy of serving and uplifting young people resonates deeply with me because it reflects the role faith has played in my own life. This scholarship is meaningful to me not only because of my financial need, but because it honors a belief I live by: that God does not waste pain, and that even the hardest moments can be transformed into purpose. My faith in God has been the foundation that carried me through the most devastating season of my life, the loss of my brother, Max, at just 19 years old. His death changed everything. Grief touched every part of my life, my mental health, my education, and my sense of direction. There were days when simply getting out of bed felt like a victory. I struggled deeply, questioning how I could continue moving forward while carrying such loss. During that time, my faith was tested in ways I never imagined. There were moments when prayer felt heavy and silence felt louder than comfort. Still, God never let go of me, even when I felt weak in my faith. Through prayer, reflection, and the support of my family, I began to understand that God was not absent in my pain. He was guiding me through it. My faith reminded me that healing is not immediate, but it is possible when you trust God’s timing and purpose. Through faith, my family and I made a choice to honor Max’s life by helping others. That decision led to the creation of the To the Max Foundation. What began as heartbreak became a mission rooted in service, awareness, and hope. Through this foundation, we focus on mental health education, early intervention, and helping young people recognize that they are not alone in their struggles. Running this foundation while continuing my education has not been easy, but God has given me the strength, clarity, and perseverance to do both. My faith continues to guide every decision I make within the foundation, reminding me that service is an act of love. God has also guided me through my academic journey. Continuing school while grieving was incredibly difficult, especially while facing financial challenges. There were moments when giving up felt easier than pushing forward. However, my faith reminded me that education is part of the purpose God placed on my life. Each class completed and each challenge overcome felt like a step toward honoring both my future and my brother’s memory. Through faith, I have grown into an advocate for wellness within my school, encouraging open conversations around mental health and reminding others that seeking help is not weakness. Looking ahead, I plan to continue using my faith as a guiding force to reach even greater heights. I want to expand the To the Max Foundation, partner with schools and churches, and help young men and women understand that their lives matter, that they are created with intention, and that drawing closer to God can provide hope even in the darkest moments. My goal is to help prevent families from experiencing the same loss mine did and to show young people that faith and mental wellness can exist together. This scholarship represents more than financial support. It represents belief, encouragement, and alignment with the values that have carried me through loss into purpose. With God guiding my path, my education strengthening my impact, and Max’s life inspiring my mission, I am committed to continuing this work. I will use my faith to serve, to heal, and to uplift others, turning pain into purpose and hope into action.

Higher education is important to me because the work I want to do requires both conviction and expertise. I am pursuing my undergraduate degree with the long-term goal of earning a Juris Doctor and becoming a real estate attorney focused on housing justice and community development. I chose this path because housing determines far more than where people live. It shapes stability, mental health, generational wealth, and a sense of belonging. As a student living in downtown Atlanta, I have watched historically Black communities be reshaped by gentrification, with homes, churches, hair salons, and Black-owned restaurants demolished to make room for corporate development. These changes are often framed as progress, but for the people displaced, they represent loss, instability, and erasure. My education is the foundation that will allow me to challenge these systems with knowledge, authority, and purpose. I have chosen an entrepreneurial career because I want the freedom to build solutions rather than simply operate within structures that overlook community impact. My long-term goal is to own and operate my own real estate law firm dedicated to fighting displacement and advocating for equitable development. I want to work directly with families facing housing insecurity, support communities being pushed out, and help develop spaces designed for Black and Brown people to remain rooted and thrive. Entrepreneurship allows me to align my values with my work by creating a firm where ethics, community care, and accountability are central, not optional. I am drawn to entrepreneurship because I value ownership of both vision and responsibility. I want to build a woman-led business that prioritizes fairness, balance, and cultural respect while still operating at a high professional standard. I believe businesses can be profitable without exploiting communities, and I want my career to reflect that belief. Higher education gives me the tools to understand the law, navigate complex systems, and lead a business that serves people rather than displaces them. I believe I will be successful in my business endeavors because my commitment has already been tested by real-life challenges. The loss of my brother, Max, deeply shaped my understanding of how instability and untreated mental health struggles can impact families. In his honor, I am involved with the To the Max Foundation, where I support young people facing emotional hardship. Balancing school, leadership, and service has taught me discipline, resilience, and the ability to stay focused even when circumstances are heavy. Many people struggle in entrepreneurship because they are unprepared for discomfort or setbacks. I have learned how to move forward despite them. I have also learned how to lead when silence would be easier. During my time in the Disney College Program at Flamingo Crossings Apartments, I challenged a culturally harmful Juneteenth recognition within a large corporate environment. By organizing fellow cast members and working with leadership, I helped create the program’s first meaningful Juneteenth celebration, uniting 256 BIPOC cast members. That experience showed me that I can advocate effectively, communicate professionally, and follow through until change occurs. These are the same skills required to sustain a successful business. To me, a successful life is not defined solely by income or status. Success means creating stability where there was uncertainty, preserving culture instead of erasing it, and leaving communities stronger than I found them. It means building a business that reflects integrity, protects people, and creates opportunity for others. By pursuing higher education alongside an entrepreneurial path, I am preparing to build something lasting, purposeful, and rooted in service. That is the kind of success I am committed to achieving.

Sgt. Albert Dono Ware’s legacy embodies service, sacrifice, and bravery not as slogans, but as lived commitments to protecting others. His story challenges me to ask what it means to serve in my own time and in my own community. For me, service is showing up when people are overlooked. Sacrifice is carrying responsibility even when it costs you personally. Bravery is speaking and acting when silence would be safer. As an African American woman and a student living in downtown Atlanta, these values have shaped my personal journey and sharpened my vision for addressing the challenges facing the African diaspora in the United States. I was raised between two cities where I watched Black communities struggle to hold onto stability while systems made it harder to keep. Addiction, untreated mental health challenges, and poverty were not isolated issues. They were deeply connected to the environments people were forced to live in and the lack of resources available to them. I learned early that what society often labels as individual failure is frequently the result of structural harm. That truth became painfully personal with the loss of my brother, Max. He struggled with depression and addiction while navigating systems that were not designed to support healing. Watching him decline showed me what happens when support systems fail in real time. Losing him required sacrifice in ways I never anticipated, carrying grief while staying in school, supporting my family, and continuing to serve others. His death did not just break my heart. It clarified my purpose. Service, as Sgt. Ware demonstrated, cannot stop at sympathy. In honor of my brother, I am actively involved with the To the Max Foundation, which supports young people facing emotional hardship and mental health challenges. Through this work, I have learned that community care is not just kindness, it is prevention. When people feel seen and supported early, they are less likely to disappear into crisis later. This commitment to sustained service reflects the same values Sgt. Ware lived by, choosing to protect others even when the cost is high. Bravery also means challenging institutions, not just surviving them. I learned that during my time in the Disney College Program at Flamingo Crossings Apartments. I witnessed Juneteenth being acknowledged in a way that relied on harmful stereotypes rather than cultural respect. In a large corporate environment where speaking up can feel intimidating, I chose to act. I organized fellow cast members, worked with leadership, and helped create the program’s first meaningful Juneteenth celebration in more than twenty years. I personally united 256 BIPOC cast members across the company, transforming a moment of harm into a space of pride, education, and unity. That experience showed me that real leadership requires courage, especially when advocating for marginalized voices in powerful spaces. Living and studying in downtown Atlanta has made the challenges facing the African diaspora impossible to ignore. I witness gentrification unfolding in real time. Historically Black neighborhoods are being reshaped without the consent of the people who built them. Churches that once served as anchors of faith and community are torn down. Family homes are demolished. Black owned hair salons and restaurants that held generations of culture and connection are replaced by luxury developments that the original residents cannot afford. What is often labeled as progress feels like erasure. Communities are displaced, culture is stripped away, and Black and Brown families are pushed further from opportunity and stability. This reality has directly shaped my career vision. I plan to become a real estate attorney committed to fighting for people facing housing displacement and inequitable development. I want to use the law to protect families from unfair eviction, advocate for communities being pushed out, and help develop and build spaces intentionally designed for Black and Brown people to thrive. My goal is not to block development, but to redefine it, ensuring that growth includes affordable housing, community ownership, and spaces that preserve culture rather than destroy it. Housing should be a pathway to dignity, not a weapon of removal. To address these challenges, I believe the most critical reforms must focus on fair housing enforcement, anti displacement protections, and community centered development. Cities must require developers to engage directly with affected communities, invest in affordable housing, and preserve cultural institutions. Vacant and neglected properties should be repurposed into supportive housing, mental health centers, and community spaces rather than left unused. Mental health and addiction services must also be expanded through culturally responsive, community based programs that prioritize prevention over punishment. Driving this change requires collaboration among key stakeholders. Policymakers must pass and enforce protections that prioritize residents. Community leaders, faith institutions, and grassroots organizations must have real decision making power. Developers and real estate professionals must be held accountable to ethical standards. Educators, healthcare providers, and mental health professionals must expand access and early intervention. Young people must be included as active participants, not future placeholders. We are living the consequences now, and we deserve a seat at the table. Sgt. Albert Dono Ware’s legacy reminds me that service is not defined by comfort, and bravery is not defined by applause. It is defined by responsibility. As an African American woman shaped by loss, community struggle, and the lived reality of gentrification and displacement, I carry these values forward with intention. I want to honor his legacy by helping build communities where Black and Brown families can remain rooted, where culture is protected, and where development does not mean removal. That is how I choose to serve, and that is the legacy I intend to leave.

Some people learn about injustice in textbooks. I learned it by watching people lose stability, dignity, and shelter while empty buildings stood untouched. That contradiction shaped my vision for the future and the legacy I plan to create. I plan to create a legacy rooted in access and protection by building my own real estate law firm focused on fair housing and community development. My goal is not simply to practice law, but to use legal expertise as a tool to help displaced and unhoused individuals regain stability. I want my firm to advocate for families facing eviction, protect communities from unfair displacement, and partner with developers and city leaders to transform vacant properties into supportive housing and recovery centered spaces. For me, housing is not just a transaction. It is the foundation that allows people to heal, work, and rebuild their lives. The business I hope to create exists to close the gap between unused land and unmet human needs. I shine my light by stepping into leadership when silence would allow harm to continue, especially in large institutions where voices are often ignored. While participating in the Disney College Program at Flamingo Crossings Apartments, I witnessed Juneteenth being acknowledged in a way that relied on harmful stereotypes rather than respect. In a corporate environment where speaking up can feel intimidating, I chose to act. I organized fellow cast members, worked with leadership, and helped create the program’s first meaningful Juneteenth celebration in more than twenty years. I personally united 256 BIPOC cast members, transforming a painful moment into a day of pride, education, and unity. That experience affirmed my belief that leadership and entrepreneurship are about responsibility, not comfort. My commitment to service is deeply personal. I lost my brother, Max, after he struggled with mental health challenges and systems that failed to support him. His loss showed me how easily people fall through the cracks when stability and support are absent. In his honor, I am actively involved with the To the Max Foundation, where I volunteer to support young people facing emotional hardship. Balancing school, financial pressure, and service has been difficult, but it has strengthened my resolve to build systems that intervene before loss becomes inevitable. I plan to shine my light by building a business that blends law, development, and compassion. Through my future real estate law firm, I want to help reshape communities in Atlanta so that housing becomes a pathway to dignity rather than displacement. My legacy will be measured by the communities restored, the families protected, and the people who find stability because someone chose to build differently. What I am building is not just a career, but a responsibility. Every leadership experience, every act of service, and every lesson shaped by loss is preparing me to create something that lasts. I envision a future where my law firm works alongside community organizations and foundations to turn overlooked spaces into places of safety and renewal. By merging advocacy with action, I hope to leave behind more than success. I want to leave behind systems that work for people who have been ignored for too long. That is how I will create my legacy.

Sustainability should be a priority in real estate because the way we build and care for our communities directly shapes the health of our planet. My name is Elizabeth McKenzie and as a real estate major who plans to become a real estate attorney, I see sustainability as both an environmental issue and a human issue. In cities like Baltimore, where I grew up, and Atlanta, where I live now, I see every day how abandoned buildings, poorly maintained properties, and careless development harm both people and the environment. Sustainability is not just about protecting nature. It is about protecting communities. Real estate has one of the largest environmental footprints of any industry. Buildings consume enormous amounts of energy, produce waste, and often take up land that could be used more responsibly. I have seen entire blocks sit empty while new construction rises across the street. This cycle creates waste, encourages sprawl, and leaves behind structures that damage the soil, attract pests, and become hazardous to the people who live nearby. A sustainable future cannot be built on top of neglect. It must begin with rethinking how we use what we already have. My vision for sustainability focuses on redevelopment rather than displacement. Instead of demolishing abandoned buildings and creating more waste, I want to restore them into energy efficient housing, community centers, mental health spaces, and youth programs. Restoring existing structures reduces the need for new materials, lowers landfill waste, and protects the surrounding environment. Using updated insulation, efficient heating and cooling systems, low energy appliances, and solar technology can transform old buildings into sustainable ones. These changes reduce pollution and give communities safe places to live and grow. My work at ATL Housing Group and ATL Housing Group Management shows me every day how deeply people rely on stable housing and responsible development. When buildings are unsafe or poorly maintained, families suffer. When housing is restored in sustainable ways, entire neighborhoods benefit. Sustainability is not just about saving energy. It is about creating environments where people can thrive without harming the world around them. Sustainability also means fighting for policies that protect both land and people. As a future real estate attorney, I want to advocate for zoning laws that encourage green development, preservation of community spaces, and responsible land use that does not harm ecosystems. Many low income communities live near abandoned buildings, polluted sites, or waste producing developments. Environmental justice means addressing these inequalities by ensuring that every community has access to clean air, safe housing, and environmentally responsible development. I also believe sustainability is tied to education and community involvement. At Brown Toy Box, the first Black owned toy store in Atlanta, I read to children and teach them about creativity, representation, and pride. These are the same young people who will inherit the world we leave behind. When they see sustainable communities being built around them, they learn that the environment matters and that they matter too. After completing my education, I want to lead real estate projects that reduce environmental harm, restore neglected spaces, and create long lasting community impact. Sustainability in my field is not optional. It is essential. The choices we make now will determine the quality of life for future generations. Through real estate law, I hope to make choices that protect the planet, uplift communities, and create a more stable and sustainable world.

Being a first generation college student means stepping onto a path no one in my family has walked before and deciding to keep going even when I have no roadmap. My name is Elizabeth McKenzie and being the first in my family to attend college is both an honor and a responsibility. It means carrying my mother’s dreams and my own hopes for a better future while learning to navigate systems no one at home has experienced. It also means proving to myself each day that I deserve to be here. The greatest challenge I face as a first generation student is the constant financial pressure. I work three jobs to stay in school, balancing hours at ATL Housing Group, ATL Housing Group Management, and Brown Toy Box while trying to keep up with my coursework. When unexpected expenses arise, I must choose between essentials and my education. Giving up has never been an option because I know the life I want requires resilience. My jobs have shaped my purpose and clarified who I want to become. At Brown Toy Box, the first Black owned toy store in Atlanta, I read to children and help them see themselves represented in books and toys. Watching them light up reminds me why education and representation matter. At ATL Housing Group, I support students and families with housing concerns, learning how compassion and structure can change lives. These experiences show me that my education is not only for me. It is for the communities I want to uplift. My dream is to become a real estate attorney focused on community development. Growing up and living in cities like Baltimore and Atlanta, I have seen how unstable housing affects families, especially Black and low income communities. My goal is to transform abandoned buildings into supportive housing, youth programs, and community spaces. I want to create environments where people can succeed, heal, and feel safe. I also hope to advocate for policies that protect vulnerable families and improve access to stable housing. This scholarship would make a meaningful difference in my ability to stay in school. It would relieve the financial burden that forces me to work constant hours and give me more time to focus on my classes and future goals. Most importantly, it would remind me that I am not walking this journey alone and that someone believes in my potential. To me, being first generation means courage. It means resilience. It means stepping into the unknown with faith that the struggle will be worth it. With this scholarship, I can continue building the future my family never had and create opportunities for others to follow.

My name is Elizabeth McKenzie, and my relationship with sports has been shaped by every field, court, and stage I stepped onto. At New Town High School, I played soccer, volleyball, and softball. Each sport taught me something different about who I was becoming. Soccer pushed my endurance and discipline. Volleyball sharpened my communication and timing. Softball, especially playing third base, became the place where I learned how to lead under pressure and trust my instincts. I was never the athlete who grew up in travel leagues or private coaching. I was the girl who stayed after practice, pushed myself through frustration, and earned my confidence through sheer determination. Later, when I moved to Westlake High School, I joined the marching band, performing in the jazz band and symphonic band. People underestimate band, but anyone who has marched knows the truth. It takes stamina, precision, teamwork, and mental focus that rivals any sport. Hours of drills in the heat, memorizing music while maintaining formation, and moving as one unit taught me discipline in a completely different way. Being part of band required the same level of dedication and athleticism as the sports I played at New Town. All of these experiences helped shape my identity, my resilience, and my connection to community. Sports and band taught me how powerful it is to feel seen and supported, which is why I focus so much of my time on uplifting youth today. At Brown Toy Box, the first Black owned toy store in Atlanta, I read to children and help them see themselves reflected in the books and toys around them. Some of these kids have never seen characters who look like them or share their culture. Watching them sit up straighter when they feel represented reminds me of how sports once made me feel: capable, visible, and worthy of taking up space. I also work at ATL Housing Group and ATL Housing Group Management, where I help students and families navigate housing challenges. These roles require the same qualities I developed as an athlete and performer: patience, empathy, teamwork, and staying calm under pressure. When someone comes to me stressed or uncertain, I try to show up the way my coaches, teammates, and band directors once showed up for me. I listen, I reassure, and I help them find solutions. That sense of steady support is something I want to bring into youth sports as well. My goal is to coach and mentor young athletes in a way that goes beyond practice drills. I want to create programs where kids feel confident, supported, and encouraged to believe in themselves. I want the quiet kid to find her voice the way I found mine on the softball field. I want the kid who doubts himself to discover the strength that sports can unlock. I want every child to feel they have a place where they belong. Jimmie “DC” Sullivan believed in the power of community through athletics, and I want to continue that legacy. With my background in multiple sports at New Town, my performance experience at Westlake, and my ongoing work with youth and families in Atlanta, I have the tools to make a real impact. I plan to build environments where young people not only grow as athletes, but also as leaders, teammates, and compassionate members of their community.

As a first generation college student, I have learned to build my future by relying on resilience, empathy, and a deep understanding of the communities around me. My name is Elizabeth McKenzie, and everything I do is shaped by the belief that empathy is not just a feeling. It is a skill. It is a responsibility. It is the foundation for a more understanding global community. I work three jobs to stay in school because I refuse to let financial barriers define my future. My journey has taught me how to lead with compassion, connect across differences, and build spaces where people feel seen and valued. Working at ATL Housing Group and ATL Housing Group Management has shown me how deeply people rely on stability and support. Much of my job centers around helping students and families navigate housing challenges, listening to their concerns, and offering guidance with patience and respect. When someone feels stressed or overlooked, I make it my mission to help them feel understood. These interactions strengthen my belief that empathy begins with hearing someone’s story. I carry this skill into every part of my life. One of my most meaningful roles is at Brown Toy Box, the first Black owned toy store in Atlanta. I read to children each week and help them see themselves reflected in the stories and toys around them. Many of these kids have never seen a book or toy that looks like them or their culture. Watching their eyes light up when they feel represented reminds me that empathy begins in childhood. When young people feel seen, they grow into adults who show understanding to others. My work there builds confidence, imagination, and cultural pride. Living in downtown Atlanta has also shaped my understanding of empathy. Every day I pass people experiencing homelessness or deep emotional pain. Instead of looking away, I stop and talk to them. I listen to their stories, learn their names, and treat them with dignity. These conversations have taught me more about humanity than any textbook. They remind me that everyone is carrying something and that compassion is a universal language. My ability to connect with people in vulnerable situations is one of my strongest skills and guides the work I plan to do in the future. My long term goal is to study criminal justice and then attend law school to become a real estate attorney focused on community development. I want to transform abandoned buildings into safe housing, community centers, mental health spaces, and youth programs. I want to advocate for policies that protect vulnerable families and expand access to stability and opportunity. My vision is to build communities where empathy shapes the environment. A building can be more than a structure. It can be a second chance. It can be safety. It can be hope. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to focus more on my education and community service instead of working constant hours just to afford tuition. It would give me the chance to strengthen the talents I already use to make a difference: listening, connecting, supporting, and leading with compassion. As a first generation student, I am not just working toward a degree. I am working toward a future where empathy shapes policies, communities, and everyday interactions. My experiences have taught me that understanding begins with one person who chooses to care. I plan to be that person wherever I go.

I will never forget the pain of watching my brother Max fade in front of me, piece by piece, until depression and drugs finally stole him from this world. Drugs do not simply take lives in one moment. They take them slowly, stripping away hope and stability long before anyone realizes how far things have gone. Growing up in Baltimore, this reality surrounded me. Addiction shaped neighborhoods and families who were already fighting to survive. It did not feel distant. It lived in the streets I walked and the homes of people I loved. It lived inside my family too. My name is Elizabeth McKenzie, and the drug crisis became personal when I watched Max get drawn into environments that fed his depression rather than healed it. He grew thinner each week, and the spark in his eyes dimmed until it felt like he was trapped somewhere none of us could reach. I remember trying to talk to him, trying to pull him back, and feeling like every conversation hit a brick wall. He heard me, but the depression and the drugs drowned everything else out. Losing him showed me how deeply addiction and mental health struggles affect communities when there is no support system in place. When I moved to downtown Atlanta, I saw that his story was not unique. Every day I pass people battling addiction or homelessness. Some wander with empty eyes. Some are unconscious on sidewalks. Some look like they have not spoken to someone in days. I stop and talk to many of them because connection matters. These moments remind me that anyone can fall into crisis when the world around them offers no stability and no compassion. This is how I give back now. I show up with respect and humanity. I listen. I volunteer. I serve with the To the Max Foundation, created in my brother’s honor to support young people facing emotional hardship. Through this work, I have learned that community care is a powerful form of prevention. I always wanted to study criminal justice, because I knew I wanted to help people like Max and the individuals I meet on the streets of Atlanta. But as I learned more, I realized there are levels to justice. Real change does not only happen in courtrooms or police systems. It happens in housing. It happens in access. It happens in the environments people live in. That realization is what led me toward real estate law. My long term goal is to attend law school and become a real estate attorney who specializes in community development. Many abandoned buildings in cities become unsafe environments where addiction grows unchecked. These spaces are not just empty. They are missed opportunities. I want to help transform these properties into supportive housing, mental health centers, transitional living spaces, and recovery programs. Safer communities begin with stable foundations. Prevention begins with access to shelter, resources, and dignity. Drugs and fentanyl have shaped my life by showing me how quickly a person can be pulled into darkness when support systems fail. They have shown me the urgency of fighting for solutions that address the root causes, not just the symptoms. They have also shown me the importance of compassion, structure, and leadership. Max’s story motivates me every day. His life, his struggle, and his loss fueled my calling to help rebuild communities with care and purpose. I want to protect families from the grief mine carries. I want to create spaces that help people rise again instead of fall apart.

I will never forget the pain of watching my brother Max fade in front of me, piece by piece, until depression and drugs finally stole him from this world. Drugs do not simply take lives in one moment. They take them slowly, stripping away hope and stability long before anyone realizes how far things have gone. Growing up in Baltimore, this reality surrounded me. Addiction shaped neighborhoods and families who were already fighting to survive. It did not feel distant. It lived in the streets I walked and the homes of people I loved. It lived inside my family too. Max was not my brother by blood. He became my brother through love. He was full of humor and potential until people he trusted introduced him to drugs. Over time I watched those substances take over. He grew thinner each week, as if the weight he carried was draining him from the inside. His eyes changed too. They lost their spark and became distant, hollow, almost unreachable. I remember yelling at him to stop and begging him to let me help. Every conversation felt like talking to a brick wall. He heard me, but the drugs and the depression drowned everything else out. His decline was slow and devastating. Eventually the darkness he carried became too heavy. Max took his own life, and the loss shattered me. It also forced me to see how deeply addiction and mental health struggles impact communities when there are no resources to prevent them. Max did not choose destruction. The world around him lacked the support he needed to choose something better. Moving to downtown Atlanta showed me how common his story is. Every day I walk past people struggling with addiction. Some wander with empty eyes. Some are unconscious on sidewalks. Some look like they have not spoken to another person in days. These are people with families, dreams, and potential, yet they are ignored or punished instead of helped. Seeing this every day made it impossible for me to turn away. This is why I am pursuing a degree in criminal justice and why I plan to continue my education in law school. I want to enter the legal field not to punish those who struggle but to change the systems that fail them. My long term goal is to become a real estate attorney who uses the law to reshape environments that allow drug crises to spread. In many cities there are abandoned buildings that attract crime, lack oversight, and become unsafe spaces where addiction grows without intervention. Through real estate law, I want to help transform these properties into supportive housing, mental health centers, community spaces, and recovery facilities. Spaces like these could have saved Max and can still save many others. Drugs and fentanyl have shaped my life by showing me how quickly someone can lose themselves when support systems are missing. They have shown me how pain spreads through families and communities. They have also shown me how urgently we need leaders who understand both the human side of addiction and the legal tools required to build solutions. Max’s story motivates me to study harder and fight for change. I want to protect families from the grief mine carries. I want to build safer communities, fairer policies, and real pathways to healing. I want to help stop addiction from claiming more lives. His life and his loss are the reason I am committed to this work and the reason I refuse to look away.

The day my brother Max died by suicide was the day I learned what a voice can carry. Grief hit me with a force I could not prepare for, and I realized that silence is dangerous. Silence hides pain. Silence protects systems that fail people. Silence keeps suicide in the shadows instead of pushing us to prevent it. That same day, while trying to process the hardest loss of my life, I stepped onto the Disney College Program yard and chose to use my voice for something bigger than myself. I did it for Max. I did it for every person who has ever felt unseen. Communication became the only thing that kept me standing. As an Afro Latina woman, I always knew speaking up came with risk, but I never expected to face a moment where silence felt impossible. During my program, Juneteenth was approaching, yet Disney had no real recognition planned. Instead, they placed out watermelon, Kool Aid, bananas, and cupcakes in small corners of the park. It did not honor our history. It reduced generations of resilience into stereotypes. Knowing that BIPOC cast members make up much of the labor that keeps Disney running made the disrespect even clearer. We deserved acknowledgment, not symbolism. At first, I questioned whether my voice would even matter. Disney is a massive institution and I was only a college participant. But after losing Max that morning, I could not keep quiet. He spent years fighting a mental health battle without enough support. Too often, people like him are overlooked instead of understood. I decided that if I had the ability to speak, then I had the responsibility to speak. I organized a real Juneteenth celebration. I reached out to other cast members, created a plan, and built a space that honored truth and culture. Two hundred fifty six people joined me. They showed up with pride and relief at finally being recognized. For the first time, we felt seen. When the event began, some staff members attempted to shut us down. They questioned our gathering and asked us to move. For a moment, grief threatened to silence me. Then I remembered Max and every time he told me to stand firm. I did not raise my voice, but I did not back down. I explained why we were there and refused to end the celebration. We continued peacefully and powerfully, and by the end of the night every person felt valued in a way they had never experienced at the program. That experience taught me that communication is not just speaking. It is choosing courage when fear tries to quiet you. It is protecting people who are ignored. It is honoring the ones we lost by making sure others are not lost in the same way. My voice grew stronger that day because it had to. It became a tool for healing, for leadership, and for community. I plan to carry this strength into my future as a real estate major at Georgia State University and later as an attorney. I want to advocate for communities who are overlooked and fight for systems that protect people. Whether it is suicide prevention, housing justice, or representation, I will use my voice to create impact. Max taught me how dangerous silence can be. Disney taught me how powerful a voice can become. I intend to use mine for the rest of my life.

Why do we continue to criminalize homelessness instead of asking why our systems make survival more expensive than stability? Liberation is not a destination. It is the daily practice of questioning the systems we have accepted as normal. As a student at Georgia State University living in downtown Atlanta, I see the truth about homelessness every single day. I walk to school and watch people being arrested for sleeping outside, fined for existing in public spaces, and shamed for simply trying to stay alive. I see people digging through trash cans for food, walking without clothing because everything they owned was taken or stolen, and being handed tickets from police officers that they will never be able to pay. The world calls them homeless, but what I see are people punished for not having a place to go. The question I am asking is simple but rarely spoken aloud. Why do we continue to criminalize homelessness instead of asking why our systems make survival more expensive than stability. Why does a person with nowhere to sleep owe more in fines, fees, and legal consequences than someone who lives in a luxury building. Why do we treat homelessness like a crime instead of a human emergency. My understanding does not come from distance. I have spoken to people living on the streets. I have walked up to them, listened to their stories, and learned how complicated and painful their paths have been. Some were displaced veterans who lost access to support. Some were survivors of domestic violence who had nowhere safe to go. Others turned to substances because life on the streets offered no comfort and no hope. What I learned is that every person I spoke to had a story. Yet most of the public views them as stains on this country rather than citizens who deserve dignity. We ignore the truth that many of us are one paycheck away from the same situation. With the cost of living rising and new laws using military presence to remove homeless communities from public spaces, the distance between housed and unhoused people is thinner than most want to admit. Every day I walk past abandoned buildings in downtown Atlanta. These buildings could hold kitchens, beds, mental health centers, job programs, or transitional housing. Instead many become liquor stores, tobacco shops, or check cashing businesses that profit from poverty. These buildings could help people rebuild their lives. Instead they sit empty or turn into businesses that give nothing back to the community. We say we want liberation, yet we choose profit over humanity. People do not become homeless by accident. Many were already vulnerable before they ever lost housing. Once someone falls through the cracks, the system makes climbing out almost impossible. Addiction becomes expensive. Survival becomes expensive. Being visible becomes expensive. Tickets accumulate. Arrest records grow. Opportunities disappear. Liberation cannot exist in a world where the cost of being poor is higher than the cost of being stable. As a Real estate major I plan to attend law school. I want to turn abandoned buildings into places that help people instead of spaces that sit unused. I want to create kitchens that offer dignity, shelters that keep families safe, and housing programs that lead to real stability. As a future real estate attorney, I will fight for policies that protect people and challenge a system that values empty buildings more than human lives. Liberation requires us to ask hard questions. If freedom is a human right, then why do our cities only support the people who can afford them.

Softball was never just a sport for me, it was the place where I found family, strength, and the people who carried me through the hardest moments of my life. I started playing at Newtown High School in Baltimore Maryland, a school with no funding and no fancy equipment. What we lacked in resources, we made up for in heart. We played because we loved the game, and I had no idea that stepping onto that field would shape my confidence, my relationships, and the woman I am growing into. I found my identity at third base, the hot corner. Third base forces you to be brave. The ball comes fast and you have to trust your instincts. You call plays, direct traffic, and stay steady under pressure. That position made me a communicator and a leader. It taught me how to think quickly and how to stand firm when everything around me moves at full speed. Holding down third base gave me purpose, especially during times in my life when I felt unsure about everything else. My teammates became my first real family. As an only child, I never truly knew what sisterhood felt like until softball gave it to me. We went through everything together. We won games that felt impossible, and we lost games that left us crying in the outfield. I saw a teammate have a seizure on the field. I saw emotions rise so high that arguments broke out because everybody cared so deeply. Through every chaotic, unpredictable moment, we were there for each other. What connected us was not equipment or funding but loyalty, effort, and love. That loyalty became even more meaningful this year when I lost my brother, Max. Max was not my brother by blood but by love. He joined my family years ago and immediately became one of the most important people in my life. He supported me at every game, believed in me, and pushed me to work harder than I thought I could. This year, Max died by suicide after fighting a long and painful mental health battle. Losing him has been the hardest moment of my life. Grief is something I am still learning how to hold. When he passed, it was my softball sisters who stood by me. They came to his funeral. They held my hand. They reminded me that I was not alone and that family can be built in ways you never expect. My coaches also shaped me in ways I will never forget. They were the ones who bought me my first pair of cleats, who encouraged me when I struggled, and who taught me to see my own strength. Even though they weren’t at the funeral, their lessons stayed with me in that moment. Softball taught me how to stand tall, how to breathe through pain, and how to keep going when life hits harder than any line drive. To honor Max’s memory, I now serve as the secretary of the To the Max Foundation, created to support young people who need encouragement, guidance, and someone in their corner. I want to be for them what Max was for me. I want to remind them that they matter, that they are capable, and that they are not alone in this world.Softball gave me identity, healing, resilience, and a family I never expected. It shaped the way I love, the way I lead, and the way I show up for others. I would not be the woman I am today without this sport that changed my life.

Unmaking Silence There are a few books on the peripheries of history, and literature too, that don't ask for sympathy. They ask to be confronted. That is Woman at Point Zero by Nawal El Saadawi. It doesn't whisper trauma or hint at injustice. Instead, it comes through the testimony of Firdaus, a woman who has known every degree of violence that a patriarchal universe can offer and chooses, at last, to testify. In a climax of discovery, Firdaus steps forward to attest that she feels only pride when she kills, only love when bloodstains are on her hands. It's a cold statement to make, but it says very strongly about power, hurt, and the cost of silence. This is a time, when read closely, reveals a woman who has been so completely dehumanized that the only place she engages with love is through violence, not because she gets off on hurt, but because it is the one place her agency exists. El Saadawi, using this passage, gives an unforgiving and harsh reality about how imperfect systems push women to regain power at any price. "'I said, 'All my life I have been searching for something which would make me proud. All the things I attempted brought me only shame. I am only proud when I kill. I have an unnatural kind of love, a powerful love.'". It is as if I can love only with a weapon in my hand, or knife. When I carry blood's warmth on my hands, then I am filled with love. I kiss my blood-stained hand and feel proud This paragraph can be interpreted as idealizing violence, but to interpret it so would be a failure of context. Firdaus is not idealizing bloodshed. She celebrates power, the only kind she has ever been allowed to touch. Every attempt at belonging, healing, and legitimacy in her life has been met with betrayal, abuse, and silence. Education, sexuality, labor, and even religion are presented in the novel as systems rigged against her. What El Saadawi’s writing exposes through Firdaus is the outcome of a world that punishes women for trying to live with dignity. We must read Firdaus's words, not on their own, but in relation to life that produced them. She has been orphaned, beaten, objectified by men, betrayed by women, commodified, and criminalized. Her rage is not random. It is one of being told all the time that her body and soul are not hers, but belong to other people. The knife is a symbol not of vengeance, but of clarity. It is the first time she makes the choice for her own future. Her pride is not because of the brutality, but because it is hers. Murdering the man who owned her is not a crime of passion. It is an act of liberation, though tragic. There is deep symbolism in her kiss. "I press my lips to my hand covered with blood," she declares, and it is a twisted reclaiming of affection and intimacy. She is not kissing a man who hurts her or a hand that makes her ashamed. She kisses her hand, even if it is covered in blood, because for the first time, it is hers. It is self love in its most desperate, tragic form. The two adjectives love and pride are repeated here in this short paragraph for a reason. El Saadawi must force the reader to think about a painful question. How does love fare when all the traditional roads to it are spoiled? Firdaus has never known love but in suffering. Her only familiarity with love, therefore, enters in the moment she can no longer be helpless. The warmth of blood, however cold, is contrasted with the coldness of the outside world. Heat here is emotion, freedom, and life. Her existence has been cold and mean instead. In order to understand the brilliance of this passage, we need to know Nawal El Saadawi as well. A renowned Egyptian feminist activist, psychiatrist, and author, El Saadawi was no stranger to censorship, political suppression, and institutional censure. Her prose is raw because it emerges from a sense of urgency. Woman at Point Zero is drawn from a real woman El Saadawi met while in prison, just before the woman's execution. This isn't fiction generated out of imagination, but testimony reworked as literature. That alone brings depth to each word. El Saadawi wrote not to entertain, but to awaken. To be awakened, however, is to be challenged. What makes this work so ideally suited to close reading is that it resists simplification. Every sentence is complicated by moral complexity, ethical discomfort, and political rebellion. It discomforts readers. Why do we demand victims are supposed to be peaceful? Why do we flinch more at a woman's rebellion than at her chronic suffering? These are not questions of literature. They are questions of society. As a young Black Afro Latina learning real estate law, I hear echoes of Firdaus's experience in today's systems that continue to fail women of color each day. Though I am not being executed or violently repressed, I know what it is to navigate through areas that were not made for me. I know what it is to voice and not be listened to. Reading Firdaus’s story is reading the extreme version of something many of us know too well, the crushing weight of being silenced and the radical act of saying no for the first time. This passage inspires me in my future work. Because I am someone who will fight against housing discrimination, advance equitable development, and build legal pathways to generational wealth in low income communities, I understand the importance of what happens when people are kept at the sidelines for too long. Violence does not happen out of thin air. It happens in the spaces where people are neglected, dispossessed, and erased. Firdaus's story makes me remember that justice has to be proactive, not reactive. Justice must offer concrete solutions ahead of pain turning into desperation. Close reading this text also makes me love literature as activism all the more. With language, El Saadawi exposes injustice that policy briefs and research reports can only briefly mention. She makes you feel it. That, to me, is the strength of language. That is why I write, that is why I read, and that is why I choose to lead. There is one last layer that needs to be mentioned, the spiritual one. Firdaus does not lose faith in humanity. She loses faith in a morality scheme that demands her compliance but holds out no salvation. When she is restored to strength, she is also rejecting a theology that has been used against her. This spiritual crisis mirrors the legal and emotional ones. All the structures of her universe, family, religion, law, and economics, have failed her. Her violent action is also an act of excommunication, turning away from a religion that never stood up for her. In the final seconds of her existence, Firdaus is calm. She greets death not in fear, but in tranquility. That tranquility is important. It indicates that she did not desire revenge, but peace. She desired, finally, to be liberated. Her story ends where many stories begin, with a woman willing to take up space. I do not just see Firdaus's story when I read it. I learn of women in Atlanta displaced from their homes due to rising rent and unregulated gentrification. I learn of mothers who toil at two jobs but cannot get mortgage approval due to discriminatory lending. I learn of Black and Brown families displaced from the neighborhoods that the elders worked so hard to establish, all in quiet with the law. Firdaus could very well have lived in another time and place, but the theme of her story, exclusion from power and the right to decide, is still so highly relevant today. My decision to specialize in real estate law is not just about property. It's about justice. It's about making sure that families aren't ripped from security because of fine print in a system they were never taught to breach. Firdaus had no choices. I want to ensure the people I advocate for have them. That they have access to information, protection by the law, and representatives who do not just know the law, but know their lives. I plan to establish a nonprofit that provides pro bono legal education and advocacy to those families that suffer from housing discrimination, wrongful eviction, or predatory development. Confronted by Firdaus's experience and those similar to hers, I hope to be the kind of leader who listens first and then acts with intention. My goal is to create places where people take back their futures, where silence becomes empowerment and where law is a shield and not a sword. Close reading has taught me to approach everything with increased vigilance. It enables me to hear what is unsaid, see what is between the lines, and question what has always been taken for granted. It is not an academic exercise. It is a lesson for life. It enables me to read policies, contracts, and systems in the same way that I read literature, not for what it says but for what it means and who it leaves behind. Firdaus's paragraph is unsettling by design. It is designed to make us stop and think, not just about her, but about the systems that create people like her. People who are boiled down to no other language than resistance. That resistance is a mirror. It reflects to us what we are willing to ignore and what we are forced to deal with if we care at all about justice. That is why this paragraph matters. That is why close reading matters. And that is why I will keep reading, for advocating, and for constructing a future where fewer will have to shoulder their truth alone. Reading Firdaus's story helped me realize that silence is never innocent. Whether it is borne by individuals, institutions, or legislation, silence can hurt as much as action. Her own voice, as fictionalized as it is, talks about an honest and common history of women who are not provided with safety, control, and love. It reminds us of how justice does not start in the court. It starts in the courage to tell the truth even when no one is going to listen. As I continue into my education, I carry this lesson with me to each class and each conversation. Close reading has not just refined the manner in which I read literature, it has reconstructed the manner in which I read the world. It has instructed me to hear more attentively, to guide more decidedly, and to fight for people whose voices are still fighting to be heard. Woman at Point Zero is not an easy read. But that is exactly why it matters. It is a demonstration of the power of voice, even when the voice trembles. It is a reminder that justice hurts. And it is an appeal to all of us who care about a world that can be more compassionate and more just. Close reading is not decoding words. Close reading is unlocking meaning, purpose unlocking, and responsibility unlocking. For Firdaus's words, I found a purpose for my own. And that is something that I will carry with me, not only as a student, but also as a future champion of justice, truth, and change.

I am a young woman who has turned grief into purpose, and music, especially TXT, helped me find the strength to keep going when everything around me felt broken. My name is Elizabeth, and I am currently pursuing a degree in Real Estate at Georgia State University. I plan to attend law school and become a real estate attorney focused on housing justice. My goal is to protect families from displacement, challenge unfair housing systems, and make sure that communities of color have access to safe and stable places to live. I believe housing is more than just shelter. It is security, identity, and dignity. I am funding my education through a mix of scholarships, financial aid, and personal sacrifice. I come from a low-income household, so I understand the value of every opportunity. I work when I can, save what I earn, and stay focused on the future I want to build. Support like this scholarship helps lighten the burden and allows me to continue forward with purpose. I became a MOA during a time when I was grieving the loss of my brother Max. He was a kind soul who always lifted others, and losing him left a hole I did not know how to fill. One night, I came across TXT’s music video for “Run Away.” The emotion in their voices and the truth in their lyrics reached me in a way nothing else had. That night was the first time I felt understood in a long time. Since then, their music has been a place of healing and hope. TXT stands apart from other groups because they do not hide from difficult emotions. Their songs talk about growing pains, loneliness, and fear, but they always lead with light. They helped me accept my feelings without shame and reminded me that healing does not have to be perfect. Their message gave me the courage to turn my pain into purpose and the strength to keep working toward something better. All five members have touched my heart, but Soobin has had the deepest impact. His quiet strength, thoughtful leadership, and sincere love for people inspire me to lead in my own life with empathy and grace. I work with youth in my church, and I try to model the same kindness and patience that he shows. His example helps me stay grounded and focused on serving others. One of my favorite TXT moments was their “Blue Hour” performance during a time when the world felt distant and uncertain. They brought joy, creativity, and beauty to the stage, reminding me that even in the hardest times, we can choose to bring light. That is how I want to live. I want to bring light into the lives of others through my work, my service, and my voice. TXT has shaped my dreams by showing me that storytelling can create connection and healing. They used their platform to lift others, and now I want to do the same in my own way. Through law and community leadership, I will fight for those who feel unseen and unheard. Their message of peace, love, unity, and respect is something I carry with me in every classroom, church hall, and conversation. Because of TXT, I believe that broken moments can still lead to something beautiful. Their music helped rebuild my spirit, and now I am ready to use what I have learned to help rebuild lives, one person and one community at a time.

There was a time when I did not know who I was beyond pain. I spent most of my life carrying around mistakes, silence, and shame. I struggled with identity, with confidence, and with belongingness. And then I discovered EDM, and over time, I began to discover myself as well. It wasn't with a concert or a festival. It started with headphones in an empty room, where the only thing louder than my thoughts was the beat. The first time I ever heard Illenium's "Good Things Fall Apart," I cried. Not because it was sad, but because it was like someone understood what I could never say. That one song opened the door. I began uncovering more artists, more songs, and more beats that resonated with something deep inside me. EDM gave me an emotional vocabulary when I couldn't express myself. It was the very first space where I didn't have to keep anything in check in order to be me. The more I listened, the more I knew that EDM is not music. It is a society founded upon love, healing, and expression. I learned the ideals of Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect, and at last, I sensed that I had found something that paralleled what I had been seeking. Peace was being compassionate toward myself for what I could not change. Love was noticing the humanity in people who, like me, were just as lost. Unity was being part of a crowd of strangers that for an evening became family. Respect was recognizing that each person has a story and each story is deserving of respect. Someone at the local performance noticed I was standing alone. They smiled at me, shook my hand, and asked me to join them. We didn't speak much, but we danced, we looked out for each other, and we shared a kind of happiness that I never knew was possible. The experience stayed with me. I learned that the smallest act of kindness can make someone's entire night, and sometimes whole life, turn around, and that I wasn't lonely, that I'd been faking it. Since then, I grew to appreciate music on another level. I started learning by myself how to make easy beats and combine sounds that could generate emotions from people. I still have a lot to learn, and I know it is not easy. With an economy where the price of living keeps growing and opportunities are scarce, chasing a dream in music appears impossible. But in spite of all that, I still believe. Belief in my imagination, my story, and what music can unite us when words cannot. My dreams may be a long way away, but they are still mine to chase. This scholarship isn't simply a chance to attend Night Nation Run. It is a reminder that people like me deserve to be here too. It is a step forward, to something bigger. It is to further an education that I believed I could never achieve. It is to give credit to the person I've become and continue to build upon who I am through EDM love. PLUR is more than a phrase I cherish. It's a way of life that saved me and framed me. With every beat I hear, every mix I create, and every crew I join, those ideals are in my corner. EDM revitalized my soul, and I'll keep that radiance into my future, beat by beat.

Before my brother Max passed away, we shared our summers together at Ray of Hope Baptist Church, leading youth programs and creating a haven where teenagers could be safe, loved, and brought closer to Christ. Although I did not serve on EFY field staff, I have experienced the deep spiritual growth, emotional sacrifice, and meaningful leadership that comes from serving youth through faith. Our church meant so much more than a building. It was where Max and I learned the lessons of serving God with a whole heart, giving generously, and leading with love. Max was such a faithful and loving member of our church and had a deep and lasting impact on everyone he touched. We shared in funding outreach events, hosted Vacation Bible School, and developed programs that enabled kids to experience Scripture in a way they could relate to. Watching Max lead with quiet strength and joyfulness taught me that leadership is not always visible. It is about showing up consistently and humbly for others. His example continues to shape how I lead in every aspect of my life. After Max passed away, continuing to lead without him was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. But I knew that the work was valuable. I continued to go on and lead VBS, support youth outreach, and carry on the same programs we built together. That season taught me how to lean into God in weakness, how to lead while grieving, and how to trust that obedience still matters. The spiritual lessons I learned along the way enriched my walk with Christ. I came to understand that ministry is not so much about what we're doing, but about who we're becoming in the process. Emotionally, I learned patience, to listen empathetically, and to be grounded when others came to me seeking guidance. There were also moments of laughter, happiness, and bonding that renewed my sense of the importance of youth ministry. One moment I will never forget is when a young girl asked me to pray with her as she was getting ready to go home. She told me that she felt seen and safe because of how I had talked to her all week. That one request taught me that leadership is about presence, consistency, and planting seeds of faith that can grow way more than we see. On a practical level, youth ministry taught me how to schedule time, lead decisively, plan purposefully, and cooperate with other people for a shared objective. They have enriched my learning experience and continue to shape my future studies, church ministry, and leadership. I have learned to carry responsibility with care and be faithful in small and big moments. Although I was never an EFY participant, I am a believer in what EFY stands for. EFY counselors, have given time, energy, and heart to serving youth in the hopes of helping them feel loved by Christ. I understand the sacrifice and joy that are a part of that call. I share the same values, faith, humility, and service that this scholarship aims to recognize. Receiving this scholarship would bring me one step closer to continuing my studies and to continuing the legacy Max and I built together. It would bring financial relief and assist in my calling to grow as a Christ centered leader. I am grateful for the opportunity to reflect on this journey and for every lesson that has shaped me. With God's direction, I will continue to serve, lead, and love well beyond the walls of the church.

The most profound injustices in America are not necessarily committed in broad daylight. Many are committed behind the scenes in courtrooms that do not provide equal protection, in housing policies that push families out of their homes, and in systems that punish poverty instead of its causes. Perhaps the most urgent challenge confronting the criminal justice system in the current times is its link to housing inequality. From over policing poor neighborhoods to the historic impact of redlining and gentrification, whole communities are placed at a disadvantage. They are not random results. They are the result of policies that determine who is protected and who is pushed further into insecurity. After having learned Real Estate at Georgia State University, I have come to understand how closely housing and justice are connected. My dream is to be a real estate attorney who protects vulnerable communities from unjust displacement and fights on behalf of just, inclusive housing policies. I believe that true criminal justice reform begins by stopping the conditions that result in increased exposure to incarceration. When people have stable, affordable homes, they are less likely to be caught up in the legal system due to conditions based on inequality. One encounter that shaped this vision was while I worked for the Disney College Program, where I organized the first ever Juneteenth celebration at Walt Disney World. I brought 256 BIPOC cast members together to celebrate our history and culture in a place where we are often underrepresented. This experience taught me how to advocate for visibility, lead on purpose, and be an advocate for equity, even within large systems." It showed me that actual change is begun with the courage to get up and the heart to bring people together. Apart from that experience, I have also volunteered with Atlanta housing support services that helped families facing eviction connect them to legal assistance. Those experiences provided the exposure to see the immediate real-world effect of housing insecurity and how often times it leads to legal problems beyond one's control. From those experiences, I saw a further insight into how structural issues intersect and why legal advocacy is such a powerful tool for protection and empowerment. These encounters have given me a sense of direction and purpose as I move toward law school. I am doing this because I want to be among a generation of legal practitioners who listen to the pleas of their people and work towards making justice more accessible. I would like to learn from the individuals who have used the law to construct, repair, and protect. I am aware that journey will require dedication, humility, and continuous growth. This scholarship would bring me one step closer to achieving that goal. It would take some financial pressure off of going to school and allow me to focus on getting ready for law school and continuing to develop my work in housing justice. It would also serve as a source of encouragement that my efforts to make a difference are being noticed and valued. Most importantly, it would be moving towards being the kind of attorney who does not simply practice law, but who uses it to lift others up. Lawyer Patrick Roberts is the kind of leader I aspire to be. His pledge to stand up for the underrepresented and his determination to practice ethics driven, high quality law show me the promise of the law when applied with purpose. I am inspired by what he does and strive to set a course in accordance with integrity, compassion, and service. I still have so much to learn and I am willing to do so. I am willing to continue to grow, to learn the law diligently, and to use my voice to create a more balanced and equitable future for the communities that have always mattered to me.

There have been moments where I have stared at a tuition bill and wondered how I was going to make it another semester. Moments when I have worked long hours, skipped meals, and held back tears just to keep moving forward. I am not in school because it has been easy. I am here because I refuse to give up. What inspires me to continue my education is knowing that I am the answer to the prayers of those who came before me. As an Afro-Latina woman and a first-generation college student, I carry the weight of both sacrifice and expectation. I am pursuing my degree not just for a better paycheck, but for the power to change lives—starting with my own and extending to the communities I serve. I chose to study real estate because I see how housing shapes our lives. I have watched Black and Brown families be pushed out of neighborhoods they helped build. I have seen how wealth is passed down through property and how people without access are left behind. I plan to attend law school and become a real estate attorney focused on protecting underserved communities. My dream is to fight for housing justice, advocate for equitable development, and educate families on their rights. But dreams are hard to chase when you are broke. That is the truth. I work hard, I study hard, and I show up with everything I have, but the financial burden of college weighs heavily on my back. This scholarship would not just lighten that load. It would give me the room to breathe, to focus, and to grow into the woman I know I am meant to be. I am not asking for a handout. I am asking for a chance. A chance to continue walking this path with less fear and more faith. A chance to give back more than I take. A chance to become the change I talk about every day. This scholarship would not only help me stay in school. It would help me rise.

It is the legacy of some women to remain silent, but I was born to speak, to build, and to rise with intention. I am part of a generation of women who aren't just breaking ceilings, but rebuilding the foundation beneath them. Every step I make in school is not just for a degree, but for the ministry God has placed on my life. I'm currently learning about real estate, and I'm attending law school to become a real estate attorney with a focus on housing justice. I want to use legal knowledge to protect communities that have been historically displaced, marginalized, and undervalued. My interest lies in granting access to stable, safe housing and enabling families to build wealth and legacy without fear of being displaced or erased. I don't study buildings. I study the systems that dictate who gets to remain, who gets displaced, and who is never even offered a key in the first place. As a person of faith, I don't believe my calling is an accident. The work that I have done is not about contracts and closings. It is about restoration. I want to stand in the gap for families who have been denied justice and be a voice for those who are often not heard. The Bible tells us in Proverbs 31:8, "Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute." That is the foundation of my intent. I do not want power for the sake of power. I seek it so that I can provide it to others. This scholarship would remove financial barriers that squarely fall on my shoulders. Like many women of color, I have grown accustomed to bearing heavy loads in silent strength. I work, I serve, and I learn not because it is easy, but because I am dedicated to the call that I have received. This type of encouragement would not only reduce stress, but it would confirm that my objectives are significant, that my voice matters, and that my mission is apparent to others. Thanks to this support, I was able to give more fully to my studies, engage more deeply in community service, and position myself to enter law school and beyond with confidence. I will continue to use my education to bring equity, serve families, and lead by faith. I am not just investing in myself. I am investing in those generations that come after me. This moment in time is for women who carry wisdom in their hearts, fire in their souls, and grace in their step. It is for those among us who are venturing into realms no one in our families has tapped into before, and who do so with courage and with conviction. It is for women who choose to bear witness through excellence, purpose, and love in action. I am blessed to be in the company of such women. And I will boldly walk in the calling that is before me.

Being a first-generation Afro-Mexican college student is not just a personal milestone. It is a revolution in motion. It means carrying the strength of two rich cultures, the resilience of my ancestors, and the unspoken dreams of my family, all while carving a path that has never been walked in my name before. My story is shaped by the realities of hard work. I have juggled jobs, volunteered in my community, and taken on responsibilities with quiet strength. I know what it means to stretch every dollar, to translate for family, to succeed in systems that were not built for people who look like me or come from where I come from. But I also know what it means to rise. I know how to lead, how to fight, and how to turn every obstacle into a reason to keep going. There is power in being first. There is power in being Afro-Mexican, in holding both Blackness and Latinidad in one body, one voice, one purpose. For too long, Afro-Mexicans have existed in the margins of our own communities, underrepresented and often invisible. I carry this identity with pride, knowing that every step I take through higher education is not just for myself, but for the many who came before me without the chance. I am passionate about being first-generation because I know how much had to be sacrificed so I could have the opportunity to choose a different future. Education is not just a path. It is a responsibility. I chose to pursue college because I believe in building something better, for myself, for my community, and for the generations after me. I am studying real estate because I want to fight the systems that have displaced our people and left them without security or access. I plan to go to law school and become a real estate attorney focused on housing justice. My dream is to protect families from being priced out of their neighborhoods and to help Black and Brown communities secure property, safety, and legacy. Mental health has also shaped my story. The grief of losing my brother left a scar that will never fully fade. He struggled with things that were never fully seen, never properly addressed. In our communities, pain is often endured in silence. I learned that justice cannot exist without healing, and healing cannot happen without support. That experience gave me purpose. It gave me the determination to build safe spaces, to advocate for wellness, and to never ignore the emotional impact of the systems I want to change. I do not take this opportunity lightly. I work, I serve, and I study because I know I am standing in a place that was once out of reach. I led the first Juneteenth celebration in the history of the Disney College Program, uniting 256 BIPOC cast members in a moment of pride and representation. I mentor young women, I advocate for cultural awareness, and I lift others as I climb. This scholarship would not just ease the burden of financial pressure. It would be a reminder that my story, like José Melendez’s, matters. That even if our families could not finish their own journeys through education, we honor them by finishing ours with purpose. Being a first-generation Afro-Mexican college student means walking into the unknown and making it home. I am not just showing up for myself. I am showing up for all of us.

Books told it like it is long before the world acknowledged it. It was prior to my education on how laws are written, how property is distributed, or how courts operate that I read injustice on the memoirs, legal nonfiction, and personal survival accounts. Reading books such as Just Mercy and The New Jim Crow taught me more than about the legal system. They made me realize that much of legislation is written by people who never had to get through the systems they designed. These books verified for me that which I already knew to be so from experience. That justice is not always blind. Sometimes, it is selective. Sometimes, it is silent. Reading gave me information, but it gave me purpose. I have watched communities like mine be marginalized. I have witnessed families losing their homes, not because they were unsuccessful, but because the system was unsuccessful. The generations of BIPOC families have been kept out of housing stability, homeownership, and the wealth that follows. That wasn't a mistake. That was policy. That was zoning. That was the legal system functioning precisely as it was designed to function. Mental health has also shaped the way I see the world. Grief, anxiety, and emotional burnout are not personal battles. They are typically borne out of environment, poverty, and not being able to obtain resources. The loss of my brother was perhaps one of the greatest sorrows I've ever faced. He had wounds that were quiet and negotiated in a world that does not care about Black mental health. His passing helped me see how wellness and justice are related. When individuals are not secure, when they are not stable, when they are not heard, it wears them down. That realization has nudged me towards my calling. I am studying real estate with a vision in mind. My aspiration is to go to law school and become an attorney specializing in real estate who works on housing justice. I would like to speak out against communities being demolished, stand up for tenants being irresponsibly displaced, and write policy that protects rather than hurts. Housing is not just a building. It is safety, identity, and where healing happens. I would like to ensure that BIPOC families can build wealth, stay in their community, and build futures that don't live always in danger. This project is familiar to me. I have already stood for visibility and equity. I built the first-ever Juneteenth celebration in Disney College Program history, bringing together 256 BIPOC cast members in an instant of healing, pride, and learning. I am dedicated to continuing to serve my community, organizing outreach efforts, and mentoring younger women of color who need to see themselves as powerful and heard. This scholarship is not merely money. It's fuel for the work that I'm doing. It would allow me to complete my education, go on to law school, and walk more fully into my calling. It would allow me to be the kind of lawyer who doesn't merely defend people, but transforms systems that were never constructed for us in the first place. Justice is not a theory. Justice is what we construct with our hands, our voices, and our actions. I plan to bring that responsibility into every classroom, courtroom, and community I enter.

Greatness is not always loud. Sometimes it shows up at sunrise, marching in sync, lungs tight with breath control, mind locked on every beat. Sometimes it looks like a girl balancing four different bands, track practice, community service, and straight A’s, refusing to let anything slip. My name is Elizabeth McKenzie. I am a proud Afro-Latina woman with a 3.8 GPA, a passion for people, and a work ethic rooted in discipline and heart. I am currently majoring in real estate, but the foundation of who I am was shaped through music, athletics, and service. In high school, I committed myself to every band offered, including marching band, jazz band, symphonic band, and pep band. That meant early mornings, late nights, and constant preparation. I was responsible for memorizing music, performing under pressure, leading with confidence, and maintaining endurance. Being in all four bands taught me structure, teamwork, accountability, and time management. I was also a track athlete, and together music and sports taught me that consistency creates strength. They trained me to stay focused even when the world feels chaotic and to bring my full self to every commitment I make. One of the moments that shaped me most was when I organized the first Juneteenth celebration in the Disney College Program’s history. I brought together 256 BIPOC cast members in a celebration that was educational, emotional, and empowering. It was not an assignment. It was a decision to lead and create the space we deserved. That experience reminded me that leadership is not about position. It is about stepping up when the moment calls for you. That same fire guides my dreams today. I want to become a real estate attorney who advocates for fair housing, protects communities of color from displacement, and empowers families to own property and build generational wealth. I do not just want to talk about justice. I want to build it. I plan to create free workshops that teach BIPOC women about zoning, credit, and homeownership in ways that are accessible and easy to understand. I want to open resource centers that combine legal aid, mental health support, financial counseling, and sisterhood all under one roof. What inspires me most about Kalia D. Davis’s legacy is that she lived with excellence in every corner of her life. She showed up for her people, chased her goals with heart, and led with joy. I carry that same spirit into my education, into my work, and into my community. I want to lead in a way that honors those who came before me and makes room for those who will come after me. This scholarship would allow me to continue doing what I have always done. To learn, to lead, and to lift others. I want to help turn abandoned buildings into community hubs and turn dreams into blueprints. I want to use my education not just for myself but for the girls coming up behind me who deserve to see what is possible. Kalia reminds me that purpose is not something you wait for. It is something you live out with intention, love, and resilience every day. I am committed to carrying that same light forward.

As a young Afro-Latina woman studying real estate, I understand what it means to navigate systems that were never built with us in mind. BIPOC women often carry the weight of entire communities while being denied access to stable housing, economic opportunity, and emotional support. I have seen what happens when Black and Brown women are left out of conversations about policy, land, and power. These experiences are not just what inspired me to pursue real estate. They are what made me determined to use my degree to become a helper, a protector, and an advocate for BIPOC women who deserve more than just a place to live. They deserve space to grow, heal, and build. I want to approach real estate with a heart grounded in social work values. My plan is to become a real estate attorney who focuses on housing justice and equitable development. But more than that, I want to operate like a caseworker for my community. I want to understand their stories, their traumas, and their dreams so I can help them navigate the systems that were designed to confuse or exclude them. Too many women are priced out of their homes, targeted by predatory lenders, or caught in cycles of eviction. With the right guidance, many of them could own property, build credit, and create generational wealth. I want to be that guide. Education is a critical tool in that process. I plan to host free workshops that explain the housing process in simple and accessible terms. From lease agreements to credit counseling, I want women to walk into every housing conversation prepared and confident. These workshops would be paired with community partnerships to connect women to social workers, mental health providers, and financial counselors. Housing insecurity is rarely just about money. It is often tied to trauma, domestic violence, job instability, and generational poverty. By building networks of support, I want to treat the whole person, not just the paperwork. My long term goal is to develop community resource centers that serve as safe spaces for BIPOC women. These centers would combine affordable legal aid with wraparound services that address mental health, childcare, employment, and personal growth. They would not only respond to crises but also uplift possibilities. I want survivors of abuse to have a place to rebuild. I want young mothers to walk in with questions and leave with answers. I want to create places where dignity is restored and futures are reshaped. Social work is about advocacy, but it is also about listening. I will continue to engage directly with the community through volunteerism, mutual aid, and mentorship. I want to walk beside the people I serve, not above them. My job is not to speak over their voices, but to amplify them and fight for systems that reflect their worth. BIPOC women have been holding up communities without proper support for far too long. I want to change that by combining the structure of real estate law with the soul of social work. Whether I am reviewing policies, supporting a woman through an eviction case, or simply sitting down to listen to her story, my goal remains the same. I want every woman I meet to feel seen, supported, and empowered. Justice is not just a legal goal. It is a human need. And I plan to deliver it through action, care, and a deep commitment to the well-being of BIPOC women.

As a property student, I am constantly learning about how technology is shaping the future of the housing and development industry. One of the most powerful forces behind this change is artificial intelligence. AI programs are transforming the manner in which properties are developed, examined, marketed, and managed. From predictive analytics to automated data input, AI is fast becoming the epicenter of real estate's future, and I believe that it will only expand its reach even more as I begin my career. Previously, real estate agents would actually hand-draw floor plans, calculate property values on their own with charts and graphs, and take hours pouring over documents and market data. AI already automates much of those processes. For example, rather than manually sketching out building floor plans, I am able to now use a spreadsheet with AI capabilities to generate accurate calculations, financial projections, and space utilization charts. It makes me quicker and more efficient. It prevents me from making human mistakes and enables me to visualize development plans from a financial and architectural perspective without necessarily having to be a drafting or architecture professional. This is not only time-saving but also opens up property development for more individuals. AI is also revolutionizing the purchasing and selling of properties. AI-driven virtual visits and property valuation algorithms can give customers real-time information and allow buyers to look around houses without physically entering them. AI software for agents can study trends in the market and create forecasts of price and buyer behavior. This makes it easier to inform clients to invest better and make wiser financial decisions. From houses to lands, AI is making experts more efficient and wiser. There are many benefits to having AI in property. Maybe one of the greatest benefits is that it can sort through lots of information at one time. AI systems can sort through information that would take a human days or hours to understand. This helps investors make faster decisions, and it helps developers understand where to build and what to charge. AI further enhances budgeting accuracy and forecasting accuracy, which can help drive wastage out of the business and improve project delivery. It further enhances customer experience by personalizing, anticipating, and responding fast. AI in property does come with its challenges, however. One of the concerns is that the risk of over-depending on automation has the potential to take away the personal service of actual real estate. Home buying is not a business transaction, it is an emotional transaction. Information can be delivered by AI but trust, empathy, or an understanding that a person has cannot be built. Availability is another issue. Not every agency or community has the budget to invest in the latest AI technology. If only large companies benefit from the advantages of AI, it can widen the gap between giant corporations and small, community-based developers. There also exists the risk of job losses in areas like property management and administrative work. In consideration of these challenges, I am certain that when applied responsibly, AI can improve the real estate business and make me a better representative of the individuals whom I serve. I want to utilize AI to improve equitable housing, sustainable planning, and smart investment, not replace human beings but augment and aid them. By blending innovation with compassion, I am certain that the future of real estate can be made efficient as well as human-centered.

I have felt the sting of silence, the weight of injustice, and the fire that burns when you realize no one else is going to do it but you. After I graduate, I plan to transform the world by being the kind of leader who listens, uplifts, and builds, not just buildings, but bridges between people, purpose, and healing. That call did not begin in a classroom, it began with the lived experiences that shaped me. I became a Girl Scout before I even understood what leadership meant. Selling cookies taught me goal setting, teamwork, and how to speak to strangers with confidence. But beyond the badges, what stayed with me most was the value of service. I learned that leadership is about showing up when it matters, even when it is uncomfortable or inconvenient. That foundation guided me through one of the most defining moments of my life. While participating in the Disney College Program, I witnessed Juneteenth being acknowledged by handing out watermelon slices. It was a moment laced with painful stereotypes, lacking pride or meaning. I could not ignore it. I organized fellow cast members, addressed leadership with care and clarity, and created the first Juneteenth celebration in the program’s more than twenty year history. I personally united 256 BIPOC cast members across the company, turning what began as a cultural misstep into a day of pride, education, and unity. That experience changed me. It showed me that change does not come when you wait for permission. Change happens when you choose to lead. I knew from that moment that I wanted to continue creating spaces where marginalized voices are heard, stories are honored, and healing becomes possible. My commitment to advocacy deepened after the loss of my brother, Max. His passing tore something open in me. He struggled quietly with the weight of trauma, mental health challenges, and broken systems that failed him. His suicide was not only personal loss, it was a reflection of how society often ignores the pain people carry. I see now how the world failed him in the same way it fails so many others, those battling addiction, growing up in fractured homes, or left behind by institutions designed to punish rather than protect. His memory drives me to speak up for those who can no longer speak for themselves. Living and studying in the heart of Atlanta has only intensified my passion for change. This city is vibrant and culturally rich, but also marked by visible struggle. I see the tents lining sidewalks and the effects of redlining that still shape entire communities. I study in areas where Black families are being displaced from neighborhoods they have called home for generations. These injustices are not theoretical to me, they are right outside my door. I do not just learn about inequity, I witness it daily. That is why I am majoring in real estate. After graduation, I will become a real estate attorney who advocates for fair housing and sustainable communities. I want to help families remain rooted, not pushed out. I see housing as more than property. It is the foundation of safety, memory, and opportunity. I plan to turn vacant land into spaces that bring people together, and transform forgotten lots into something that feeds both pride and community. Whether I am creating cultural celebrations, comforting someone through grief, or fighting for housing justice, my mission remains the same. I want to help people feel seen, valued, and protected. Change begins when someone is willing to say, this matters. And I am that person.

Personal Commitment to Peace building and Mediation I never imagined that I would be a voice of change when I took on a position in the Disney College Program. I was just excited to be a part of the magic. But when Juneteenth rolled around, what I witnessed shocked me. Disney's way of acknowledging the holiday was to hand out watermelon. That was it. There was no context, no education, and no consideration for the day's importance in history. I was offended as a Black Afro-Latina woman. Juneteenth is the holiday that marks the delayed freeing of enslaved African Americans in Texas. It's a symbol of resilience, freedom, and the ongoing fight for justice. To see it reduced to a racialized stereotype was painful and offensive. The Disney College Program had never observed Juneteenth in over 20 years, and when it finally did, it felt like a mockery. I could not stay silent. But speaking up in a company as big and structured as Disney was frightening. There were unspoken rules, power hierarchies, and a culture that did not reward rocking the boat. Yet, I knew that things would never change if no one had the courage to challenge the status quo. I started by whispering to other cast members, many of whom were similarly upset but felt they had no voice to use. And then I did the second thing. I met with the leadership and explained to them why the gesture was hurtful. I was quiet, concise, and firm. I did not blame. I offered historical facts, personal anecdotes, and constructive proposals. I was extremely clear that this wasn't hurting anybody. This was about learning and growing. At first, I met with resistance. Some tried to downplay the issue. Others were apparently uneasy with even having the conversation. But I stood on truth. I was persistent, though respectful and firm in my message. After weeks of forging forward, I was finally given the green light to lead something that had never been tried. I planned and executed the first ever Juneteenth celebration in Disney College Program history. I created an event that honored the holiday's inception through music, storytelling, art, and communal engagement. I ensured the celebration was inclusive and educational. We didn't merely celebrate we reflected. Cast members of all backgrounds came together to learn, heal, and uplift one another. Over 256 BIPOC cast members came together to honor a time when our ancestors were in chains, and we transformed that day into a powerful celebration of freedom and unity for everyone at FCV The encounter taught me that peacebuilding starts with courage. I found out that progress doesn't derive from silence. It derives from going ahead with compassion, conviction, and clarity. I observed that leadership genuinely entails speaking the truth to power despite your voice shaking. It entails creating space for others, despite nobody creating space for you. This experience also solidified my determination to have a future in real estate law and public policy. I look forward to continuing to struggle for underrepresented communities, reworking discriminatory institutions, and building inclusive spaces, both physical and political. Wherever I am writing policy, developing community housing, or struggling for justice in court, I will always carry this moment with me. Peacebuilding, to me, is to listen, to hear, and not to take silence for an answer. I will keep struggling for representation, inclusion, and justice, not just on holidays, but on every day that I have a voice.

Mental illness is typically something considered a luxury, but for far too many in BIPOC communities, it is an invisible struggle fought in isolation. As an artist, a Black Afro-Latina woman, I have lived with the weight of unspoken pain, and I have seen the ways stigma, silence, and insufficient access can consume the soul, especially in communities of color. Art saved me when words were not possible for me. It became my therapy, my voice, and my sanctuary when traditional mental health treatment was too far away or too expensive. For this reason, my mission is to use art to make healing real, affordable, and accessible. I want to create free healing art spaces, artist-led and mental health professional-of-color community workshops where people can come not to be healed but to be heard, to be seen, to be supported. These spaces would offer creative expression, trauma informed practice, and culturally responsive resources for youth who look like me and have lived like me. In the future, I hope to build affordable housing with on site therapy, wellness support, and crisis care, so mental health is incorporated into where we live, not something that we have to fight to obtain. My mission, my narrative, and my work are all connected. I want to make mental health services not merely a privilege, but a community you are already a part of. Because every person should be able to heal and to know that they are loved.

When I first began investigating a career in business and law, I observed something that deeply troubled me, a lack of people who looked like me in ownership, decision making, and leadership roles. The more I researched such fields as real estate, finance, and corporate law, the more I realized that this underrepresentation was not due to Black individuals lacking talent and ambition. It was a product of systemic barriers, gatekeeping, and limited generation access to resources, education, and networks. I knew then I would be part of the solution. I am now undertaking a degree in Real Estate and intend to attend law school to specialize in real estate and property law. My ultimate goal is to be an attorney in real estate and use my knowledge to empower Black families, business owners, and new business leaders to take up space in an industry that has traditionally pushed us to the periphery. Ownership is power. Land, property, and business ownership are the foundations of family wealth. But far too often, our communities are denied access to the tools and information required to build that foundation. I want to do better. As a future attorney, I plan to advocate for equitable access to commercial and residential property, defense against predatory development, and navigating Black entrepreneurs through the labyrinth of leases, contracts, and acquisitions. I will help protect our communities not just as an attorney, but through education. I envision free workshops on entrepreneurship, affordable housing, and property rights in underserved neighborhoods. I would like to dismantle the financial and legal technicalities that prevent people from fully participating in the business community. But it doesn't stop there. I also envision internship and mentorship pipelines for Black students who plan to enter the real estate, legal, and finance fields. It's not merely opening the door, we must bring in the next generation through it and empower them to thrive when they are inside. I believe in lifting as I climb. I believe in being seen, so young Black girls who are business-minded and justice-oriented can look up and see someone who looks like them succeeding in that space and feel that they belong there too. This scholarship would not just enable me to fund school, it would fund a dream. It would be an investment in a future Black lawyer who is deeply dedicated to economic justice, community defense, and system change. I am not going into business simply to acquire a title or receive a paycheck. I am entering business to end cycles, open doors, and create new legacies. I recognize that my education is the key to building something higher than myself, and I am ready to use it to change lives, including mine.

I don't just bake to feed others, I bake to make something more. My kitchen has never been about just mixing things together. It's where I grew in confidence, creativity, and most importantly, my sense of purpose. As a young Black woman and business owner of a successful baking company, I've utilized my love of sweets as a means of wellness, sustainability, and cultural empowerment. Over the next five years, I plan to expand my presence, both within my community and globally, through food innovation, hospitality management, and community-based marketing with my background in real estate. I began with simple recipes and baked goods made at home. But once my business grew, so did my mission. I started including plant-based, allergy-free, and nutrient-rich alternatives to demonstrate that food can be delicious and healthy. I do green packaging and use local ingredients because I believe wellness shouldn't be at the expense of the planet or the family's bank account. My dream is to own a bakery and café that is more than a restaurant, it will be a school, a healing place, and a community center. In the Disney College Program, I carried my passion further by organizing a Juneteenth celebration among cast members. I led the planning effort, from booking the venue and building the program to planning logistics and promoting the event. We created a setting that honored Black culture in the domains of music, cuisine, and shared heritage. That encounter put me in mind of the way hospitality can serve to unite individuals in healthy, lasting relationships. It is more than a service, though, but a matter of narrative, culture, and representation. I am also taking courses toward a degree in real estate at Georgia State University, with specific interest in marketing. My vision is to use both to develop wellness-focused, culturally appropriate environments as well as market Black-owned businesses through social media campaigns and pop-up activations. From sustainable building to material that educates communities about living sustainably, I see the integration of business skill with social mission. My vision is to use the internet to educate, motivate, and highlight marginalized voices in the hospitality and healthcare industries. Along the way, one person has been my strength, my brother Max. Losing him turned everything around. He was my biggest supporter. He was my loudest supporter, and in darkest moments, his memory pushes me to continue. With every batch I bake, every function I perform, every idea I implement, I do it with the knowledge that he would be proud. His love and encouragement fuel me still, and I carry his heart wherever I go. As a Girl Scout, an entrepreneur, a first-generation college graduate, and now a sister dedicated to carrying on my brother's work, I recognize the power of purposeful leadership and love. I believe wellness is more than food, that it is access, identity, healing, and hope. This scholarship will help me grow my business, continue my schooling, and achieve my full potential. I am not just reordering the menu, I am helping to reorder the table. And thanks to my brother, I will never forget to leave room for someone else to sit.

They laughed while they cut my hair. I remember the sharp snap of the scissors and the way their laughter echoed in my ears. It wasn’t just a prank, it was meant to humiliate me. My hair was different. I was new, I stood out, and that made me a target. But even in that moment, what hurt more than what they did to me was what they did to my friend. One of the only people who made me feel welcome at school was a classmate in a wheelchair. He was kind, funny, and always tried to lift others up. So when those same girls pushed him out of his chair just for being different, something inside me snapped, not out of anger, but out of responsibility. I couldn’t let that moment pass without doing something. As a Girl Scout, service has always been a part of who I am. So I used the skills I had learned through scouting to make a plan. I organized a fundraiser with my troop to raise money for a new wheelchair. We baked cookies, hosted a school supply drive, and reached out to local businesses for donations. It wasn’t easy, we had to work hard to earn every dollar. But the day we delivered his brand-new chair, with better features than his old one, made every second worth it. The joy on his face reminded me that kindness can be louder than cruelty. But I didn’t forget what happened to me either. After they cut my hair, I went home and cried. For many people, hair might seem like just hair, but for Black women, it’s so much more than that. Our hair is our history, our culture, our expression, and our pride. What they tried to take from me wasn’t just strands, it was a piece of my identity. But I didn’t let them keep it. I got my hair professionally done, not to hide, but to reclaim what they tried to humiliate. I walked back into school with my head held high, showing them that I would never be broken by their ignorance. I am different because I choose to lead with empathy. I don’t just talk about being myself, I live it. I embrace the parts of me that stand out, from my coils and curls to my skin and spirit, and use them to make a difference in the lives of others. Whether I am volunteering through Girl Scouts, mentoring younger students, or standing up for someone who cannot defend themselves, I make sure my actions reflect my values. You never know who is watching. Maybe it is another student who feels alone. Maybe it is someone who saw me walk into school, confident in my Blackness and beauty, and realized they could do the same. My uniqueness, my voice, my courage, and my heart for service, has the power to inspire people I may never even meet. That is what being unapologetically yourself looks like. It means showing up boldly and using your experiences, even the painful ones, to uplift others. I am proud to be a first-generation African American college student, a Girl Scout, and a servant leader. And I will continue to use my story to create change, one act of kindness, one voice of support, and one silent observer at a time.

He died with pain he never spoke aloud, and that silence changed everything for me. My brother was the strongest person I knew, but even strength can have breaking points. Losing him to an internal battle no one fully understood shattered my world. It forced me to confront a reality that many communities, especially Black and Latino families like mine, often avoid: that mental health is not just real, it is urgent. At first, I was angry. Angry at the silence. Angry at the world for not making space for him to feel safe, seen, and supported. But in time, that anger turned into purpose. I began to see how many people walk through life masking pain, and how dangerous it is when we teach ourselves to be quiet instead of honest. Mental health became personal, not just because I experienced loss, but because I refused to let that loss go unnoticed. I started speaking up more, listening harder, and opening my heart to conversations that once felt too heavy. I realized that real strength does not come from pretending you’re okay, it comes from being brave enough to say you are not. That shift has completely changed the way I move through the world. In my relationships, I am more intentional. I do not take “I’m fine” at face value anymore. I check in, even when it feels awkward. I ask questions that matter. And most importantly, I make space for the people I love to be human, messy, complicated, healing humans. It has also impacted my career path. I am currently studying Real Estate at Georgia State University with plans to attend law school. I want to create spaces, both legal and physical, where people feel safe and supported. Housing is about more than walls and a roof, it is about community, security, and dignity. I want to fight for those who have been overlooked, mistreated, or displaced, not just by poverty, but by systems that ignore mental health and emotional well-being. The “I Can and I Will” Scholarship speaks to everything I have built from my pain. I can create change because I carry the lessons my brother left behind, and I will build a future where no one has to suffer in silence the way he did. His story did not end with his last breath, it continues through mine. And every time I speak about mental health, every time I advocate for justice, and every time I choose compassion over silence, I am keeping him alive. I can, and I will.

I stood frozen in the gym, humiliated after being cut from the varsity volleyball team, so hurt that I threw the ball without thinking, and that one impulsive moment ended up changing my life. The ball hit one of the assistant coaches. I expected to get yelled at or punished. Instead, she walked up to me, calm and unfazed, and said, “You’ve got an arm. Ever thought about playing softball?” I didn’t know it at the time, but that moment would open the door to one of the most important experiences of my life. As a Hispanic Afro-Latina girl, I had always stayed away from baseball and softball. I didn’t want to fall into a stereotype, especially since I barely spoke English then. People already teased me for my long arms, calling me “Long Arm Liz.” I didn’t want to give them another reason to single me out. But that coach saw something different. She invited me to the field, handed me a glove, and taught me how to play from scratch. For the first time, I felt like someone believed in me not in spite of who I was, but because of it. I started on the junior varsity team, where I worked hard to learn the game. Eventually, I earned my spot on varsity as a third baseman. I wasn’t the strongest batter, but when it came to defense, I was locked in. My throws were sharp, powerful, and on point. The same long arms I once hid became my biggest asset. Softball taught me that the things I used to be insecure about could be my strengths if I was willing to own them. Beyond the field, that coach taught me discipline, patience, and confidence. She helped me see that rejection wasn’t the end, it was just redirection. The lessons I learned in softball stuck with me: how to be a good teammate, how to handle pressure, how to lead without speaking the loudest. It gave me structure, identity, and a sense of purpose I didn’t know I was missing. Now, as a student at Georgia State University majoring in Real Estate, I carry those same values with me. I plan to attend law school in 2028 and become a real estate attorney focused on helping families—especially in underserved communities, understand their rights and gain access to stable housing. Just like that coach saw something in me when I felt invisible, I want to be someone who sees potential in people when they’re struggling to see it in themselves. Softball changed more than my athletic skills, it changed how I viewed myself. It helped me grow into someone who doesn’t run from challenges but leans into them with grit and resilience. It reminded me that mentorship, perseverance, and community can shape a person’s future in ways they never imagined. That one moment in the gym, when I thought my world had fallen apart, actually led me to something better: a field, a team, a mentor, and a life lesson that will guide me forever.

The day my brother took his life, the world didn’t pause—but mine did. He was just a young Black man carrying a weight far heavier than anyone ever saw. Raised by a mother battling addiction, he grew up surrounded by instability, silence, and pain that stretched across generations. His suffering was quiet, his strength misunderstood, and his death a heartbreak I will carry with me forever. My brother died by suicide after silently battling emotional pain and pressure that stemmed largely from growing up in a home affected by his mother’s drug addiction. He carried the burden of instability, trauma, and lack of support, and although he tried to hold it all together, the pain eventually overtook him. Losing him showed me how untreated trauma, especially within the Black community, can destroy lives from the inside out. His death changed everything for me. It opened my eyes to the generational impact of addiction and the ways that silence, stigma, and lack of access to support systems often force people, especially African American women and children, to suffer in isolation. In Black households, substance abuse and domestic violence are too often hidden or dismissed. And for Black women, who are expected to always be strong, that expectation can become a cage. I’ve seen women stay in unsafe homes because they didn’t know their legal rights, didn’t have financial freedom, or simply didn’t have anywhere else to go. That’s why I’m pursuing a degree in Real Estate at Georgia State University, with plans to attend law school in 2028. I want to use my education to help African American women and families not only survive, but rebuild and thrive. My goal is to become a real estate attorney who provides education, legal support, and property access to women escaping abuse, addiction, and unsafe living situations. I believe that safe, stable housing is the foundation for healing. I also believe that no one should be denied that stability because of where they come from or what they’ve endured. Through my own research and experiences, I’ve come to understand the connection between housing, legal protection, and long-term recovery. One day, I hope to create a nonprofit program that offers trauma-informed housing support, legal literacy workshops, and a safe space for African American women to learn their rights and regain their independence. I want to build partnerships between attorneys, counselors, social workers, and real estate professionals to create a coordinated network of support. If we can combine care with education, we can break the cycle. My brother’s story could have ended differently if the right resources and systems had been in place. I live every day knowing that what happened to him should not happen to anyone else. His memory drives me to be better, do more, and show up for the people who are too often overlooked. I want to be the kind of advocate who listens, who shows up, and who helps women and families build something lasting out of their pain. My higher education is more than just a degree, it is the start of a mission. I will use it to improve how we coordinate care, how we educate our communities, and how we protect African American women from being failed by the systems meant to serve them. I will use it to build a future that my brother didn’t get to see, but one I know he would be proud of.

When I joined the Disney College Program, I expected to be part of something that celebrated diversity, inclusion, and magic for everyone. But on Juneteenth, a day meant to honor the freedom and resilience of Black Americans, I was met with a gesture that felt anything but thoughtful. Disney handed out watermelon in the parks as a way of “celebrating.” To many of us, this was not only tone-deaf, but offensive, reinforcing a painful stereotype on a day that should have represented empowerment. Still, what made that day most unforgettable wasn’t just the corporate oversight. That morning, my younger brother took his own life. The heartbreak was immediate and all-consuming. I was devastated, confused, and emotionally overwhelmed. But even in the midst of my grief, I had a choice to make. I had already started planning something bigger, because I wanted Juneteenth to be more than a footnote. I wanted it to be a celebration of culture, resilience, and pride. So I followed through. I organized the first Juneteenth celebration at Flamingo Crossings Village East that genuinely included and honored the Black community, something that had never been done in the Disney College Program before. With no official support or budget, I pulled the event together from scratch. I coordinated food, activities, decorations, and even negotiated to have music allowed until 10 PM, because I knew joy was just as important as remembrance. I wasn’t trying to host a party, I was creating a safe space where Black cast members could feel seen, valued, and uplifted. And despite everything I was going through, the event was beautiful. People from different roles and backgrounds came together in the name of unity. Cast members showed up with plates of food, games, posters, bracelets, and flags. What started as my personal mission became a shared movement. Everyone pitched in, not because they had to, but because they felt the purpose behind it. My motive, to create a real and respectful celebration, sparked something greater than I could have imagined. That night, I realized what community truly means. It’s not just who you work with or live near, it’s who shows up when it matters. It’s the people who hold space for each other’s joy and pain at the same time. That day reminded me that connection doesn’t require perfection, it requires presence. And presence is what built that unforgettable evening of culture, healing, and unity. That experience forever changed how I view community, connection, and hope. Even while grieving the loss of my brother, I found strength in showing up for others. It reminded me that resilience isn’t about ignoring pain, it’s about using that pain to fuel something bigger than yourself. And it reminded me that I don’t need permission to create change. I just need purpose my and the willingness to act on it. Being part of this community showed me that even when institutions fall short, people can still rise. It gave me hope that the future isn’t defined by what we’re handed, but by what we choose to build. I now carry that same spirit into my goals: to become a lawyer who advocates for women’s rights and a real estate developer who creates safe, healing spaces for survivors of abuse. I want to use my voice, my degrees, and my lived experience to continue uplifting others the way I did that day, through compassion and action. That Juneteenth, I lost my brother. But I also found my strength. I didn’t just contribute to a community, I built one. And that gave me a vision of the future.

Why would I want to be defended by someone who looks like the person who took everything from me? Why should I trust someone who reminds me of my abuser?” These aren’t just emotional questions they’re real experiences faced by countless survivors of abuse, including myself. As someone who has lived through the trauma of an abusive relationship, I know how isolating it feels to be unprotected, unseen, and unspoken for. That’s why I’m pursuing a law degree: to stand in the gap for the women who have been silenced, ignored, or failed by a justice system not designed to protect them. My goal is to become an attorney who advocates relentlessly for women’s rights, especially for women who look like me. As an Afro-Latina woman, I want to be the representation that so many of us never see in courtrooms or legal offices. Today, women are watching their rights slowly be stripped away rights to their bodies, their safety, their choices. And while women are asked to fight harder and accept less, we must ask: how many rights have men lost in the process? The answer is none. That reality drives my mission to help build a world where women aren’t just surviving, but leading, building, and thriving. My undergraduate studies in real estate aren’t separate from this mission; they are a key part of it. I plan to use my real estate knowledge to create safe, affordable, and accessible spaces for women who are rebuilding their lives. I want to build transitional housing for survivors escaping domestic violence so they never have to return to the homes that broke them. I want to partner with local organizations to sell and renovate properties that can become women’s resource centers, legal aid offices, and mental health clinics. I even hope to invest in community based developments that provide both housing and opportunity, giving women not just shelter but a chance to start over with dignity. I also aim to help expand and support more women-focused institutions like Planned Parenthood, women’s defense training centers, and youth development programs for girls. We need more spaces where women feel protected, empowered, and capable of taking control of their lives physically, emotionally, and financially. To me, law and real estate aren’t just career paths. They are tools for impact. I want to use my degrees to break cycles, build systems, and change lives. I don’t just want to fight for justice. I want to build it. Because I know what it feels like to be voiceless. And now, with every step I take in my education, I’m reclaiming my voice and preparing to amplify the voices of others who have been forced into silence.I won’t just be a lawyer. I won’t just be a real estate developer. I will be a builder of sanctuaries, a protector of women, and a living, breathing example that your past doesn’t determine your future, your purpose does.

I’m pursuing a career in sales and marketing because I’ve always had the spirit of an entrepreneur. From a young age, I learned how to turn imagination into impact. In middle school, I created a class project on the war in Mesopotamia. It wasn’t the cleanest presentation, my lines were crooked, my coloring was rushed, but I believed in the story I was telling. I didn’t just present a board; I brought it to life. I spoke with passion to every parent and teacher who passed by, and despite the project’s imperfections, I won the “Best 7th Grade Project” award. That was the first time I realized I had a natural gift: I could sell an idea with nothing but belief, creativity, and charisma. That spark never left me. In high school, I started my first business: baking. Between classes, homework, and the challenges of the COVID-19 pandemic, I taught myself recipes, tested batches, and packaged goods with care. I made my first $500 in 9th grade, not with professional equipment, but with patience, hustle, and heart. By 11th grade, I was carrying over $400 worth of baked goods in my backpack each day, committed to building something real. My turning point came when I was offered a table at a local business event. I sold out over 100 cakes, cookies, and more. My business, which started as a hobby, became a respected name in my school community. I was even nominated for the “Female Future Entrepreneur” award. I’ll never forget the day I walked into the bank with stacks of ones and five dollar bills, over $2,000 earned from my own hands. That moment was bigger than the money. It was proof that I could take an idea, nurture it with dedication and strategy, and turn it into something impactful. My charm, resilience, and creative thinking had value. Now, as an Afro-Latina woman and an upcoming sophomore in college, I’m more driven than ever to channel that energy into a career in sales and marketing—especially within the real estate industry. I’m currently participating in the Disney College Program, one of the few Afro-Latinas in the program. It’s been an incredible opportunity to build real-world experience and show up proudly in spaces where people who look like me are often underrepresented. My long-term goal is to become a real estate attorney and build my own firm and business, combining my love for law, business, and community empowerment. I believe marketing and sales are not just about profit; they’re about people, stories, and impact. I want to create campaigns and strategies that connect deeply and authentically, especially for communities that are often overlooked. This journey hasn’t always been neat or perfect; just like that 7th grade project—but it’s always been driven by heart. From selling cupcakes in the hallways to selling a vision for my future, I’ve stayed rooted in faith, ambition, and the belief that my voice matters. I know I have what it takes to not just thrive in this field, but to help others rise with me. That little girl with the crooked lines didn’t just want a ribbon—she wanted to be seen. And today, I carry her same determination, creativity, and unshakable passion into everything I do.