To me, selflessness isn’t loud. It isn’t about recognition or praise. It’s quiet. It’s showing up when no one asks you to, staying when it would be easier to leave, and choosing compassion even when no one is watching. It’s rooted in the belief that our deepest purpose in this life is to love people in their darkest moments—and to do so not for applause, but because it’s right. I grew up with dyslexia, ADHD, and a speech impediment. Words that came easily to others felt like mountains to me. I was the child who struggled to read aloud, who felt the heat rise to her face when called on in class, who learned to feel small before she ever felt strong. From a young age, I understood what it felt like to be different—to feel like I didn’t belong to the world as it was presented to me. But over time, those same differences shaped my greatest strength: empathy. I saw myself in the kids who were overlooked, the ones who felt like they’d never be enough because they didn’t fit inside society’s narrow box. And I made a promise to myself: no one should ever have to feel that way alone. That promise became a way of life. Through my church, I found purpose in service—volunteering with youth, organizing food drives, spending time with the elderly. I wasn’t just checking boxes. I was searching for connection—for moments when someone’s eyes softened because they finally felt seen. I gravitated toward kids who struggled with learning, or sat alone, or acted out from unspoken pain. I listened. I sat beside them. And I told them what I once needed to hear: You are not broken. You are a masterpiece in progress. My faith has been the compass guiding this journey. As a Christian, I believe in radical, relentless love—the kind that doesn’t judge, doesn’t retreat, and doesn’t wait for someone to earn it. I’ve seen how God uses pain as a tool for purpose. And nothing embodies that more than the moment my cousin told me they were thinking about ending their life. In that fragile, terrifying silence, I understood how easily someone can look fine on the outside and be crumbling inside. Since then, I’ve supported suicide prevention efforts, spoken out about mental health, and tried to live every day like it might be someone’s last chance to feel loved. When I tore my ACL, went through surgery, and faced the long road of recovery, I was reminded again of how invisible pain can be. I lost not just movement, but momentum. Yet in that stillness, I gained deeper compassion. I began helping others through their own recovery—those who had surgeries, disabilities, or just silent wounds they didn’t know how to name. I learned that sometimes healing begins not with medicine, but with someone simply being there. I don’t want to be famous. I want to be unforgettable—not for what I achieve, but for how I love. For how I make people feel. I want to be the person who made others feel like they mattered in a world that too often makes them feel small. Michael Rudometkin lived with that kind of heart. He left behind a legacy of compassion, joy, and service. To receive this scholarship would be more than financial help—it would be a torch passed on. A way to continue his legacy through every hand I hold, every person I serve, every soul I lift. I want my life to echo his: full of meaning, full of love, and lived for others.

Being an athlete has always been at the core of who I am. Growing up, sports weren’t just activities—they were my identity, my passion, and the place where I learned what it meant to work hard, face challenges, and push beyond limits. But my journey hasn’t been easy. It’s been marked by moments of doubt, pain, and rediscovery that have shaped me into the person I am today. I come from a background where perseverance and faith are more than just words—they are a way of life. As a second-generation African immigrant, my family’s sacrifices and struggles have always inspired me to dream big and fight harder. They taught me the importance of resilience, humility, and giving back to the community, values that guide me daily. My love for sports gave me purpose and strength. But after tearing my ACL, everything changed. That injury forced me to confront my biggest fears: What if I couldn’t play again? What if I lost the part of myself that was strong, driven, and unbreakable? The months after surgery were some of the hardest I’ve ever faced—filled with physical pain, endless rehab, and moments of deep uncertainty. It wasn’t just my body that was healing; I was rebuilding my spirit. During that time, I leaned on my faith and the support of my family and friends. I reminded myself that setbacks are part of the journey and that true strength comes from how you rise after you fall. God granted me the incredible opportunity to walk on at Penn State, a chance I don’t take lightly. This new chapter is more than just continuing my athletic career—it’s about proving to myself that perseverance pays off, and that I can redefine who I am beyond the game. Alongside sports, I’m deeply passionate about my education and my future. I aspire to pursue biomedical engineering, combining my love for science with a desire to innovate and help underserved communities. I want to use my experiences—the victories and the struggles—to inspire others, especially young athletes and students who face their own battles. This scholarship would be more than just financial support—it would be a lifeline. It would ease the burden of college expenses, allowing me to focus fully on my studies, training, and personal growth without the constant stress of financial uncertainty. More than just financial assistance, this scholarship would be a powerful validation of my journey—a testament that the sweat, sacrifice, and resilience I’ve poured into my dreams truly matter. With this support, I’ll be empowered to break new ground, uplift my community, and build a future where I can create real, lasting change. My story is one of relentless hope, unwavering determination, and profound growth. It’s the story of an athlete who discovered that true identity isn’t measured by trophies or scores, but by the strength of heart—and that the most meaningful victories are born from the toughest struggles.

I first became a fan of Sabrina Carpenter when I saw her as Maya Hart on Girl Meets World. At that time, I didn’t realize how much I needed someone like her—a character who was tough yet tender, witty yet carrying a depth of emotion beneath the surface. Maya’s life wasn’t perfect, but she had grit and the bravery to speak her truth, even when it was difficult. Watching Sabrina breathe life into Maya helped me recognize parts of myself I hadn’t yet found the words for. She made me feel seen in a way I hadn’t, like it was okay to be both strong and vulnerable, to carry pain with humor, and still believe I was worthy of love and understanding. As Sabrina transitioned from Disney into the music, fully owning her voice as both an artist and a young woman, something inside me began to change too. She wasn’t just delivering songs; she was sharing her raw, unfiltered truth. Tracks like Because I Liked a Boy, Nonsense, Please Please Please, and Espresso are bold and deeply real—just like the complexities of life. What draws me most to her music is how she refuses to fit into any mold. She allows herself to be heartbreakingly honest and fiercely funny, sensual and sarcastic, uncertain yet unstoppable. This honesty and complexity gave me permission to stop trying to fit into the neat boxes I thought the world demanded of me. After tearing my ACL, I faced a painful journey through surgery and recovery. Sports had been a core part of my identity, a source of confidence and strength, and losing that felt like losing a part of myself. The injury wasn’t just physical—it shook my sense of purpose and left me feeling adrift. During the hardest moments, when I was consumed by doubt and frustration, I often thought of my cousin, who loved Sabrina’s music. My cousin passed away before she could see how far Sabrina’s career would rise, but her spirit stayed with me through the music we both cherished. In those difficult moments, Sabrina’s songs became a lifeline, a reminder that identity is not something fixed or lost, but something we constantly rediscover and redefine. Her music taught me that healing doesn’t mean erasing pain; it means learning to carry it with hope. I realized I could be broken and still be beautiful. I didn’t need to silence or hide the complicated parts of my story, they are the pieces that give me resilience and power. Sabrina Carpenter gave voice to the girl I was quietly becoming, the parts of myself I struggled to understand or express. Through her, I learned that reinvention is not weakness, but an act of fierce courage. I am not just a fan of Sabrina Carpenter, I am a reflection of her influence. Because of her, I found the courage to raise my voice when I once stayed silent, to feel deeply when I once shut down, and to stand proud in my truth when I once felt small and lost. Sabrina didn’t just entertain me—she helped me uncover who I was meant to be, even when the path was unclear. Her story and music have become a part of my own journey—a source of strength that fuels my determination to rise beyond setbacks, honor the memory of those I’ve lost, and keep moving forward with courage, authenticity, and hope.

As a second-generation African immigrant, my cultural heritage is the bedrock of who I am—shaping my identity, values, and deepest ambitions. My family’s journey to the United States was fueled by an unwavering hope for a better future, especially through education—a chance to open doors that had long been closed. I grew up watching my parents work tirelessly, sacrificing comfort and stability to provide opportunities they never had. Their perseverance instilled in me a deep sense of responsibility—not just to succeed, but to lift others as I climb and to honor the legacy of resilience they passed down to me. One of the most meaningful ways I’ve given back is through my commitment to STEM outreach, focused on making science and technology more accessible to underserved youth. Over the past two years, I’ve volunteered with local programs introducing middle and high school students to coding, robotics, and engineering. I’ve helped develop hands-on lessons that break down complex ideas into fun, approachable activities. Many of these students share backgrounds like mine—facing limited resources and a lack of representation in STEM. Watching their curiosity grow has strengthened my belief that education is more than personal advancement—it’s a tool for community transformation. Outside of STEM, I’ve been actively involved in cultural organizations that celebrate African heritage and support first- and second-generation immigrants. These spaces have deepened my connection to my roots and taught me how essential representation and cultural pride are in academic settings. Embracing my identity has shaped how I approach every challenge—with resilience, creativity, and empathy. Balancing cultural expectations with adapting to a new environment demanded discipline and maturity from an early age. These experiences built my relentless work ethic and taught me how to persevere through adversity. In STEM, where women and people of color remain underrepresented, these qualities have become my greatest assets. I’m not just motivated to succeed—I’m driven to serve as a mentor and role model for other immigrant and minority students who might doubt their place in this field. I want my journey to be living proof that your background is not a setback, but a powerful foundation. Receiving the Dr. Soronnadi Nnaji Legacy Scholarship would be a life-changing investment in my future. Financially, it would ease the burden of tuition and allow me to fully focus on my education, research, and leadership development. More importantly, it would connect me to a legacy grounded in excellence, service, and purpose—values that align closely with my own. This scholarship would give me more than just a path forward—it would give me the platform to give back. With its support, I plan to expand my outreach efforts, building mentorship and STEM exposure programs that empower African-American and immigrant youth who don’t yet see themselves represented in these spaces. I want to lead programs that teach not only technical skills, but also foster belonging, self-belief, and long-term opportunity. My ultimate goal is to become a biomedical engineer—someone who uses science to solve real-world health challenges, especially those impacting underserved communities. But even more than that, I want to be a voice for equity in education and science—working to break down the systemic barriers that hold talented students back. The Dr. Soronnadi Nnaji Legacy Scholarship would not only help me achieve this vision—it would honor the sacrifices of my parents and ancestors by turning their struggle into purpose. By investing in me, this scholarship is investing in every young person I will empower in the future—because I will never stop reaching back to lift others as I rise.

Lacrosse has been more than a sport to me—it’s been a home, a teacher, and a mirror. I started playing because I loved the challenge, but I stayed because I found myself in it. As a midfielder, I was always in the center of everything—offense, defense, fast breaks, recovery. It taught me how to be everywhere at once, how to carry weight, and how to lead without being asked. But what lacrosse couldn’t prepare me for was losing it. When I tore my ACL, everything stopped. The field I had given my heart to was suddenly off-limits. The scholarships I had dreamed about for years vanished. I didn’t just lose a season—I lost a part of myself. I remember sitting in my room after surgery, staring at my brace, wondering if anyone would ever see me the same way again. Would I still be an athlete? A leader? Was I still strong, even when I couldn’t stand? Recovery became the hardest battle I’ve ever faced—not just physically, but emotionally. I had to relearn how to walk, how to believe in myself again, and how to push forward when no one else could do it for me. At the same time, I was still in school, still chasing grades, still trying to be “normal” when everything inside me felt like it was falling apart. But I didn’t quit. I balanced my classes while going to physical therapy. I trained on my own when no one was watching. I kept showing up. Slowly, I realized that strength wasn’t about sprinting down the field—it was about standing back up when life knocks you flat. And I did. As a female athlete, especially in a male-dominated world, I’ve had to fight harder for recognition. But through my injury and comeback, I’ve learned that my value doesn’t come from being compared to anyone else. It comes from my resilience, my discipline, and my heart. I know what it feels like to lose everything you’ve worked for—and I know what it takes to build it back brick by brick. Now, I carry that strength with me into everything I do—on the field, in the classroom, and in the world. I'm preparing to transfer to Penn State, not just as a student, but as someone who’s ready to rise even higher. I want to inspire other young women—especially athletes like me—to believe that their pain doesn’t disqualify them. It refines them. I am not who I was before my injury. I am stronger, wiser, and more determined. And while the world may still be built for someone else, I’m no longer asking for space in it. I’m taking it.

Most people think doing what’s expected is enough. But I’ve learned that greatness doesn’t come from checking boxes, it comes from rising above them, especially when life tries to keep you down. When I tore my ACL playing lacrosse, I lost more than just a season—I lost what I thought was my identity. I could’ve stopped at physical therapy, followed the recovery plan, and waited to be cleared. That would’ve been expected. But I chose something different. I showed up to practices I couldn’t play in, cheered for teammates who had the spot I used to fill, and studied the game like a coach, not just a player. I didn't want to come back the same, I wanted to come back better. Stronger. Wiser. A more complete athlete and person. Lacrosse taught me discipline, but that injury taught me character. It taught me that doing more means showing up with heart when no one’s clapping for you. And that lesson follows me everywhere. When I babysit, I don’t just make sure the kids are safe—I make sure they feel loved. I clean up toys I didn’t take out, leave handwritten notes for the parents, and make every moment matter. Because excellence doesn’t live in the big gestures, it hides in the small, consistent choices to care more than you’re asked to. At church, I’m not just a face in the crowd. I serve in the kids’ ministry, clean up quietly after events, and try to be someone who lives out what they believe, even when it’s inconvenient. Even when no one sees. Faith, to me, means giving more than you take, loving when it’s hard, and stepping up when it’s not your job. “Do what is expected, then do more” isn’t just a phrase or quote to me it’s a compass, a lifestyle. It’s how I turn setbacks into comebacks. It’s how I lead when I’m not in the spotlight. It’s how I love people deeply, even in everyday moments. And it’s why I know I’ll carry this mindset far beyond a scholarship, into the way I live, learn, and lead for the rest of my life. This scholarship wouldn’t just support my education, it would fuel my mission to keep doing more than what’s asked of me. It would recognize not just what I’ve done, but who I’m becoming. I’m not defined by expectations, I’m defined by how far I choose to go beyond them.