My name is Elsie, and I am an undergraduate psychology student with a deep fascination for the intersection of science and the human experience. Though psychology often gets pushed to the margins of STEM, I see it as one of its most vital frontiers. It’s an interdisciplinary space where neuroscience, data analysis, biology, and behavioral science come together to decode the enigma of the mind. But my interest in STEM didn’t come from textbooks or labs. It was born out of survival. Growing up, I wasn’t surrounded by scientists or encouraged to pursue intellectual curiosity. I was surrounded by chaos. I’ve lived through instability, verbal abuse, and a persistent sense that I needed to shrink myself to survive. I’ve battled with hormonal imbalances due to PCOS, stress-induced health issues, and a household that treated sensitivity and ambition like liabilities. For a long time, I thought I was just “broken.” But then science gave me language… neurochemistry, endocrine function, trauma response, cognitive restructuring. Suddenly, I wasn’t just struggling; I was experiencing the measurable, researchable effects of biology and psychology interacting in real time. That understanding was revolutionary. The more I studied, the more I realized: I wanted to be part of the solution. I didn’t want to be a passive subject in someone else’s research; I wanted to be the researcher. I want to understand why women like me are so often misdiagnosed or dismissed, especially when we present with complex, overlapping symptoms. I wanted to study how systemic trauma affects cognition, how insulin resistance impacts emotional regulation, and how marginalized women’s pain has been pathologized or ignored. My body, and the world’s reaction to it, made me a scientist. My interest in STEM solidified when I began diving into data science and statistics in my college coursework. Suddenly, I saw psychology as more than theory; it was a science capable of driving policy, revolutionizing healthcare, and empowering generations of people to understand themselves. I want to become a voice in the field that challenges outdated methods and brings real healing, not just through therapy, but through evidence-based, socially aware research. As a woman navigating chronic illness, I know the power of representation. I’ve sat in exam rooms where I had to fight to be believed. I’ve heard my peers say they didn’t think STEM was “for people like us.” And yet, here I am, determined to push the field forward. Not just to succeed, but to open doors wider behind me. I want to pursue a PhD and eventually teach, mentor, and lead in ways that reimagine what science can look like when the people asking the questions are as diverse as the people being studied. Science is not sterile. It’s intimate. It’s revolutionary. And it is deeply personal to me. This scholarship would help me continue my education with less financial burden, allowing me to focus on research and community impact. It would be a step toward not only changing my own life but also contributing to the kind of STEM landscape where stories like mine are not the exception but the foundation of something better.

When I first saw Wicked, I didn’t just watch a musical but I fully saw myself. Elphaba wasn’t simply a misunderstood green-skinned girl from Oz, but every part of me that had ever been labeled “too much,” “too weird,” or “too difficult.” And when she belted Defying Gravity, it wasn’t just a song, but a declaration. A moment that said even if you don’t understand me, I will not shrink to fit the space you've offered me. Growing up in a tumultuous home, I often felt like I’ve been fighting against a current of waters that I didn’t consensually step in. I’ve spent years learning how to stand tall in the face of chaos, to hold onto my voice when the world around me tries to silence it. Elphaba’s refusal to conform and dim her light for the sake of being “normal” resonated with my own journey toward self-acceptance. Her story helped me realize that being different doesn’t make me wrong. It makes me powerful and unique. But it’s not just Elphaba who inspires me. Glinda, in all her bubbly complexity, represents the journey of unlearning. Of shedding layers of performative perfection to discover who you really are underneath. Watching her character evolve reminded me that growth isn’t always loud or dramatic but can be gentle, hesitant, even sparkly. Wicked taught me that relationships can be messy, beautiful, and transformative. That love doesn’t always look how we expect it to, and sometimes, the most powerful connections are the ones that challenge us to grow and become more ourselves. “For Good” is more than a duet to me; it’s an anthem for the people who have helped me rise out of the rubble of my own life, and a vow I make to those I care about. Because I knew you, I have been changed for good. In a world where people are constantly being told who to be, Wicked dares to ask, “what if the world is wrong about you?” That question has echoed through my own path, especially as a young woman with invisible illnesses, big dreams, and a relentless desire to make something meaningful out of pain. The musical’s themes of courage, transformation, and truth-telling have empowered me to fight for the future I believe in, no matter how “unusual” or “unrealistic” it may look to others. Now, with Wicked on our horizon, it feels like the world is being reintroduced to the magic that saved me. Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo, two women who have also faced scrutiny and still stood tall, are the perfect embodiment of what the story means to me: beauty, strength, defiance, and hope. I love Wicked because it gave me the permission I didn’t know I needed to be different, to be brave, and to be unapologetically me. And for that, I will always be a fan.

My name is Elsie, and I come from a household where mental illness has never been acknowledged with kindness, only chaos. I’ve grown up trapped in the fallout of undiagnosed, untreated, and misunderstood suffering. My story isn’t just about living with my own mental health challenges. It’s about surviving the storm of other people’s unchecked pain and refusing to let it define my future. I’ve struggled primarily with depression, anxiety, and PTSD for as long as I can remember. As a teenager, I was hospitalized at a behavioral medicine center, placed on medication that numbed more than it healed, and sent home to the same volatile environment that caused my breakdown in the first place. My house was, and still is, a place of screaming, instability, and emotional cruelty. I love my parents, but love doesn’t erase the harm. My father is angry, aging, and deeply unwell, and my mother, though she tries, is emotionally unavailable, reactive, and unable to express herself in a healthy way. They were never given the tools to process their own mental pain, and now that pain spills out onto everyone around them. The mental illness in my family may not always come with a cut and dry diagnosis, but it shows itself in sharp words, broken trust, erratic behaviors, and the inability to say "sorry." My father will scream for hours, urinate on the floor, fabricate stories to the police, and insist he’s the victim when his rage spirals. My mother isolates, avoids accountability, and struggles to communicate in a healthy or safe way. Neither of them has ever sought help, and neither of them believes they need it. As their child, I’ve had to become my own therapist, parent, and protector, all before I was old enough to drive. For a long time, I internalized that pain. I believed I was the problem… lazy, emotional, dramatic. My high school GPA suffered. I struggled to leave the house or get out of bed. I’ve worked HARD and nonstop since I’ve been capable, going to school, and raising myself emotionally, all while dreaming of a better life I wasn’t sure I’d survive long enough to see. Mental illness stole my adolescence, and nearly stole my life. But it didn’t win. I’m now in college studying psychology and philosophy, determined to build a career around healing. Not just for myself, but for others who have been failed by their families, their environments, and the systems meant to protect them. My dream is to earn a PhD, open a holistic mental health practice for women and teen girls, and create a space where people are listened to, not labeled. I want to offer the kind of healing that neither I nor my parents were ever given. Mental illness has impacted every corner of my life, academically, emotionally, socially, etc. However, it has also given me empathy, resilience, and purpose. It taught me that pain can be powerful if you give it direction. It taught me to listen deeply and speak honestly. And it taught me that we heal in community and speaking up, not in silence. This scholarship would mean more than financial relief. It would be a recognition that I’ve turned my suffering into service. That I am more than a diagnosis, more than a product of my environment, and more than what I’ve endured. It would allow me to continue my education and carry the legacy of people like Elizabeth Schalk forward, in not just remembering the struggle, but choosing to build something better in its honor.

My mental health doesn’t breathe in the background while I'm in school. It's a full-time companion, a weight I carry into every class, conversation, and assignment. As a woman raised in an emotionally abusive household, in a city where survival matters more than success, mental illness is my origin story. I live with chronic anxiety, depression, and PTSD, stemming from years of instability, trauma, and caretaking responsibilities. When I began college, I quickly realized I couldn't outwork or outrun my mental health. I had to consciously prioritize it, or risk losing myself entirely. My mental health has been my greatest barrier yet, strangely, my greatest teacher. On hard days, it’s not about struggling to study, it’s struggling to get out of bed. It’s rereading the same sentence five times before I can semi-retain it. It’s crying silently in the student union bathroom because I’m overwhelmed but don't want to give up. When I’m somewhere that I feel unsafe, whether it’s my toxic home or a high-stress job, my brain shuts down. Focus is impossible. I’ve watched my grades suffer, not due to a lack of intellect, but because I couldn't breathe. Everything changed when I finally tasted a safe space. When I had a room of my own at Menlo College, I began to heal. The silence, the privacy, the feeling of safety for once, these basic luxuries gave me my mind back. I wasn’t fighting to survive anymore; I was finally allowed to learn. That’s when I realized that protecting my peace in fact wasn’t a luxury. It was the foundation for everything I wanted to achieve. And from that moment forward, I’ve really vowed to make my mental health my top priority. Since then, I’ve begun to advocate fiercely for my well-being. I’ve tried working with my school to request housing accommodations that allow me to regulate my stress and physical health demands in order to maintain a sense of prosperity. I’ve created a flexible academic routine with efforts of honoring my energy levels rather than punishing them. I lean into holistic practices like journaling, meditation, reading, nutrition, and spiritual connection to give my nervous system the support it never had growing up. I’ve cut out toxic relationships, even when that meant creating distance from my own family. And most importantly, I stay anchored to my “why”: I am not just earning a degree. I'm rebuilding a future for myself, and for the people I want to help. I’m studying psychology and philosophy because I want to transform the field of mental health from the inside out. I want to create healing spaces, especially for women and teen girls like me; people who were failed by the very systems pretending to protect them. I want to build a practice that treats people as whole humans, not just diagnoses. And I want to remind every girl who feels broken or buried by the world that she is still worth showing up for. Being a woman in college means facing a thousand invisible pressures. We must be pretty, perfect, quiet, successful… all while being underpaid, underestimated, and often unsupported. But I’ve learned that the most radical thing I can do is care for my mind like it’s sacred. Because it is. Mental health is not a luxury. It is not a trend. It is a birthright foundation for success, growth, and serotonin. If we want more women to thrive in this world, we need to honor that truth. I am committed to leading that change, via one honest conversation, one healed life, one brave day at a time.

Mental illness is something I didn’t just study, but am actively surviving. By the time I entered high school, I had already spent time in a psychiatric facility. I was a teenager trapped in a system that rushed to medicate me before knowing what I actually needed. I was depressed, traumatized, and suicidal, and the world responded by immediately pumping me with pills, silence, and shame. I know firsthand how mental illness can grow in the dark when no one truly listens. I also know how deeply this system fails people like Brian, and like me. I am pursuing a degree in psychology and philosophy because I want to help build the system that didn’t exist for us. I want to be a therapist, educator, and reformer. Someone who doesn't just treat symptoms, but helps people heal as whole human beings. Growing up in an abusive, low-income home with chronically sick family members, mental health was never something we “talked about.” It was just pain that lived in the walls. I’ve watched addiction destroy lives around me, and I’ve come close to disappearing into the same patterns. I know how thin the line is between survival and collapse. That’s why I’m so passionate about becoming the kind of mental health professional who helps others reclaim their story before they lose it. My dream is to earn my PhD and open a holistic practice, one that integrates mind, body, and soul healing. I want it to feel like a sanctuary: a space especially for women and teen girls struggling with chronic illness, PCOS, trauma, and the deep internalized shame that often comes with being dismissed or misunderstood by the medical system. I’ve seen how often psychiatric medication is handed out as a band-aid on a bullet wound, without real support or conversation. While I believe it has its place in cases like schizophrenia or other more rigid clinical disorders, I also believe we’re over-prescribing in ways that disconnect people from their bodies, their emotions, and their own healing. I want to be a light in the lives of those who feel lost. I want to teach clients how to reconnect with themselves genuinely, to advocate for their needs, and to rewrite the narratives they’ve been handed. I want to educate the next generation of therapists, especially those from underserved backgrounds, to treat people like people, not just patients. Brian’s story breaks my heart because I understand how easy it is to slip through the cracks. I know how exhausting it is to ask for help in a system that makes it so hard to receive. But I also know the power of one person. That one professor, one mentor, one friend, who truly sees you. I want to be that person for as many people as I possibly can. I don’t come from money or comfort, but I come with heart and grit. With vision. With urgency. And I believe I was put on this earth to make the mental health field more compassionate, inclusive, and human. This scholarship would not just fund my education, but help me carry forward a legacy of healing in Brian’s name. And I promise, I won’t stop until I do.