From the moment I belted out “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” like it was a rock anthem, I knew that performance wasn’t just something I loved—it was how I communicated with the world. Over the years, performance became the way I processed joy, grief, identity, and memory. That’s why I chose to major in Performing Arts: because it allows me to explore the world through storytelling, to honor my roots, and to amplify the voices that too often go unheard. My deepest motivation for pursuing this path came from my uncle, Tio Alex—a music-loving, free-spirited soul who helped me see performance as a calling rather than a hobby. Thirteen years older than me, he introduced me to the music that would shape my worldview: blues, heavy metal, classic rock. He gifted me my first guitar—a sparkly purple Hannah Montana electric—and taught me to play it with gusto. One of our final moments together was him cheering me on as I finally mastered the F major barre chord in his favorite praise song. “You got this, Monkey,” he said, just weeks before he passed away from cardiac arrest. Losing him shattered me. For a while, I couldn’t touch a guitar without crying. But eventually, I picked it up again—not just for me, but for him. Music became a way to grieve, heal, and remember. As I grow into this field, I see the potential of performance as a bridge between cultures, generations, and identities. Being Afro-Caribbean, I’ve rarely seen stories that reflect my background on mainstream stages or screens. I want to be the kind of artist I needed growing up—someone who centers underrepresented voices and inspires others to see beauty in their complexity. That’s why I believe so deeply in performance as a tool for social change. But as the industry evolves, so do its tools—and artificial intelligence is one of the most disruptive. In the performing arts, AI is already reshaping how we create, distribute, and even experience stories. Tools like AI-generated scripts, voice synthesis, and motion-capture avatars are revolutionizing the process. On one hand, these tools offer accessibility, efficiency, and new forms of expression—especially for disabled performers or artists with limited resources. AI can assist in composing music, generating lighting designs, or even simulating historical settings for immersive storytelling. However, the cons are just as significant. AI lacks the emotional depth, cultural nuance, and lived experience that human performers bring to their craft. There’s also the concern of job displacement, intellectual property theft, and the erasure of marginalized voices if AI systems are trained on biased data. For communities like mine—whose stories have already been sidelined—there’s a real risk that AI could further homogenize what is seen as “marketable” or “universal.” Still, I don’t believe the answer is to reject AI entirely. Instead, I see it as a tool that, when used ethically and responsibly, can expand our storytelling possibilities without replacing the soul of the artist. My goal is to stay grounded in human experience while remaining open to how technology can enhance—not erase—what makes performance powerful. Ultimately, I chose this major because performance is how I keep the people I love alive, how I understand my place in the world, and how I hope to shape a more just and expressive future. Whether I’m on stage or holding a guitar, I carry with me the rhythm of my heritage, the voice of my uncle, and the belief that storytelling—when done with heart and intention—can change lives. AI may be a part of that future, but the soul of performance will always be human.

From the first moment I belted “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” like it was a rock ballad on my makeshift living room stage, I knew that performance wasn’t just something I loved—it was how I processed the world. Art has always been my first language, the way I express joy, grief, identity, and love. Whether I’m on a church altar, school stage, or in my bedroom with a guitar, I feel most myself when I’m performing. But over time, I realized that my journey as an artist couldn’t stop at self-expression. If I want to make a lasting impact, I need to help create space for others to do the same. That’s why one of my greatest ambitions is to start my own production company—a space committed to amplifying the voices of underrepresented communities and telling stories that shift culture, inspire empathy, and spark change. Growing up, I adored Disney Channel musicals like High School Musical, Camp Rock, and The Cheetah Girls. I transformed my living room into a stage, pouring my heart into every lyric as if I were Vanessa Hudgens. But as much joy as those performances gave me, I noticed something painful: no one on screen looked like me. As a Dominican girl, I loved these stories but never felt fully seen in them. That absence stayed with me, and today, it fuels my mission. I want to create a production company where inclusion isn’t an afterthought—it’s the foundation. A space that nurtures Black, Latino, LGBTQIA+, and other marginalized artists both onstage and behind the scenes. I envision producing theatre, film, and digital content that centers underrepresented voices and honors our full, complex humanity. I want my company to be a launching pad for the kind of stories that young people can see themselves in—so they never have to wonder, as I once did, whether they belong. This vision is deeply rooted in my personal journey. One of my most meaningful roles was playing a teenager caught between the expectations of her immigrant family and her own dreams—a story that mirrored my own experience and reminded me of performance’s power to create empathy and healing. But no artistic influence shaped me more than my late uncle, Tio Alex. He introduced me to music, taught me to play guitar, and gave me my first instrument: a purple, Hannah Montana-themed electric six-string. When he passed away suddenly, music became a painful reminder of his absence. But over time, I returned to it as a form of healing. I began writing songs that helped me grieve, and in doing so, I discovered something deeper: that art, when shared, becomes a way to carry love forward. That’s what I want my production company to do—carry love forward. I want to build a creative home where young artists can find their voices, tell their stories, and know their truth matters. Where projects challenge norms, celebrate difference, and show the world what it looks like when art is used not just for entertainment, but for transformation. Representation is powerful. Creating it is revolutionary. I’m committed to using my platform not only to perform, but to uplift others—so that future generations don’t just see someone like them on stage, but someone like them leading the way.

From the first moment I belted “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” like it was a rock ballad on my makeshift living room stage, I knew that performance wasn’t just something I loved—it was how I processed the world. Art has always been my first language, the way I express joy, grief, identity, and love. Whether I’m on a church altar, school stage, or in my bedroom with a guitar, I feel most myself when I’m performing. But over time, I realized that my journey as an artist couldn’t stop at self-expression. If I want to make a lasting impact, I need to help create space for others to do the same. That’s why one of my greatest ambitions is to start my own production company—a space committed to amplifying the voices of underrepresented communities and telling stories that shift culture, inspire empathy, and spark change. Growing up, I adored Disney Channel musicals like High School Musical, Camp Rock, and The Cheetah Girls. I transformed my living room into a stage, pouring my heart into every lyric as if I were Vanessa Hudgens. But as much joy as those performances gave me, I noticed something painful: no one on screen looked like me. As a Dominican girl, I loved these stories but never felt fully seen in them. That absence stayed with me, and today, it fuels my mission. I want to create a production company where inclusion isn’t an afterthought—it’s the foundation. A space that nurtures Black, Latino, LGBTQIA+, and other marginalized artists both onstage and behind the scenes. I envision producing theatre, film, and digital content that centers underrepresented voices and honors our full, complex humanity. I want my company to be a launching pad for the kind of stories that young people can see themselves in—so they never have to wonder, as I once did, whether they belong. This vision is deeply rooted in my personal journey. One of my most meaningful roles was playing a teenager caught between the expectations of her immigrant family and her own dreams—a story that mirrored my own experience and reminded me of performance’s power to create empathy and healing. But no artistic influence shaped me more than my late uncle, Tio Alex. He introduced me to music, taught me to play guitar, and gave me my first instrument: a purple, Hannah Montana-themed electric six-string. When he passed away suddenly, music became a painful reminder of his absence. But over time, I returned to it as a form of healing. I began writing songs that helped me grieve, and in doing so, I discovered something deeper: that art, when shared, becomes a way to carry love forward. That’s what I want my production company to do—carry love forward. I want to build a creative home where young artists can find their voices, tell their stories, and know their truth matters. Where projects challenge norms, celebrate difference, and show the world what it looks like when art is used not just for entertainment, but for transformation. Representation is powerful. Creating it is revolutionary. I’m committed to using my platform not only to perform, but to uplift others—so that future generations don’t just see someone like them on stage, but someone like them leading the way.

From the first moment I belted “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” like it was a rock ballad on my makeshift living room stage, I knew that performance wasn’t just something I loved—it was how I processed the world. Art has always been my first language, the way I express joy, grief, identity, and love. Whether I’m on a church altar, school stage, or in my bedroom with a guitar, I feel most myself when I’m performing. But over time, I realized that my journey as an artist couldn’t stop at self-expression. If I want to make a lasting impact, I need to help create space for others to do the same. That’s why one of my greatest ambitions is to start my own production company—a space committed to amplifying the voices of underrepresented communities and telling stories that shift culture, inspire empathy, and spark change. Growing up, I adored Disney Channel musicals like High School Musical, Camp Rock, and The Cheetah Girls. I transformed my living room into a stage, pouring my heart into every lyric as if I were Vanessa Hudgens. But as much joy as those performances gave me, I noticed something painful: no one on screen looked like me. As a Dominican girl, I loved these stories but never felt fully seen in them. That absence stayed with me, and today, it fuels my mission. I want to create a production company where inclusion isn’t an afterthought—it’s the foundation. A space that nurtures Black, Latino, LGBTQIA+, and other marginalized artists both onstage and behind the scenes. I envision producing theatre, film, and digital content that centers underrepresented voices and honors our full, complex humanity. I want my company to be a launching pad for the kind of stories that young people can see themselves in—so they never have to wonder, as I once did, whether they belong. This vision is deeply rooted in my personal journey. One of my most meaningful roles was playing a teenager caught between the expectations of her immigrant family and her own dreams—a story that mirrored my own experience and reminded me of performance’s power to create empathy and healing. But no artistic influence shaped me more than my late uncle, Tio Alex. He introduced me to music, taught me to play guitar, and gave me my first instrument: a purple, Hannah Montana-themed electric six-string. When he passed away suddenly, music became a painful reminder of his absence. But over time, I returned to it as a form of healing. I began writing songs that helped me grieve, and in doing so, I discovered something deeper: that art, when shared, becomes a way to carry love forward. That’s what I want my production company to do—carry love forward. I want to build a creative home where young artists can find their voices, tell their stories, and know their truth matters. Where projects challenge norms, celebrate difference, and show the world what it looks like when art is used not just for entertainment, but for transformation. Representation is powerful. Creating it is revolutionary. I’m committed to using my platform not only to perform, but to uplift others—so that future generations don’t just see someone like them on stage, but someone like them leading the way.

From the first moment I belted “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” like it was a rock ballad on my makeshift living room stage, I knew that performance wasn’t just something I loved—it was how I processed the world. Art has always been my first language, the way I express joy, grief, identity, and love. Whether I’m on a church altar, school stage, or in my bedroom with a guitar, I feel most myself when I’m performing. But over time, I realized that my journey as an artist couldn’t stop at self-expression. If I want to make a lasting impact, I need to help create space for others to do the same. That’s why one of my greatest ambitions is to start my own production company—a space committed to amplifying the voices of underrepresented communities and telling stories that shift culture, inspire empathy, and spark change. Growing up, I adored Disney Channel musicals like High School Musical, Camp Rock, and The Cheetah Girls. I transformed my living room into a stage, pouring my heart into every lyric as if I were Vanessa Hudgens. But as much joy as those performances gave me, I noticed something painful: no one on screen looked like me. As a Dominican girl, I loved these stories but never felt fully seen in them. That absence stayed with me, and today, it fuels my mission. I want to create a production company where inclusion isn’t an afterthought—it’s the foundation. A space that nurtures Black, Latino, LGBTQIA+, and other marginalized artists both onstage and behind the scenes. I envision producing theatre, film, and digital content that centers underrepresented voices and honors our full, complex humanity. I want my company to be a launching pad for the kind of stories that young people can see themselves in—so they never have to wonder, as I once did, whether they belong. This vision is deeply rooted in my personal journey. One of my most meaningful roles was playing a teenager caught between the expectations of her immigrant family and her own dreams—a story that mirrored my own experience and reminded me of performance’s power to create empathy and healing. But no artistic influence shaped me more than my late uncle, Tio Alex. He introduced me to music, taught me to play guitar, and gave me my first instrument: a purple, Hannah Montana-themed electric six-string. When he passed away suddenly, music became a painful reminder of his absence. But over time, I returned to it as a form of healing. I began writing songs that helped me grieve, and in doing so, I discovered something deeper: that art, when shared, becomes a way to carry love forward. That’s what I want my production company to do—carry love forward. I want to build a creative home where young artists can find their voices, tell their stories, and know their truth matters. Where projects challenge norms, celebrate difference, and show the world what it looks like when art is used not just for entertainment, but for transformation. Representation is powerful. Creating it is revolutionary. I’m committed to using my platform not only to perform, but to uplift others—so that future generations don’t just see someone like them on stage, but someone like them leading the way.

I believe performance is one of the most powerful tools we have for change. It’s how I’ve learned to process grief, celebrate identity, and connect across differences. But more importantly, it’s how I plan to make a positive impact—by telling stories that empower, represent, and inspire. As a child, I rarely saw people who looked like me in the movies and musicals I adored. I transformed my living room into a stage, pretending I was in High School Musical or The Cheetah Girls, even when no one on screen reflected my skin tone or heritage. That absence made me feel invisible. Today, I pursue performance not only for the love of the craft, but to ensure that other children—especially those from underrepresented communities—do see themselves. Through acting, I aim to spotlight stories that are too often ignored. Whether it’s playing a character who navigates the tension between cultural tradition and self-discovery, or writing songs that process personal grief, I use my art to create space for voices that deserve to be heard. I want to be a performer who fosters empathy and understanding, and whose presence alone shows others what’s possible. I also plan to launch a production company centered on representation and social justice. My mission is to develop work that uplifts Black, Latino, LGBTQIA+, and other marginalized artists—stories that reflect the truth and complexity of our communities. By creating opportunities both in front of and behind the scenes, I want to shift whose voices are valued in the entertainment industry. My art is deeply rooted in the legacy of my late uncle, Tio Alex, who taught me that music is more than sound—it’s soul. Every time I act, sing, or play guitar, I carry his spirit with me. I want that same spirit to ripple outward—to heal, to connect, to ignite dreams in others. My purpose as an artist is not just to perform, but to open doors, amplify stories, and be the representation I once needed. That’s how I plan to change the world.

I am a proud Dominican-American woman shaped by the rhythms, resilience, and richness of my heritage. The Dominican Republic, my family's homeland, is a vibrant island where cultures converge—African, Spanish, Taíno, and Chinese influences intertwine to create something uniquely Dominican. Our food, language, music, and values reflect this complex fusion, and growing up in a household rooted in these traditions has deeply impacted the way I understand myself and the world around me. Food is one of the most powerful expressions of our cultural identity. In my family, every meal is a form of storytelling, a thread connecting us to our ancestors. Casabe, the crispy flatbread made from cassava flour, was a staple of the Taíno people. It’s simple, yet powerful—a direct link to our aboriginal roots and a reminder of the knowledge and resourcefulness of those who came before us. I remember sitting at the table with my grandmother as she explained how this bread, unchanged for centuries, carried the spirit of our land and history. Then there’s locrio de pollo, a savory one-pot chicken and rice dish, born from Spanish influence but transformed by Dominican hands. It’s the dish we gather around on Sundays, filled with sazón, garlic, and love. And during holidays or special occasions, nothing brings the family together like sancocho—a rich stew with African roots, blending meats, plantains, and root vegetables into a symbol of unity and celebration. These meals do more than feed us; they remind us of our shared past and our collective strength. The evolution of Dominican cuisine also reflects our openness to the world. Dishes like chofan—our version of Chinese fried rice—came with early 20th-century Chinese immigrants and quickly became a staple in Dominican households. In my family, we make it with shrimp or pork, mixing soy sauce with adobo, creating a beautiful blend of cultures in every bite. It’s taught me to view cultural exchange not as appropriation but as an act of empathy and adaptation. Our music, too, is a force of identity. Merengue and bachata—genres rooted in African drums and Spanish guitars—fill our homes and family gatherings with energy and emotion. Merengue’s fast pace echoes our joy and resilience, while bachata’s soulful melodies speak to our longing and love. Dance is not just celebration—it’s survival, memory, and expression. Growing up, I often struggled with identity because of my racially ambiguous features. I didn't look like the people on TV or fit neatly into one category. But over time, I realized that being Dominican isn’t about fitting into a box. It’s about living through our traditions—through the way we speak, dance, cook, and care for each other. Our dialect, filled with unique Dominican slang, is warm and colorful, reflecting our vibrant personality as a people. Most importantly, family has always been my foundation. In our culture, multiple generations often live together or remain closely tied, reinforcing a sense of belonging and shared responsibility. My parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents have passed down not just recipes or traditions, but values—resilience, compassion, and pride in where we come from. Being Dominican has taught me that our history, though complex and at times painful, is something to honor. It has made me compassionate, culturally curious, and proud of my mixed heritage. My roots have given me the courage to dream big, the strength to face challenges, and the wisdom to listen to the stories of others. Yo soy orgullosa de ser Dominicana.

My name is Emily Orellana, and I’m currently pursuing a major in Musical Theatre. For me, this field is not just an academic interest—it’s a calling shaped by my family, my culture, and a deep-rooted love of storytelling. Receiving this scholarship would ease the financial burden on my working-class, immigrant family and allow me to fully focus on my training. But more than that, it would affirm the role of the arts in healing, identity, and community. My journey began before I ever knew what “musical theatre” was. Some of my earliest memories are of singing impromptu duets with my sister in our living room while my uncle, Tio Alex, played rock and metal guitar instrumentals in the background. Those chaotic, joy-filled moments taught me that performance wasn’t just entertainment—it was a way to connect and express what words alone could not. A pivotal childhood moment came when I received my first guitar: a purple, Hannah Montana-themed electric six-string with Hello Kitty picks. That guitar symbolized everything I loved—music, imagination, drama—and it became a key part of how I expressed myself. I didn’t realize it at the time, but those Disney Channel musicals I sang in my living room were my first lessons in storytelling, rhythm, and stage presence. Musical theatre brings together everything I care about—acting, vocal performance, movement, and emotional honesty. But it hasn’t been an easy road. For a long time, I struggled with discipline and doubted my potential. That changed when my uncle moved back in and began teaching music at our church. His patient guidance helped me play my first full song—a moment that showed me what persistence could achieve. Then, everything changed. Tio Alex passed away from cardiac arrest, just after his 36th birthday. The grief was overwhelming. I couldn’t touch my guitar for months. Music felt empty without him. It was as though a part of me had gone silent, stuck in a suspended chord with no resolution. Slowly, I found my way back. On the anniversary of his death, I opened his guitar case in my college dorm and played again. That moment marked a turning point—I began writing my own songs, raw and full of emotion. Musical theatre became not just a passion, but a vessel for healing and remembrance. When I perform, I feel him near. This scholarship would allow me to continue honoring that connection while pursuing my dream. My long-term goal is to create work that uplifts underrepresented voices and explores themes of grief, resilience, and cultural identity. As my uncle used to say, “You can do it, you just need to give it everything you got.” With your support, I will.

As a child, I transformed my living room into a stage, passionately performing songs from Disney Channel and Nickelodeon musicals. With every note, I imagined myself as Vanessa Hudgens, belting heartbreak ballads with all the fervor a seven-year-old could summon. That spark of imagination evolved into a life-long commitment to the performing arts. From singing in my church’s youth choir to joining the theatre group and dance company, I sought every opportunity to perform. In high school, I became a dedicated member of the Lincoln Park Theatre Club, where I began to truly refine my craft. Later, at Henry Ford College, I founded the Theatre Club and proudly served as its President for a year before graduating with two Associate’s degrees. My passion for storytelling has never wavered—it has only deepened with time. Beyond personal fulfillment, I’m pursuing acting to inspire others, especially children from underrepresented communities. Growing up, I rarely saw people who looked like me on screen. I want to be the face a young Afro-Latina queer child sees and thinks, “That could be me.” I believe storytelling is a powerful tool for social change. Through my work, I aim to amplify marginalized voices and ensure LGBTQIA+, Black, Latino, and other underrepresented stories are not only told—but celebrated. Becoming an actor is not just my dream—it’s my mission.

From the first moment I belted “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” with the gusto of a metalhead at a sold-out living room concert, performance has been the language through which I express joy, grief, love, and identity. Performing is not just a passion—it’s how I navigate the world. It’s how I process memories, connect with my culture, and keep alive the people and places I’ve loved and lost. The stage—whether it’s a church altar, school auditorium, or my living room-turned-concert-hall—is where I’ve always felt most myself. As a child, the TV musicals on Disney Channel and Nickelodeon filled me with boundless joy. Whether it was High School Musical, The Cheetah Girls, or Camp Rock, I found myself enchanted by the songs, the storytelling, and the magic of performance. I would transform my living room into a makeshift stage, fiercely believing I was Vanessa Hudgens, giving every heartbreak ballad my seven-year-old all. That fierce imagination was the seed of my dream to work in the performing arts. I grabbed every opportunity—joining the youth choir, dance company, and theatre group at my church, and later becoming an active member of the Lincoln Park High School Theatre Club. By the time I applied for college, choosing acting as my major was not a decision—it was a calling. What I love about performing is how it allows me to step into different lives, understand the human experience from varied perspectives, and tell stories that matter. My favorite role to date was in a local production where I portrayed a teenage girl confronting the expectations of her traditional immigrant family while pursuing her own path. That role hit close to home and allowed me to explore the tensions between cultural identity and personal autonomy. It was deeply fulfilling and reaffirmed my belief in the power of performance to foster empathy and dialogue. But no performance has shaped me more than those shared with my uncle, Tio Alex. Thirteen years older than me, he was like an older brother—a free-spirited music lover who introduced me to classic rock, heavy metal, and blues. Some of my most cherished childhood memories are of us rocking out in the living room while my mom shook her head and muttered, “Eso no es de Díos.” Tio Alex saw music not just as sound, but as soul. He gave me my first guitar—a purple, Hannah Montana-themed electric six-string—on my birthday. I remember looking down at it, misty-eyed, and thinking, “Now I can learn to play just like you.” He did more than just gift me that guitar; he taught me to play it. Every Saturday, he’d give music lessons at our church. He believed in my talent even when I doubted myself. The last song we played together was his favorite praise song—one with a tricky F major barre chord. “You got this, Monkey,” he said, using the nickname my mom gave me as a baby. And I did. For the first time, I played the entire song without mistakes. I didn’t know then it would be our last. He passed away from cardiac arrest shortly after, and for a long time, I couldn’t even look at a guitar without breaking down. Music, once my source of joy, became a painful reminder of his absence. But slowly, with time, I returned to it—not out of obligation, but as a form of healing. I started writing my own songs. They’re often raw and melancholic, but they help me process my grief. When I play, I feel him close, urging me forward. In picking up my guitar again, I’m keeping his legacy alive. My dream role? I would love to audition for Christine Daaé in The Phantom of the Opera—a character whose journey through fear, love, and artistic awakening resonates deeply with my own. Christine’s story is about finding one’s voice amidst chaos and control, and it mirrors my own pursuit of voice—both literal and metaphorical. I want to play her not only because of the vocal challenge, but because her arc is a declaration of selfhood, something I believe every underrepresented performer deserves to explore on stage. Ultimately, performance is how I honor my past, express my present, and shape my future. It’s the song I’m still learning to play, the story I’m still learning to tell. Whether I’m on stage or behind a guitar, I know that my uncle’s voice, my heritage, and my community are with me in every note, every scene, every breath. I perform not only because I love it, but because it’s how I make sense of the world—and how I hope to help others do the same.

My name is Emily Orellana, and I am currently pursuing a major in Musical Theatre. This field is not just an academic pursuit—it's a lifelong calling rooted in my personal history, family dynamics, and love of storytelling. Receiving this scholarship would not only support my financial ability to complete my education but would also affirm the role that art plays in healing, identity, and connection. My journey toward musical theatre began long before I ever knew what the term meant. Some of my earliest and most vivid memories involve music—singing impromptu duets with my sister in our living room while my uncle, Tio Alex, blasted rock and metal guitar instrumentals. It was in those chaotic, joyful moments that I learned performance was more than entertainment—it was a way to bring people together and express parts of ourselves that words alone couldn’t reach. One of the most defining moments of my childhood was receiving my first guitar: a purple, Hannah Montana-themed electric six-string, complete with Hello Kitty picks. That guitar was the physical embodiment of everything I loved—music, drama, imagination—and it became the earliest symbol of who I was growing up to be. I didn’t know it then, but those hours spent singing Disney Channel musicals in my living room were my first lessons in character, rhythm, and stage presence. Musical theatre allows me to combine everything I care deeply about: storytelling, singing, movement, and emotional truth. It’s where my love for music and acting intersect. But this journey hasn’t always been easy. I initially struggled to take learning instruments seriously, and my progress was slow. It wasn’t until my uncle moved back in with us and began teaching music lessons at our church that I truly began to understand the discipline and love that artistry requires. With his patient guidance, I eventually played my first full song—a personal milestone that reminded me what perseverance could achieve. Then, suddenly, he was gone. Tio Alex passed away from cardiac arrest, just days after his 36th birthday. The grief was paralyzing. I couldn’t touch my guitar for months. Music, which once brought me joy, now felt hollow. For a long time, I believed that part of myself had died with him. I felt like a song unresolved—trapped in a suspended chord, never resolving to its tonic. But over time, I found my way back to the stage and the studio. On the anniversary of his death, I unpacked his guitar in my college dorm and began playing again. In that moment, I reclaimed something I thought I'd lost. I began writing my own songs—many of them vulnerable and heavily emotional. Music became my way to process his loss and keep his spirit alive. I like to imagine that when I perform, he’s nearby, cheering me on. This scholarship would significantly reduce the financial pressure on my family and allow me to fully invest in my training. Coming from a working-class, immigrant household, every dollar toward tuition, books, and performance materials makes a difference. But beyond the financial relief, this support would affirm that storytelling, especially through the lens of musical theatre, matters—that my voice, and the stories I bring to life, have value. My long-term goal is to create work that uplifts underrepresented voices and speaks to themes of grief, culture, and resilience. Musical theatre has the power to transform not just audiences but artists, and I am committed to using my education to honor that power. As my uncle always said, “You can do it, you just need to give it your all.” With your support, I hope to do just that.

Anguish has been a source of significant torment, yet my greatest teacher.  I was born into gang violence and poverty. My early formative years were spent in the Nickerson Gardens, where murder, assault, and trafficking were commonplace, so much so that I became accustomed to the atrocities I witnessed.  My parents dreamed of a safer life for my uncle, sister, and me. They packed up the few belongings we possessed and made the three-day trek to the home of my mother's biological father. Here, familial turmoil replaced the cacophony of gunfire. My grandmother became one of the main areas of contention between my parents as her erratic behavior due to her paranoid schizophrenia would unintentionally put her, as well as my sister and me, in dangerous situations. This led to Child Protective Services opening up various child-neglect investigations that almost resulted in removing us from our home.  Throughout this period, I became increasingly close to my mother's father. His house became a haven from the uncertainty plaguing my household. After some time, he and I were spending much of our time together alone. During one of my many visits, I was assaulted, severing any semblance of a relationship between my mother and her biological father. Unbeknownst to me, this furthered the rift in the relationship between my uncle and my mother. My mother disapproved of the relationship my uncle attempted to continue with their father.  I was unaware that my uncle was still speaking to his father, so I grew up having an extremely close bond with him. He taught me how to play guitar, read music, and encouraged me when I told him I wanted to pursue a career in the arts. In my late-teen years, I found out about the relationship with his father, and it felt like a dagger to the heart. Truthfully, I was hurt by his willingness to continue speaking to his father after what I was forced to go through at such a young age. I loved my uncle but felt he had somehow lied to me by omitting the truth all those years.  Afterward, our relationship changed significantly. We would still communicate, but it was no longer the same. Years later, my mother received a phone call informing her that my uncle was being admitted to the hospital for a severe case of COVID. My family and I, also suffering from a bout of COVID, were unable to fly out to see him. We were left in the dark for three excruciating days, wondering how he was doing. On the fourth day, we received news that he had been admitted to the ICU; every event after that phone call happened at breakneck speed. Shortly after that, the doctor informed us that my uncle could no longer breathe on his own, so he would intubated. We were constantly receiving updates that he had stopped breathing entirely or that he had gone into cardiac arrest.  Then, on August 28th, three days after his 37th birthday, the merciless hands of death snaked around my uncle and whisked him away. The suddenness of his death shattered me. I could not comprehend that my older brother was gone - I still don't. Even so, I refuse to allow my pain to engulf me.  The grief of losing my uncle taught me forgiveness. Life is too delicate to punish the people you love for the actions of others. Moreover, it's not about how many years you spend on this earth; it's about what you do with the years you are gifted. Love fiercely, forgive generously, and live unapologetically because life is unpredictable.  Expressing myself through the arts has been an intrinsic part of my grieving process. It has made me feel closer to my uncle in many ways. My mission is to share that freedom of expression with others. I plan to use the arts to help children who have experienced hardship.  Ultimately, my uncle's encouragement was why I chose a career in the arts. He was highly passionate about music and was following his dream of becoming a professional musician. Seeing that he was following his dream inspired me to pursue mine. This fall, I will further my education as a theatre and performance major at Emerson College. My ambitions of becoming an actor and founding my own production company are possible because of my experiences.  For some, my life story is an unfavorable series of events. However, I appreciate every moment—the good and, especially, the bad. Now, I understand that the trauma I endured made me stronger. Through those moments, my character revealed itself. My confidence in my abilities blossomed. Every hardship was a stepping stone that led to who I am today: a compassionate, courageous, and versatile young woman.