Dave Grohl says it best: “There is that golden moment in any child's life when independence and identity intersect, steering you in your ultimate direction.” For me, that moment came through music but more specifically, through realizing I wanted to pursue the trade of luthiery, the craft of building and repairing guitars. I’m not just drawn to the sound of music. I’m drawn to the process behind it, the work, the shaping, the imperfections made beautiful by hand. That’s what I want to spend my life mastering. My path to this trade hasn’t been easy. I started working young, helping at my dad’s paintball field, where I learned the basics of hard work and responsibility. But I knew I wanted something different, something that felt like mine. Eventually, I found that sense of purpose working at a local music store. I wasn’t just selling Alvarez guitars; I was watching how they were handled, maintained, and cherished. Being surrounded by musicians and instruments every day turned a distant idea into a solid direction. I wanted to be the one who crafted the tools musicians use to tell their stories. My relationship with music runs deep. I was the first chair violinist from fifth grade through senior year and spent years playing guitar and bass for my church’s youth band. But while making music felt natural, the path wasn’t always welcoming. As a female in a male-dominated space, I often had to prove myself beyond talent. I had to fight for a place at the table. That fight fueled me not only as a player but as a creator. I learned to show up stronger, work harder, and let my instruments speak when words weren’t enough. I also learned through experience that the things we work hardest for don’t always last. When I was fifteen, I bought a guitar I had poured my heart into, and just a week later it was stolen. That loss felt personal. But instead of letting it stop me, I let it guide me. I realized I didn’t just want to replace what was taken. I wanted to create something no one could take away. I wanted to build guitars myself with my own hands and vision and give that permanence and power to others. I plan to pursue professional training at MI to master the techniques of luthiery, from design and woodwork to finishing and repair. But beyond mastering the trade for myself, I want to bring that knowledge back to my community. My goal is to one day open a small shop that’s more than a business, a space where music and craft intersect. I want to teach young people, especially girls, how to build and repair instruments, give free workshops, and provide access to tools and mentorship that I didn’t have growing up. Because I know firsthand what it’s like to feel like you’re starting from nothing. I want to be the person who helps someone else start building. This trade means everything to me because it allows me to combine my love of storytelling, music, and hands-on work into something real and lasting. When the world feels unstable, creating something tangible, something you can hold, hear, and share, is deeply healing. That’s what luthiery represents to me, resilience made physical. I want to use that to make a difference not just in my own life but in the lives of others who might be searching for direction, for stability, or for their own version of that golden moment.

Dave Grohl once said, “There is that golden moment in any child's life when independence and identity intersect, steering you in your ultimate direction.” I had that moment early on and ever since, I’ve been trying to follow it. For me, that direction has always pointed toward creating: not just performing or producing, but building things stories, instruments, music, and worlds. It’s never been about perfection. It’s about connection: the kind that outlasts you. That’s my why. Growing up, things were often unstable. I lost contact with my mom at age nine, reconnected at 12, and spent the following years navigating an emotional back-and-forth that made it hard to feel rooted. But while people and places came and went, art especially music stayed. I began playing violin in elementary school and never stopped. I taught myself guitar, joined my church band, and eventually found myself working at a local music store where I discovered my dream of becoming a luthier: someone who literally builds instruments from scratch. But music was just the beginning. Over time, my passion for storytelling expanded beyond strings and melodies. I started writing scripts, sketching characters, and imagining stories that blended real life with something more — stories about resilience, survival, and finding your voice in a world that often tries to take it from you. What motivates me isn’t fame or perfection. It’s the belief that I can create something that reminds people they’re not alone and that their story matters, even when it’s messy. In a world where digital tools and AI continue to evolve at lightning speed, artists are now expected to adapt and fast. I don’t fear this future. I embrace it. I’m excited by the idea that with new tools, I can bring even more of my story to life. The difference, though, lies in the why. AI can generate art, but it can’t truly replace the feeling of what it means to fight for your story. It can’t replace the messy, human experience of losing a guitar you worked months to afford, or the quiet healing that happens when you build something with your own two hands. I plan to use technology as a tool, not a crutch a means to expand the emotional and visual language of my work, not water it down. As a student of the arts, I want to continue telling stories rooted in authenticity stories that blend music, visual storytelling, and personal history. One project that I’ve been dreaming of since high school is a graphic novel (and eventually an animated series) called "Burning Strings". It’s a semi-autobiographical story set in a not-so-distant future where music has been outlawed, and the world has lost the ability to create emotionally-driven sound. The protagonist a scrappy girl raised by machines finds an old, broken guitar and starts repairing it with the help of underground builders (based on real-life luthiers). As she learns to build and play, she also discovers her own voice and the resistance to bring sound back to a world that has forgotten its soul. This story isn’t just about music. It’s about memory, loss, healing, and reclaiming what you’ve been told you don’t deserve. It’s inspired by my own experiences losing my mom, losing my guitar, losing my sense of control and rebuilding it all, one piece at a time. “Burning Strings” would merge the physicality of craftsmanship with the visual language of comics and the emotional storytelling of animation. It would also highlight underrepresented voices in music especially young women, queer artists, and people working in trades like instrument-making that often go unnoticed. Technology would play a big role in bringing this project to life. I plan to use AI-assisted design tools for worldbuilding and visual layout, digital audio to map the emotional pacing of scenes, and augmented reality elements that allow readers to “hear” pieces of the soundtrack by scanning the page. But all of this is in service of a human story. The tech may evolve, but the heartbeat of the project will always come from lived experience. As a student, I want to study both traditional and digital tools so I can blend them in meaningful ways. I’m not here to run from change. I’m here to shape it. I want to work on projects that use innovation with intention that prioritize storytelling and emotional impact over trends or gimmicks. Whether it’s building a guitar, drawing a storyboard, or scoring a short film, I want to be hands-on with my work and share that process with others, especially young artists who come from unstable or unsupported backgrounds like I did. At the end of the day, my “why” is simple: I create because I need to. Because when everything else felt temporary, art was the one thing that stayed. And now, I want to give that back through the stories I tell, the instruments I build, and the communities I help uplift along the way.

Dave Grohl once said, “There is that golden moment in any child's life when independence and identity intersect, steering you in your ultimate direction.” For me, that moment came when I realized that creativity and more specifically, music wasn’t just something I loved, but something I wanted to build a future around. A scholarship would help me turn that direction into something sustainable and achievable. Financially, my path hasn’t been easy. I started working young, at my dad’s paintball field, where I learned the value of effort and how to stretch what little I had. Eventually, I moved on to a local music store, where I wasn’t just earning a paycheck I was discovering a purpose. Surrounded by musicians and instruments, I realized I wanted to pursue luthiery: the art of building and repairing stringed instruments. That job made my dream feel real, not just like a distant hope. But passion alone doesn’t cover tuition, and the truth is, I can’t do this on my own. A scholarship would allow me to study at a place that could give me the hands-on knowledge, guidance, and space to truly build a career out of my creativity. It would take pressure off my financial situation and give me the freedom to focus on learning, growing, and building a foundation for my future something I’ve always had to fight for. Music has helped me stay grounded through some of the hardest parts of my life. When I lost contact with my mom at age nine, and again and again in the years that followed, music became my way of processing what I couldn’t control. At 15, I saved up for my second guitar an instrument that I poured myself into only to have it stolen a week later. That felt like a gut punch. But it also taught me one of the biggest lessons of my life: even when you lose something, you keep going. You rebuild. That mindset has shaped everything I do in music, in work, in life. Being a young woman in a male-dominated industry hasn’t been easy either. I’ve had to prove myself, over and over again not just with talent, but with persistence. A scholarship would be more than just financial help. It would be a vote of confidence in someone who has had to earn every opportunity, and who plans to use that opportunity to lift others up in return. I don’t just want to play music. I want to create it, build it, and shape the future of it especially for people who don’t always see themselves represented in it. A scholarship would help me take the next step toward that future a future built not just on survival, but on craft, growth, and giving back.

Emma Renee — Creating Stability Through Sound and Craft My name is Emma, and for as long as I can remember, creativity has been my compass. Growing up in an unpredictable home, I learned early how important it is to build something steady when the world around you feels anything but. That’s what music became for me — a foundation, a safe space, and eventually, a vision for the kind of future I wanted to create not only for myself but for others, too. At nine years old, I lost contact with my mom. At twelve, I got her back. What followed was a cycle of loss and return, absence and reappearance. That instability shaped me — but instead of hardening me, it pushed me toward the violin, my first love. I became the first chair violinist in my school orchestra and held that position through senior year. Around the same time, I picked up guitar and bass, joining my church’s youth band. Music offered me more than just creative release — it gave me identity, direction, and a sense of peace that nothing else could match. But as I got older, life threw new challenges my way. At 15, I bought my second guitar with my own money — an instrument I had poured my spirit into. It was stolen a week later. I remember feeling like everything I had worked for had disappeared. But that experience, painful as it was, taught me something that would change the course of my life: when the things you love get taken away, you don’t stop playing — you start rebuilding. That was the moment I realized I didn’t just want to play guitars. I wanted to build them. I wanted to create something that couldn’t be taken from me — something lasting, something that could carry meaning for others. That desire led me to leave my first job at my family’s paintball business and take a position at a local music store. Surrounded by instruments, musicians, and stories, I saw more clearly than ever that my passion was rooted not just in playing music, but in the creation of it — from the first wood shaving of a guitar neck to the final strum. I realized I could help others find their voice by building the very tools that give them one. My experience as a woman in a male-dominated music industry has only strengthened my commitment. I’ve been overlooked, underestimated, and told I wouldn’t last — but I’ve shown up, played louder, practiced harder, and proved that there’s space for people like me in this world. And I want to help make even more room for the next generation. Through my artistic pursuits, I aim to inspire other young women to step into creative roles with confidence and pride, especially in areas where we’ve been historically underrepresented. Above all, I want to use my creativity to build something that lasts — something real. Whether it’s a guitar, a song, or a supportive space for others to create, I hope to leave behind a legacy of resilience, craftsmanship, and connection.

Dave Grohl says it best: “There is that golden moment in any child's life when independence and identity intersect, steering you in your ultimate direction.” For me, that moment came through creativity — through music — as I started discovering who I was and what kind of future I wanted to build. Creativity has helped me connect more deeply with myself during moments when everything around me felt unstable. I lost contact with my mom at age 9, regained her at 12, and spent the years that followed in a painful cycle of her coming and going. Music became a steady place for me. It wasn’t just something I did — it became a way to process everything I didn’t yet have words for. When I turned 15, I finally got my second guitar — something I’d saved up for and poured myself into — only to have it stolen a week later. That loss hit hard. But it taught me something important: just because something is taken from you doesn’t mean you stop creating. You keep building — note by note, chord by chord — and eventually, something new takes shape. That moment didn’t break my connection to music. If anything, it deepened it. I realized I didn’t just want to play guitars — I wanted to build them. I wanted to create something lasting. Art, for me, is expression, healing, and survival. I was first chair violinist from fifth grade through senior year, and I played guitar and bass in my church’s youth band for years. I used every opportunity I had to grow — not just as a musician, but as a person. When life felt uncertain, music grounded me. And when words failed, I let my instruments speak for me. My guitar became my voice in a world that often didn’t listen, especially as a girl navigating male-dominated spaces in music. I learned early that talent wasn’t always enough to be taken seriously. So I practiced harder, played better, and showed up again and again — even when I felt overlooked. Through that struggle, I found strength, purpose, and resilience. I found identity. What drives me to create is the belief that I can take the broken, unstable parts of my life and turn them into something beautiful and lasting. Working at a local music store helped turn that dream into direction. Being surrounded by musicians and instruments daily confirmed what I already felt — that I wanted to pursue luthiery and stay close to the craft that shaped me. That job wasn’t just about selling guitars. It taught me humility, patience, and commitment to my future — even when things got hard. Moving forward, I want to use my creativity to inspire and build — not just for myself, but for others. I want to leave a mark not only as a musician but as a builder, a woman, and a creator who took the hand she was dealt and turned it into something bigger. Studying at MI would give me the space, skills, and support to do exactly that: to create, to explore, and to carve out a space for others who feel like they’re starting from nothing — because I’ve been there, and I know what’s possible when you don’t give up.

With booming bass that sends chills and heartfelt lyrics that are capable of jerking tears, summing up so many emotions and feelings into one song, Billie’s music is some of the most relatable music there is for me. Billie Eilish says it best in one of my favorite songs, I Love You. “Never been the type to let someone see right through.” Well that was always me until someone entered my life who told me for months I could trust them, and I started to, and I started to forget how to love myself and others because I was so absorbed with this person - for all the wrong reasons, which I didn't realize till after they were gone. The moment I let them see right through, they tore me apart and hurt me physically and mentally. I had always been the type of person to keep my walls up at all times especially around new people who entered their life. I learned the hard way after being hurt in many different ways that sometimes in life you have to let people go, and realize you're better off without them before you fully show yourself to them and allow yourself to get hurt mentally and sometimes physically like I did. We put up walls around ourselves and pull them down when we feel like we've found someone who understands us. All it takes is that one person who you feel like you can trust so you pull down your walls, letting them see right through you to all your flaws and insecurities. After having your walls up for so long and keeping so many people from entering in your life, you start to wonder if those who say they love you actually mean it or if they just say it. I've fallen into this trap one to many times and Billie’s lyric in idontwannabeyouanymore, “If I love you was a promise would you break it if your honest,” resonates on a million different levels for me. I constantly think about if those who say I love you- even the ones who have said it for years just say it and if they had to be honest would they still say it or would they break it and not. Last but certainly not least, Listen Before I Go, encompasses my biggest fear in life. Anytime I hear this song I instantly think of my answer to the question “What do you fear most in life?” Not getting to say goodbye to the people I love most in life is my answer every time. With the sirens faintly droning in the background, I immediately feel like the world is ending and I can’t help but feel less alone that Billie must be feeling this in some sort of way too. The song gives me hope that maybe just maybe I’ll have the chance to say my goodbyes in some perfect world. “Call my friends and tell them that I love them, and I’ll miss them.”

Broken guitars… stolen guitars; After having one of my own stolen, I learned just how much I took certain instruments of my own for granted, when in reality they are all just tools despite the sentimental value they may hold. After nearly giving up on my musical pursuits I realized that sometimes losing something is the beginning to something new- a growth in character in both myself but more importantly for me, a musician. While spending the summer at Berklee College of Music for a 5 week summer intensive program, honing in on my craft and skill while treading lightly on the waters of college, did I learn that college was not for me; especially music school. I've gained a newfound respect for those who have the grit and dedication to pursue the 4 years of schooling in a music institution. After my newfound knowledge, I began to lean into what felt to be more of a hobby at the time, but one that required creativity and precision- that of luthiery. Despite these fallbacks, I have learned that like all things in life, you have to learn how to adapt and overcome things in order to grow as a person and musician and that sometimes along the way, you run into others experiencing their own setbacks and you have the option to pour into them and help or continue on your own journey ignoring those around you. As a female musician oftentimes feeling defeated and unnoticed in the tsunami of many male musicians throughout the industry, I strive to carve my own path, and embrace being the fish out of water when needed. My goal is to craft beautiful and functional guitars that will ultimately empower women to reach their full potential, expressing each instrument's unique quirks through the player's artistry. While representing the many women alongside myself who strive to make a difference in the industry, my hope is that the other women who feel overshadowed by male dominance feel comfortable expressing themselves with an instrument that truly represents them. As one of 15% of female luthiers competing with the remaining 86% of males, I hope that my name will solidify its place among the many other luthiers and that I will be seen as equal in skill and craftsmanship to those males in the industry (Decker, n.d). By crafting a beautiful tool that can be used by both men and women alike, fulfilling their needs and then some, I aim to bring my artistic and unique touch to the music they create and cultivate an appreciation for the skill, time, and love that is put into handcrafting instruments. It wasn’t until I had encountered many other musicians from various backgrounds and of similar age, did I realize that we all share the same common desire - to be seen, known, and heard. As a female, encountering others like myself made me realize how difficult it is to stand out. I hope to create instruments for those who struggle to find their place in the industry, giving them the confidence to be authentic while having a beautiful handcrafted piece of art, made by someone who values true beauty, craftsmanship, and is still learning to navigate the waters and create their own place in society and the music industry while encouraging those who need it along the way. Decker, I. (n.d.). Who are today’s luthiers and guitar builders? https://blog.anthonythomas.com/who-are-todays-luthiers-and-guitar-builders#:~:text=In%20terms%20of%20gender%2C%2086,luthiers%2C%2041%25%20are%20female.

The sound of strings vibrating in the air, a melody that once felt like home, was abruptly silenced when my guitar was stolen shortly after the pandemic. It was early 2021, a time when isolation and uncertainty loomed large, and I found myself grappling not only with the loss of my instrument but also with my identity as a budding female musician in a male-dominated industry. This theft ignited a fire within me—a determination to carve out my own path in music, even if it meant working with limited gear. As I navigated setbacks and skepticism from others, my dreams began to shift; instead of fame, I envisioned a future as a luthier or touring guitar tech, embracing resilience in the face of adversity.   The day my guitar was stolen felt like a dark cloud had descended over my world. I remember standing in my room staring at the empty guitar stand in which it sat, the echoes of past melodies haunting me as I searched for answers that wouldn’t come. It wasn’t just an instrument; it was my voice, my escape, and the embodiment of countless hours spent honing my craft. In that moment of despair, I could have easily succumbed to frustration and given up on my dreams. Instead, I chose to channel my grief into something productive. With my first guitar, chunks of wood missing with cracks in the smokey blue paint- I began experimenting with sounds that were foreign yet exhilarating. “Why don’t you just give up?” a friend had said, their tone laced with skepticism. The words stung, but they also ignited a spark within me. I realized that while I might not fit the conventional mold of a successful musician, I had something unique to offer. Each note I played on the guitar became a testament to my resilience, a reminder that creativity knows no bounds. As I navigated this new terrain, I found solace in online communities of female musicians who shared similar struggles. Their stories resonated deeply, reminding me that I wasn’t alone in facing the challenges of a male-dominated industry. We exchanged tips, celebrated small victories, and encouraged one another to keep going despite the odds stacked against us. This camaraderie fueled my determination, transforming my initial setback into a stepping stone toward a more profound understanding of my passion. I began to see my journey not as a series of obstacles but as an evolving narrative—one where every challenge was an opportunity for growth, leading me closer to my ultimate goal of becoming a luthier or a touring guitar tech.  As I reflect on my journey through the upheaval of losing my guitar, I realize that this experience has shaped me in ways I never anticipated. The theft forced me to adapt, pushing me to explore new avenues within music and embrace my identity as a female musician in a challenging landscape. Rather than giving into doubt, I transformed setbacks into stepping stones, igniting a passion for luthiery and guitar tech that I hadn’t previously considered. This newfound direction feels empowering, reminding me that resilience can lead to unexpected paths. In the end, I learned that dreams may evolve, but the essence of creativity remains steadfast. With each strum on various instruments, I discovered not just my voice but also a community that uplifts and inspires. I hope to inspire many female musicians with my story and show them that they can overcome anything they may face in the industry just as I've had to adapt to do.