Days before my eleventh birthday, my mom died by suicide. Even at that age, somehow I knew it was inevitable. Her untreated schizophrenia had consumed her. As a young child, I could sense the tension stemming from my parents as they fought for custody in a contentious divorce. Despite my mother’s illness, I witnessed her relentless battle for me and her mental health. My instincts told me that something was deeply wrong: not only with her, but with the system that was supposed to protect women suffering from debilitating mental illness. For years after her passing, I suffered in silence, blaming myself for not being able to save her. The silence slowly engulfed me until it became unbearable. Before my sophomore year of high school, I did not yet understand the power — or necessity — of my voice. When I was only fifteen, I overheard a close friend being bullied by another student. I witnessed my friend freeze, the color drain from her face and a feeling of paralysis overtake her. In that moment I saw my own reflection in her eyes; that was the moment I discovered who I was: someone who refused to idly stand by and remain silent. Despite everything my mind and body told me, I would not allow my friend to be subjected to the unrelenting bullying. I insisted on meeting with the school’s dean of students to expose what transpired, and to my surprise, those responsible faced school policy consequences. I felt empowered: it was the first time I had ever stood up for someone else, and I realized how much influence my own voice held. From this sequence of events, I discovered that advocacy is not only about speaking, but about courage, persistence, and the willingness to confront injustice even when it seems impossible to change. I learned that advocacy is waiting in the dean’s office, heart racing, evidence in my hands, and sticking to my convictions, no matter how difficult, to make sure my friend’s voice was heard. As a senior in high school, I still carry this lesson everywhere: silence protects the wrong people. It is the reason why advocacy leads to real, meaningful change. Advocacy can protect those without voices and challenge the injustices they face. I often think back to the professionals who vowed to protect and defend my mother, but instead chose to use every opportunity to take advantage of her. Remembering how powerless and vulnerable she was, inspires me to continuously advocate for people and issues. It is not about arguing or winning; it is about listening, understanding, and serving as a voice for those who cannot speak for themselves. Advocacy has shaped how I approach everything — from classroom discussions to daily interactions. I find myself speaking up when I see someone misunderstood or left out. I do not speak up because I want to lead or impress: I speak up because silence feels like surrender, and because I cannot be a willing participant in allowing injustice to take its course. Each time I hesitate to use the power of my voice, I remember what it cost me not to. In the future, I will continue to carry that lesson forward. I vow to speak up for those who, like my mom and friend, could not or were unable to protect themselves. I will continue to advocate — whether by supporting causes I believe in or helping others through their own immeasurable challenges. Every voice matters, and I intend to use mine well.

Days before my eleventh birthday, my mom died by suicide. Even at that age, I sensed how deeply her untreated schizophrenia had consumed her. As a young child, I witnessed the tension between my parents as they fought through a contentious divorce, but I also witnessed my mother’s determination to fight for both me and her own mental health. Beneath her illness, she was still my mom: someone who loved me deeply and wanted to stay in my life despite the battles she faced every day. Looking back, I realize that something was deeply wrong not only with her condition, but with the systems that repeatedly failed to protect and support vulnerable people like her. For years after her death, I carried an overwhelming sense of guilt and helplessness. I blamed myself for not being able to save her, even though I was only a child. Instead of speaking about my grief, I buried it. The silence slowly became unbearable, and for a long time I did not understand the importance of using my own voice. The years surrounding my mother’s death also affected me academically. Throughout much of elementary school, I struggled with attendance and was frequently absent as my family navigated much grief and instability in their homes. I also took on responsibilities beyond my age, often helping care for my younger sister when my mother was unable to. At an age when many children were building routines and foundations in school, I was learning how to navigate loss and responsibility. Despite those setbacks, I worked hard to rebuild my confidence as I grew older and became determined not to allow my circumstances to define my future. Financially, my family also faced lasting consequences. Although we remained financially stable, much of the money originally saved for my sister’s and my education was redirected toward legal expenses connected to my parents’ custody disputes and the aftermath of my mother’s death. Resources that could have supported our educational opportunities and future goals were instead spent navigating crisis and litigation. Experiencing this loss taught me how quickly tragedy can alter the course of a family’s future and forced me to mature earlier than many of my peers. Before my sophomore year of high school, I overheard a close friend being relentlessly bullied by another student and watched her freeze in fear and humiliation. In that moment, I recognized the same helplessness I had felt for years after losing my mother. Despite how anxious I was, I refused to stay silent. I reported what had happened to our school’s dean of students and continued pushing until the situation was taken seriously and the students involved were held accountable. That experience permanently changed me. For the first time, I understood that advocacy is not about being fearless or wanting attention; it is about choosing to speak when remaining silent would be easier. Losing my mother shaped the way I see the world and continues to motivate me to advocate for others with compassion and empathy, especially those whose voices are ignored or dismissed. I speak up when I see someone being misunderstood, excluded, or treated unfairly because I know what silence can cost. My mother’s death permanently changed the course of my life, but it also shaped the person I am becoming. Her struggles taught me resilience, compassion, and the importance of using my voice to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Every voice matters, and I intend to use mine well.

Days before my eleventh birthday, my mom died by suicide. Even at that age, somehow I knew it was inevitable. Her untreated schizophrenia had consumed her. As a young child, I could sense the tension stemming from my parents as they fought for custody in a contentious divorce. Despite my mother’s illness, I witnessed her relentless battle for me and her mental health. My instincts told me that something was deeply wrong: not only with her, but with the system that was supposed to protect women suffering from debilitating mental illness. For years after her passing, I suffered in silence, blaming myself for not being able to save her. The silence slowly engulfed me until it became unbearable. Before my sophomore year of high school, I did not yet understand the power — or necessity — of my voice. When I was only fifteen, I overheard a close friend being bullied by another student. I witnessed my friend freeze, the color drain from her face and a feeling of paralysis overtake her. In that moment I saw my own reflection in her eyes; that was the moment I discovered who I was: someone who refused to idly stand by and remain silent. Despite everything my mind and body told me, I would not allow my friend to be subjected to the unrelenting bullying. I insisted on meeting with the school’s dean of students to expose what transpired, and to my surprise, those responsible faced school policy consequences. I felt empowered: it was the first time I had ever stood up for someone else, and I realized how much influence my own voice held. From this sequence of events, I discovered that advocacy is not only about speaking, but about courage, persistence, and the willingness to confront injustice even when it seems impossible to change. I learned that advocacy is waiting in the dean’s office, heart racing, evidence in my hands, and sticking to my convictions, no matter how difficult, to make sure my friend’s voice was heard. As a senior in high school, I still carry this lesson everywhere: silence protects the wrong people. It is the reason why advocacy leads to real, meaningful change. Advocacy can protect those without voices and challenge the injustices they face. I often think back to the professionals who vowed to protect and defend my mother, but instead chose to use every opportunity to take advantage of her. Remembering how powerless and vulnerable she was, inspires me to continuously advocate for people and issues. It is not about arguing or winning; it is about listening, understanding, and serving as a voice for those who cannot speak for themselves. Advocacy has shaped how I approach everything — from classroom discussions to daily interactions. I find myself speaking up when I see someone misunderstood or left out. I do not speak up because I want to lead or impress: I speak up because silence feels like surrender, and because I cannot be a willing participant in allowing injustice to take its course. Each time I hesitate to use the power of my voice, I remember what it cost me not to. In the future, I will continue to carry that lesson forward. I vow to speak up for those who, like my mom and friend, could not or were unable to protect themselves. I will continue to advocate — whether by supporting causes I believe in or helping others through their own immeasurable challenges. Every voice matters, and I intend to use mine well.

Days before my eleventh birthday, my mom died by suicide. Even at that age, somehow I knew it was inevitable. Her untreated schizophrenia had consumed her. As a young child, I could sense the tension stemming from my parents as they fought for custody in a contentious divorce. Despite my mother’s illness, I witnessed her relentless battle for me and her mental health. My instincts told me that something was deeply wrong: not only with her, but with the system that was supposed to protect women suffering from debilitating mental illness. For years after her passing, I suffered in silence, blaming myself for not being able to save her. The silence slowly engulfed me until it became unbearable. Before my sophomore year of high school, I did not yet understand the power — or necessity — of my voice. When I was only fifteen, I overheard a close friend being bullied by another student. I witnessed my friend freeze, the color drain from her face and a feeling of paralysis overtake her. In that moment I saw my own reflection in her eyes; that was the moment I discovered who I was: someone who refused to idly stand by and remain silent. Despite everything my mind and body told me, I would not allow my friend to be subjected to the unrelenting bullying. I insisted on meeting with the school’s dean of students to expose what transpired, and to my surprise, those responsible faced school policy consequences. I felt empowered: it was the first time I had ever stood up for someone else, and I realized how much influence my own voice held. From this sequence of events, I discovered that advocacy is not only about speaking, but about courage, persistence, and the willingness to confront injustice even when it seems impossible to change. I learned that advocacy is waiting in the dean’s office, heart racing, evidence in my hands, and sticking to my convictions, no matter how difficult, to make sure my friend’s voice was heard. As a senior in high school, I still carry this lesson everywhere: silence protects the wrong people. It is the reason why advocacy leads to real, meaningful change. Advocacy can protect those without voices and challenge the injustices they face. I often think back to the professionals who vowed to protect and defend my mother, but instead chose to use every opportunity to take advantage of her. Remembering how powerless and vulnerable she was, inspires me to continuously advocate for people and issues. It is not about arguing or winning; it is about listening, understanding, and serving as a voice for those who cannot speak for themselves. Advocacy has shaped how I approach everything — from classroom discussions to daily interactions. I find myself speaking up when I see someone misunderstood or left out. I do not speak up because I want to lead or impress: I speak up because silence feels like surrender, and because I cannot be a willing participant in allowing injustice to take its course. Each time I hesitate to use the power of my voice, I remember what it cost me not to. In the future, I will continue to carry that lesson forward. I vow to speak up for those who, like my mom and friend, could not or were unable to protect themselves. I will continue to advocate — whether by supporting causes I believe in or helping others through their own immeasurable challenges. Every voice matters, and I intend to use mine well.

Days before my eleventh birthday, my mom died by suicide. Even at that age, somehow I knew it was inevitable. Her untreated schizophrenia had consumed her. As a young child, I could sense the tension stemming from my parents as they fought for custody in a contentious divorce. Despite my mother’s illness, I witnessed her relentless battle for me and her mental health. My instincts told me that something was deeply wrong: not only with her, but with the system that was supposed to protect women suffering from severe mental illness. For years after her passing, I struggled with my own mental health in silence, blaming myself for not being able to save her. The silence slowly became unbearable. Before my sophomore year of high school, I did not yet understand the power — or necessity — of my voice. When I was fifteen, I overheard a close friend being bullied by another student. I watched my friend freeze, the color drain from her face as paralysis overtook her. In that moment, I saw my own reflection in her eyes; it was then I realized who I was: someone who refused to stand by and remain silent. Despite everything my mind and body told me, I would not allow my friend to be subjected to the bullying. I insisted on meeting with the school’s dean of students to report what happened, and to my surprise, those responsible faced consequences. I felt empowered: it was the first time I had stood up for someone else, and I realized how much influence my voice held. From this, I learned that advocacy is not only about speaking, but about courage, persistence, and confronting injustice even when change seems unlikely. As a senior in high school, I still carry this lesson: silence protects the wrong people. Advocacy leads to meaningful change. It protects those without voices and challenges the injustices they face. I often think back to the professionals who were meant to protect my mother, but instead took advantage of her vulnerability. Remembering how powerless she was inspires me to continuously advocate for others. It is not about winning; it is about listening, understanding, and serving as a voice for those who cannot speak for themselves. Advocacy has shaped how I approach everything — from classroom discussions to daily interactions. It has also transformed my relationships, teaching me to listen more intentionally and support others in ways I once needed myself. I speak up when I see someone misunderstood or left out—not to impress, but because silence feels like surrender. Each time I hesitate, I remember what it cost me not to. In the future, I will carry that lesson forward. I hope to pursue a career in law, where I can advocate for individuals like my mother—people whose voices are often ignored by the systems meant to protect them. I will continue to advocate by supporting causes I believe in and helping others through their challenges. Every voice matters, and I intend to use mine well.

Patriotism, justice, and law enforcement are all supposed to be about protecting people and doing what is right, but for too many African Americans, the police have been a source of fear, pain, and mistrust. The truth is that for generations, systemic racism, biased policies, and lack of accountability have created a gap between African American communities and the law, and it cannot be closed by slogans, speeches, or surface-level gestures. Real change begins with listening, acknowledging the harm that has been done, and taking actions that reflect fairness and ethical responsibility. The history of policing in America shows why this trust is broken. From segregation to redlining, from discriminatory policing to unequal access to education, African Americans have long been treated as outsiders in a system that is supposed to serve everyone equally. The consequences of that inequality are not just historical, they are painfully relevant to present times. The murder of George Floyd in 2020 is one of the clearest examples of what happens when power is unchecked and bias goes unchallenged. A single act of brutality, captured for the world to see, sparked protests across the nation and reminded everyone that too many African Americans still do not feel safe in the hands of those sworn to protect them. If law enforcement wants to repair these relationships, it cannot ignore the past or pretend that incidents like this do not matter. Communities need to be heard, valued, and included in decisions that affect their lives. Accountability matters as much as listening. For years, African Americans have witnessed misconduct being ignored, underreported, or excused, and that creates resentment, fear, and anger. Civilian review boards, transparent reporting of stops, arrests, and use-of-force incidents, and real consequences for wrongdoing are supposed to be about proving that law enforcement serves everyone equally, not an abuse of power or blatant racism. When people know that rules apply to all, trust begins to grow, and policing starts to feel like protection rather than oppression. Accountability alone is not enough. Officers must understand the neighborhoods they serve, the history behind the distrust, and the social and economic struggles African Americans face. Cultural competency training, community mentorship programs, and partnerships with schools and local organizations can open spaces where dialogue happens, where people feel valued, and where officers are seen as allies rather than enforcers. When law enforcement acts with empathy, transparency, and respect, it shows that their true duty goes towards protection of all. Building trust will not be easy, and it will not happen overnight, but it is possible. African Americans deserve to be treated with respect, heard, and protected, and law enforcement has the power to restore faith in the system if it chooses to act. Until that happens, justice remains incomplete, and patriotism, the kind Roosevelt described, rooted in fairness and universal brotherhood, remains an ideal rather than a reality. True change comes when law enforcement chooses to listen, act, and serve with integrity, making equality and ethical responsibility the heart of their work.

I have always been interested in understanding both people and the systems that shape their lives. As I’ve grown, I’ve realized that laws and institutions play a major role in determining who has access to opportunities, protection, and justice. This realization is what led me to pursue a future in government and law. In high school, I pushed myself academically while exploring my interests in history, literature, and politics. Through my classes, I became especially interested in how political systems function and how laws affect everyday life. At the same time, studying literature helped me better understand different perspectives, cultures, and the complexity of human behavior. These experiences showed me that to create meaningful change, it’s not enough to understand systems alone—you also have to understand people. In college, I plan to double major in political science and the humanities. Political science will allow me to study how governments operate and how policies are created, while the humanities will help me better understand human experiences and ethical issues. I believe that combining these two areas will prepare me to approach problems in a more thoughtful and balanced way. My long-term goal is to pursue a career in humanitarian law, where I can advocate for people who are often overlooked or underserved. I want to work on issues related to human rights and help ensure that laws are applied fairly and justly. Whether that means working with individuals, communities, or on a larger policy level, I hope to make a meaningful difference. I plan to attend a strong state university for my undergraduate education so that I can make a financially responsible decision while still receiving a quality education. This choice will allow me to save resources for law school, which is essential for the career path I am pursuing. Because of the significant cost of legal education, scholarships like this one are especially important in helping me reach my goals without taking on overwhelming financial burden. Robert F. Lawson’s dedication to helping others is something I admire and hope to reflect in my own life. I want my career to be about more than personal success—I want it to be about making a positive impact and contributing to something larger than myself. This scholarship would support my education and help make my long-term goals more attainable. More importantly, it would bring me one step closer to a career where I can use my knowledge to help others and work toward a more fair and just world.

Days before my eleventh birthday, my mom died by suicide. Even at that age, somehow I knew it was inevitable. Her untreated schizophrenia had consumed her. As a young child, I could sense the tension stemming from my parents as they fought for custody in a contentious divorce. Despite my mother’s illness, I witnessed her relentless battle for me and her mental health. My instincts told me that something was deeply wrong: not only with her, but with the system that was supposed to protect women suffering from debilitating mental illness. For years after her passing, I suffered in silence, blaming myself for not being able to save her. The silence slowly engulfed me until it became unbearable. Before my sophomore year of high school, I did not yet understand the power — or necessity — of my voice. When I was only fifteen, I overheard a close friend being bullied by another student. I witnessed my friend freeze, the color drain from her face and a feeling of paralysis overtake her. In that moment I saw my own reflection in her eyes; that was the moment I discovered who I was: someone who refused to idly stand by and remain silent. Despite everything my mind and body told me, I would not allow my friend to be subjected to the unrelenting bullying. I insisted on meeting with the school’s dean of students to expose what transpired, and to my surprise, those responsible faced school policy consequences. I felt empowered: it was the first time I had ever stood up for someone else, and I realized how much influence my own voice held. From this sequence of events, I discovered that advocacy is not only about speaking, but about courage, persistence, and the willingness to confront injustice even when it seems impossible to change. I learned that advocacy is waiting in the dean’s office, heart racing, evidence in my hands, and sticking to my convictions, no matter how difficult, to make sure my friend’s voice was heard. As a senior in high school, I still carry this lesson everywhere: silence protects the wrong people. It is the reason why advocacy leads to real, meaningful change. Advocacy can protect those without voices and challenge the injustices they face. I often think back to the professionals who vowed to protect and defend my mother, but instead chose to use every opportunity to take advantage of her. Remembering how powerless and vulnerable she was, inspires me to continuously advocate for people and issues. It is not about arguing or winning; it is about listening, understanding, and serving as a voice for those who cannot speak for themselves. Advocacy has shaped how I approach everything — from classroom discussions to daily interactions. I find myself speaking up when I see someone misunderstood or left out. I do not speak up because I want to lead or impress: I speak up because silence feels like surrender, and because I cannot be a willing participant in allowing injustice to take its course. Each time I hesitate to use the power of my voice, I remember what it cost me not to. In the future, I will continue to carry that lesson forward. I vow to speak up for those who, like my mom and friend, could not or were unable to protect themselves. I will continue to advocate — whether by supporting causes I believe in or helping others through their own immeasurable challenges. Every voice matters, and I intend to use mine well.

Higher education represents more than an opportunity for personal success—it is a pathway to create meaningful change in the lives of others. For me, pursuing higher education is not only about expanding my own knowledge, but about gaining the tools necessary to advocate for communities that are often overlooked or underserved. My academic goal is to pursue a double major in Political Science and Humanities, ultimately leading to a career in humanitarian law. Through political science, I hope to understand how policies and institutions shape the lives of individuals, particularly those in vulnerable communities. Through the humanities, I seek to explore the cultural, historical, and ethical dimensions of human experience. Together, these fields will allow me to approach legal advocacy with both analytical understanding and compassion, ensuring that the solutions I work toward are not only effective but also just. My desire to pursue this path has been shaped by both personal experiences and my involvement in my community. Through the SALTT club, I have worked closely with migrant children whose families face significant economic and social challenges. Many of these children spend extended hours at school because their parents work in the fields seven days a week, while others face the uncertainty of family separation due to immigration enforcement. Working with these children changed my understanding of what it means to give back. I learned that impact does not always come from large-scale actions, but from small, intentional moments. I remember sitting beside a young boy who had become overwhelmed after losing a craft he had made. I held his hand and stayed with him until he felt calm enough to reengage. I also spent time with a young girl with a disability who was often overlooked by others, choosing to play alongside her and ensure she felt included. These experiences taught me the importance of empathy, patience, and presence—qualities that I will carry with me into my future career. Giving back to my community has also made me more aware of the systemic barriers that many individuals face. I have seen how economic hardship, immigration status, and lack of access to resources can limit opportunities for entire families. These observations have inspired me to pursue a career where I can address these issues on a broader scale. Through humanitarian law, I hope to advocate for policies and protections that support vulnerable populations, ensuring that they are treated with dignity and fairness. Higher education is the foundation that will allow me to turn these experiences into meaningful action. It will provide me with the knowledge and skills needed to navigate complex legal systems and to advocate effectively for those who need it most. More importantly, it will allow me to amplify the voices of individuals who are often unheard. Through my academic pursuits and community involvement, I have come to understand that creating change requires both awareness and action. I am committed to using my education not only to achieve personal success, but to make a lasting impact on my community and beyond.

Throughout my life, I have pushed myself to grow in every area— academically, athletically, and within my community. Whether I am training for triathlons, excelling in rigorous coursework, or volunteering with underserved populations, I strive to approach everything I do with discipline, resilience, and purpose. As a triathlete, I have learned the value of consistency and perseverance. Balancing three sports — swimming, cycling, and running — requires early mornings, long hours, and mental toughness. Placing third in the state was not just an athletic achievement, but a reflection of years of dedication and the ability to push through physical and mental barriers. Through this sport, I have developed a strong work ethic and the understanding that success is built through daily effort, even when progress feels slow. Beyond athletics, I have committed myself to academic excellence. Through programs such as my high school’s STEAM Law track, as well as courses like AP Government and World Religions, I have developed a deep interest in understanding how societies function and how law can be used to create meaningful change. I plan to pursue a double major in Political Science and Humanities, with the goal of entering humanitarian law and advocating for vulnerable populations. My most meaningful growth, however, has come from my involvement in community service. Through the SALTT club, I have worked closely with migrant children whose families face economic hardship and, in some cases, separation due to immigration enforcement. Many of these children spend long hours at school while their parents work in the fields, and they often carry emotional burdens far beyond their years. In working with them, I learned that making a difference does not always come from large actions, but from small, intentional ones. Whether it was sitting beside a child who was overwhelmed, holding his hand until he felt calm, or spending time playing with a child who was often overlooked, I realized that presence and empathy can have a powerful impact. These experiences strengthened my compassion and reinforced my desire to support those who are underserved. This scholarship would not only help ease the financial burden of pursuing higher education, but also allow me to continue striving toward my goals with the same level of dedication that Kalia D. Davis exemplified. Like her, I aim to approach life with determination, kindness, and a commitment to excellence. I want to use my education to make a meaningful impact, advocating for those who face injustice and ensuring that their voices are heard. Through my experiences in athletics, academics, and service, I have learned that success is not defined by one achievement, but by the consistency of effort and the willingness to uplift others along the way. With the support of this scholarship, I will continue to pursue my goals with purpose, striving to create a positive impact in my community and beyond.

Some teachers wait until you are on their roster to learn your name. Mr. Gamwell knew mine before I ever stepped into his classroom. Early in the school year, he greeted me in the hallway like he had known me for years. At the time, I was confused—I had no idea who he was. Later, as his AP English Language student and a member of SALTT, I realized that moment reflected exactly who he is: someone who makes people feel seen long before they expect it. Mr. Gamwell has been part of SALTT since he was a junior in high school, and now he leads the club with the same passion that first drew him to it. That level of long-term dedication shows in everything he does. Through SALTT, I worked with migrant children, many of whom carry challenges most people never take the time to understand. At first, I saw it as a way to earn service hours. But under his leadership, that mindset quickly changed. He taught me that service is not about obligation—it is about connection. He encouraged us to notice the kids who stayed quiet, who hesitated to join in, and to meet them with patience and care. I made it a point to spend time with those students, helping them feel included and valued. One moment I will never forget happened during a SALTT Christmas field trip. On the bus ride back, Mr. Gamwell stood up and publicly thanked me for taking the time to support a student who often felt overlooked. She had faced significant challenges in her life, yet showed incredible strength. Hearing him recognize my effort in front of everyone made me realize that small, intentional acts of kindness truly matter. His impact on me went far beyond service. In his AP Lang class, he challenged us to think critically, to question ideas, and to understand the power of language. More importantly, he created a space where I felt safe being honest about my own experiences. During a time when I was dealing with personal trauma, he made me feel understood rather than judged. He supported me not only as a student, but as a person, even helping me shape my college essay in a way that allowed me to tell my story with strength. What makes Mr. Gamwell truly remarkable is the consistency of his care. Every day, he wakes up at 3 a.m., commuting nearly two hours to school, taking a bus and biking the rest of the way—just to be there for his students. He also dedicates his own time and resources to keep SALTT running, expecting nothing in return. Because of him, I have changed how I approach life. I take the time to notice people who might feel invisible, and I try to lead with empathy in everything I do. As I prepare to leave for university, I know I will miss him—not just as a teacher, but as someone who truly saw me. Mr. Gamwell did more than teach me how to write or volunteer. He taught me how to show up for others, how to listen, and how to make people feel valued. That is a lesson I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

Jack Terry’s story inspires me because it shows the power of perseverance, courage, and using personal adversity to create positive impact. Losing his entire family as a child, surviving three concentration camps, and arriving in a new country with no English or formal education would have defeated many, yet he not only rebuilt his life but devoted himself to helping others and sharing his story. His example reminds me that even in the face of profound hardship, one can choose to rise, learn, and make a difference in the lives of others. My own experience with adversity, though different in scale, has shaped who I am and what I hope to contribute to the world. Days before my eleventh birthday, my mother died by suicide after years of struggling with untreated mental illness. Losing her at such a young age left me feeling powerless and silenced, and for years I blamed myself for not being able to help. Yet over time, I learned that silence protects injustice and that speaking up can make a tangible difference in the lives of others. This lesson first took hold when I overheard a close friend being bullied. I witnessed the fear and helplessness in her eyes and realized I could not stand idly by. I approached the school’s dean, presented the facts, and ensured that the students responsible faced consequences. Though it was terrifying, this experience taught me that advocacy requires courage, persistence, and the willingness to confront difficult situations. It also revealed the profound influence a single voice can have in protecting others. Since then, I have sought opportunities to use my voice to serve communities in need. Volunteering with the SALTT club, I have worked with migrant children whose parents work long hours or are absent due to immigration enforcement. I have helped children cope with trauma, loss, and isolation through small but meaningful actions—holding a child’s hand when he was upset, or spending the day playing with a child with a disability who others overlooked. These experiences have taught me that meaningful support often comes from empathy, patience, and the willingness to act on observed needs. These lessons guide both my academic and career aspirations. I plan to double major in Political Science and Humanities, with the goal of entering humanitarian law to advocate for vulnerable populations and advance justice on a larger scale. Just as Jack Terry used his experience to educate and inspire others, I hope to use my education to create policies, programs, and legal protections that give voice to those who are marginalized or at risk. Jack Terry’s life demonstrates that even the most daunting adversity can be transformed into purpose and impact. His resilience reminds me that hardship can become a foundation for empathy, action, and service. By drawing on my own experiences with loss, advocacy, and community engagement, I aim to honor his example—using my studies and future career to protect, support, and uplift those who cannot always speak for themselves.

Throughout high school, I have sought ways to support marginalized and underserved populations in my community, especially migrant children whose parents work long hours in the fields and who often face emotional hardship, instability, and limited support. Many of these students spend extra hours at school because their caregivers are occupied with physically demanding labor, and some experience trauma related to immigration enforcement and family separation. Being with these children opened my eyes to the deep human needs that can go unnoticed and inspired me to respond with compassion and attentiveness. My involvement with the SALTT club gave me the opportunity to interact closely with these kids. I noticed early on that while donating supplies and hosting events met some of their basic needs, many children also needed emotional support, reassurance, and individualized attention—things that are harder to measure but equally important. I began to adjust how I approached activities, focusing on being present and responsive to what each child needed in the moment. One experience that stays with me is with a boy named Jesus, who was about eight years old. During an activity, he became overwhelmed and upset after losing a craft he had spent time creating. Instead of redirecting him right away, I sat beside him and held his hand, offering calm reassurance until he felt comfortable engaging again. Another child, Brianni, also eight, lives with a disability that stems from trauma she experienced at a young age. Despite her challenges, Brianni was energetic and joyful, but some of her peers found her behavior difficult to engage with. I stayed at her side, playing with her and validating her creativity in ways that helped her feel seen and included. Through these interactions, I learned that serving underserved populations isn’t just about major events or large-scale initiatives; often it means seeing the human needs that others overlook and responding with compassion and consistency. I intentionally adjusted how I interacted with each child—listening closely, watching for emotional cues, adapting activities when needed, and offering comfort or encouragement. These responses were small, but they built trust, comfort, and connection for children who might otherwise feel unseen or unsupported. This experience taught me to observe needs, think critically about how to meet them, and act with intention and empathy. I developed skills in emotional awareness, adaptability, and cultural sensitivity, which will guide me in future work with underserved communities. Whether through volunteer efforts, community engagement, or a career focused on advocacy and justice, I want to continue creating spaces where people feel supported, affirmed, and empowered. In working with these children, I came to understand that innovation in service doesn’t always require formal projects or titles, but rather a mindset of response—seeing what others overlook and acting to make someone’s day a little more secure and hopeful.

Days before my eleventh birthday, my mom died by suicide. Even at that age, somehow I knew it was inevitable. Her untreated schizophrenia had consumed her. As a young child, I could sense the tension stemming from my parents as they fought for custody in a contentious divorce. Despite my mother’s illness, I witnessed her relentless battle for me and her mental health. My instincts told me that something was deeply wrong—not only with her, but with the system that was supposed to protect women suffering from debilitating mental illness. For years after her passing, I suffered in silence, blaming myself for not being able to save her. The silence slowly engulfed me until it became unbearable. Before my sophomore year of high school, I did not yet understand the power—or necessity—of my voice. When I was only fifteen, I overheard a close friend being bullied by another student. I witnessed my friend freeze, the color drain from her face, and a feeling of paralysis overtake her. In that moment, I saw my own reflection in her eyes; that was the moment I discovered who I was: someone who refused to idly stand by and remain silent. Despite everything my mind and body told me, I would not allow my friend to be subjected to unrelenting bullying. I insisted on meeting with the school’s dean of students to expose what transpired, and to my surprise, those responsible faced school policy consequences. I felt empowered: it was the first time I had ever stood up for someone else, and I realized how much influence my own voice held. From this sequence of events, I discovered that advocacy is not only about speaking, but about courage, persistence, and the willingness to confront injustice even when it seems impossible to change. I learned that advocacy is waiting in the dean’s office, heart racing, evidence in my hands, and sticking to my convictions, no matter how difficult, to make sure my friend’s voice was heard. As a senior in high school, I still carry this lesson everywhere: silence protects the wrong people. It is the reason why advocacy leads to real, meaningful change. Advocacy can protect those without voices and challenge the injustices they face. I often think back to the professionals who vowed to protect and defend my mother, but instead chose to use every opportunity to take advantage of her. Remembering how powerless and vulnerable she was inspires me to continuously advocate for people and issues. It is not about arguing or winning; it is about listening, understanding, and serving as a voice for those who cannot speak for themselves. Advocacy has shaped how I approach everything—from classroom discussions to daily interactions. I speak up when I see someone misunderstood or left out, not because I want to lead or impress, but because silence feels like surrender. Each time I hesitate to use the power of my voice, I remember what it cost me not to. In the future, I will continue to carry that lesson forward—not only in everyday life, but in my pursuit of a career in humanitarian law, where I hope to protect vulnerable communities and advocate for justice on a broader scale. Every voice matters, and I intend to use mine well—to advocate, support, and create meaningful change for those who cannot speak for themselves.

From a young age, I have been fascinated by the forces that shape societies—the ideas, cultures, and historical events that influence the world we live in today. This curiosity grew as I studied history and current events, realizing how lessons from the past can guide decisions in the present. It also inspired my decision to pursue a double major in Political Science and Humanities, with the ultimate goal of entering humanitarian law to advocate for vulnerable populations and promote justice on both national and international scales. Even in high school, I have pursued this passion through the STEAM Law program, taking four years of different law classes, alongside AP Government and a course in World Religions. These courses have given me insight into legal systems, governance, and the variety of human belief systems that shape societies. They have deepened my understanding of human thought, morality, and the ethical dimensions of law, preparing me to approach humanitarian issues with both analytical rigor and cultural sensitivity. My interest in human behavior is also expressed through writing. I have spent years crafting stories exploring the psychology of the duality of man, investigating how individuals wrestle with morality, choice, and consequence. Books such as The Crucible, The Great Gatsby, and Crime and Punishment have profoundly influenced me, showing the ways that society, culture, and personal decisions intersect. Through these stories, I have learned to appreciate the complexity of human motivation—a perspective that is essential in humanitarian law, where understanding context can mean the difference between injustice and protection. This intellectual interest is complemented by practical advocacy experience. Volunteering with the SALTT club, I worked with migrant children who face immense challenges—many of whose parents work in the fields seven days a week, and some of whom are left without parental care due to immigration enforcement. One child, Jesus, became upset after losing a small craft. I held his hand and sat with him until he could engage with another activity. Another, Brianni, has a mental disability caused by trauma, yet radiated energy and positivity. I spent the day playing with her, joining in her games when others would not. These experiences taught me that leadership is sometimes quiet, requiring patience, empathy, and consistent presence. Through these experiences—academic, creative, and service-oriented—I have developed a perspective that is both analytical and compassionate. Studying political science will allow me to understand how policies and institutions impact communities, while the humanities give me insight into the cultural, ethical, and historical forces that shape human behavior. Combined with my goal of humanitarian law, these skills will enable me to advocate for those whose voices are silenced, to ensure that laws and policies protect human rights, and to design interventions that are culturally informed and ethically grounded. By pursuing this path, I hope to honor Ryan T. Herich’s passion for understanding the world and applying that knowledge to improve it. I am committed to using the lessons I gain from history, political science, and cultural understanding to advocate for justice, protect the vulnerable, and ensure that lessons from the past guide us toward a more equitable and compassionate future.

Throughout high school, my involvement in the SALTT club has allowed me to work closely with migrant children in my community, organizing events, donating supplies, and creating spaces where they can simply feel like kids. Many of these children attend the schools because their parents work in the fields every day of the week, leaving them without care. Some sleep at school or share small homes with multiple families. Recently, with increased immigration enforcement, some have even been left without their parents, carrying a kind of fear and instability no child should have to face. What began as a way to earn service hours quickly became one of the most meaningful parts of my high school experience. After my first field trip, I realized how different their realities were from my own. I had always understood immigration in an abstract way, but working directly with these children made it real. I began to recognize how much I had taken for granted—and how much even small acts of support could matter. One moment that stayed with me was with a young boy, eight years old, named Jesus. During an activity, he became visibly upset after losing a small marshmallow craft he had made. He refused to make another and was overwhelmed by frustration. I held his hand and simply sat with him, offering quiet reassurance. After a few minutes, I asked if he wanted to color with me. At first he resisted, but gradually he began to engage, and his tension slowly eased. Nothing about that moment was dramatic, but it mattered. It reminded me that leadership is sometimes about being present, not solving a problem. Another child, Brianni, was also eight years old at the time. She has a mental disability stemming from the trauma of witnessing her uncle murdered, which stunted her development. Despite this, she radiated energy and positivity, though her mischief sometimes frustrated others. I spent the day playing with her, following her lead and joining in her games. Most wouldn’t engage with her, but doing so allowed her to feel included and empowered. Experiences like this taught me the importance of patience, adaptability, and empathy in leadership. Through SALTT, I developed skills beyond service hours. I learned to read emotions beyond words, communicate patiently, and adapt to each child’s needs. I also learned that leadership is quieter than I had imagined—it is showing up consistently, supporting others in ways that are often unseen, and helping someone feel safe and valued. SALTT has shaped my sense of purpose by showing me the impact of advocacy and care, particularly for vulnerable communities. It has deepened my understanding of empathy, taught me to notice the struggles others carry, and inspired me to act with compassion in all areas of my life. Whether working with children, engaging in my community, or pursuing future goals, I carry the understanding that meaningful change often begins with simply being there for someone who needs it. SALTT did not just give me service hours—it changed how I see others, how I lead, and how I define impact. It taught me that sometimes the most powerful way to lead is simply to be present, hand in hand, with someone who needs you.

Days before my eleventh birthday, my mother died by suicide. Even at that age, I sensed the inevitability of what had happened. Her untreated schizophrenia had consumed her life. As a young child, I witnessed the tension between my parents as they fought for custody during a contentious divorce. Despite her illness, my mother fought relentlessly for both her mental health and for me. Watching her struggle, I felt that something was deeply wrong—not only with her suffering, but with the systems that were meant to protect people living with severe mental illness. For years after her death, I carried a quiet sense of guilt. I believed that somehow I should have been able to save her. That silence slowly grew heavier until it became unbearable. Before my sophomore year of high school, I did not yet understand the power—or necessity—of using my voice. When I was fifteen, I overheard a close friend being bullied by another student. I watched her freeze as the color drained from her face, unable to respond. In that moment, I saw my own reflection in her silence. I realized that I had a choice: remain silent as I had for so long, or finally speak up. Despite the fear telling me to stay out of it, I refused to let my friend face the situation alone. I insisted on meeting with the school’s dean of students and explained what had happened. To my surprise, the students responsible faced consequences under school policy. For the first time, I experienced the real impact of advocacy. I learned that advocacy is not only about speaking—it requires courage, persistence, and the willingness to confront injustice even when doing so feels uncomfortable. That moment changed how I understood responsibility. Advocacy, I realized, is often quiet and difficult. It means sitting in an office with your heart racing, holding evidence in your hands, and trusting that speaking up matters. It means refusing to accept injustice simply because it feels easier to look away. Those experiences shaped my desire to pursue a career in law and public policy. I want to advocate for individuals who, like my mother, struggle within systems that often fail to protect them. Through the law, I hope to help create policies that better support people suffering from severe mental illness and ensure that vulnerable individuals are treated with dignity rather than neglect. College will bring challenges of its own. As a first-generation student navigating higher education, I anticipate the difficulty of balancing rigorous coursework with internships, leadership opportunities, and service. However, the challenges I have already faced have taught me resilience and perseverance. They have shown me that meaningful change rarely comes easily, but that persistence can create opportunities to improve the lives of others. My passion for advocacy continues to shape how I approach both my education and my future career. Whether I am speaking up for a classmate, volunteering in my community, or pursuing a legal career, I believe that silence protects the wrong people. Meaningful change begins when individuals are willing to challenge injustice and stand up for those who cannot defend themselves. Through my education and future work in law and policy, I intend to use my voice to ensure that vulnerable people are heard. Every voice matters, and I am determined to use mine to advocate for a more just and compassionate society.