I could write a million different things about art. Art is the root of all creation, we strive for perfection knowing we will never reach it. Yet, each time, we get closer and closer to perfection being a reality. Every piece of art is wrapped in a history and a story we know nothing about. Art connects us regardless of time or space. We reach out to each other with a simple brush stroke, a waver in your voice while singing, or a slight hesitation while your finger struggles to push down the key on the piano. As a performer, one of the greatest challenges I’ve faced is knowing that everything I’ve worked for, academically and artistically, can be reduced to a single moment on stage. One performance. One mistake. And suddenly, I’m written off. It often feels like my entire life has been carved in glass: beautiful, fragile, and always one wrong tap away from shattering. People love to say their greatest weakness is perfectionism in job interviews. But for me, it’s not a clever response, it’s the truth. Perfectionism isn’t just a quirk; it’s a survival instinct. I grew up poor, impoverished, really. That reality has shaped everything about me, especially my art. It was one of the driving forces behind the depression I battled in high school, and it continues to fuel the pressure I put on myself to be flawless. When you're raised in survival mode, success doesn’t feel optional, it feels like the only way out. I don’t allow hesitation. I don’t leave room for uncertainty or wavering. I rehearse until there’s no space left for doubt. Until every movement, every breath, every word feels etched into my bones. Because if I’m forced to perform before I’ve reached that standard, before it’s perfect, I break. Yes, I’ll get through it. I won’t walk off stage. I won’t quit. But inside, there’s a voice: quiet, desperate and crying out for someone to see past the polished surface and recognize the truth: That wasn’t the best of me. I can do better. I can grow. I just needed a little more time, a little more space to become what I know I’m capable of. Because when your art is always changing, it’s never truly finished. There’s always something you could have done better, something you’ll do differently tomorrow. And that truth, while inspiring, can be quietly devastating. You take the kudos’, you walk off the stage, always knowing you could have been better. You could have sang that note slightly more in tune. That crescendo could have had more room to grow, but you didn't allow it to. The waverings, the brush strokes, the hesitation. Everyone can see through that and as you stand on that stage, in front of hundreds of people, you have never felt more alone. Art is beautiful, full of community and peace that you have never known. Standing on stage however feeling completely seen through and invisible at the same time. You start to wonder if it's worth it. And yet, there’s that moment. You look out into the audience, and your eyes meet theirs,just one person, but in that instant, everything stills. They see you. Not just the performance, not just the polished exterior, but you. And suddenly, you remember why you do this. Why you endure the pressure, the doubt, the endless striving. Because in that quiet connection, art fulfills its highest purpose: it reaches another soul. And for a moment, you’re not alone.

I have had a long and often difficult relationship with the Lord, one filled with uncertainty, searching, and ultimately, rediscovery. It took me many years to fully understand where I was meant to be, spiritually and personally. When I was younger, I held a firm belief that going to church every Sunday was the cornerstone of being a “good” Christian. To me, attendance equated to faith, and I assumed that outward displays of devotion were all that mattered. But as I grew older, I began to notice inconsistencies. The church I attended seemed to place more value on appearances, on dressing a certain way, speaking in a certain tone, behaving in a narrowly defined manner, than on truly living by the words of Christ. The teachings felt more like rules for performance than guides for genuine spiritual growth. And then, the unthinkable happened. That very church, the place I had looked to for guidance and truth, was shut down after it was revealed that the pastor had been stealing from the congregation. I was devastated. The man who stood at the pulpit, the person I had been told to trust and look up to, had betrayed us all. He had gone against the very scripture he was supposed to be preaching. That betrayal cut deep, and with it, my faith began to crumble. I felt lost, disillusioned, and unsure of who or what to believe in anymore. For years, I kept my distance from anything related to church or organized religion. I still believed in God, somewhere deep down, but the structure that had once supported that belief now felt hollow. It wasn’t until I turned 22 that something began to shift. I had just started a year at Kellogg Community College and, on a whim, decided to join the choir. Music had always been a part of my life, and I thought it would be a comforting, creative outlet during a time when I was still searching for meaning. Not long after joining the choir, I stumbled across an announcement for a scholarship position tied to a local church. At first, I didn’t think much of it. I skimmed the details and moved on. But for some reason, the idea lingered in my mind, echoing louder with each passing day. Eventually, I thought, “Why not? What do I have to lose?” So I auditioned. That seemingly small decision turned out to be one of the most transformative moments of my life. Through that position, I met one of the most kindhearted and inspirational people I’ve ever known, my mentor, who guided me not just musically but spiritually. I found myself immersed in practice and performance, often juggling a demanding workload, but I didn’t mind. In fact, I loved it. The more I gave, the more I felt fulfilled. Music had become my bridge back to faith. Still, I approached my first church service with a mix of hope and fear. The trauma from my previous church experience lingered. I walked in with my guard up, wondering if I was making a mistake, afraid that I might once again find myself in a place where image mattered more than substance. But the moment the sermon began, those fears started to melt away. The pastor stood before us not as someone demanding unquestioning loyalty, but as a teacher encouraging open minds and hearts. He invited us to question him, to challenge his interpretations, and most importantly, to seek out the truth for ourselves. He urged us not to blindly accept his words but to verify them, reflect on them, and engage with scripture actively. His passion for the Word was not rooted in spectacle or showmanship, but in a deep reverence for what it truly meant. For the first time in over a decade, I felt a spark of faith reignite within me. His teachings didn’t just restore my trust in the church, they helped me understand that faith doesn’t have to be perfect or linear. It can waver. It can be challenged. And sometimes, that’s exactly what it needs in order to grow stronger. It took over 12 years for me to find my way back to God. But I now realize that every doubt, every question, and every misstep was part of that journey. I wasn’t meant to blindly follow, I was meant to question. My path was never about perfection or appearances. It was about seeking truth, even when it was hard. And in that search, I found something real. In learning that churches don’t have to be places of fear, judgment, or exclusion, but instead can be spaces filled with genuine love, acceptance, and truth, I’ve discovered a deep desire to help create and nurture that kind of environment for others. I’ve come to understand that the church, at its best, is not a place that demands perfection or blind obedience, but a community that encourages growth, healing, and honest faith. This realization has ignited a calling in me to be part of building spaces where people can feel safe to ask questions, express their doubts, and grow in their relationship with God. Because of this, I feel a strong pull toward teaching—specifically within Christian schools. I want to be someone who doesn’t just educate minds but also helps guide hearts. I want to create classrooms where students know that faith isn’t something they have to perform or fear losing, but something they can explore, wrestle with, and deepen over time. I hope to be the kind of teacher who can meet students where they are, especially those who may be struggling with doubt or carrying past hurt from religious experiences. I want them to see that faith can be strong even when it’s questioned, and that God's love isn’t confined to the walls of a church or the limits of human judgment. Ultimately, I want to be a light for those who feel lost, a support for those who are searching, and a voice that reminds others that God’s grace is not only real but available, even in the midst of uncertainty. My journey has shown me what a difference one person, one church, or one teacher can make, and I hope to be that difference for someone else.

When I first read the statement for this scholarship I felt a deep connection to it. When I was in high school I felt as if I was the dumbest person in the room at all times. I was never drawn to academics and it made me feel as if I wasn't deserving of a place in the school. I felt as if everyone saw through me and even though I made good enough grades and could hold a strong conversation, I felt as if I was a fraud. As if anytime I walked in a classroom people knew I wasn't good enough to be there. When I began middle school, however, I found choir. I was treated as if I belonged, as if no matter what I had a place there. We went through a lot of teachers until my junior year when Mrs. D came in. She had just graduated college and it was her first teaching job. When I was being taught by her, I felt like I was special. It was hard for me in high school, my mom was in and out of the hospital and so was my stepdad. I lost interest in almost everything in my life because I was so busy trying to keep my family stitched together. Mrs D however made me feel like no matter what I was going through at home I was never alone. That's who I want to be when I become a teacher. I want to be someone that people feel safe around. I want people to know that I'm here to make sure they can be who they are. I want to base my classroom on mutual respect and understanding. I believe so many people who have gone into the education field have burnt out because they don't understand what they are getting into. They go into education expecting an idyllic life and in reality, it is hard work. You can't go into education expecting children to behave like adults, especially when it's hard enough for adults to act like adults. I want to make sure that the next generation has someone in their corner. That no matter how hard it gets someone is there for them. Just like one teacher was there for me. One day I'll be there for someone as well. I just have to survive school to get there, and I will.

I firmly believe that education is the most crucial aspect of anyone's life. I have seen the negative outcomes for individuals without access to education, and I believe that everyone has the right to pursue better opportunities for themselves. My sister, who was born with autism, faced significant challenges in staying in school due to bullying and a lack of appropriate resources to address her needs. One aspect of education that I am deeply passionate about is customizing the learning experience to fit each student. I am convinced that with the right support and resources, every student can thrive academically. I strongly believe that dedicating more time and attention to an individual student could profoundly impact their life. During my sister's high school years, she was moved from one teacher to another, and it seemed that no one truly cared about her learning progress. I believe that if we set up these students, who would traditionally be labeled as "bad students" or "academically challenged", with the ability to not only learn on their own but thrive in academic settings, test scores will improve and every student's ability to learn will also increase. I believe that the "no child left behind" concept is hindering all learners. Basic education in the U.S. has been declining. If we establish the idea that all children are equal but may not necessarily need equality, but rather equity, we can create a better future for children. Some see this as setting up students for failure. I believe letting children pass a class for the benefit of the school sets everyone else up for failure. Simply splitting children into regular and honors classes helps no one. Setting classes up for equity means that children receive the education they need, not just the education they want. I'm studying education because it's one of the only things that has every truly held my attention. I believe in setting people up for a good life. I specifically am going in to music education because I believe music transcends any academic issues someone might face. Music is something everyone can love and enjoy, no matter what. I hope one day the issues with our education system are fixed and I hope to be a part of that change. Until then I want to offer a safe place for those who don't have it in the rest of the school. I want students to feel like they have a safe in their life and their education.

As I reflect on my life journey, I realize that I have always been conflicted with my faith and my science. At first, I believed that these two could not coexist and that trying to merge them would result in one being negated. However, as I grew in my understanding of God and my faith, I came to realize that they are both equally important. Faith is not just about believing in a higher power, but it's also about acting on that belief and leading with kindness. It's about having faith in God and in those around us. Through my faith, I have been called to my passion for science. I believe that through science, I can find a way to help and protect the life that God wishes to preserve. What's important to me is the belief that I am part of something bigger than myself. If I had given up on my faith in the face of life's challenges like homelessness, abuse, bullying, and more, I would have never found my path. My future goals revolve around pursuing a career in marine biology. As someone who deeply cares about the well-being of ocean creatures, it is disheartening to see them suffer in their own habitats. I am determined to find ways to mitigate the threats they face and contribute to their preservation. I believe that through research and innovation, we can develop sustainable solutions that can help protect and preserve marine life for generations to come. I lead through love and kindness, and through that, I have found peace in my community. As a member of the board of my local community theatre, I have worked with children and adults alike. I have found that bringing people together is quite easy. I have been able to bring light into situations that were dark and not what was needed at that time. Through my work, I have been able to guide people in their faith and help them find their path. Spending time in my faith has always been a way for me to breathe life into a situation. To find peace in everyday life. I know that I'm meant to serve, to find myself where I can help others find peace and help others find who they are. I may not always know where I'm going but I know that God has a plan for me and will help me find my way no matter what.