My dream is to be a doctor. No, not the kind who wears a white coat or holds a stethoscope, though I respect every life they heal. I want to earn a doctorate, to become a scholar in a field that has shaped me since before I understood language at all. I want to devote my life to studying the human voice, its fragility, its power, and the way it carries a piece of the soul with every breath. I come from a family where higher education was not a given. My mother earned an associate’s degree, which was already something extraordinary within our history. My grandparents never had the chance to attend college; life needed them to work long before classrooms could claim them. But from the moment I entered the world, something wild, something musical, rooted itself in me, and it refused to let go. My mother often told me that my first cries did not sound like wailing. She said they reminded her of a baby bird, unsteady, trembling, yet unmistakably singing. Maybe it was just a mother’s love shaping her memory, but I chose to believe her. That image, that tiny bird using a voice too small for the world but trying anyway, became the foundation of everything I am. I was a quiet child, but I was always humming. If there was silence, I filled it. If there was music, I climbed inside it, as though each melody offered me a doorway into a place where I felt understood. My voice became the first thing I ever truly relied on. When life changed, when friends drifted, when I didn’t know how to explain the weight I carried inside me, singing held me together. I didn’t know it then, but one day it would also break me. There was only one time in my life when music failed me, or rather, when someone else’s control over it did. A teacher, someone who should have protected the gift I was trying to shape, pushed me too far. They demanded more breath, more power, more volume than my young vocal cords knew how to give. I trusted them, because students are taught to believe their teachers, especially those who hold authority over dreams. And in that trust, my voice slipped. Pain replaced sound. The music that had always lifted me suddenly felt dangerous, like a thing that could be taken away without warning. I remember the silence after that moment, the terrifying realization that something I thought was mine could be harmed by someone else’s carelessness. I healed, slowly, carefully, with the help of rest and time but part of me changed. I promised myself that if I ever had the knowledge, if I ever had the authority, I would make sure no one near me would endure that same harm. That is when my dream shifted from simply singing to understanding the voice scientifically, artistically, and compassionately. I want a doctorate not for a title, but for the ability to protect what once saved me. I want to research vocal health, teach safe technique, and build spaces where voices are nurtured, not pushed past their limits. I want to take everything my family could not give me: access, opportunity, education and turn it into something that gives others strength. I began life as a baby bird learning how to sing. Now I want to spend my life helping others learn how to keep singing, without fear of losing the sound that makes them who they are.

My dream is to be a doctor. No, not the kind who wears a white coat or holds a stethoscope, though I respect every life they heal. I want to earn a doctorate, to become a scholar in a field that has shaped me since before I understood language at all. I want to devote my life to studying the human voice, its fragility, its power, and the way it carries a piece of the soul with every breath. I come from a family where higher education was not a given. My mother earned an associate’s degree, which was already something extraordinary within our history. My grandparents never had the chance to attend college; life needed them to work long before classrooms could claim them. But from the moment I entered the world, something wild, something musical, rooted itself in me, and it refused to let go. My mother often told me that my first cries did not sound like wailing. She said they reminded her of a baby bird, unsteady, trembling, yet unmistakably singing. Maybe it was just a mother’s love shaping her memory, but I chose to believe her. That image, that tiny bird using a voice too small for the world but trying anyway, became the foundation of everything I am. I was a quiet child, but I was always humming. If there was silence, I filled it. If there was music, I climbed inside it, as though each melody offered me a doorway into a place where I felt understood. My voice became the first thing I ever truly relied on. When life changed, when friends drifted, when I didn’t know how to explain the weight I carried inside me, singing held me together. I didn’t know it then, but one day it would also break me. There was only one time in my life when music failed me, or rather, when someone else’s control over it did. A teacher, someone who should have protected the gift I was trying to shape, pushed me too far. They demanded more breath, more power, more volume than my young vocal cords knew how to give. I trusted them, because students are taught to believe their teachers, especially those who hold authority over dreams. And in that trust, my voice slipped. Pain replaced sound. The music that had always lifted me suddenly felt dangerous, like a thing that could be taken away without warning. I remember the silence after that moment, the terrifying realization that something I thought was mine could be harmed by someone else’s carelessness. I healed, slowly, carefully, with the help of rest and time but part of me changed. I promised myself that if I ever had the knowledge, if I ever had the authority, I would make sure no one near me would endure that same harm. That is when my dream shifted from simply singing to understanding the voice scientifically, artistically, and compassionately. I want a doctorate not for a title, but for the ability to protect what once saved me. I want to research vocal health, teach safe technique, and build spaces where voices are nurtured, not pushed past their limits. I want to take everything my family could not give me: access, opportunity, education and turn it into something that gives others strength. I began life as a baby bird learning how to sing. Now I want to spend my life helping others learn how to keep singing, without fear of losing the sound that makes them who they are.

Having red hair, I’ve often been met with assumptions. People expect me to be fiery, bold, or outspoken. These stereotypes might seem harmless, maybe even amusing, but over time, they subtly influenced how others treated me and, more importantly, how I viewed myself. The truth is, I wasn’t born with a fiery spirit. I had to fight to build it. Interestingly, studies suggest that redheads may have a lower tolerance for certain types of pain. But I like to think that’s exactly what primes us to grow stronger. We learn early on that resilience doesn’t come naturally, it’s earned. Being strong isn’t about being loud or fearless from the start; it’s about rising each time life tries to knock you down. When I was younger, I rarely spoke up for myself. I was quiet, timid, and often terrified of confrontation. I thought that staying silent would keep the peace, but I quickly learned that silence can make you a target. When you don’t protect your voice, others will take it from you. One of the most defining moments of my life was when that very thing happened, my voice was taken, quite literally, and I had to fight to get it back. I am a singer. Music has always been more than a passion for me; it’s been my outlet, my identity, and the way I made sense of the world. In seventh grade, I was placed in the alto section. I felt proud at first, there were so few of us, and I felt unique. But as time passed, I began to experience discomfort and strain. I didn’t realize that I was singing outside of my natural vocal range. No one told me otherwise. I trusted the system, as most kids do. By my freshman year of high school, I became seriously ill. My voice was weak, hoarse, and unreliable. I couldn't sing for months. For someone who identified so deeply with music, it was like losing a piece of myself. I felt voiceless, not just in the physical sense, but emotionally too. I was devastated, confused, and unsure if I would ever recover. But in that silence, something inside me shifted. I began to research vocal health. I spoke up to teachers and doctors. I advocated for myself in ways I never had before. The journey wasn’t quick. It took three years for my voice to fully heal. When it did, I was far behind my peers in terms of skill and experience. I had to work twice as hard to catch up. I practiced relentlessly, trained with intention, and slowly, I reclaimed the voice I had nearly lost. That experience didn’t just shape my identity, it shaped my future. I’ve chosen to pursue a degree in music education because I want to be the kind of teacher who protects her students’ voices, who listens, who teaches safely and with compassion. No one should have to go through what I did. If I can use my journey to empower even one student, then every struggle was worth it.

Throughout my life, I’ve come to realize that one of the most valuable traits a person can possess is the ability to connect with others. Empathy, kindness, and communication are not just nice-to-have skills, they are necessary for building strong communities, understanding diverse perspectives, and navigating life with compassion. That’s why I believe deeply in the importance of teaching interpersonal skills, especially from a young age. Imagine a class that teaches children how to understand others, manage emotions, and communicate effectively, all tailored to their age and level of development. A class that teaches interpersonal skills with regard to age. I envision a world where students are given the tools to interact thoughtfully with peers, solve conflicts peacefully, and express themselves clearly and respectfully. This kind of education would not only foster more compassionate individuals but would also create safer, more inclusive school environments. The child would learn age-appropriate techniques for communication, empathy, and emotional regulation. For example, a young student might learn how to take turns when speaking or how to identify their own feelings and those of their classmates. As they grow, the techniques would mature with them, teaching active listening, conflict resolution, and how to support others who are struggling. This gradual growth ensures that the child is always learning in a way that makes sense to them, rather than being expected to suddenly know how to "get along" without guidance. Currently, many students learn a few of these skills here and there, often through trial and error or in response to challenges. But what if these lessons were woven throughout their entire school experience? What if there was a system that didn’t just respond to issues, but proactively taught students how to build relationships and understand others? A class like this would not just benefit those struggling with social situations, it would benefit everyone. It would create classrooms where students felt seen and heard, where teamwork flourished, and where diversity was embraced rather than feared. I believe education should do more than prepare students academically; it should also prepare them emotionally and socially. A class that teaches interpersonal skills, starting early and continuing throughout school, would be an investment in every child's future. It’s not just about avoiding conflict or behaving "politely". It’s about setting students up for success in life. Relationships, careers, and even mental health are all deeply tied to how well we connect with others. Teaching those skills from the beginning is one of the most important and impactful things we could do.

I'm currently pursuing a degree in music education with a minor in music ministry. But let me tell you, getting to that decision was anything but easy. It took three major changes in my academic path, a crisis of faith, and a complete upheaval in my family life to finally land here. To understand how I got to this point, it's best to start at the beginning. I graduated high school during the height of COVID. I wasn’t exactly a top student, so I looked into schools with more flexible admissions policies, places that would give me a chance. I’ve always had a deep desire to help others, so I initially set out to become a doctor. It didn’t take long for me to realize that medicine wasn’t the right path. I quickly discovered I couldn’t handle the sight of blood. So, I switched my major to Marine Biology and stuck with it for two years. During that time, my world was shaken: both my mother and stepdad became permanently disabled. Watching that happen to two good, hard working people made me question everything I believed in. I lost my faith, and it took a long, painful journey to find my way back to it. But I’m grateful I did. For years, I thought my future would be rooted in math or science. But eventually, I found myself returning to the one thing that had always brought me joy and peace: music. Wanting to combine that passion with my lifelong desire to help others, I chose to pursue Music Education, with a minor in Music Ministry, to reflect the faith I’ve reclaimed. This scholarship would be used to help with my tuition.