I hope this message finds you well. I am writing to share my heartfelt passion for music and my hope to receive your music scholarship. Music has been my constant companion and a source of healing throughout my life. My parents lovingly nicknamed me Finch because they said my first cries sounded like a bird singing—a fitting reflection of my journey. Growing up in a verbally abusive household, I often sought refuge in theater and choral rehearsals. Those moments on stage and in harmony were my escape, allowing me to express emotions I didn’t know how to voice. My struggles with alcoholism and substance abuse led me down difficult paths, but finding my faith transformed my life. Christian music, particularly the inspiring sounds of Hillsong and CeCe Winans, brought me solace and a sense of belonging that I had longed for. I found a new home within my church and wanted to grow within the place. Now, I have a burning desire to be that same safe space for others—using music to uplift, reassure, and provide hope to those who may feel lost. If awarded this scholarship, it would be a monumental step towards achieving my dreams of furthering my education in music and developing my ability to reach others through song. I want to be a source of peace to others, to be a mentor to young musicians, and to help them grow in every way I can. I knew when I was younger that I would never be a famous singer. I don't have the right look or the right voice. I hope to encourage the next generation to pursue music without those fears. To know that what matters is their talent and that talent isn't born but it's a testament to how hard you work. I want to be someone who can grow and help others grow above all else. Someone to be a mentor to others and to help the world heal. I know music heals I've felt it and I've grown in that healing power. I want to bring God and music to those who felt like they were unworthy of it. Those who struggled to believe in forgiveness and those who struggled to believe they could be more than who they used to be or who their parents are. Thank you for considering my application. I genuinely hope to bring joy and healing through music, just as it has done for me.

Many here will write about teachers who changed their lives in good ways. I however have three stories of teachers that made me want to quit. I find we focus on the positive and in my life I do as well, however, I find that to understand why I want to be a teacher, first you have to understand why I spent 5 years not wanting to be a teacher. My first teacher was a choir director, to many she was kind and attentive, well if you fit in her group. She picked her favorites early on in the year, girls who reminded her of herself. I easily didn't fit in that group, I was quiet and shy and found myself struggling to deal with a teacher who didn't believe in me. I had always loved singing and being shot down by this teacher turned into a crisis of faith. I learned from her that to be a great teacher you need to be inclusive of everyone not just those you see yourself in. To be a great teacher you need to believe in everyone even when it seems hopeless. My second teacher was a math teacher. I was never great at math and while I love it there is a reason I'm not planning on teaching math. This teacher was a man who usually was kind, but every once in a while he got angry. We were in ninth grade algebra, no student really wanted to be there but we were forced to. One day we were in a computer lab working on a project, I can't remember exactly what it was but I remember I sat in the second row while the others sat in the back. I didn't have many friends and definitely didn't have any in that class. However, everyone started talking and my teacher got angry. I don't remember much but I remember the marker he threw that almost hit me. I learned from him that you need to be patient no matter what. You have to genuinely love what you do rather than doing the job because that's your only option. The third teacher was again my choir teacher. She was the perfect teacher... up until a certain point. You see I was extremely sick for a while I had acute bronchitis in both my lungs and I missed a lot of school. However, I loved choir and I was in an advanced choir at my school. My teacher decided that if I missed another class I was kicked out of the choir, I had to sing through my illness. Now if you know anything about singing you know that singing while sick is one of the worst things you can do. I permanently ruined my voice at that point and proceeded to deal with the backlash of that until a year ago. I learned that despite whatever you want for your class you have to put the health and safety of the children in your class above everyone else. I spent five years struggling to decide what to do because I didn't want to be a teacher. I didn't want to fail like I had seen some teachers do. I realized recently that that's why I needed to be a teacher. All children deserve a teacher who wants to do better than the last generation did.

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.