When I was a sophomore in high school, my family and I became homeless and ended up living in a shelter. At that moment, I felt like I had lost everything: stability, confidence, and hope. School no longer felt like something I could focus on because survival had become the priority. Even during that difficult season, I had my mother. My mother had a way of making any place feel like home. She carried herself with strength, love, and resilience, even when life gave her every reason to give up. She taught me that hardship does not have to break you and that purpose can still grow in painful places. Before my mother passed away, I saw firsthand how people experiencing homelessness were treated. It did not feel right. I saw how quickly people judged families without knowing their story. My mother did the best she could with what she had, but I saw how hard it was to depend on systems that did not always treat people with dignity. Watching her navigate assistance and homelessness showed me how much support families need. My mother died when I was eighteen. I was still in high school, trying to figure out life while grieving the person who had always been my foundation. I felt lost, confused, and hurt because I no longer had the person I depended on most. All I could do was ask myself what she would want me to do. My mother was a phenomenal woman, and to know her was a blessing. She cared for everybody. She helped take care of other people’s children, treated people with respect, and made sure others felt loved and seen. She did not have much, but she gave what she could. Through her example, I learned that leadership is not always about having a title. Sometimes leadership is showing up for people and giving love when life has not been easy. After I graduated high school, I had no desire to go back to school. I was exhausted from everything I had been through, and I did not know what direction my life was supposed to take. But something kept pulling me back toward education, and I believe it was my mother’s spirit and example. I wanted to help make systems better for families like mine. That is why I returned to school for social work. I want to help families navigating homelessness, poverty, grief, and instability because I know what it feels like to be on the other side of those systems. I know what it feels like to need support and not know where to turn. My mother’s life and struggles gave me a purpose bigger than myself. Seven years later, I am now in school and working as a case manager, helping families prevent homelessness. That is something I once prayed to become. Life is not fair to all of us, and some people carry burdens they never asked for. I believe we are placed in certain positions so we can use our experiences to help others. I believe I was placed in this position to serve, advocate, and support families facing struggles my family once faced. As a first-generation student, I am building a legacy rooted in resilience, service, and love. I am not only pursuing a degree for myself; I am carrying forward everything my mother taught me. Receiving the JBS Memorial Scholarship would help me continue my education and honor the woman who shaped the leader I am becoming. Every family I help is part of the legacy I am building in her honor.

Mental health is important to me as a student because, without it, I wouldn’t be here. After losing both of my parents and battling PTSD and depression, I found myself drowning in pain with no clear way forward. It took therapy, time, and a deep internal push to begin rebuilding my life. Now that I’ve reclaimed myself, I know that mental health isn’t just a personal priority—it’s the foundation of my success in school, work, and everyday life. Being a full-time student while working full-time as an Activities Aide isn’t easy. I’m constantly navigating deadlines, caregiving responsibilities, and emotional fatigue. But because I’ve invested in my healing, I have the tools to manage stress, practice self-care, and protect my peace. I’ve learned that mental strength isn’t about pretending to be okay—it’s about creating space to rest, reflect, and recharge. I take my mental health seriously because it allows me to show up fully—not just in class, but in life. Mental health also shapes how I engage with others in my community. I’m the person friends call when they’re overwhelmed. I’ve sat with people through panic attacks, grief, and burnout. I’ve helped others find therapists, research resources, and even work through their fears about seeking help. I don’t do it for praise—I do it because I know what it’s like to suffer silently. I want to be the person I wish I had when I was struggling. To take that mission further, I’ve started writing a self-help book focused on mental health. The book is rooted in my own experiences with trauma, healing, and growth, and it’s written in a way that’s real, relatable, and empowering—especially for young people, Black women, and LGBTQ+ folks who often feel left out of traditional mental health spaces. My goal is to create something that speaks directly to the people who need it most. I want my book to feel like a friend sitting beside you saying, “You got this.” In school, I advocate for mental health by normalizing conversations about it. I’m not afraid to speak openly in class about how mental health impacts academic performance, motivation, and focus. I bring empathy into every interaction, and I create safe spaces wherever I go. Mental health saved my life, and now it fuels my purpose. As a student, a writer, and a future social worker, I’m committed to making sure others don’t feel alone in their struggles. Because healing should never be a luxury—it should be a right.

After my parents died, I completely lost myself. Not just emotionally—but spiritually, mentally, and physically. I couldn’t recognize the person I was becoming. The grief was like a tidal wave that kept crashing over me, and I didn’t know how to swim my way out. I isolated myself, I questioned my worth, and I lived in a fog of trauma, pain, and unanswered questions. There were days when I didn’t want to get out of bed. Nights I cried until my body was too tired to keep going. But somehow—some way—I kept going. I didn’t know where that strength came from. Maybe it was God. Maybe it was the small part of me that still believed in something better. But I survived something that could have destroyed anyone. And that survival planted the first seed of purpose. My mother struggled with bipolar disorder and depression throughout her life. She was warm, nurturing, and deeply loving, but her mental illness often cast a shadow over her joy. Growing up, I witnessed how mental health issues can disrupt a person’s life—and how the people around them are affected too. There were good days, but there were also days full of silence, confusion, and emotional chaos. My mother was trying her best, but she was battling something invisible—and no one was there to help her fight it. That stuck with me. After losing both of my parents, I carried that pain without a road map. The trauma, the grief, the PTSD—it all sat heavy on me. I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t even have the language for it at the time. But eventually, I found therapy. And that’s when everything changed. I still remember one of the first therapists I worked with. She looked me in the eyes and said, “You have to learn how to live without your mother being physically here. But just because she’s gone physically doesn’t mean she’s not still with you spiritually.” That moment stopped me in my tracks. It shifted my entire understanding of grief. I realized I didn’t have to let go of my mother—I just had to learn how to carry her differently. That one sentence opened the door to healing. Therapy gave me a safe space to sit with my pain instead of running from it. It gave me tools to process my trauma, regulate my emotions, and start healing in a way I didn’t even know was possible. It was uncomfortable at first, but with time, I began to feel the fog lift. I started to believe again—in myself, in my future, and in the idea that joy was still possible. That experience changed my entire belief system. I used to think strength meant bottling everything up. Now, I believe that strength is being vulnerable enough to say, “I’m not okay.” I used to think therapy was only for people who were “broken.” Now I know therapy is for people who want to heal, grow, and show up for themselves in a deeper way. That shift in mindset completely changed how I view mental health—not as a weakness, but as a vital part of human wellness. This new belief system has also changed the way I show up in relationships. I’ve become the go-to person in my circle when someone is struggling mentally or emotionally. Friends and family reach out to me for advice, for comfort, or just to talk through something hard. I don’t have all the answers—but I do listen. I do validate. And I always try to help connect people to therapy or support systems that can hold them the way they deserve. My experience with mental health has made me more empathetic, more aware, and more intentional in my relationships. I’m more present. I listen differently now. I understand that people’s reactions are often rooted in pain, not just personality. And I’ve learned to be patient—with myself and others. In romantic and family relationships, I’ve also learned to set boundaries. Therapy taught me how to honor my own emotional needs and not pour from an empty cup. I’m not perfect, but I’ve grown so much in how I show up—and I’m proud of that. Professionally, my experience has completely shaped my career path. I’m currently working full-time as an Activities Aide at a rehabilitation center for seniors while attending college full-time. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it. I work with people every day who are in physical or emotional pain, and I try to bring joy into their lives through music, movement, games, and conversation. That work has deepened my love for people and reminded me that healing comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s through a laugh. Sometimes through silence. But always through presence. I’m currently pursuing my associate degree in Human Services, with plans to go on to earn my bachelor’s and master’s in social work. My dream is to open a community center focused on mental health—especially for Black, LGBTQ+, and underserved communities. I want to build a space that offers affordable therapy, trauma support groups, wellness programs, and holistic healing workshops. A place where people can come in with the weight of the world on their shoulders and walk out feeling lighter, seen, and supported. This center will not be a sterile office with a clipboard and fluorescent lights. No, it will be a warm, welcoming space full of life, culture, music, healing, and love. It will be a place that feels like home—because for many of us, healing has to happen in places where we feel safe to be our full selves. I want to create jobs for therapists and social workers who look like the community they serve. I want to host healing circles and story-sharing spaces. I want to make sure that a queer Black girl walking through something heavy doesn’t feel invisible in a system that wasn’t built with her in mind. I want people to know that they matter, even on the days they feel like they don’t. At the heart of it all, I want to be the person I wish I had—especially for the ones who are too afraid to speak up. For the ones carrying trauma silently. For the ones who feel like no one sees them. I see them. I am them. And I’m walking this path not just for myself—but for all of us. Mental health shaped my story. It broke me down, and then it built me up stronger, wiser, and more rooted in purpose. I didn’t choose this path—it chose me. And I’m ready to walk it with my whole heart.

I am pursuing a degree in the mental health field because I’ve lived through the consequences of untreated and misunderstood mental illness. My mother was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and depression, and while she was one of the most loving, joyful people I’ve ever known, her mental illness made it hard for her to fully show up as herself. It wasn’t just something she struggled with alone—it shaped our whole household. I saw how her pain bled into everything around her, and how little support there was for people like her, especially as a Black woman. Losing both of my parents devastated me. I felt broken, confused, and alone. For a long time, I carried that trauma with no outlet. But therapy changed that. Therapy gave me tools to begin healing from my PTSD. It gave me a voice, helped me sit with my grief, and taught me how to move forward while honoring what I had lost. That transformation is what inspired me to pursue this path. I don’t just want to study mental health—I want to change how people experience it. I want to make a difference by becoming the kind of mental health professional that truly understands what it means to carry invisible wounds. I want to help people unpack their pain, find peace, and feel empowered to live fully. But I also know that therapy is still out of reach for many people, especially in Black and LGBTQ+ communities. That’s why my ultimate goal is to open a community center that provides affordable mental health services, therapy, peer support, and wellness programs that are accessible, judgment-free, and rooted in cultural awareness. This center will be more than just a place to get help—it’ll be a safe haven for people who have nowhere else to turn. I want to create a space where healing is not just possible but expected. Where people can say, “I’m not okay,” and be met with love and real support. Pursuing this degree isn’t just about a career for me—it’s about turning my own pain into purpose. It’s about being the help I wish my mother had. It’s about ensuring no one feels like they have to struggle in silence. And that’s exactly how I plan to make a difference. Therapy gave me the tools to manage my PTSD and helped me find my voice again. That experience lit a fire in me. I became an advocate, always encouraging loved ones to seek therapy, explore healing outlets, and take their mental health seriously. I realized that mental health care isn’t just a service—it’s a lifeline. And I want to be that lifeline for others. My dream is to open a community center that offers affordable, culturally aware, LGBTQ+ inclusive mental health support. I want to create a space where people—especially those in Black and marginalized communities—can walk in and feel safe, respected, and seen. A space for healing, growth, and empowerment. As a full-time student and full-time worker, I know what it means to push through with purpose. My experiences have shaped me into someone who leads with empathy, fights for change, and walks in her truth.

My name is Gina, and I’m a first-generation college student currently pursuing my associate degree in Human Services at Hudson Valley Community College. I also work full-time as an Activities Aide at St. Peter’s, where I support seniors—many of whom are in rehabilitation—by creating space for joy, dignity, and connection. Every day, I show up with compassion and purpose, not just because it’s my job, but because it aligns with my mission in life: to make a difference. My roots are humble and strong. My father came to the U.S. from Panama, chasing a dream he couldn’t fully realize. My mother never finished middle school, and college wasn’t something she imagined for herself—or for me. All she wanted was for me to graduate high school and be a little better off than she was. But even as a child, I knew I was meant for more. I knew I was carrying something bigger than myself—my family’s sacrifices, my community’s struggles, and the dreams of my ancestors. I’m in school today because I refuse to let that legacy stop with me. I plan to become a social worker who advocates for children, families, and individuals facing challenges that often go ignored—especially in the areas of mental health, housing instability, and child welfare. I know what it’s like to grow up without access to support, and I know how life-changing it can be when someone actually shows up for you. That’s who I want to be: the one who shows up, the one who listens, and the one who helps people build a life they didn’t think was possible. Beyond my career goals, I want to impact my community in creative and culturally relevant ways. As a queer Black woman, I know the power of representation and healing spaces. I envision creating platforms, safe spaces, and support groups for Black women and LGBTQ+ youth—places where people can feel seen, share their stories, and connect with resources. My heart is especially drawn to storytelling, and I want to use my voice to inspire others who come from struggle, reminding them that where you start doesn’t determine where you can go. Paying down my student loans would give me more than financial relief—it would give me room to breathe, save, and invest in my future. It would allow me to continue my education, pursue my master’s degree in social work, and eventually open my own practice or nonprofit. I want to be in a position where I’m not just surviving, but giving back and building something that lasts. Everything I do is rooted in love, legacy, and liberation. I’m not here to take up space—I’m here to create it. I’m not just going to school to get a job—I’m here to change lives, starting with my own. I want people to look at me and see possibility, especially the young girls who were never expected to make it out of struggle. I am my mother’s hope. My father’s prayer. My ancestors’ wildest dreams.

My name is Gina, and I am a proud, full-time student pursuing my associate degree in Human Services at Hudson Valley Community College. I am also a full-time Activities Aide at St. Peter’s, where I serve seniors—many of whom are in rehabilitation—by helping to enrich their daily lives through engagement and care. It’s a job rooted in compassion, patience, and purpose—three values I try to carry into every room I walk into. But beyond school and work, I carry something much bigger with me every day: legacy. My story begins with my family. My father came to this country from Panama, carrying with him not just dreams of a better life, but also the pressure to make it count. My mother, on the other hand, never got the chance to finish middle school. Life threw her into survival mode early on, and because of that, her expectations for me were simple—just graduate high school. That’s all she wanted for me. To be better than her. College wasn’t something she could imagine for herself, and truthfully, she couldn’t see it for me either. But I could. And I did. Now, here I am—breaking cycles, not just for myself, but for everyone who came before me and everyone who will come after. I am the manifestation of my ancestors’ wildest dreams. I wake up every day motivated by the fact that my education, my work, and my dreams are about more than just me. I come from people who were told “no,” who were told to stay small, stay quiet, stay put. I refuse to accept that for my life. I am doing this not just to make a living, but to make a difference. My goal is to become a social worker who can advocate for families, children, and individuals who feel unseen or unheard. I’ve personally experienced what it feels like to struggle—to feel like no one is listening, to feel like the system is set up for you to fail. I’ve also seen how access to support and understanding can completely change a person’s path. That’s the kind of impact I want to have. I’m especially passionate about housing instability, child welfare, and mental health—areas that hit close to home. I want to be the kind of professional I needed growing up, the kind who doesn’t just hand you a pamphlet, but who sits with you, sees you, and walks beside you. Being a first-generation college student comes with its own set of challenges. I’ve had to learn how to advocate for myself, how to ask questions, how to keep going even when the odds felt stacked against me. And yes, student loans are a big part of that weight. But paying them down would be more than financial relief—it would be freedom. With the money I save by reducing my loan debt, I plan to invest in my future and my community. I want to eventually pursue my master’s in social work—possibly through a private college or a program like 1199SEIU’s Training and Employment Funds. I want to build a cushion, start a business, maybe even launch a nonprofit that uplifts marginalized youth. Every dollar saved gets me closer to those dreams. I’ve also got a heart for storytelling and community building. I want to use my voice—and my journey—to inspire others who feel like college or success isn’t meant for them. I want young Black girls, especially those with immigrant parents or parents who didn’t have access to education, to look at me and say, “If she did it, I can too.”

What makes me different is that I lead with heart before anything else. I don’t need a title, a spotlight, or recognition to show up for people. I show up because I’ve been the person who needed someone—someone to say, “You got this,” or just sit in silence and not judge. I carry that kind of energy into every space I walk into, and I think that’s what makes me stand out. I’ve always believed that you don’t have to know someone personally to impact them deeply. Whether it’s how I carry myself at work, how I treat the seniors I care for, or how I speak truth even when it’s uncomfortable, I know somebody is watching. A coworker, a neighbor, a younger girl trying to figure herself out—they may not say anything, but they’re watching how I keep going even when life gets heavy. I show them, without needing to say much, that it’s possible to live in your truth and still move with grace, love, and purpose. One of those people is my younger friend, who’s in her twenties. She calls me all the time asking for advice, and I always keep it real with her—not to be harsh, but because I know what it’s like to be left to figure everything out by yourself. I lost both of my parents, and from a young age I had no choice but to navigate life on my own. It wasn’t easy, but I carry myself with grace because I know little Black girls are watching me—girls who want more, who want better, and just need to see that it’s possible. That’s why I walk how I walk and speak how I speak—with truth, with care, and with pride in who I am. Because even when I don’t realize it, I’m planting seeds. I’m showing the next young woman that she can overcome, she can rise, and she can be somebody—even when the odds say otherwise. I don’t pretend to have it all figured out. I just try to be real, honest, and consistent. And in a world full of noise, that kind of authenticity is rare—and powerful. If I can inspire just one person to keep going, or to believe in themselves a little more, then I’m doing what I was put here to do and I’ll do it proudly with no regrets or hesitation because it’s important to represent and show up .

As a proud Black lesbian woman, I carry my identity with pride and purpose. Being part of the LGBTQ+ community has taught me how to fight for my place in a world that doesn’t always understand me—and that fight has made me stronger, more compassionate, and more determined to create change. I know what it feels like to go without support, to not see yourself represented, to feel like your voice doesn’t matter. That’s why I show up for others the way I wish someone had shown up for me. I’ve always had a heart for people, especially those who get pushed to the margins. In my personal life, I’m the friend people come to for support, encouragement, or just a safe space to breathe. I’ve mentored younger LGBTQ+ folks, held space for people struggling with identity and mental health, and spoken up even when my voice shook. That’s not just community—it’s responsibility. And I take that seriously. Right now, I’m studying Human Services, and I plan to continue on to get my bachelor’s and master’s in Social Work. I want to become a licensed social worker and eventually open a community center that offers free, holistic resources for those who need them most. I’m talking about real support—free health screenings, mental health counseling, dental services, housing help, school enrollment, legal aid—the whole nine. I want folks, especially LGBTQ+ folks and people of color, to have a place they can go and not feel judged, turned away, or forgotten. A place where they can breathe and be seen. I currently work full-time as an activities aide in a rehab facility, caring for seniors while juggling school. It’s not easy, but I do it because I’m invested in this mission. Receiving a scholarship would mean everything to me—it would help relieve some of the financial stress and give me the space to focus more on my education and long-term goals. I’m funding this dream out of pocket, and like many others, I don’t have a safety net. This support would allow me to keep pushing forward without burning out. I’m not in this work for recognition or a paycheck. I’m in it because I know what it’s like to need help and not know where to turn. I’m working hard to be the kind of social worker and community builder that creates real, lasting change. This scholarship would be more than financial aid—it would be a step toward helping me build something powerful for the next generation.