My ambition is built on a foundation of contrasting textures. There is the discipline of the lacrosse field. It taught me physical grit and strategic teamwork. It taught me how to persevere after a loss. That same focus now fuels my academic work and a creative vision I carry within. This vision sees not just empty spaces but potential for stories and sustainability. My primary goal is to pursue a college degree in Interior Design. I plan to integrate sustainable and eco conscious practices into this field from the very start. I believe our environments should be beautiful and functional. More importantly they should be responsible and restorative. Good design respects both people and the planet. This drive is deeply rooted in my Filipino American upbringing. In our community we believe nothing should be wasted. We find value in repurposing with care. This principle is at the heart of sustainable design. The vibrant energy of our family gatherings also shaped me. Every space in our home is adapted for connection and community. Those parties taught me that design is fundamentally about human experience. The loud karaoke sessions and crowded kitchens showed me how a space can foster joy and belonging. I want to create interiors that honor that same spirit of resourcefulness and warmth. My designs would aim to feel both innovative and deeply human. They would tell a story of culture and care. This scholarship honoring Kalia Davis would be a critical investment in this vision. Her legacy of excellence in sport, study, and service is one I strive to emulate in my own way. While my family has given me unwavering love and support, the financial reality of college is a significant hurdle. Pursuing a specialized degree comes with high costs for tuition, technology, and design materials. This financial pressure is a constant weight. This award would directly alleviate that burden. It would allow me to fully immerse myself in my studies. I could engage in the hands on work required to master sustainable design without the distraction of overwhelming debt. It would empower me to seek out the best resources and internships. I want to learn how to source local materials and specify non toxic finishes. This support would let me focus on learning how to build a more thoughtful future, literally from the inside out. Ultimately, I see my path as a fusion of my core elements. It combines the resilience of an athlete with the creative problem solving of a designer. It is guided by the community minded values I was raised with. This support would do more than fund my education. It would validate a holistic approach to excellence. It would enable me to build a career that blends aesthetics, ethics, and responsibility. I want to craft spaces that are good for the people who inhabit them. I want those spaces to be good for our shared planet. This scholarship would be the key step in turning that vision into my life’s work, allowing me to honor my family’s sacrifices and contribute meaningfully to a better world.

Sustainability should be a major priority in the field of interior design because this profession doesn't just stop at the walls of a home, it shapes our immediate environment and our fundamental relationship to the planet. Right now, the design industry often promotes a cycle of constant consumption and disposal, leading to overflowing landfills and a heavy reliance on resource-intensive new materials. Beyond the furniture, there’s also the significant environmental cost of maintaining the perfect, manicured outdoor spaces we’ve been taught to desire. As a future designer, I therefore believe my job is to create harmony between inside and out, focusing on beauty that is sustainable, healthy, and actively supportive of local ecosystems. My personal vision for reducing environmental impact starts with the core principles of creative reuse and conscious sourcing within the home. I am deeply passionate about transformation, like turning a discarded dresser into a one-of-a-kind statement piece with non-toxic finishes. This approach saves precious resources, reduces waste, and adds unique character. Furthermore, I will consistently prioritize local artisans, reclaimed materials, and durable, timeless designs that intentionally reject fast-furniture trends. However, I strongly believe true sustainability meaningfully extends beyond the front door. A significant way I want to impact the field is by advocating for and designing eco-friendly exterior spaces. Instead of designing conventional lawns that require constant watering, fertilizers, and pesticides, I think it’s vital to incorporate native plants, clover, or natural grasses. These resilient landscapes support pollinators like bees and butterflies, reduce water use, and create a living, breathing extension of the home that encourages local biodiversity. This important shift from a sterile lawn to a thriving habitat is a powerful form of environmental healing. I also actively see myself applying these principles through volunteer design work in my community. I would love to partner with local organizations to help transform community centers or low-income housing with donated, upcycled furniture and by creating small, low-maintenance native plant gardens in their common areas. This makes sustainable, healthy living accessible to more people and practically shows how design can be a force for both ecological and social good. For me, sustainability isn't a limitation on creativity; it’s a more meaningful and inspiring design brief. It challenges me to solve problems thoughtfully, how can this space nourish its inhabitants and the local environment? By merging interior creativity with ecological responsibility, I hope to design spaces that aren’t just beautiful to look at, but are truly alive and regenerative for everyone.

The movie that has had the greatest impact on my life is Everything Everywhere All at Once. While its multiverse spectacle is dazzling, its true power for me was far more personal. It was the first time I saw the specific, complex love story of my own family reflected on a screen. For years, my relationship with my mom was a quiet struggle. Her love often felt like a series of instructions: stand up straight, study harder, plan for a stable future. My Lola, her mother, was similar, a figure of formidable strength whose affection was shown through relentless feeding and sharp, pragmatic advice. I saw their care but often felt unseen by it, like they were preparing me for a harsh world I didn't fully understand. Then I watched Evelyn Wang. In her frantic energy, her critical eye, and her deep, unspoken fear of failing her family, I didn't just see a character, I saw my mom. I saw my Lola. The film showed me the multiverse of sacrifices they inhabited: the version of my mom who gave up her own artistic hobbies for financial security, the version of my Lola who left her home to build a new life here, all so I could have the privilege of even feeling misunderstood. The movie’s most revolutionary idea, for me, was that the same hands that nag and worry are the ones that fight across universes to hold their family together. This is why representation matters profoundly. Seeing an Asian immigrant mother not as a side character or a stereotype, but as the universe's chaotic, flawed, and heroic center, was transformative. It gave me a new lens. I stopped seeing my mom's pressures as a rejection of who I am and started to see them as her unique, imperfect language of protection. It gave me the courage to bridge our worlds. I started asking my Lola to teach me her recipes, not just to eat, but to listen to the stories of her youth that came with each step. I began sharing small pieces of my creative world with my mom, my drawings or ideas for a clothing brand, and was surprised to find her offering practical, yet supportive, advice. Everything Everywhere All at Once didn’t just entertain me; it translated a silent language. It taught me that love, in my family, often wears the disguise of duty. By seeing my own story in its brilliant chaos, I learned to look past the disguise and recognize the heroism in my own home. It showed me that the most important universe isn't out there among the stars, it's the one we are slowly, patiently, learning to build together at our own kitchen table.

#3: I learned that community isn't just found, it's built through shared memory and initiative. From middle school through freshman year, there were only three Filipino girls in our grade. We were friendly but disconnected, three separate islands in the same sea. I decided to build a bridge. I invited them to my house to cook a Filipino dinner. The moment we started the adobo, the kitchen filled with the savory scent of garlic and soy sauce. We all fell silent for a second, sharing a knowing smile. It was the exact smell of our Lolas' kitchens, a fragrance that instantly transported us back home. That shared sensory memory dissolved all awkwardness. Sitting down to eat the crispy lumpia deepened the connection. With each bite, we weren't just tasting food, we were recalling family parties, loud celebrations, and the specific recipes that defined our childhoods. We traded stories about our families, laughing over the quirks we all recognized. In that moment, our separate threads of experience wove into a single, stronger fabric. That simple dinner did more than fill our stomachs, it founded a small, lasting community. One of those girls became my best friend, a bond that continues today, and I remain close with the other. By creating a space where our culture was the centerpiece, I discovered that fostering community often begins with a single, intentional act and sometimes, it starts with the smell of adobo reminding you who is walking the path beside you. #2: The greatest challenge I have faced was not an external opponent, but the internal conflict of staying on a path that no longer felt like my own. For three years, my identity was deeply tied to women's lacrosse. After a strong and promising first season, however, my passion began to fade during the subsequent two years. My confidence plateaued, practices felt like obligations, and the pressure to meet the expectations of my coaches, teammates, and family created a heavy sense of anxiety. I felt trapped between the athlete everyone saw and the person I was becoming. Demonstrating resilience in this situation meant choosing honest reflection over blind persistence. I showed kindness first to myself by acknowledging that my heart was elsewhere, and then to my team by communicating my struggle openly and respectfully, rather than quitting abruptly. This period of difficulty led me to rediscover a more authentic passion for creativity, specifically for fashion design, sewing, and visual art. The decision to step away from lacrosse to wholeheartedly pursue building a clothing brand and focusing on my art was incredibly difficult, but it was the most truthful choice I have ever made. This experience taught me that resilience is not just about gritting your teeth through hardship, but sometimes about having the courage to redirect your energy toward what genuinely fulfills you. By choosing a path aligned with my core interests, I traded performance anxiety for creative fulfillment and gained a deeper sense of self-awareness and my purpose.

Everett Frank’s spirit, marked by kindness, resilience, and wholeheartedness, resonates deeply, because I believe living meaningfully doesn’t always mean staying on the expected path. Sometimes, it means having the courage to leave one. For me, that path was lacrosse. After a bright and promising first season, I spent the next two years struggling. My confidence faded, and practices became a source of anxiety rather than joy. The biggest obstacle I faced was not on the field, but within myself, the daunting pressure of external expectations and the fear of letting everyone down. My coaches, teammates, and family all saw an athlete they believed should persevere. I felt trapped in a version of myself I no longer recognized, playing a sport that no longer felt like my own. Demonstrating resilience in this situation did not look like pushing harder. Instead, it looked like honest reflection. I chose to show up with kindness, first to myself, by admitting my passion had shifted, and then to others, by communicating my struggle with sincerity rather than sudden withdrawal. It was a quiet, internal resilience, rooted in the difficult work of self-awareness. I explained to my coaches and parents that my heart was pulling me toward a different kind of creation. I had discovered a deeper passion for designing clothing, for sewing, and for visual art, pursuits where I felt a sense of authentic expression I had lost on the field. This decision to step away from lacrosse to pursue my art and build a clothing brand was the most wholehearted choice I have ever made. It was an act of aligning my actions with my true self. The impact was transformative. For me, it meant trading the anxiety of performance for the fulfillment of creation. I found resilience in mastering a sewing pattern or completing a design, challenges that felt motivating, not draining. For those around me, I hope my choice served as a small testament that it is okay to redefine success and to honor your own passions, even when they diverge from what others envision for you. In the end, facing that obstacle taught me that kindness and resilience are not only about enduring hardship, but also about having the courage to make a change. By choosing to pursue art and design with my whole heart, I am now living more authentically and with a greater sense of purpose than I ever did before.

The greatest failure I’ve experienced did not come from losing a game, but from losing my passion for the sport I once loved. My relationship with women’s lacrosse started strong and full of promise. I remember a first season filled with the thrill of a hard-fought ground ball, the deep satisfaction of a clean assist, and the pure simple joy of being part of a team. I assumed my personal trajectory would only go up from there. The next two seasons, however, truly kicked me in the ass. They were a difficult and humbling period that forced me to confront my own limitations. My confidence on the field plateaued and then it slipped noticeably. The sharp, rewarding crack of a good catch and throw was slowly replaced by a heavy sense of obligation and even dread. Every practice, every drill, became its own private mental battle. My internal motivation was not just low. It felt completely absent, and I had to fight with my own mind every single day just to show up and put on my gear. I felt deeply that I was failing my coaches, my teammates, and, most of all, the enthusiastic version of myself that had started with so much excitement just a year before. Compounding this internal pressure were all the external voices, which were well-meaning but also very persistent. My parents saw a dedicated athlete who simply needed to push through a natural slump. My friends on the team saw a teammate who might be giving up on them. I felt utterly trapped between their vision of a relentless competitor and my own growing private certainty that this specific path was no longer meant for me. Overcoming this challenging situation did not look like a dramatic, game-winning goal in the final seconds. It began much more quietly, with honest reflection during long bus rides home from away games. I spent a lot of time thinking about what I truly wanted. I had to carefully detach myself from what everyone else wanted for me and courageously ask what I wanted for myself. I realized slowly that my core goal had fundamentally shifted. It was no longer about mastering the crease roll or executing a perfect defensive slide. My real goal became about reclaiming my personal autonomy and my own mental well-being. I understood then that the real shortcoming was not in my footwork or my stick skills. The failure was in my own reluctance to make a very hard choice for my own future peace of mind. The true success, therefore, was found in the decision itself. Choosing to step away from competitive lacrosse was one of the first major life decisions I made solely for myself. It was not an admission of defeat. It was a conscious and deliberate redirection of my own life’s path. I ultimately succeeded in rebuilding a much healthier relationship with the sport itself. I can now appreciate its intricate strategy and great athleticism from the sidelines without carrying the immense weight of personal performance. More importantly, I forged a stronger and more honest relationship with myself. I learned a valuable lesson that overcoming an obstacle does not always mean forcing a square peg into a round hole. Sometimes, real success means having the quiet courage to put the peg down and to deliberately choose a different path entirely. That decision taught me more about resilience and self-awareness than any championship game ever could have.