My mom has always told me that helping someone does not mean solving every problem for them. Sometimes, it simply means giving them a moment to catch their breath so they can find their own way forward. I saw what that looked like during my time volunteering at Wear It Out, a community clothing and resource bank. One year, we found ourselves with an unexpected surplus of donated toys after the Christmas season. They were small things—tea sets, coloring books, plush toys—but there were far more than we needed. My grandmother looked at the pile and said, almost casually, “Why not make some Easter baskets?” That single idea became something much bigger than any of us expected. What followed was the beginning of a long-term effort to support children in under-resourced families, many of them in kinship or foster placements. Sitting on the floor, assembling baskets alongside other volunteers, I got to see the immediate joy these small items could bring. In 2017 alone, we distributed over 500 Easter baskets. For many of the children who received them, it was not just about the contents—it was about being remembered. But the moment that stayed with me did not involve the baskets themselves. It happened during one of the quieter afternoons at the clothing bank. I was helping restock racks when an adult walked in, hesitant and unsure. They needed clothes for a job interview but seemed uncomfortable asking for help. I approached them, and together we found what they needed. There was no dramatic moment, no visible transformation—just a quiet shift. They stood a little straighter when they left. That experience changed how I understood what it means to help someone. It is not always about large-scale efforts or visible impact. Often, it is about creating a space where someone feels supported enough to take their next step. It is about meeting people where they are, without judgment, and recognizing that everyone carries challenges that are not always visible. By the time I was eleven, I had volunteered hundreds of hours with Wear It Out. I continued serving until the program closed during COVID, and I have since sought out other opportunities to help where I can. Whether assisting with resource distribution or learning structured processes through later volunteer work, I have come to understand that meaningful support is built through consistency, patience, and a willingness to engage with people as individuals. Helping someone in need does not always look like solving a problem. Sometimes, it looks like offering a moment of stability in the middle of uncertainty. That is the kind of help I strive to provide—quiet, steady, and focused on giving others the chance to move forward on their own terms.

To me, going to college is not a finish line—it is the beginning of a long, deliberate process. It is the first structured step toward building a career that allows me to create meaningful, lasting change in the lives of others. The steps that follow will not be quick or easy, and they will likely never truly end. My long-term goal is to establish a private law firm that operates alongside a community-based justice center. I envision a space that is open to the public on a consistent schedule, where individuals—especially those navigating family law challenges—can access guidance, resources, and advocacy without feeling overwhelmed or unheard. In addition to legal services, I want to host advocacy seminars for young people, teaching them that meaningful change is not always visible or exciting. It is often built through persistence, preparation, and a willingness to engage in systems that can be slow and frustrating. This direction is not abstract to me. It was shaped, in part, by my family’s experience with adoption. Watching my sister Stafyrae come into our family showed me how deeply the law can shape a person’s life—not in a single dramatic moment, but through a series of careful, deliberate steps. The process was detailed, procedural, and often slow, but every document, every requirement, and every decision carried real weight. I found myself drawn to understanding it, spending late nights reading through legal concepts and processes, trying to make sense of how the system works and how it protects—or sometimes fails to protect—the people within it. Those moments did not feel like an obligation; they felt like a responsibility I was beginning to understand. There is a common perception that making a difference requires a loud voice or a large platform. While those approaches can be effective, they are not the only path. In my experience, real change often happens quietly—through careful documentation, structured conversations, and sustained effort over time. It is found in meetings that seem repetitive, in emails that go unanswered before finally receiving a response, and in small procedural victories that gradually build into larger outcomes. This is the type of work I am preparing myself for. College represents the foundation for that preparation. Through my enrollment in the paralegal program at Johnson County Community College, I will begin developing the technical skills necessary to navigate legal systems effectively. Legal research, writing, and procedural knowledge are not just academic requirements—they are essential tools for advocacy. Without them, even the strongest intentions can fail to produce results. Beyond technical skills, I view college as an opportunity to refine how I think. It is a place to engage with complex ideas, to learn how to approach problems from multiple perspectives, and to develop the discipline required to work within structured systems. These are the skills that will allow me to move from understanding issues to actively addressing them. Ultimately, I am not pursuing college simply to earn a degree. I am pursuing it to build the capacity to serve others in a meaningful and sustainable way. The path I have chosen will require patience, resilience, and a willingness to work behind the scenes. College is where that work begins, and it is a step I am ready to take with purpose and intention.

One of the most impactful films I have ever seen is Mother Night, based on the novel by Kurt Vonnegut, a story that challenges the idea that morality is always clear and easily defined. The film follows Howard W. Campbell Jr., an American playwright who becomes a Nazi propagandist during World War II while secretly working as a spy for the United States. Through coded messages hidden in his broadcasts, he helps turn the tide of the war and potentially saves millions of lives. Yet outwardly, he is indistinguishable from the very regime he is working against. What struck me most was not the espionage, but the unsettling duality of Campbell himself. By all appearances, he is fully immersed in Nazi society—socializing with high-ranking officials, respecting his father-in-law, and participating in the culture around him. There is little visible conflict in his demeanor. One scene in particular stayed with me: at his father-in-law’s request, Campbell calmly shoots the family dog before their departure, choosing practicality over sentiment. In another moment, he speaks briefly with a young girl he leaves behind, showing no urgency to save her. These choices are not heroic. They are not even clearly justified. They simply are. Reading Vonnegut’s original work added another layer to this complexity. Within the novel are excerpts of Campbell’s plays—pieces that are deeply moving and centered on love, connection, and humanity. At times, those passages were so compelling that it became easy to forget that Howard W. Campbell Jr. was not a real person. The contrast between the beauty of those writings and the reality of his actions made the story even more unsettling, forcing me to confront how easily perception can diverge from truth. The film does not offer easy answers. Instead, it presents a world where the lines between good and evil are blurred by circumstance, duty, and human limitation. It suggests that people are capable of contributing to both harm and good at the same time, and that intent does not always align with action. This complexity challenged my earlier assumptions about justice, particularly the idea that every situation can be neatly categorized. More than anything, Mother Night forced me to confront the reality that justice is not always absolute. It exists in context, shaped by incomplete information, competing values, and human imperfection. This realization has had a direct impact on how I view my future in law. Rather than discouraging me, this complexity clarified my direction. I realized that I am not drawn to areas of law where the goal is to assign blame within morally ambiguous situations on a large scale. Instead, I am drawn to family law—specifically kinship adoption—where the purpose is not to define guilt, but to create stability and give a voice to those who might otherwise go unheard. In these cases, the law becomes a tool not just for judgment, but for protection and advocacy. Mother Night did not change my belief in justice, but it reshaped my understanding of it. It taught me that law is not about simplifying human behavior into categories, but about navigating its complexity with care. That is the kind of work I want to pursue—not because it is easy, but because it is meaningful.

Of course, it was raining that mid-morning as I sat in Civics class. This was, after all, Washington state. The question my classmate posed caught me off guard. Our guest speaker had literally won a Nobel Prize, argued before the Senate, and yet... my classmate wanted to know his party affiliation. Red or blue? The room shifted. What began as a civics discussion quickly turned into something sharper—less about understanding and more about confrontation. A guest speaker had been invited to talk about voting, public service, and civic engagement, but when asked about his political affiliation, the tone changed. What followed was no longer a conversation. It was a challenge. Students and even a few faculty members began pressing him on a single issue, each trying to win rather than understand. Tensions rose, and the purpose of the visit—to learn—started to disappear entirely. I remember thinking how a complex conversation had been reduced to a single, emotionally charged exchange. In that moment, I didn’t try to shut anyone down or argue back. Instead, I redirected the conversation. I asked a detailed question about a specific piece of legislation affecting homeschool families in Washington State—an issue I had followed closely and knew mattered to the entire room, as our class was a homeschool CoOp. Slowly, the conversation moved away from personal confrontation and back toward policy. It wasn’t perfect, and it didn’t resolve every disagreement, but it changed the structure of the room. People paused. The speaker was able to respond thoughtfully. Others began asking more specific, grounded questions. The discussion became productive again—not because everyone agreed, but because they were finally engaging with substance instead of reacting to each other. I didn’t change anyone’s mind that day. But I helped make it possible for people to keep talking. That experience stayed with me because it reflected something I had learned long before that moment. Growing up around politics, I had seen public officials as people. At the Washington State Capitol, I once stood in a crowded room where I couldn’t safely eat due to severe allergies. A man I had never met took the time to understand what I could have and personally assured me I would be safe. Those cookies remain the best I have ever had. That man was J.T. Wilcox. On another visit, I was about six when I raced a woman up a massive staircase, laughing the entire way. When we reached the top, we high-fived, and only afterward did I realize I had just challenged Patty Murray to a race. She won, but I felt like the winner as we high-fived. In both moments, what stood out was not policy or position, but humanity. Those experiences shaped how I approached conflict. When conversations lose structure, even important issues can be overshadowed by emotion. But when people are given space to speak, listen, and engage with substance, disagreement becomes constructive. Mediation is about preserving the conditions where understanding is still possible. Whether in a classroom or in my future work in law and public policy, I intend to carry that principle forward: not to win every argument, but to ensure that the conversation itself does not collapse. In family law especially (Which will be my career and life's mission), conflict is deeply personal, and the cost of failed communication is often borne by those with the least voice—children. I want to be the kind of advocate who can navigate those moments with clarity, structure, and compassion. Because when people feel heard, even difficult outcomes can lead to stability, and stability is where real change begins.

One of the most defining adversities I have faced was watching my family navigate the process of bringing my sister, Stafyrae, into our home through kinship care. What made this experience difficult was not only the emotional weight of the situation, but the realization that something as fundamental as a safe and stable home is not guaranteed to every child. Before this, I believed—without fully thinking about it—that children were naturally protected, that systems existed to ensure their safety and well-being. That belief changed quickly. I watched as my family worked through a legal process that was complex, expensive, and, at times, discouraging. There were long nights, difficult conversations, and moments where the outcome felt uncertain. The system was not designed to be simple, even for people who were willing to step forward and do the right thing. At first, I viewed the situation as unfair. It was difficult to understand why so many barriers existed when the goal was to provide a child with a stable home. But over time, my perspective shifted. I began to understand that the world does not automatically provide fairness—people create it. Systems do not function simply because they exist; they require individuals who are willing to navigate them, challenge them, and, when necessary, improve them. My plan of action, even at a young age, was simple in concept but difficult in practice: pay attention, learn, and prepare. I asked questions. I observed how decisions were made. I tried to understand not just what was happening, but why it was happening. I saw firsthand how knowledge—especially legal knowledge—could change outcomes. One person who understood the system could make a meaningful difference for a child and a family. That realization changed how I approached both adversity and my future. I stopped seeing challenges as isolated events and began to see them as part of larger systems that could be understood and, eventually, influenced. It also gave me a clear sense of direction. I want to be someone who stands in those difficult spaces—not as an observer, but as an advocate. This experience fundamentally changed my perception of life. It taught me that stability is not guaranteed, that fairness is not automatic, and that outcomes often depend on whether someone is willing to step forward and take responsibility. It also taught me that without a safe place to begin, nothing else—education, opportunity, or personal growth—can fully take root. Because of this, I intend to pursue a path in family law, focusing on kinship care and advocacy for children. I want to help ensure that families who are willing to provide safe and stable homes are not overwhelmed by the systems they must navigate. I believe that every child deserves that foundation, and I am committed to being part of making that a reality.

My favorite part of golf is that it is honest. The ball does not care who you are, how hard you tried, or what you intended. It responds only to what you actually do. That honesty has shaped how I approach both the game and my life. Golf requires a level of discipline and self-regulation that is easy to underestimate. There is no one to blame for a bad shot and no way to hide inconsistency over time. Improvement comes from small adjustments, patience, and the willingness to evaluate your own performance without excuses. That process has taught me to take ownership of my actions in a very direct way. If I want a different result, I have to change something about what I am doing. Living with severe anaphylactic food allergies has reinforced that same mindset in a much more personal context. Many people view food allergies as a minor inconvenience, something closer to picky eating than a serious condition. The reality is very different. Food is one of the most social parts of life, and navigating it safely often means standing apart. It has meant missing invitations, bringing my own food to events, and learning from a young age that I am responsible for my own safety in situations where others do not always understand the risk. Because of this, I was homeschooled. While that decision came from necessity, it also created an unexpected kind of freedom. Without the structure of a traditional school environment, I was able to shape how I spent my time and what I pursued. I chose golf—often alone, often in difficult conditions, including long hours practicing in the rain. There was no requirement pushing me toward it, no team depending on me. It was a choice I made for myself. That choice mattered. Golf is not a sport that rewards convenience. It rewards consistency, patience, and the willingness to show up even when conditions are less than ideal. In many ways, it mirrored the discipline I had already learned through managing my health: preparation, awareness, and personal accountability. What began as a limitation became an opportunity to pursue something that demanded focus and resilience. One of the challenges I have faced is learning how to carry that responsibility without allowing it to become isolating. It would have been easy to withdraw or to see these differences as limitations. Instead, I learned to operate within them. In golf, that means focusing on steady improvement rather than comparison. In life, it means being prepared, aware, and willing to advocate for myself when necessary. Both experiences have shaped my character in similar ways. They have taught me discipline, accountability, and the importance of consistency over time. They have also taught me that control does not come from changing everything around you, but from managing your own actions within it. Golf has given me a space where those principles are not only relevant, but required. It has reinforced the idea that progress is built through attention, effort, and resilience. Those are lessons I carry with me beyond the course, into how I approach challenges, responsibilities, and my future goals. ***In the pic, I am trying to teach my younger brother. He will get it eventually.***

Selected Passage (Epictetus, Enchiridion, Section 1) “Some things are in our control and others not. Things in our control are opinion, pursuit, desire, aversion, and, in a word, whatever are our own actions. Things not in our control are body, property, reputation, command, and, in one word, whatever are not our own actions.” Epictetus is not offering a passive philosophy of acceptance, but a strict framework for responsibility. His central argument is that human suffering is not caused by external circumstances, but by a fundamental misplacement of responsibility—confusing what belongs to us with what does not. By dividing the world into what is within our control and what is not, Epictetus is not simplifying life; he is demanding discipline in how we engage with it. At first glance, this distinction appears self-evident. Few would argue that reputation, property, or the actions of others are fully within personal control. Yet Epictetus is not addressing ignorance of this fact, but the persistent human tendency to behave as though it were false. People routinely anchor their sense of self to external outcomes, investing emotional weight into variables that are inherently unstable. When those outcomes shift—as they inevitably do—distress follows. In this sense, suffering is not created by events themselves, but by the mistaken belief that those events fall within one’s rightful domain of control. What is particularly striking is how narrowly Epictetus defines what is truly “ours.” He reduces ownership to internal processes—opinion, desire, aversion, and action—while placing even the body and reputation outside that boundary. This is not a denial of their importance, but a reclassification of their authority. By removing them from the category of control, Epictetus denies them the power to determine a person’s internal stability. This framework imposes a significant burden. It eliminates the ability to attribute emotional disorder entirely to circumstance. If one’s internal state is tied only to what is within one’s control, then instability becomes, at least in part, a failure of judgment. Epictetus does not present this as a comforting idea. Instead, he presents it as a necessary one. His philosophy is not designed to reduce difficulty, but to establish coherence. The relevance of this framework becomes particularly clear in modern environments that systematically encourage the opposite behavior. Social media platforms, for example, are structured around external validation—visibility, approval, and perceived status. These elements are, by Epictetus’s definition, outside of individual control. Yet they are presented as metrics of personal worth. Users are encouraged to curate idealized versions of themselves, aligning their identity with how they are perceived rather than with what they actually control. This creates a direct conflict with the principle Epictetus outlines. When individuals begin to treat reputation—something explicitly outside their control—as central to their identity, they bind their internal stability to an unstable system. The result is predictable: anxiety, comparison, and, in more severe cases, harmful behaviors driven by the pursuit of an image rather than grounded self-direction. In this context, it is tempting to assign full responsibility to the systems themselves. However, Epictetus would resist that conclusion. While such systems may amplify the problem, they do not create the underlying misjudgment. The error remains the same: assigning control and value to what is external. To argue that external forces are entirely to blame is, in itself, a continuation of the same mistake—placing responsibility outside of the individual’s domain. This does not mean that systems are irrelevant. They can shape incentives, influence behavior, and increase the difficulty of maintaining clarity. But within the framework Epictetus provides, they cannot determine one’s internal state unless that authority is granted to them. The discipline he advocates lies precisely in refusing to make that concession. The underlying meaning of the passage, then, is not resignation, but precision. Epictetus is arguing that a well-ordered life depends on correctly identifying the boundaries of responsibility and maintaining them, even when external systems encourage their erosion. Stability is not achieved by controlling the external world, but by refusing to treat it as something that must be controlled. In this sense, control is redefined. It is not dominance over circumstance, but clarity within oneself. The individual retains authority not by shaping outcomes, but by governing their response to them. This requires ongoing effort, particularly in environments that reward the opposite. It demands the ability to engage with the world without becoming dependent on its approval. Epictetus’s framework does not eliminate difficulty. It does not prevent loss, failure, or misfortune. What it offers instead is a way to prevent those experiences from becoming totalizing. By maintaining a clear boundary between what is and is not within one’s control, a person preserves stability even when circumstances are unstable. This is not a philosophy of ease, but of alignment. It does not promise comfort, but it does offer consistency. In a world increasingly structured around external validation, that consistency becomes not only valuable but necessary. The difficulty of Epictetus’s philosophy is not in understanding it, but in living it—especially in a world that consistently rewards forgetting it.

My family did not choose a multi-generational household because it sounded ideal. We built it out of necessity. At one point, my mother sat at the kitchen table and realized two things at once: my grandfather had assets, an active cancer diagnosis, and no plan that would protect what he had built—and across the country, my aunt was on the verge of losing her farm in Alabama while raising three children and caring for a disabled husband. These were not abstract problems. They were immediate, complicated, and deeply human. I remember watching my mother scramble to hold everything together—selling my grandparents’ home and even the trailer I was born in to gather enough for a down payment on a multi-generational farm. It was not a step forward built on comfort. It was a decision made under pressure, with everything on the line. And so we did what my family has always done. We made it work. That decision reshaped my childhood. Our home became a place where generations, responsibilities, and realities overlapped. Conversations about medical care, finances, legal structures, and survival were not hidden from me. I grew up watching adults navigate systems that were often confusing, expensive, and unforgiving—especially when time was limited and the stakes were high. At the same time, I was homeschooled due to severe anaphylactic food allergies, where a single mistake in a shared environment could have life-threatening consequences. Because of that, my education could never be passive. I had to be aware, prepared, and accountable—not just academically, but physically. Independence was not optional. It was necessary. Without the structure of a traditional classroom, I learned to build my own. I developed discipline, time management, and the ability to take ownership of my work. My coursework included studies in economics, public policy, and constitutional frameworks, alongside broader academic subjects. I also pursued external coursework through programs affiliated with Harvard Online, Hillsdale College, and Cambridge University, expanding both the depth and rigor of my education. I currently maintain a 3.41 cumulative GPA and was honored to be named a 2024 Honorary Bayar Leadership Fellow. What made my education meaningful, however, was not just its rigor, but its connection to real life. I was not learning in isolation. I was learning while watching my family navigate complex legal and financial challenges—seeing firsthand how knowledge, or the lack of it, could change outcomes. This became personal when my family stepped into a kinship care situation to bring my now adopted sister into our home. I witnessed the reality of a system that, while necessary, can be overwhelming for families trying to do the right thing. Legal processes were complex, expensive, and often difficult to understand. Yet I also saw the impact one dedicated professional could make. Our attorney provided not only legal guidance, but clarity and stability during an uncertain time. That experience defined both my greatest challenge and my direction. Balancing academic expectations with real-world responsibility was not always easy. There were moments when the combined weight of family needs, health limitations, and long-term goals felt overwhelming. Without a traditional school environment, it would have been easy to lose structure or momentum. Instead, I learned to create both. I set goals, established routines, and held myself accountable—not because I was required to, but because I understood what was at stake. Over time, I stopped viewing my circumstances as obstacles and began to see them as preparation. At times, I even wondered if the hard times and the walls were evidence of the divine. Mom said sometimes God is quiet and sometimes, he has to scream just a little louder so we hear him over life's noise. My experience with multi-generational living gave me insight into how systems affect real families. My homeschooling required me to develop independence and discipline. My health challenges forced me to be consistently aware, adaptable, and prepared. Together, these experiences shaped my ability to approach complex situations with focus and purpose. I intend to pursue higher education with the goal of becoming a family law attorney specializing in kinship care. I want to work with families who are stepping forward in difficult circumstances, often without clear guidance or support. I understand what it means to navigate systems that are not designed to be simple, and I want to be part of making them more accessible. You should consider me for this scholarship, not because my path has been easy, but because it has been intentional. I have learned how to work within complexity, how to take ownership of my education, and how to connect knowledge to real-world impact. I do not see education as a personal achievement alone, but as a responsibility—one that allows me to stand in difficult spaces and help create better outcomes for others. I am prepared not only to pursue that education, but to use it where it matters most—when the outcome is uncertain, the system is complex, and someone is depending on it.

Service, in my life, has been defined by seeing a need and stepping forward, even when the solution is imperfect or difficult. I was raised in a family where service was not discussed as an abstract value. It was lived daily, often in quiet, practical ways. Growing up, I watched my parents and grandparents serve in very different ways. My grandfather served through labor—fixing what was broken, helping neighbors, and showing up when something needed to be built or repaired. My father served through knowledge, using his education to navigate systems, regulations, and technical challenges. My mother served through advocacy, working within nonprofits and stepping into difficult situations where people needed support. What tied all of this together was a shared belief: if you have the ability to help, then you have the responsibility to act. That belief became personal when my family stepped into a kinship care situation to bring my now adopted sister into our home. I witnessed firsthand how overwhelming systems can be, even for people who are willing to do the right thing. Legal processes were complex, expensive, and often confusing. Kinship families routinely get minimal help and support, no adoption or DCYF subsidies. If they cannot afford the process, then there simply may not be a permanent legal path forward. Against this seemingly bleak backdrop, I also saw the difference one dedicated professional could make. Our attorney did more than represent us—he guided us, respected us, and helped ensure that my sister had a chance at a stable life. That experience defined my understanding of service. It is not simply kindness. It is the decision to stand in difficult spaces and use your skills to make those spaces navigable for others. This is why I intend to pursue higher education in family law, with a focus on kinship care. I want to serve families who are stepping forward for children but may not have the knowledge or resources to navigate the system alone. I want to be the person who helps translate complexity into clarity and barriers into pathways. Recently, my family acquired a former elementary school that we are in the process of transforming into both a multi-generational home and church space. While this is a significant undertaking, what matters most to me is not the building itself, but what it can become. I plan to establish a small, accessible law library within that space—something practical, grounded, and open to the community. Not a symbolic project, but a working resource where individuals can access legal information, understand their rights, and begin to take the first steps toward solving their problems. In addition, I hope to host quarterly legal workshops focused on issues such as kinship care, guardianship, and navigating basic family law processes. While my initial instinct was to offer these more frequently, conversations with practicing attorneys helped me understand the importance of sustainability in service. To serve others effectively, I must also ensure that I can continue serving over the long term. By setting intentional boundaries, I can provide meaningful support without compromising my ability to pursue the broader work I am called to do. My education will not be an endpoint. It will be a tool. A way to stand between people and systems that feel too large, too complex, or too distant. A way to ensure that children like my sister are not left behind simply because the path forward is unclear. To me, this is what service looks like: not only stepping forward, but doing so in a way that is responsible, consistent, and enduring.

Faith, in my life, has never been quiet. It has never been something reserved for Sundays or spoken only in words. It has always been something that demanded action—especially when action was difficult. That understanding has shaped not only who I am, but what I intend to do with my education. I was raised in a family where education did not come in a single form. My grandfather was a mechanic and truck driver, proud of the work he did with his hands. One of my great-grandfathers could only read at about a first-grade level, yet he worked until two weeks before he passed. My father holds a degree in electrical engineering with a minor in applied mathematics. My mother has led nonprofit organizations and worked within a state college system. Despite their differences, they shared one belief: capability is not defined by age or title. As a child, I was never “just a kid.” I was the youngest member of the team. One of my earliest memories is standing in our Spanaway farmhouse, staring at a wall my mother said had to come down. Two studs had rotted. The structure was compromised. I did not want to hurt the house—I loved it—but she didn’t dismiss me or take over. Instead, she tied a dust mask around my face and walked me through every step. I learned how to remove damaged wood, how to patch, how to rebuild. My painting skills were… creative. She never scolded me once. As I grew older, I watched my father and grandfather work side by side. My father could interpret regulations, calculate loads, and understand systems. My grandfather knew how to weld, how to measure by feel, how to make something stand that would actually hold. They respected each other completely. From them, I learned that knowledge and skill are not competing forces—they are strongest when they work together. That belief followed me until the day everything shifted. My mother received a phone call. A relative was facing a crisis pregnancy. I remember her telling me that sometimes God speaks in moments when we are called to act—that faith is not about comfort, but responsibility. She told me that every child deserves to be safe, loved, warm, and wanted. Then she sat down at the kitchen table and began calling lawyers. That child became my sister, Stafyrae. What followed were months of legal processes I could not fully understand at the time, but I could feel their weight. I watched my parents navigate paperwork that seemed endless, financial strain that was very real, and a system that did not bend easily—even for a child in need. Through all of it, one person stood out to me: our attorney, Frank Richard Ricketts. From the beginning, he treated me with respect. When I was seven years old, he shook my hand, looked me in the eye, and asked how I felt about becoming a big brother. At every meeting, he acknowledged me. I was not overlooked. I was included. When my sister was three months old, I sat in a courtroom and listened as my mother was granted non-parental custody, with the possibility of reunification until age two. I didn’t understand. The process felt harsh, slow, and, at times, unfair. I remember turning to Frank and asking why it had to be so difficult. Why so many late nights? Why so much resistance? He looked at me and said, “Because your sister deserves a chance.” That was the moment everything aligned. Faith had taught me that every life has value. My family had shown me that love requires action. Frank showed me what it looks like to turn those beliefs into a profession. I intend to pursue higher education to become a family law attorney specializing in kinship care. I want to stand in the space where families like mine once stood—overwhelmed, determined, and fighting for a child who deserves stability. I want to ensure that the system, while complex, is not insurmountable for those willing to do the right thing. Education, to me, is not simply about achievement. It is about responsibility. It is the tool that allows me to take what I have been given—faith, example, and opportunity—and use it to give someone else the same chance my sister was given. Because every child deserves one. Social Media: https://www.facebook.com/grey.barnum

Tending the Garden of Justice For five years, three hours a week, my life revolved around the logistics of compassion. As a volunteer at Wear It Out, a crisis center and clothing bank in Pierce County, I was part of the machinery that fueled diaper drives, maternity banks, and "Operation Bunny," our annual Easter program. For a long time, I viewed my role through the lens of a provider—someone bringing solutions to people in need. But the true impact of those years wasn't what I gave to the community; it was what the community taught me about the nature of service. After a saturday shift at Wear It Out I woul head home to the gardens and greenhouse. In the greenhouse, you quickly learn that you are not the creator of the life inside the pot; you are merely the steward of its environment. You provide the right pH, the proper drainage, and the consistent light, then you step back and let the plant do the hard work of growing. I brought this stewardship mindset to the clothing bank, but it took a man named George to help me see it. George visited us every week, often pocketing small toys from the donation bins. When I finally asked why, he told me he was collecting them for the children in a nearby homeless camp. I was stunned. Homeless kids... When I admitted I hadn't realized he was homeless himself, he asked me simply, "Well, what does homeless look like?" That question was a "pruning" moment for my own ego. I realized I wasn't some courageous savior "giving" to the poor. I was just Grey, tending to the environment of my community. Like my heirloom mints, the families we served didn't need me to "save" them; they just needed a break—a bit of "fertile soil" in the form of a diaper box or a warm coat—so they could continue their own growth. This philosophy of stewardship is exactly how I plan to approach my future career in family law. When I eventually open my own justice center, I won't view my clients as "cases" to be solved, but as families who need the legal "drainage" cleared so they can thrive. My experience with my sister’s kinship adoption taught me that the legal system is often a thicket of tangled red tape. I want to be the person who navigates that brush, filing the motions that create space for healing and stability. Positive impact isn't about being the hero of the story; it’s about being the guy who is "super awesome at filing motions" to ensure the environment is right for justice to take root. Whether I am tending to a tray of rare herbs or a complex legal brief, my goal remains the same: to provide the consistency and care that allows others the chance to bloom. Together, we will move in motions that create genuine, lasting change.

The Driver’s Seat: From Pokemon to Family Law One of my mother’s mentors once described homeschooling as the academic equivalent of handing a teenager the keys to a sports car and telling them to drive safely. While many might hesitate, I grabbed those keys with a smile. From a young age, my parents treated my education as a series of deliberate choices: "Here are your options, and here are the consequences. What do you want to do?" This autonomy turned "school" from a list of chores into a high-stakes race where I was firmly in the driver’s seat. My path wasn't traditional. At eleven, navigating dyslexia and hyperactivity, my mother met me where I was by designing an entire biology curriculum based on Pokémon. I learned anatomy and dissection by working with a playdough Pikachu. Meanwhile, my engineer father ensured I mastered algebra and the precision of a wet saw. These experiences taught me that life was the real classroom, and that unconventional problems require creative, disciplined solutions. However, the most defining moment of my education happened outside of a textbook. When I was six, my family underwent a kinship adoption to welcome my sister into our home. It was a period of immense stress, marked by men with briefcases and a legal system that often felt cold and transactional. Amidst the tension, I met a lawyer named Frank. Frank was the first person in a suit to shake my hand and ask how I felt about our growing family. He was the first to refer to my sister by her name, rather than as "the ward" or "the minor." I watched him navigate a sea of motions and bureaucratic red tape. When I asked him why he did all of this, he knelt down and told me: "Because your sister deserves a chance and a family." In that moment, the files on his desk stopped being paperwork and started being people. I realized then that I wanted to pursue family law—not just to practice, but to eventually open a justice center where advocacy is centered on human dignity rather than just forms. This goal fueled my academic drive. When the workload felt heavy, my mother simply pinned my course requirements to the wall. Seeing the finish line turned my education into a game where I was determined to crush the high score. By leaning into the self-discipline homeschooling required, I completed my graduation requirements a full year early. I haven't spent that extra year idle. I have used the time to study Russian, develop an organic tea line from heirloom seeds, and write three books. Homeschooling gave me the courage to take the wheel of my own education; life gave me a destination. As I transition to collegiate study, I am not just a student—I am a driver who knows exactly where he is going, and I am never looking back.

From Lockbox to Business Plan: The first business I ever built started with a lawn mower, a lockbox, and a bottle of Benadryl. Two summers ago I was mowing lawns and pulling weeds for cash in Spanaway, Washington. It was exhausting work that left my shoulders and upper back aching every evening. The irony was that I have a grass allergy, so every job meant deciding how much of my earnings I was willing to spend on antihistamines just to keep working. Every dollar I didn’t spend went into a small metal lockbox. Eventually I saved enough to try something bigger. I started buying small storage units and flipping the contents. Sixty dollars became five hundred. Instead of spending the money, I reinvested it. First I bought a thick recipe journal. Then I purchased organic herb seeds and began experimenting with growing and blending my own teas. What started as curiosity slowly became a business idea. I imagined a small coffee stand where the drinks were made from ingredients I had grown and blended myself. Soon after, I found a run-down drive-up coffee house at auction. It needed everything: repairs, planning, and patience. I learned how to replace the drive-up window, write a basic business plan, and cut stone tile for the floor. My first attempts were rough, but every mistake taught me something about building something with my own hands.More importantly, I began to realize that a small business is not just about selling something—it’s about creating opportunities for the people around you. It was finally starting to come together when my parents sat me down one night and shared difficult news. A major shift in our family finances meant we would have to sell our home and move to Kansas. My heart sank immediately. There was no realistic way to haul a ten-by-fifteen coffee stand across the Rocky Mountains. I had spent $350 buying the building at auction and another $180 on mortar, grout, and saw blades to begin repairing it. If I could sell it for $500, I could at least pretend I broke even. I sold it for $600. It wasn’t the ending I expected, but it taught me something important: the real value of the project wasn’t the building. It was learning that I could take a small idea and slowly turn it into something real. One day I hope to build a community-focused business similar to the coffee stand I started. I want it to be a place where young people can get their first jobs, learn responsibility, and discover the confidence that comes from building something of their own. My long-term goal is to become a family law attorney. I want to help children and families who need stability and second chances. The businesses I create will help support a small judicial resource center dedicated to making legal guidance more accessible to people who might otherwise go without it. My legacy will not be one building or one business. It will be the opportunities I help create, the communities I help strengthen, and the belief that setbacks are not the end of a story. They are often where the story really begins. The coffee stand may be gone, but the lesson remains: small beginnings matter. After all, the first business I ever built started with a lawn mower, a lockbox, and a lot of Benadryl.

The person I admire most is an attorney I only met twice: Frank Richard Ricketts. That might sound strange, but those two meetings changed how I understand both the law and my own future. When I first sat in his office, I was still young enough that most adults spoke around me instead of to me. Legal conversations sounded formal, distant, and mostly about who was going to win. I expected another adult discussion I wouldn’t really be part of. Instead, I watched something that stuck with me. At one point, the discussion turned serious. My mother made it clear that if the biological parent changed her mind, she would accept it—even if that meant saying goodbye after preparing for a child to come live with us. As a kid, I remember thinking only one thing: I wanted the baby to come home with us. I wanted my sister. Mr. Ricketts didn’t promise an easy victory. He didn’t talk about crushing anyone in court. Instead, he said something that has never left me—my sister deserved a chance, and she was worth fighting for. What impressed me most wasn’t just what he said, but how he said it. He spoke like the outcome mattered because people mattered, not because winning mattered. He also didn’t ignore the fact that I was in the room. He spoke in a way that assumed I could understand what was at stake. That was the first time I saw law practiced as something grounded in responsibility rather than ego. That moment shaped how I think about education. I realized that if I wanted to help families facing situations like ours, I would need more than good intentions—I would need knowledge, training, and the ability to communicate clearly under pressure. That realization is a major reason I am pursuing further education with the goal of working in family law. It is also why I chose to participate in speech, debate, and mock trial activities. Those environments are not just about arguing for the sake of argument. They are training grounds for learning how to listen carefully, organize facts, present a case clearly, and respond respectfully when challenged. Being able to explain complex issues in a way other people can understand is just as important as understanding the law itself. When I participate in mock trial or structured debate, my goal is not simply to “win.” I am trying to build the same skills I saw modeled in that office—preparation, integrity, and the ability to advocate for someone who might not have a voice of their own. Today, my sister drives me absolutely crazy on a daily basis, and I would not trade her presence in my life for anything. That early experience taught me that legal decisions are not abstract—they shape real families. Although I only met Mr. Ricketts twice, he demonstrated that a single interaction can change how someone sees their future. He saw not just a child in the room, but someone capable of understanding responsibility. That example continues to motivate me to pursue the education and training necessary to become the kind of advocate who focuses not just on outcomes, but on people.

I only met Frank Richard Ricketts twice, but he shaped the way I understand advocacy more than many people I have known for years. Most meaningful relationships are measured in time—teachers who guide students over semesters, family members present throughout childhood, mentors who invest years into development. My relationship with Mr. Ricketts was measured in two meetings. Despite that, his influence still directs how I see both people and the law. When I first met him, I was young enough that most adults in professional settings spoke around me rather than to me. Legal conversations sounded structured and distant. I expected another adult who would discuss outcomes in terms of winning or losing. Instead, I saw something different. At one point, I remember being quietly afraid. The discussion involved changes in family law, and the adults in the room were tense. My mother stood up and said that if a biological parent changed their mind, she would accept that outcome—even if it meant saying goodbye after already preparing for a child to come home with us. As a child, I remember thinking only one thing: I wanted the baby to come live with us. I wanted my sister. The situation was complicated, emotional, and far beyond what I fully understood at the time. What I do remember clearly is how Mr. Ricketts responded. He did not speak about crushing opposition or guaranteeing victory. Instead, he said something that has stayed with me: my sister deserved a chance, and she was worth fighting for. He did something else that mattered deeply—he spoke in a way that included me in the room rather than dismissing me as a child who would not understand. Looking back, I realize that was the first time I saw law practiced as an act of responsibility rather than dominance. He did not promise success. He promised effort rooted in principle. Years later, that early moment has not faded into abstraction. My sister now drives me absolutely crazy. She leaves trails of belongings across both her room and mine and has a talent for turning any organized space into chaos within minutes. And yet, despite the daily frustration, I still want her in my life every single day. That experience taught me that meaningful relationships are not defined by duration but by depth of impact. A person who recognizes the dignity and worth of those involved can change how others see themselves. Mr. Ricketts’ example continues to shape the way I build connections with others. Because he treated me as someone capable of understanding the stakes, I began to see myself not as a passive observer, but as someone who could one day advocate for others. I now try to approach others—especially those younger or less confident—with the same respect he showed me. His influence also solidified my interest in pursuing family law. Families navigating legal systems are often experiencing uncertainty and fear, and effective advocacy begins with recognizing the dignity of every individual involved. Mr. Ricketts demonstrated that the goal is not simply victory, but the protection of opportunity and fairness. Although I only met him twice, he helped me understand that advocacy is not about domination—it is about responsibility. He saw not just who I was as a child sitting quietly in the room, but who I might become. That recognition continues to guide how I treat others and how I intend to practice law in the future.

Golf taught me my most valuable life lesson on a wet February afternoon in Washington State. Booking eighteen holes in winter was not the smartest decision I have ever made, but I needed to step away from the noise of early paralegal studies, shifting case law, and the constant discussion of social change and emerging technology in the legal field. Standing on the course with my eyes closed, I could feel rain running down my neck and wind pressing against my stance. Golf does not wait for ideal conditions. Instead, it forces you to account for every variable—the slick grass, the strength of the wind, the distance to the green—and then make a decision anyway. Golf taught me that life rarely offers perfect conditions, and progress depends on committing to a well-reasoned choice even when uncertainty remains. With only a few yards left to the green, I chose my club carefully. An aggressive shot risked overshooting, but playing too cautiously would leave me short. I selected my nine iron and committed to a controlled, deliberate swing. That balance between calculated risk and restraint mirrors the way I approach studying case law. Each decision must be intentional, supported by the information available, and executed with confidence. Golf is often framed as an all-or-nothing sport, but in reality, one imperfect shot does not end the round. There are recovery opportunities, adjustments, and the chance to learn from every swing. This perspective has shaped how I approach both academics and my long-term career goals. Mistakes are not final outcomes—they are data points that inform the next decision. Just before I struck the ball, I glanced to my left and saw my younger sister, Stafyrae, running across the grass with a turkey wrap in one hand and a plastic club in the other, fully committed to chasing a squirrel. That brief moment reminded me why persistence matters. Even when coursework, emerging technology, and complex legal discussions become overwhelming, my responsibility to my family and the people I hope to serve keeps me grounded and focused. The ball left the club cleanly. I had taken my shot despite the wind, rain, and uncertainty. The greatest lesson golf has given me is that forward progress requires thoughtful action under imperfect circumstances. Waiting for conditions to become ideal often means never acting at all. Instead, success comes from evaluating what is in front of you, making the best decision possible, and following through with discipline. As I continue pursuing a career in family law, I plan to apply this mindset daily. Families facing legal challenges rarely arrive in stable or predictable situations. Like a golfer in poor weather, I will need to analyze incomplete information, remain steady under pressure, and make decisions that balance caution with decisive action. Golf has shown me that resilience, preparation, and commitment—not perfect conditions—create meaningful progress.

One of my earliest memories is standing in a massive courtyard, cold and hungry, pushing a giant stone sphere that floated effortlessly on water from a fountain. I was young enough that the details blur, but I remember the joy of motion and possibility. Eventually, my mother scooped me up and carried me through the space, talking with friends about art, marketing trends, and emerging social media algorithms. Before I knew it, I was sitting at a large round table in a student center, drinking soda and eating pizza. This was college. And I wanted in. By the time I was twelve, I was mowing lawns to save for tuition. By thirteen, I realized mowing lawns would never get me there. I needed to build something real. At fifteen, I found myself at a tow yard auction, bidding on a drive-up coffee stand with the $400 I had earned myself. I learned how to rebuild subfloors, why you use screws instead of nails, and that if the law requires two tow chains, you should probably use six. I wrote a full business plan for AND GO Coffee, complete with branding and a mock website featuring organic teas I planned to grow myself. I intended to launch in the summer of 2026. Then my father was laid off, and our family moved to Kansas. Transporting a coffee stand over the Rockies was impossible. The business was sold at a profit, but the original dream was gone. Most people would have stopped there. I didn’t. The move forced me to confront a larger problem I had already seen up close: people navigating life-altering systems with no access to guidance, tools, or dignity. I knew I wanted to become a family law attorney, but at seventeen, I could not offer legal advice. What I could do was create infrastructure. My solution is a Community Leadership and Resource Center, housed in the detached office on our Kansas property. With adequate funding and support, this center would provide practical, judgment-free services: free resume printing, access to a message phone for job callbacks, curated self-help and legal literacy books, and a clearly organized list of local resources. Most importantly, it would be staffed by someone trained to focus on the message, not the mess — no prying questions, no moral commentary, just help. This center is designed to bridge the gap between crisis and stability. It does not replace legal representation or social services; it makes them accessible. It gives people the tools to take the next step without humiliation or bureaucracy. My coffee stand dream didn’t fail. It evolved. The skills I learned — budgeting, planning, compliance, and resilience — transferred directly into a larger vision. Sometimes the road takes a serious detour, but that doesn’t mean you’re lost. It just means the problem you were meant to solve turned out to be bigger than you first imagined.

Colin Beavan once said, "We never know which one of us will start the chain reaction, but someday, one of us will." For me, that chain reaction was started by a tiny little wrinkly, chalk white, 3-hour-old girl. My Parents named her Stafyrae Adomova. She earned the nickname Fyre, and at times, she can be as warm and potentially destructive as a little flame. The event that most shaped my perspective did not happen all at once. It unfolded over years, quietly, in everyday moments that could have easily never existed. My sister Stafyrae’s adoption was the beginning of that chain reaction, but it was not the end of it. What truly changed me was watching her grow up. If circumstances had been slightly different, Stafyrae might never have had the chance to be a sister, a co-conspirator in mischief, or a constant presence in our family. She might never have gotten to argue, laugh, or plot ridiculous little adventures with my brother — moments that are deeply ordinary and, at times, deeply annoying. But those moments matter. They are the texture of a childhood, and without legal intervention, they almost never happened. Her adoption was made possible by people willing to step in and navigate a complicated system. One of those people was Richard Rickett, whose steady guidance helped make something fragile become permanent. At the time, I didn’t understand the full scope of what was happening. I just knew that adults were fighting for a child to have a chance. Years later, I understand that what they were really fighting for was possibility. Watching Stafyrae grow up taught me that nothing meaningful happens without a fair starting point. Before summer camps, friendships, inside jokes, and mischief, there must be stability. Before opportunity, there must be safety. And before any of that, there must be someone willing to stand in the legal space where children cannot stand for themselves. That realization changed the way I see the world. It’s why I want to study law, specifically family law and child advocacy. I don’t believe that every foster child needs a grand rescue story. I believe they need a fair chance — one that opens the door to everything else that makes a life full and ordinary. Someday, I’d like to do more than fight in courtrooms. Maybe I’ll take foster kids to camp, or help build programs that give them space to just be kids. But none of that can happen if the legal foundation isn’t there first. Fighting for children legally doesn’t end the story — it starts it. That is the chain reaction that shaped me. One child given a chance led to a family changed, which led to a purpose I’m committed to carrying forward.

I want to be a family law attorney. Not because it sounds noble or flexible or impressive, but because it is the only career path I have ever been able to imagine myself committing to fully. I have spent years watching families navigate guardianship, adoption, disability services, and court systems that are confusing even for professionals. Once you see how easily people fall through those cracks, it becomes difficult to want to do anything else. I am a homeschooled high school student with a strong interest in writing, civics, and law. My education has been unconventional, but it has given me something I value deeply: clarity. I learned early that systems matter, that good intentions are not enough, and that competence can be the difference between stability and collapse for a family. Writing has been one of my most important tools — it has helped me understand complex issues, articulate arguments, and give shape to problems that are often dismissed as “just the way things are.” The adversity I have faced is not a single dramatic event (Although my parents' unplanned kinship adoption of my little sister and my Grandfather's terminal cancer diagnosis would certainly make the list). It has been persistent, cumulative, and structural. I grew up in a multi-generational household where love was abundant, but stability and competence were sometimes uneven. I learned early how to observe carefully, plan ahead, and take responsibility because someone had to. I also learned how frustrating it is when systems are slow, impersonal, or inaccessible to the people who need them most. Rather than allowing that frustration to harden into resentment, I chose to channel it into work. I have applied to more than one hundred scholarships, not because I enjoy the process, but because I understand persistence and probability. I have continued writing, researching, and refining my goals even when the feedback has been rejection or silence. I have tried to find work, sought opportunities creatively when traditional paths were closed, and continued preparing myself for the career I want, even when progress felt invisible. I did not overcome challenges by waiting for circumstances to improve. I overcame them by working harder than I ever thought I could — steadily, deliberately, and without expecting recognition. That approach will continue to define how I move through college and into my career. As a family law attorney, I plan to make a positive impact by helping families navigate systems that are often overwhelming and poorly explained. I want to focus on guardianship, adoption, and child advocacy, working to make legal processes more transparent, humane, and effective. I do not believe change happens through grand gestures. I believe it happens when someone is willing to do the unglamorous work consistently and correctly. I am not pursuing this path because it is easy or idealistic. I am pursuing it because it is necessary — and because I am prepared to do the work required to make it better. For me, Child law is not just a case file. The cases are people, sometimes scared little people like my sister was. I know every single day when my key slides into my office door, I will remember that. In the end, that will be enough to keep me going on the hard days.

My name is Grey, and I am a homeschooled high school student whose education has always been shaped by curiosity, creativity, and a deep awareness of how systems affect real people. I grew up in a family where paperwork, guardianship issues, medical advocacy, and navigating social services were part of daily life. Instead of discouraging me, these experiences pointed me toward the place where I feel most at home: the intersection of law, service, and family stability. Outside academics, I am a creative writer and storyteller. Writing helps me understand the world and the people in it. It has also been a practical tool—whether I’m writing fan fiction for my neurodivergent sister, essays for scholarships, or helping my family draft clear explanations for complicated legal situations. I am also involved in my homeschooling co-op, where I’ve had opportunities to volunteer, mentor younger students, and support families who are learning the ropes of alternative education. Community involvement, for me, has always been personal. I have watched families—including my own—struggle with processes that should be straightforward: guardianship, adoption, disability services, and access to basic support. I’ve seen how a lack of information can break people long before the system ever helps them. That has shaped not only my compassion but my long-term goals. After high school, I plan to attend college and major in political science, human services, or pre-law. From there, I want to pursue a career in family law with a focus on child advocacy, guardianship, and adoption reform. My goal is not simply to become an attorney but to help rebuild the parts of the foster care and adoption system that fail the most vulnerable. I want to be the person families can turn to before they are overwhelmed, confused, or alone. If I could start my own charity, the concept is simple: **a legal center for families who are drowning in systems that were supposed to help them.** Two words: *Legal center.* Getting your butt kicked by guardianship paperwork? Just found out adopting your niece could cost $7,000 before the process even begins? Pull up a chair. I won’t have all the answers, but I will definitely have a few—and I will make sure families leave with a roadmap instead of a list of problems. The mission would be to provide accessible legal guidance, emotional support, and practical resources to families navigating guardianship, adoption, disability services, and kinship care. We would serve low-income families, grandparents raising grandchildren, kinship placements, single parents, foster parents, and anyone who unexpectedly finds themselves in a legal situation they never planned for. Volunteers would perform services such as: • Explaining paperwork in plain language • Helping families gather documentation • Connecting clients with pro bono or low-cost attorneys • Hosting workshops on rights, responsibilities, and legal options • Offering childcare during appointments • Maintaining a resource library • Providing emotional support during difficult decisions My dream is to create a place where no family faces the system alone. A place where compassion and clarity exist side by side. A place where help isn’t a privilege—it’s a given. And someday, when I finally open the doors to that legal center, it will be the beginning of the change I want to see.

Everyone seems to think homeschoolers and co-op kids are sheltered, overly attached to their mothers, and lacking social skills. Anyone who believes that has clearly never met the people my mom hangs out with. By the time I was nine and my youngest brother was born, my mom had already spent years trying—and failing—to convince my pediatrician that I had Asperger’s, and that yes, neurodivergence can be inherited. Add in a documented history of anaphylactic food allergies, and homeschooling became the only place where I could thrive. What my parents did not expect was that homeschooling would eventually mean community, classrooms, transcripts, scholarship workshops, and a network of families who understood each other better than anyone else ever had. I still remember my first day at co-op. The program director, Amy Kennedy, walked in with pink spiked hair, a wide-sleeve tank top, and the energy of an ’80s punk rocker who had grown up, bought a farm, and somehow also ended up in charge of a minivan. I didn’t know what to think. I was quiet, unsure of myself, and terrified that everyone would see right through me and decide I didn’t fit. I had no idea that the next five years would change everything I believed about education—and about myself. Not long after I joined, our group was joined by Meghan, a teacher burnt out from the post-COVID school system, and her shy daughter Molly, who loved Harry Potter. Slowly, with their kindness and Amy’s unconventional leadership, I came out of my shell. One day I even wore my denim jacket covered in patches. I braced myself for judgment. Instead, Amy’s eyes lit up—turns out she loves Green Day and the Dead Kennedys. Within minutes our whole class was singing along with her to the song “Holiday,” and for the first time, I felt like learning didn’t have to be formal or rigid. A thought began to sprout: maybe real education wasn’t about walls or GPAs. Maybe it was a partnership—an exchange of ideas. Over the next five years, I watched mothers hug one another tightly, comforting each other that their neurodivergent or severely disabled children were not broken and that they could stop apologizing for them. I learned to shake my head when people claimed homeschoolers were coddled, especially when over ninety percent of our graduates went straight into college programs. But more than anything, I learned something about myself: I don’t want this to end—and yet I can’t wait for my next adventure. Amy had the courage to get down in the dirt and play in mud puddles with neurodivergent kids who often felt “too much” everywhere else. She had the courage to walk up to any teenager wearing earbuds and ask, without hesitation, “What are you listening to? Can I hear a little?” She never once pretended that learning required perfection. She showed us it required participation. In 2026, my parents took the ultimate plunge—we bought a remaindered church in rural Kansas. Their plan is to open a co-op for kids just like me and my sister. Amy didn’t just influence me; she inspired my mother and, honestly, an army of moms. By this time next year, I’ll be writing grants to fill our library with remaindered books, helping to figure out insurance costs for an independent school, and working on building a playground. It sounds impossible. It probably is a little impossible. But I believe we can do it because—thanks to Amy—I believe in myself.

My name is Grey Edward, and I am a creative writer who grew up watching the American foster care and adoption system from the inside, not the outside. When you witness how fragile a child’s safety can be, or how easily a family can be torn apart by paperwork, poverty, or confusion, you stop seeing the system as an abstract issue. It becomes personal. It becomes urgent. And for me, it became a calling. Writing has always been where I process what I see around me. Through stories, I learned to understand people—their fears, their motivations, their needs. Writing trains you to listen, to observe, and to imagine solutions. It is also where I developed the belief that if a system is broken enough to hurt the people it was designed to protect, then someone has to step in and try to fix it. I realized that “someone” could be me. I love my family deeply, and much of my worldview comes from watching them fight for my baby sister, who was my parents' kinship adoption. I’ve seen what advocacy looks like at the kitchen table, long before a courtroom ever becomes involved. I’ve seen how one determined adult can change the entire trajectory of a child’s life. These experiences shaped not only my character but my goals. They taught me that caring is not passive—it is work. Hard work. And if I want to see a foster care system that truly protects children, then I have to be willing to be part of that work. That is why I want to become a family law attorney. I want to be the person who helps families navigate overwhelming legal processes, who stands beside children who cannot stand up for themselves, and who confronts the parts of the system that fail the most vulnerable. My goal is not just to practice law; it is to improve the way the system functions altogether. I believe we can change the American adoption and guardianship landscape—make it more ethical, more humane, more consistent, and more focused on the well-being of the child rather than bureaucracy. I plan to use my education to become a specialist in child advocacy, guardianship, and adoption law. I want to work with policymakers, social workers, and families to create reforms that simplify procedures, prevent children from slipping through cracks, and reduce the trauma that instability inflicts. I want to write legislation, publish research, and use my storytelling skills to bring public attention to issues that often go unnoticed. Ultimately, I want to create a world where kids do not need to depend on luck to find a safe home. I work hard, and I care deeply—two traits that are essential for anyone trying to reform a system as large and complicated as foster care. But I believe change is possible. Not because it will be easy, but because it is necessary. Every part of my life—my writing, my family, my values, and my experiences—has brought me to this path. And I am ready to walk it.

My relationship with faith has never been simple, and I think that is what makes it meaningful. I am not someone who imagines God stepping down from a cloud to fix every crisis or rearrange the world on command. When my little sister needed protection—when the choice was foster care, abortion, or adoption—it wasn’t a supernatural intervention that saved her. It was my parents, a lawyer, a midwife, and a banker willing to take a risk on a personal loan. But the more I have thought about that moment, the more I’ve recognized that something deeper was at work. My mother’s conviction that life is sacred came from her upbringing, from the faith traditions that shaped her before she ever became a parent. That belief didn’t replace action; it motivated it. That is the kind of faith I understand. Not a faith that waits, but a faith that moves. I have come to believe that religion—no matter the form—teaches us something essential: that human beings are responsible for one another. Prayer can be comforting, healing, and grounding, and there is real psychological research showing its benefits. But prayer alone is not a strategy for saving a child, supporting a family in crisis, or repairing the world. The role of faith, at least in my life, is not to exempt me from responsibility but to remind me why responsibility matters. When I look back on the challenges my family has faced—illness, disability, fear, uncertainty—I do not see a pattern of divine intervention. I see people trying their hardest, guided by values that come from faith traditions, even if they don’t always name them. The belief that every life has dignity. The belief that compassion is not optional. The belief that we are called to help when we are able. Whether those values come directly from God or from generations of people passing down moral teachings hardly matters to me; what matters is that they shape the choices we make. This perspective has influenced my career goals more than anything else. I want to become a family law attorney because I have seen how fragile people can become inside complicated systems. I have seen how easily a child can be overlooked, how overwhelmed families can be by legal structures they don’t understand, and how badly people need someone willing to stand beside them. My faith—not in miracles, but in purpose—tells me that this is where I am meant to be. I believe God creates paths, but He does not walk them for us. If there is a divine calling in my life, it is not to wait for light to appear from above; it is to understand that we are meant to be the light for one another. Faith pushes me to act with compassion, to stay grounded in my values, and to treat every child or family I encounter as worthy of protection. Whether I ever reach certainty about God Himself, I already know the role faith will play in my future: it will remind me that the work I hope to do matters—not just legally, but morally.

When my Grandpa Bryan was diagnosed with cancer, nothing in my life made sense anymore. One day he was the steady center of our family—the person who made everything feel possible—and the next day we were staring at a word that changes the shape of every conversation and every hope. His illness rearranged our world in a way that no one prepared us for. And when he died, it felt as if the foundation beneath us cracked. Five years later, we are still learning how to live in the space his absence left behind. The loss did not fade quickly or cleanly. Grief is not something that sits neatly in one chapter of your life; it spills over into everything else. But the experience reshaped me. When someone you love is taken piece by piece, you begin to recognize what truly matters—not in a sentimental way, but in a clear, structural way. Watching my grandfather fight, and then watching the systems around him fail, forced me to understand how fragile people can be and how desperately they need someone to stand with them. Before he got sick, I thought adulthood was about having answers. After losing him, I realized adulthood is more about responsibility—the responsibility to show up when things are hard, to learn what others don’t know, and to help when others can’t. His death pushed me toward the path I am on now: pursuing an education that will allow me to advocate for families navigating crisis, illness, or instability. Losing him didn’t just affect my emotions; it shaped my purpose. I also learned that people don’t “move on” from loss; they move forward with it. My grandfather’s absence still influences the way I live my life. It reminds me to show grace to people I meet, because I don’t know which grief they’re carrying quietly. It pushes me to appreciate the ordinary moments—conversations in cars, shared meals, inside jokes—because perfection is not what makes life meaningful; presence is. Most importantly, losing him taught me that systems matter. Families do not fall apart because they lack love; they fall apart because they lack support. I saw how confusing paperwork, medical decisions, and legal processes affected my family during his illness and after his death. I saw how vulnerable people become when they are overwhelmed. That experience is why I want to go into family law and human services: I want to be the person who provides stability during the moments when life is collapsing for someone else. My grandfather’s loss could have left me feeling hopeless, but instead, it gave me a direction. It taught me to value resilience, to show compassion deliberately, and to turn pain into momentum. His memory is not something I leave behind—it is something I carry into my future, shaping not only who I am but the kind of advocate I intend to become.

Writing is not just the act of producing essays or submitting work for evaluation, even though those skills are essential to nearly everything I hope to accomplish. Writing is the foundation that allows me to move through the world with clarity and purpose. It gives me the tools to save disadvantaged children—children who are faceless, voiceless, or lost in a legal system built without them in mind. But beyond that immediate practical need lies a deeper truth: writing is my way of connecting the human experience across time, across borders, and across the spaces where people often feel invisible. What I love most about writing is its reach. Through writing, I can stand inside someone else’s story and understand their world, whether it is a frightened child in a courtroom or a character in a distant realm like Toril. Writing lets me bridge realities. It gives me permission to imagine boldly, to explore, to question, and to translate complex feelings into something coherent. It allows me to craft fan fiction for my neurodivergent little sister—stories about SpongeBob, Thomas the Train, and entire universes she understands better than anyone else. Those stories may never sit in a literary journal, but they matter. They are connection. They are joy. They are love translated into language. Writing is also how I make sense of myself. I can look back at a sentence I wrote two years ago and see the person I was then—what I feared, what I hoped for, what I misunderstood. Writing documents growth in a way that conversation cannot. It forces precision. It demands honesty. And it gives me a place to stand when the rest of life is unstable. As I move into college, writing will not be something I “make time for” in the margins of academic work; it will be central to everything I do. I plan to study political science, human services, and eventually family law. These fields require clarity of thought, the ability to articulate arguments, and the skill to tell a story that compels action. Writing will be my most important instrument—whether I am drafting motions, advocating for a child in crisis, or communicating with families who need stability. Beyond academics, I will continue writing creatively. I plan to keep a journal, draft short stories set in the fantasy worlds I love, and write narratives that explore the cases and experiences that shape my future work. I will join writing groups on campus, take workshops when possible, and stay connected to the communities that value storytelling as a tool for change. Ultimately, writing is freedom. It is how I reclaim control from systems that fail people. It is how I stay connected to the individuals I want to help. And it is how I remind myself that I am not only allowed to imagine a better world—I am capable of building one, one sentence at a time.

Selected Text — Marcus Aurelius, Meditations IV.3 “If you find something unbearable, you have not strengthened your endurance; if something seems impossible, you have not tried enough. For whatever is possible for another is also possible for you. Look to your own mind—are you shrinking from your task?—for the impediment is not the thing itself, but your judgment about it.” EM Forster: A Passage to India "The echo began in some indescribable way to undermine her hold on life. Coming at a moment when she chanced to be fatigued, it had murmured to her, 'Pathos, piety, courage --- they exist, but are identical, and so is filth. Everything exists; nothing has value. '" --- Perhaps the more things change, the more they stay the same. Two authors, separated by centuries and continents, and yet the quest to assess human values, to fit as individuals into a larger world, remains ever constant. Marcus Aurelius argues that human suffering arises not from the external world but from a collapse of internal value structures; his insistence that the impediment lies “not in the thing itself, but your judgment about it” reflects the philosophical responsibility to articulate meaning rather than allow experience to dissolve into nihilism. This mirrors the crisis Forster depicts in the Marabar Caves: when a society—or an individual—cannot distinguish value from chaos, the echo becomes a paralysis. Thus, Aurelius’ passage serves as a counterpoint and antidote to the meaning-dissolving terror that Forster describes: a reminder that value must be constructed, not passively awaited. Marcus Aurelius writes from the vantage point of a man burdened with both political power and existential responsibility, and his brief meditation—“the impediment is not the thing itself, but your judgment about it”—cuts to the heart of one of humanity’s oldest crises: the fear that meaning may be arbitrary. Aurelius refuses to surrender to that fear. His claim is not that the world is easy or pain-free, but that human beings possess an interior structure capable of transforming external chaos into moral significance. In other words, value does not pre-exist experience; value is the interpretive act we impose upon it. This argument becomes most powerful when read against literature that explores the collapse of such structures—most particularly E.M. Forster’s A Passage to India, in which the Marabar echo reduces distinctions like “pathos, piety, courage” to the same formless sound. Where Aurelius insists that judgment creates meaning, Forster depicts what happens when judgment fails. Aurelius’ paragraph begins with a criticism that is deceptively simple: individuals call things “unbearable” or “impossible” not because they are so, but because the individual has not yet cultivated the capacity to face them. This is less an exhortation toward self-blame than a radical reframing of causality. The problem lies not in the external event but in the reaction the mind constructs. Aurelius' model of the psyche assumes an inherent elasticity; the human mind is meant to stretch, adapt, and reframe until the world becomes intelligible. The refusal to do so results in suffering. In Aurelius’ formulation, then, the search for meaning is not optional. It is the fundamental task of the rational being. This notion becomes clearer when he writes, “Look to your own mind—are you shrinking from your task?” The “task” here is not merely endurance but discernment: the ability to distinguish what is within one’s control from what is not, and then to assign value accordingly. The Stoic concept of the hegemonikon—the ruling faculty of the soul—anchors this process. It is the part of the self responsible for judgment, assent, and the creation of meaning. When the hegemonikon is steady, external events cannot collapse one’s sense of value. When it falters, the external world becomes overwhelming, disorienting, or meaningless. This is where the connection to Forster becomes unavoidable. In A Passage to India, the Marabar Caves destabilize Miss Quested’s perception of value by presenting an echo so indiscriminate that it reduces every human experience to the same dull repetition. It is the absence of differentiation, the flattening of value, that terrifies her. The echo whispers: “Everything exists, nothing has value.” This is a direct challenge to the Stoic worldview. Forster depicts a space where interpretation fails, where the ruling faculty cannot impose order, where judgment is swallowed by undifferentiated sound. What Aurelius calls the “task” is precisely what the caves annihilate. If Aurelius were present in that scene, he would argue that the echo reveals not the meaninglessness of the world but Miss Quested’s unexamined dependency on inherited categories—British moral superiority, the illusion of cultural coherence, the belief that virtues are self-evident rather than constructed. When these categories collapse, she mistakes the collapse of her framework for the collapse of meaning itself. Aurelius would suggest that the failure lies not in the universe but in the inadequacy of her interpretive tools. This insight deepens when we consider your observation about independence movements and collective values. A society attempting to redefine itself faces the same crisis the individual does when long-standing structures dissolve. Colonial India is in exactly this position. The British Empire insists that its administrative categories—race, civilization, law, propriety—are stable and universal. But India itself, complex, ancient, and plural, generates meanings that do not align with imperial assumptions. The caves symbolize a space where British categories disintegrate, and because the British characters have never confronted the possibility that their values are not intrinsic, they experience the collapse as a kind of existential void. Aurelius’ text suggests a different outcome: when inherited meanings collapse, one must construct new ones through deliberate judgment. The failure to do so results in the nihilistic dread captured in the Marabar echo. The crisis is not that the world has no value, but that value requires intentional articulation—something neither the colonial administration nor Miss Quested is prepared to undertake. Marcus Aurelius would insist that meaning is not a natural resource lying around for civilized people to collect, but a discipline of the mind. Forster demonstrates what occurs when individuals assume meaning is pre-given: they are shattered when experience contradicts their assumptions. The caves become a philosophical test. Instead of reinforcing belief in “pathos, piety, courage,” they expose that Miss Quested has never consciously defined these terms for herself. They had always been borrowed from the empire that raised her. When the echo reduces them to nothing, she has no internal structure to rebuild them. This helps explain the political layer you identified. India, dreaming of independence, stands in a position analogous to Aurelius' reader. The old categories—British rule, assumed moral authority, the administrative fiction of unity—are dissolving. The question becomes: will India articulate new values strong enough to replace the old? Aurelius would argue that the nation must take responsibility for constructing those values consciously. Forster’s narrative, however, suggests both the necessity and the difficulty of that process. If a society fails to articulate a coherent value structure, it becomes vulnerable to the same despair that grips Miss Quested: everything exists, but nothing has meaning. The resonance between the texts becomes even sharper when considering Aurelius’ claim that “whatever is possible for another is also possible for you.” For him, human capability is universal. Forster complicates this: the colonial world is built on the belief that some people are more capable—morally, politically, intellectually—than others. The caves expose that belief as a fiction. Aurelius’ universalism and Forster’s critique converge on the same truth: meaning must be built cooperatively, not inherited through hierarchy. A colonial system that denies this will inevitably collapse under the weight of its own contradictions. Thus, Aurelius’ passage is not a simple self-help maxim but a profound ethical claim: value is not discovered but created through disciplined judgment. Forster’s echo is what happens when judgment is absent. When individuals or societies refuse the responsibility to define their moral world, they mistake the collapse of their assumptions for the collapse of meaning itself. In the end, Aurelius offers what Forster denies: a stable method for confronting chaos. If the caves declare that all distinctions are illusions, Aurelius replies that distinctions become real only through the mind that commits to them. Meaning is neither inherent nor impossible—it is intentional. And when the world demands that values be rebuilt, the only true impediment is the failure to attempt the task.

I used to think education was something that happened only in classrooms—facts written on chalkboards, worksheets turned in, grades assigned. But the experiences that shaped my goals came long before I knew what a transcript was. No class teaches a seven-year-old what kinship adoption means, or that in certain corners of the United States, a child can be transferred between households with fewer protections than most pets. No unit in social studies explains why a family might fall apart under the weight of medical bills, disability, or poverty. My earliest understanding of the world came not from textbooks, but from witnessing how fragile a child’s safety can be—and how life-changing it is when a single adult steps in and chooses to protect someone. Those experiences planted a direction in me long before I knew the word *advocacy*. Today, as I prepare for college, I see that my education is not replacing my lived experience—it is giving me the tools, vocabulary, and legitimacy to turn those experiences into action. For most of my life, I have been home schooled. People sometimes imagine that means isolation, but for me it meant flexibility: the chance to dive deep into subjects that mattered. My mother built a curriculum around real-world skills—debate, research, law, ethics, political systems, human services. While many students learn these topics in college, I learned them sitting at our kitchen table while helping my family navigate guardianship paperwork or understanding the gaps in social safety nets. I wasn’t reading about case studies; I was living them. At the same time, I want to be very clear: I do not believe homeschooling is universally superior, nor do I intend to criticize public education. Most of the adults who shaped my values—teachers, mentors, and even the caseworkers we’ve met—came from the public system. If anything, watching how hard they work within limited resources is part of what inspires me. I don’t see the world as “homeschool versus public school,” but instead as all of us trying to educate the next generation with the tools we have. My educational path just happened to be different, and that difference allowed me to explore social science and human behavior at an early age. The biggest lesson in my life came when I was seven years old. One of my mother’s family had become pregnant with a child they genuinely had little hopes of caring for. Rather than being judgemental or taking the easy way out, my parents offered for that family member to move in and raise the child under their roof while they lived the role of godparents. By the time the pregnancy was in the final trimester it became clear that they would instead be going for a kinship adoption. Kinship adoptions in Washington state are a nightmare. My parents spent over $7000 with not a single penny going to the birth mother. Because my parents were not previously licensed foster parents they were not entitled to financial aid or adoption credits. The baby would not even be covered under my father’s insurance for at least two weeks. Since my sister joined our family I have listened while mom talked to countless Kinship families all over Washington, Oregon, Idaho, and Montana. It’s one heartbreaking story of systematic failure after another. My goal is to attend law school and specialize in family law, child advocacy, and guardianship. I want to take everything I’ve lived—the messy, complicated reality—and combine it with formal training. I want to understand policy at the level where I can improve it, not just complain about it. I want to help create systems that do not rely on children being lucky enough to find a safe adult, but that ensure one is always there. I imagine a future where I can walk into a courtroom and be the voice that prevents a child from falling through the cracks. I imagine creating programs that help biological families stay together with the right support, or that help guardians navigate complicated legal processes without being overwhelmed. I imagine taking everything painful that I witnessed and turning it into stability, clarity, and safety for someone else. Education is how I get there. Every class I take—whether government, sociology, business, ethics, or writing—is another tool in my toolbox. Every resource I study helps me understand not only how systems fail, but how they can be repaired. My education has given me direction not by telling me what to think, but by showing me how to build a future where the things that happened to my family do not happen to others. In a way, education has become the bridge between the life I lived and the life I am determined to create. My personal experiences lit the fire, but my education is shaping it into something purposeful. I hope to use that combination—heart and knowledge—to become the advocate, the lawyer, and eventually the mentor that kids like me deserve. My past shaped my goals, but my education is giving those goals a future. And I intend to use that future to open doors for others who need someone to stand with them, speak for them, or simply refuse to leave them behind.

Susan Jeanne Grant Memorial Scholarship Essay I didn’t know until recently that a woman I never met, Susan Jeanne Grant, taught my mother to use a drop spindle at Ingraham High. A simple skill became a quiet turning point, years later, she began making baby blankets for LifeCenter, a crisis support in Pierce County. Those blankets were given to families in intense moments and they existed because Susan Grant shared one afternoon with a teenager. I grew up in a home that taught me to value ripple effects. My great-grandmother lives with us, my mother manages guardianship, medical appointments, and endless legal bureaucracy while working and homeschooling. Watching her navigate broken systems is the reason I want to go into family law. I’ve seen what real support looks like, what it costs, and how badly families need advocates. I am slightly embarrassed to admit this, but when I need to decompress, I loom knit while watching a movie. I’m a teenage guy with a knitting loom—not exactly the stereotype. Around Easter and Christmas, I donate simple knitted bears to local organizations. Until I found this scholarship, I never realized that the skill that shaped those bears traces back to Susan Grant’s classroom. Care work has taught me patience, emotional intelligence, crisis management, and resilience. It has taught me that change rarely comes from grand gestures; it grows from accumulated acts of steady kindness. College is a financial leap my family cannot take lightly. Between caregiving responsibilities and household needs, scholarship support would make a direct and difference in my ability to pursue this path. The problems facing families in crisis are overwhelming—and I’m one person at the very beginning of the journey. Still, I know that If I spend my life improving the structures meant to protect others, then I will be continuing Susan Grant’s legacy of compassion. One day, when I have my own office the first thing on the shelf will be a small line of handmade bears. They represent everything that brought me to this path—my mother’s lessons, Susan Grant’s influence, and the belief that even small acts can carry hope. I will give those bears to the children who come through my door on days when the world feels cruel. And I hope, in my own way, to honor Susan Grant by carrying her influence forward—one child, one family, and maybe one bear at a time.

The Man Who Showed Me What Love Really Is: Grandpa Bryan Two words define the person who shaped my life more than anyone else I have ever known: Grandpa Bryan. He did not enter our family through some fairytale moment or dramatic reunion. Grandma and Grandpa had known each other off and on most of their lives, but they only truly came together when my mom was thirteen. By that point, my mom had already survived a childhood shaped by an abusive marriage and the aftermath of leaving it. She wasn’t looking for someone to replace a father figure. Then Bryan showed up — and kept showing up. Mom says that when I was born, he became the happiest grandpa on earth. That joy wasn’t loud or performative. It was steadfast. It was the kind that shows up on cold mornings and long nights, when the novelty has faded. When my family made the decision to pursue a kinship adoption for my sister, not everyone supported it. There were doubts and disagreements among extended relatives. But Grandpa Bryan didn’t hesitate. He stood by me and said simply that all my sister needed was love. To him, love wasn't complicated — it was a commitment. A responsibility. A promise to protect, even when others questioned it. But my grandpa taught me that love alone is only the foundation. Work is the true proof. He built his towing and transportation business from the ground up. He carried the weight of providing without ever making it feel like a burden. His hands were always busy, always building, always fixing. He didn’t talk about sacrifice — he lived it. Then the cancer came. When his diagnosis arrived, when his own life was uncertain, his first concern wasn’t pain, fear, or legacy. It was security. He quietly transferred every single asset he owned into my mother’s name—not my grandmother’s. That decision likely saved us from losing everything. It protected our home. It shielded his family from asset requisition during chaos and grief. Even with his time slipping away, he was still showing up for us in the most powerful way possible. He continued to work until just three weeks before he died. That is the kind of man he was. Not dramatic. Not sentimental. Just unshakably present. Through him, I learned that love is not just an emotion. It is action. It is responsibility. It is choosing to stand firm when life turns cruel. Love is a man who prepares his family for survival even while facing his own end. Love is showing up over and over again, even when no one is applauding. Grandpa Bryan shaped my understanding of what it means to be strong. He showed me that real care isn’t loud — it’s reliable. It doesn’t seek credit. It seeks stability. And because of him, I know how I want to live my own life. By going to college. By becoming a family law attorney. By standing beside kids lost in broken systems. By protecting families when moments grow fragile. I can show up too. Every time I study when I’m exhausted, every hour I spend working toward law school, every dream I hold onto despite how heavy it feels — that is his legacy moving through me. I carry his lesson forward: that love is proven through presence, effort, and endurance. Grandpa Bryan did not just shape my childhood. He shaped my definition of purpose. And in every step I take toward building a life that protects others, I am honoring the man who taught me what love truly means.

My goal is to become a family law attorney and advocate for children who grow up in a broken adoption system, like my sister Stafyrae. She was a kinship adoption. If you ever want the textbook of systematic failures, just Google Kinship Adoption. I want to use my work and degree to protect kids who have no no power — My family has walked through systems most people only read about. I have seen how confusing and overwhelming the legal process can be, especially for vulnerable families. I have watched the way decisions made in court can shape a child’s entire life, deciding whether they grow up safe or lost, supported or forgotten. I don’t want to stand on the outside of that. I want to be inside it, making change, creating stability, and giving children a real chance at a future. The more I research law school, the more impossible it sometimes feels. The cost of textbooks alone could repair half the broken things in our home. When none of the heaters work and winter is coming, pricing junior law jackets and LSAT prep materials feels surreal — like dreaming of a world that doesn’t exist yet. I work hard, I help provide, and I understand money in a way most teens don’t have to. And sometimes that knowledge makes the goal feel heavier, not lighter. I refuse to let that reality define my limits. Scholarships are not just financial aid. They are belief. They say, “You are worth investing in.” They turn a goal that feels distant into something reachable. Every dollar awarded means fewer hours worrying and more hours learning. It means less strain on my family and more focus on becoming the kind of attorney who changes outcomes instead of just observing them. I want to pursue family law because I have seen what happens when children fall through the cracks. I want to be the one who stops that fall. The one who fights for stability, fairness, and second chances. I want to help children find safe homes, protective systems, and futures that do not repeat cycles of pain. This scholarship would not just support my education. It would help build a future advocate for children who need one most. I want to build futures. One forgotten case file at a time.

I love math because it is power — pure, raw, and undeniable. In a world that often feels chaotic and unfair, math offers something rare: certainty. There is always a right answer. It exists whether I find it or not. And that challenge — knowing the solution is there and pushing myself to reach it — is what drives me. My life hasn’t been easy. I’ve been helping build and remodel homes for as long as I can remember. When most kids were playing with toys, I was holding a hammer. I still remember when I was three or four years old and my mom told me to take a hammer to the wall in the trailer we lived in. Even then, without realizing it, I was being introduced to the logic of construction, structure, and measurement. Now as a teenager, when I walk into a hardware store, I don’t just see tools or materials — I see numbers. I calculate how many bricks I need per square foot. I figure out total material costs. I estimate whether I have enough money or if I need to plan further. That isn’t just shopping. That is math shaping survival, decision-making, and progress. For me, math is not just classroom theory. It is the language of independence. It is how I move from barely getting by to building something stable. Every calculation brings me one step closer to lifting myself out of being broke and into a life I created with my own hands and mind. Math shows me exactly where I stand, what I can afford, what I need to save, and how far my goals really are — no illusions, no excuses. I love math because it doesn’t lie. It respects effort. When I put in the work, the results show. When I make a mistake, the answer proves it — and that only makes me more determined to learn and improve. It teaches discipline, logic, and patience — qualities that go far beyond the classroom. Math is the backbone of every structure I’ve helped build and every dream I am working toward. Through it, I have learned that knowledge is strength and precision is freedom. And in that truth, I found something rare: control over my future. Math didn’t just teach me how to solve problems. It taught me how to rise above them.

Standardized tests have never been my strength. For as long as I can remember, the idea of being measured by a single score has made me anxious. Instead of giving up I decided to change the way I see testing. Preparing for the SAT has been about learning how to think clearly and stay steady when something feels overwhelming. Over the past year, I’ve been studying consistently using online tools through College Board and free resources from the Pierce County Public Library. These programs have taught me more than math or reading strategies — they’ve shown me how to build habits that last. I set small goals, keep track of my progress, and treat every mistake as feedback instead of failure. I’m also studying for the ACT, not because I love tests, but because I want to strengthen the skill of test-taking itself. Every practice session helps me learn more about how my mind works and how to improve it. What I’m most grateful for is that these resources are available to anyone willing to put in the effort. I don’t have access to expensive tutors or prep classes, but I do have determination and curiosity. Using free materials has made me realize how much you can accomplish when you take ownership of your own learning. It’s not always easy to stay disciplined, but each week I notice small improvements — higher practice scores, fewer careless errors, and a growing sense of confidence. Studying for the SAT has helped me confront something deeper: Learning to manage stress has become just as important as memorizing formulas. I’ve learned to take a breath before each question, to pause when I feel overwhelmed, and to remind myself that panic never solves problems. One day, I hope to become a lawyer. I want to stand in a courtroom, speak with clarity and confidence, and fight for people who don’t have a voice. I know that when that moment comes — when I’m standing before a judge and the pressure is high — the same tools I’m developing now will help me then. Managing nerves, staying grounded, and thinking critically under stress aren’t just test skills; they’re life skills. Preparing for the SAT has taught me that progress is built one question, one page, and one quiet hour at a time. It’s shown me that persistence is more powerful than fear, and that growth happens in moments when we refuse to give up. Whatever score I earn, I know that it will be more than just a number.

When my family got the call that changed everything, I was just a kid. A distant relative—overwhelmed, alone, and pregnant—had asked my parents to take the baby she knew she couldn’t care for. There was no question in my parents’ minds. They said yes. But what none of us knew at the time was just how hard saying yes would be. Over the next few years, I watched my family fight tooth and nail to legally adopt the child they were already raising, loving, and protecting as their own. We were met with impossible paperwork, contradictory rules, and institutions that seemed more invested in red tape than in helping a vulnerable child find a safe and permanent home. I saw my mom cry behind closed doors. I saw my dad skip meals to make sure everyone else had enough. And I saw my baby sister—sweet, funny, bright-eyed—grow up loved but never fully secure in the eyes of the law. That experience shaped me more than anything else ever could. It lit a fire in me that I’ve never been able to ignore. I want to be a family law attorney—not just because I understand how hard kinship adoption can be, but because I’ve lived it. I’ve seen what happens when a good family is forced to prove itself again and again. And I’ve seen how many kids fall through the cracks because no one is there to advocate for them. I want to be that advocate. Knowing that change starts even before earning a law degree, I’ve spent the last few years volunteering with small community organizations like Natura Art Therapy. Through Natura, I help lead free art therapy exercises for higher-needs children, many of whom come from backgrounds of trauma, neglect, or instability. Giving them a creative outlet to express emotions they can't always put into words has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. It's taught me patience, empathy, and the importance of listening even when no words are spoken—all skills I know will serve me as a future advocate for families. The truth is, I don’t know how I’ll afford law school. It keeps me up at night. But I do know that I won’t give up. Not now. Not after everything we’ve gone through. Not when I’ve already seen the difference that even one good advocate can make in a child’s life. My sister deserves that. So do thousands of other kids who end up in the foster system or caught between policies and politics. And parents like mine—people who open their hearts and homes without hesitation—deserve someone in their corner who understands. With some luck, some grit, and a little help from those who believe in second chances, I intend to be that someone.

Growing up, I knew my family wasn’t like everyone else's. Great-Grandma lost everything when Great-Grandpa suffered multiple strokes. She came to live with us. Then the hurricane (Ivan) hit my great-aunt and uncle’s farm in Alabama. Their homeowner's insurance didn't cover the loss, so they were homeless until they could live with us. Overnight, we became a multi-generational family of 12. Mom had a saying, It's not about me, it's about we. My mom’s family tends to have children young, and so my great-great-grandparents, who lived through the Great Depression with little more than their faith and each other, passed down a way of life that focused on personal responsibility, stewardship over what you had, and a relentless work ethic no matter the odds. Without ever sitting me down to give a formal lecture, my family taught me the kind of leadership that isn’t flashy or loud—it’s steady, humble, and built to last. Leadership, in my experience, doesn’t start with giving orders. It starts with rolling up your sleeves and doing the hard work first. When I was younger, it wasn’t uncommon to be up before the sun, helping in the garden, fixing a fence, or tending to chores that had been done the same way for generations. No one applauded you for doing what needed to be done—you just did it. I learned that real leaders don’t ask anything of others they wouldn’t first do themselves. In moments where things seemed overwhelming—whether it was school, family obligations, or later leadership opportunities—I leaned into that foundation. Quiet perseverance, persistence even when nobody else notices, and the idea that service to others is not beneath anyone have guided my decisions every step of the way. Despite faith and hard work, times have always been hard for my family, but Dad says it's what you do when times are hard that matter. I was 7 years old when my parents got the call that changed everything. A relative had given birth to a child they could not care for, and the state was getting involved. That was all it took, one look between my mom and Dad and the girl that became my baby sister came home. Because she was from out of state, my parents were told that if the birth mother signed the child over willingly the case would be closed but they would get no financial help. Mom and Dad still said ok. When we found out my sister Stafyrae was severely developmentally disabled mom just shrugged and said “Adoption is a chance, not a magic wand.” Without saying a word, they taught me what it was to champion life, to give new chances. When I reflect on who I am today and who I hope to become tomorrow, I realize that I didn’t invent my leadership style. I inherited it. It's built from Depression-era kitchens where you made a meal out of whatever you had, from old hymns sung out of key but with full hearts, from quiet sacrifices no one talked about but everyone felt. My great-grandparents didn’t know they were shaping a leader; they were just trying to live right. But in doing so, they gave me the greatest leadership education I could have ever received—and I carry it forward with pride. I will continue to carry these values with me as I become a family law attorney seeking to give second chances to children exactly like my sister. Every child deserves a chance.

For me, college isn’t just about education—it’s about drawing a line in the sand. It’s the difference between knowing where I come from and being proud of it, but refusing to let it dictate where I’m going. Growing up in a multi-generational family of Caucasian, Native American, and Korean heritage has given me a complicated, sometimes beautiful, sometimes chaotic perspective. We weren’t always conventional, but we were always real. My parents didn’t just raise me and my siblings—they raised an older child who aged out of foster care and later, they took in my younger adopted sister. Watching them walk those roads, I learned early how to recognize and respond to trauma-conditioned behaviors with compassion rather than frustration. My mother has a saying: Adoption is a chance; it is not a magic wand. She’s right. Every year in the United States, roughly 368,000 foster children are lost in a system that was meant to protect them but has instead been warped by profit and bureaucracy. The average uncontested adoption costs over $20,000—none of which goes to the birth family who is often left in abject poverty. For kinship families like mine, there is rarely any financial support, no matter how much love or stability we offer. COVID only made the gaps worse, turning rural Washington and Idaho into adoption deserts where struggling families were left behind. But college is my pivot point. It’s my commitment to becoming the person who stands between those children and the cracks they might otherwise fall through. Earning a degree in family law is my way of refusing to look back with bitterness. I want to look forward with purpose. I want to take the hands of kids just like my sister and walk them toward something better. It won’t always be easy—I’m not naïve enough to think otherwise. But I’m ready for the fight. When I imagine graduation day, I see more than just a diploma in my hands. I see the faces of the kids who will someday sit across from me, kids who feel like the world has written them off. I’ll sit at the table with them, not above them. I’ll know their stories because I lived one myself. And I will fight for them with the same passion my parents fought for my sister. For me, college is not about prestige or paychecks. It is about equipping myself with the tools to create second chances—the ones every child deserves but far too few are given. It’s not just a degree. It’s the first step toward making sure that no child slips away simply because the system was designed to let them go. I am never going to give up on my dream to be an attorney. I will always be proud of my sister who, even with medical complications and severe developmental delays, has been powerful enough to inspire love and change for others. I am proud of the complicated, messy legacy that made me who I am, but as I approach college, I am not looking back because I am not going that way.

Not very long ago, the world was a very different place. Both my grandfathers came from broken, impoverished homes. Tom lied about his age and at sixteen, he ran off with the American Army. Lloyd lied at barely fifteen and joined the Navy. Both ended up in Korea. They never talked much about the war or their service; a lot of men came back like that, silent. Their wives told the stories—stories of men who struggled to adjust, to hold jobs. Ironically, the two men knew each other. Of the two, Lloyd was the leader. He suggested they try long-haul trucking. As they say, the rest is history. That is how I remember them both—quiet, hardworking, and always ready to teach me how to back a trailer around a corner, even though I was only seven. By the time I was ten, I could drive a tractor all day long without breaking a sweat. They taught me that broken kids with determination could still do big things. More than anything, they taught me that standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves is at the very core of what makes us human—that service is the greatest calling of all. Service is not always about enlisting. Sometimes, it is about standing up in courtrooms, ensuring a child has a safe place to call home. It is about fighting for families to stay together and for children to be given the same shot at life that my grandfathers fought so hard to give me. When my parents adopted Stafyrae, my baby sister, a child with developmental challenges and complex medical needs, I saw firsthand the power of kinship adoption. She could have been lost in the foster system, shuffled from one home to another. Instead, she was given a family, a name, a future. That was the moment I knew—one day, I would dedicate my life to making sure other children like her had the same chance. The law is more than rules on paper; it is the backbone of society, shaping the lives of the most vulnerable among us. Too often, children in foster care are treated as statistics rather than as human beings in desperate need of stability and love. I intend to change that. After college and law school, I will work as an advocate for kinship and foster care reform, pushing for policies that prioritize keeping families together whenever possible. I want to ensure that children don’t just survive but thrive in homes where they are truly wanted and loved. My grandfathers never spoke much about their battles, but they taught me through action what it means to serve. Their legacy of perseverance, family, and dedication fuels my passion for justice. They proved that broken beginnings do not define us—that the measure of a person is in what they choose to stand for. I choose to stand for children like my sister. I choose to stand for families. I choose to serve.

From the moment my parents chose to adopt Stafyrae, a distant relative who could have easily been lost to the foster care system, I knew my life had changed forever. I watched as they opened our home and hearts to a child who needed stability, love, and a second chance. Stafyrae, with her developmental challenges and health needs, became more than my sister—she became my inspiration. Her adoption was not just a legal process; it was the difference between being discarded and being cherished. It was through her journey that I realized the power of family law, and with it, my purpose. As I grew up, I saw firsthand the complexities of kinship adoption—the legal hurdles, the emotional weight, and the unwavering dedication it required. I understood that the law is not just about rules and regulations; it is about people, about fighting to keep families together and ensuring that children like Stafyrae do not slip through the cracks of a broken system. Her adoption ignited a fire in me, a determination to use my education, skills, and passion to advocate for children who deserve a chance to find their forever homes. My career path in family law is driven by the belief that every child deserves a stable and loving environment. To prepare myself, I have taken deliberate steps to build a foundation that will allow me to make a tangible impact. Before turning sixteen, I channeled my entrepreneurial spirit into launching AND GO Coffee, a mobile coffee business designed to fund my future legal education. Through this endeavor, I developed business acumen, financial discipline, and problem-solving skills—all of which are crucial in law and advocacy. I also took an active interest in historical fiction writing, honing my ability to craft compelling narratives, which will be invaluable in articulating the stories of those I will one day represent in court. Beyond academics and entrepreneurship, I have sought to refine the qualities necessary for a career in family law. My experiences in painting, golf, and metal smithing have taught me patience, resilience, and the importance of precision—traits that parallel the demands of legal practice. I have learned that sometimes, like in metalwork, you must go through the fire to create something strong and lasting. This understanding fuels my commitment to helping children in the foster system navigate their own trials and emerge with hope. Looking ahead, I plan to pursue a law degree with a focus on family law, immersing myself in internships and advocacy work that will provide firsthand experience in child welfare cases. My goal is to specialize in kinship adoption and guardianship law, ensuring that children in need of safe and loving homes are placed with family whenever possible. I envision a future where I can use my voice to influence policies that protect vulnerable children and streamline adoption processes to prevent unnecessary delays in finding permanent placements. Family law is more than a profession to me; it is a mission. I have seen the difference it can make, not just in legal terms but in real lives. Stafyrae’s adoption was the catalyst that set me on this path, and every step I take is in pursuit of making that same kind of magic happen for others. Because in the end, family is not just about blood—it is about love, commitment, and the legal framework that makes second chances possible.

Growing up in a multi-generational household is either something you have experienced or, you just don’t understand. When you have a family of thirteen, money becomes communal because making thirteen meals three times a day is insane. Your best bet is to make three huge meals and everyone has some. Gardens become communal. Doing laundry requires a group chat on Facebook to coordinate usage times. In short—it is never about you, because there are twelve others of you. When you have what mom calls the "Not me, WE" mentality, for the most part, things go surprisingly harmoniously. That said, every group has a leader, and for us, that was my grandfather, Bryan McGee. Bryan will always be a hero in my mind because my mom was thirteen when he married my grandmother. Grandma Tammy had escaped domestic violence with my mom, who, as a result of abuse, was not an easy teenager to raise. Bryan had been the son of two Irish immigrants. His father served in Korea. Bryan was a long-haul trucker since the age of seventeen, and a moonshiner. One of the things my mom and Grandpa taught me was that moonshine is not about getting drunk; it was about patience, rhythm, and connecting with people on a level that seemed both finite and somehow infinite in equal measure. Moonshine had taken an angry, hurt teenage girl (my mom) and taught her that something else was possible. Distilling turned Bryan from Mom’s stepdad into my grandfather. Trucks were not just a job in our family. I remember being eight, and not being able to reach the pedals. Grandpa told me to back the truck around a corner in the driveway with a full trailer. I thought he was insane, but he did not let me quit. He sat in the passenger seat until I got that Kenworth in port. He taught me that little guys could move huge things. I will never forget going with him that day to the doctor. The image of the radiographs is still burned in my memory. He had squamous-cell carcinoma—a cancer of the soft tissue that spread through his throat, lungs, and the opening of his stomach. It was aggressive, and he had four years tops (he made it fifteen!). Over those next several years, Grandpa taught me how to drive a tractor, how to answer phones at our family business, and how to grow up. Bryan passed away on Christmas Day 2020. His last words were literally demanding that the family not wait for him to open gifts. The morning after he was gone, my mom opened the family shop. We had been closed for three days due to the holiday, and Mom was blown away by what she saw. Sticky notes. Everywhere. My grandfather had gotten into the shop over break and left notes pertaining to anything he could think of to help the family run the business without him. Above my mom’s desk, the last remaining note still hangs tacked to the wall: "Don’t ever forget, you can do this." It took Bryan to teach his parents that family was more than just blood. Bryan inspired them to step up and take an unplanned child out of kinship foster care and adopt her. Watching my parents struggle to navigate the sheer insanity that is the American foster system with next to no support inspired me to practice family law. I want to give unwanted children like my sister Stafyrae a chance at love and a family. That is what Grandpa Bryan taught me. This is his legacy.

Roots in the Fire: How My Sister’s Adoption Led Me to Family Law By Grey Edward Barnum You don’t plan for life to change overnight until it does. One moment, my parents were balancing my family's small business, life, and my grandfather's aggressive cancer diagnosis. The next, a baby girl came into our home with a quiet reality: she needed us, and we were the only ones left to show up. Stafyrae's arrival was like an unexpected thunderstorm—beautiful, chaotic, and reshaping everything in its wake. She had developmental challenges, health needs, and a world that had already told her that she was entirely disposable. When we got the call that her birth mother was not going to be able to take care of her my parents didn’t hesitate. And just like that, my world cracked open. Stafyrae was the second time the state had called my parents and my mom had a saying: Foster and adopt are a chance, they are not a magic wand. My parents tried to wave a wand once before and save an older child, but the magic didn't take. Being as young as I was I used to think that giving a child a home was the end of the story—like in the movies where the adoption papers are signed, and then the credits roll. But the reality is messier. Giving a child a home is just the prologue. The real story? That’s what comes after. I painted a watercolor painting on my wall—a tree, all blue, with twisting, fragile roots. I painted it after Stafyrae arrived, and I stare at it often, thinking about kids like her. Kids pulled from the nightmare that is the American foster system, expected to plant themselves in new soil and flourish—despite never having been given a stable place to grow or enough sunlight. They aren’t just looking for a family; they’re looking for ground to stand on, for roots that won’t betray them. That’s why I want to practice family law. Because before a kid can find their way home they need to have a house- a chance- parents- a family. They can't grow without it. I think a lot about the ways we build resilience. For me, it’s always been through creativity—painting, metal smithing, even golf (yes, golf—stay with me). There’s something unifying about these things. In painting, you have to let go of control and let the colors bleed. In metal smithing, you have to go through fire to make something beautiful. And golf? Well, that’s just about finding your footing in a ridiculous, unpredictable game where nothing ever goes as planned. Life—and especially life for kids coming out of the foster system—is all of these things and in the world of family law, a courtroom and a circus have a lot in common. Sometimes you gotta put in the work, give it your best swing, and pray you hit the green. When Stafyrae first came to us, she didn’t know how to play. She didn’t know how to create. She’d spent so much of her little life just trying to survive that the idea of fun, of making something just because she could, was foreign. Watching her discover joy—real, deep, belly-laugh joy—has been more meaningful than any courtroom victory I could ever imagine. Still, without one very dedicated lawyer, none of this ever would have happened. This is why I have to go to law school, because without that first chance, nothing else can happen. As of 2024 there are 366,500 foster children in America and to me, they are worth fighting for.

Sometimes a single phone call can change your entire life. When my parents received the call about Stafyrae, none of us knew what lay ahead. She was a distant relative—a tiny pink line on a pregnancy test, all set to be born into circumstances that would leave her vulnerable and alone. My parents were told her biological mother couldn’t care for her and that kinship adoption was the best option. My parents, without hesitation, said yes. But the journey to bring her home was anything but simple. I watched as my parents, fueled by love and determination, struggled to navigate the overwhelming process of kinship adoption. We quickly learned that it wasn’t just a matter of signing papers and providing a stable home. The legal fees alone could exceed $30,000—an astronomical amount for a family trying to do the right thing. What shocked me even more was how difficult it was to find a lawyer willing to take the case. Many shrugged it off, saying the birth mother would probably “change her mind.” My parents didn’t give up, but the system’s lack of support made it clear that kinship caregivers are often left to fend for themselves.At one point my mother was even told if she could not pay the court fees she was better off giving Stafyrae over to foster care. My sister was clearly for sale. Bringing Stafyrae home was a miracle, but our challenges didn’t end there. She was diagnosed with multiple developmental disabilities, and as COVID dawned, the world seemed to collapse around us. Schools closed, therapies were canceled, and resources vanished. My parents fought tirelessly to ensure Stafyrae received the support she needed, but the hurdles were endless. Through it all, their love for her never wavered. Stafyrae became the heart of our family—a beacon of resilience and joy. She taught us that love is not about ease; it’s about commitment. Watching my parents struggle, I couldn’t ignore the systemic failures that made their journey so hard. Kinship caregivers often don’t qualify for financial assistance, leaving families stretched thin and frankly- exploited. I wanted to do something to help, so I started flipping storage auctions, I saved the extra cash to do little things like take Stafyrae and I to the zoo and often I would get lots of kids clothes and toys which I could donate to other kinship families through Facebook. It’s a small gesture, but it reminds me that we are all in it together. More importantly, Stafyrae’s story ignited my passion for family law. I want to be the lawyer my parents couldn’t find—someone who understands that a child’s well-being should never hinge on bureaucracy or financial barriers. As a family law attorney, I hope to advocate for kinship caregivers and ensure children like Stafyrae find their way home. Every child deserves a family willing to fight for them, and every family willing to fight deserves someone fighting alongside them.My parents were lucky to find such a lawyer and he changed everything for me. Stafyrae’s presence in our lives has been transformative. She’s not just my sister; she’s my inspiration. Through her, I’ve learned that love can reshape lives and that advocacy can create lasting change. My journey into law begins with her, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The moment I first laid eyes on my baby sister, Stafyrae, I understood that she was more than just a new member of our family. She was a miracle—a distant relative with multiple developmental challenges who might have been lost in the cracks of a broken system had it not been for the determination of my parents and one extraordinary lawyer. Her adoption was unplanned, a circumstance born of necessity and love, but it redefined my perspective on family, justice, and the future I wanted to build. Stafyrae’s journey to our home was anything but straightforward. My parents, motivated by an unshakable sense of duty and compassion, were thrust into a system that seemed less about protecting children and more about profits. Every decision, every document, seemed like a transaction rather than a step toward creating a stable home for a vulnerable child. The bureaucracy was daunting, and at times, it felt like an endless battle against an impersonal machine. In the middle of this chaos stood one person—a family law attorney who refused to let the system dictate Stafyrae’s fate. This lawyer was more than just a professional; he was an advocate, a fighter, and a lifeline. He saw Stafyrae not as a case file but as a little girl deserving of love and belonging. His relentless efforts ensured that Stafyrae could stay within her biological family, giving her a chance to grow up surrounded by people who cherished her and can tell her who she is, and where she comes from. Watching this lawyer in action left an indelible mark on me. His passion and resolve transformed what could have been a tragic story into one of hope and healing. He didn’t just help my parents adopt Stafyrae; He inspired me to see the potential for change within the system. I realized that family law wasn’t just about legalities—it was about creating second chances, mending broken families, and giving children like my sister a place to call home. Stafyrae’s presence in our lives is a daily reminder of what’s at stake for countless children navigating similar struggles. She is my motivation to pursue family law, a field where I can make tangible differences in the lives of children who, like her, deserve opportunities to thrive. I want to be the lawyer who fights for the overlooked and undervalued, the one who ensures that no child is treated as just another case. For me, practicing family law isn’t just a career choice; it’s a calling. It’s about honoring the lawyer who fought for Stafyrae, supporting families like mine, and creating the magic of belonging for children who need it most. In every case I take, I’ll carry my sister’s story with me, proof that love and perseverance can and does change lives.

Ann Bailey once said: "I can't change the whole world, but I can work to make my corner of it better." When I was seven, I watched my parents step up to adopt Stafyrae Adomova, a distant relative with multiple developmental challenges. They had never planned to adopt and the lack of support for kinship adoptions opened my eyes. The fact that the average US adoption easily costs between 11-18 thousand dollars, with none of that money going to the birth mother should have more people questioning just what is going on in family courts, yet, here we are. That experience transformed my understanding of family and responsibility- court costs, legal fees, and the emotional burden weighed on everyone. My parents fought hard to keep Stafyrae with us. It was the unwavering dedication of our family law attorney, who was woefully underpaid and barely noticed, that really left a mark on me. I will never forget the day I asked him why, why did he fight so hard. "Because Stafyrae deserves a chance." That one moment changed everything. That’s when I began to dream of becoming a family law attorney. I wanted to help children like Stafyrae find homes and to support families who don’t have the financial means to navigate the system. But I knew this path would be tough—law school is expensive, and we didn’t have any money to spare. So I came up with a plan. I worked at any job I could find, saving every dollar I earned. Finally, at an auction, I bought a rundown drive-up coffee stand with my savings. This little coffee shop became the cornerstone of my vision: AND GO Coffee. I knew I would have to be smart about making it profitable, so I spent hours at the library taking free courses on business and finance. I learned to write a business plan and design a logo from scratch. AND GO is more than a coffee stand to me; it’s a way to fund my dreams. I finished the draft of my first business plan before my 15th birthday. To make AND GO unique, I decided to create a line of organic, sustainable teas. I grew herbs myself, testing combinations and finding flavors that felt honest and refreshing. It was important to me that every aspect of AND GO represented hard work, resilience, and a focus on community—values that I want to bring to my future work as a family lawyer. If had to be honest, sustainable, affordable, and organic. My plan is to open AND GO Coffee by the summer of 2027, aiming for it to support my law school journey. It’s not just about making money; it’s about creating a future where I can help kids find the homes they deserve, even if they come from families without financial resources. Watching that family attorney help my parents showed me that I could make a difference, and now, my coffee stand is a key part of that journey. For me, every cup of tea and coffee I sell will be one step closer to creating a world where kids like Stafyrae won’t face the same barriers. I am not setting out to change the entire world, I am setting out to change my world one family at a time. Becoming an attorney is not what I want to do, it is what I will do. Before I can go to my law office and make change the first thing I need to do is make a really awesome cup of coffee.

When I think about what it means to grow up with a family that’s big in both size and heart, I know that my dream of practicing family law is not a choice; it’s a calling. I have seen firsthand what family means, not just in moments of comfort but also in struggle and survival. I’ve watched how my parents—on limited means and no extra help—nurtured a family of 12 under one roof, each of us pulling together to make it work, no matter how hard it was. From the outside, our house is modest, a bit worn at the edges. We don’t invite friends over; I don’t let anyone know that my uncle lives in the detached shop because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s had his own struggles, and if it weren’t for our family, he’d be on the streets. I know other kids my age don’t know what zoning codes are but for me, they are dangerous. They don’t look at an old sofa or folding table and see resilience—each item proof of how hard my family works to keep us all afloat. Growing up in a multi-ethnic, multi-generational family isn’t easy. With a dozen people in one house, privacy is a luxury. Our lives intersect constantly: my younger siblings running around, my great-aunt quietly folding laundry, my uncle cooking up his favorite dishes in the shop kitchen, and my parents working late hours to make ends meet. I remember many evenings when my parents were at work, and we couldn’t afford a sitter. My great-aunt would step in, taking on the weight of watching us and keeping things running, a steady presence we depended on. She isn’t just someone in my family; she’s a cornerstone of my life. We don’t always have much, but we share what we can and Christmas Day is a blast! When I wanted to read, my mother’s cousin—who feels more like an older sister—would lend me books. In a way, each story I read became my escape, feeding my love for learning and fueling the dream I hold onto even now: to practice family law. I might have been young, but I understood early on that the world around us was sometimes unfair, and if I was going to change anything about that, I had to be determined. The turning point in my life came when I was seven. My parents got an unexpected call from a distant relative, asking them to adopt a child they hadn’t planned for. There was no financial assistance, no guide, and only one certainty: if they didn’t take her in, she would likely end up in a system that could fail her. My little sister, Stafyrae Adomova, came into our lives with a long list of health and developmental challenges that made her situation unique and, in the eyes of many, difficult. But my parents fought for her with every resource they had, refusing to let her needs deter them from giving her a loving home. Watching my parents go through that adoption process opened my eyes. They were determined, but they had no roadmap, no support for families like ours that open their doors and hearts even when it seems impossible. The lawyer who took on our case wasn’t just skilled; he was compassionate. He worked tirelessly to make sure our family could legally become Stafyrae’s. The cost was low, but his dedication was priceless. He didn’t just advocate for us; he taught me what family law could mean—how it could be a real force for change. I remember feeling a sense of awe at the lawyer’s commitment. At that young age, I realized that family law isn’t about following rules or filling out paperwork. It’s about people, about fighting for what is right for families who might not have anyone else to stand with them. That experience lit a fire in me, one that has only grown over the years. Family law is not what I want to do. It’s what I’m going to do. In our home, I know that I’m supported, no matter what. I carry that sense of security and belonging with me as I work toward law school, studying as hard as I can. My family is part of every step I take toward this dream. We may live frugally; we may keep to ourselves; we may rely on borrowed books and the kindness of our own kin. But we’re always there for each other. When I imagine my future, it’s not just a vision of a courtroom or a law office. I see myself standing beside families like mine. Families who may be scared, who may be taking on more than they ever thought they could, but who are committed to each other. I want to help them, just as that lawyer helped us. I want to write, to advocate, to use the law not just as a means to make a living but as a tool to change lives, to build stronger homes, and to give children like Stafyrae a chance at stability and love. One day, I’ll be that lawyer. I’ll be someone others can count on in their darkest hour, the one who finds a way when it seems impossible. Because that’s what family does. That’s what I’ve learned from my own family’s struggles and triumphs. We fight for each other. And as sure as I know this, I know family law is my future.

I did not have the most conventional family, born into a multi-generational hobby farm, my parents are readers, writers, and my uncle is a political consultant who talks with politicians daily. His book collection is inspiring and groan-worthy. For as long as I remember mom and dad referred to me as a little person, nurturing my growing mind. To say the least, my kids books were not exactly Hop on Pop. I will never forget the first time I borrowed Watership Down from my older cousin. She had to help me with some of the big words, I was probably in first grade at the time. I think that was probably when I first started to think about the nature of storytelling even if I was not able to share my ideas at the time. Then, one day, mom turned on a movie. I will never forget that opening scene, a black screen with a strange red and yellow watercolor sun narrated by a Brit. One of the most powerful elements of Watership Down is its commitment to depicting the natural world in a raw manner. The film adaptation shows the rabbits’ struggle for survival, their fears, and their dreams with a level of realism that hits hard despite being animated in a near watercolor style. This isn’t a "cute" animal story; rather, it’s a story of resilience against overwhelming odds. Watching Hazel, Fiver, Bigwig, and others grapple with life-threatening challenges reminds us that we are truly human. Their story has universal appeal because about a community facing hardship and pushing through. The film adaptation, with its beautiful landscapes and heart-pounding chase scenes, brings out the fragility and strength life. Animation can sometimes cheapen a story and place it in the realm of childhood, but here, I feel it almost makes the film portrayal feel more accessible. The visuals of Efrafa, for example, convey the suffocating authoritarian society more vividly than the book. The militarized way the rabbits live, and the brutality of General Woundwort, feel ominous and real in the movie in a way that words sometimes can’t capture. In the adaptation, these visuals emphasize the contrast between the oppressive rule and the freedom that Hazel’s band of rabbits seeks. It makes the story’s message about freedom and self-determination even stronger. What stays with me the most is the characters’ relationships and individual arcs. Hazel’s unwavering courage, Fiver’s strange visions, and Bigwig’s loyalty—they all come alive through the animation, voice acting, and soundtrack. It’s not merely a story about survival; it’s about hope, leadership, and belief in something bigger. As someone who’s passionate about family, I find this portrayal of unity inspiring. Hazel’s group isn’t just a band of survivors; they’re a family, one that looks out for each other against all odds. In both my career and writing, I want to tell stories about resilience, especially as I aim to be a family law attorney fighting for children just like my adopted sister. The film captures the importance of home, themes Watership Down illustrates so well as a paperback. The film's adaptation captures the grit, loyalty, and love that define community, which is ultimately what makes the story timeless. It resonates with the same unbreakable spirit I see in families facing adoption. It’s a powerful reminder that every journey worth taking has risks, courage, and a vision of a better tomorrow. By making it a an animated film about rabbits the director has made it more equitable and removed the threat of other hard-hitting pieces like 1984, just as powerful idealistically, but not as dark.

I will never forget the day my sister was born. She was tiny, too tiny, fragile with huge, grey-blue eyes. Mom had a premie outfit handy but it did not fit. She ended up stripping the clothes off an American Girl doll. I was still young then, but even I could see how much had already been stacked against the baby. She had been born to a distant relative, someone who couldn’t, or maybe just wouldn’t, care for her, and she came to us with a backpack — both literally and figuratively — full of issues that most families would have no idea how to address. Health complications, developmental delays, and a life story that seemed broken before it had even started. My parents’ decision to adopt her wasn’t simple. It was long, hard, and emotionally exhausting. The process was complicated, more than any of us imagined. It felt like an uphill climb through red tape, misunderstandings, and more obstacles than anyone would have expected. I watched them pour money and energy into this adoption, going to court, gathering paperwork, and meeting requirements that often seemed pointless. Even within our extended family everyone had their own opinion and none of it helped, but help from the system itself? None. If anything, it felt like the opposite. My parents were treated with suspicion, and their commitment was doubted at every turn. For people who were trying to do something as beautiful as giving a child a chance, they were met with coldness and bureaucratic walls. But there was one person, one patient, dedicated lawyer who took on their case, who fought for Stafyrae just as hard as my parents did. And it was watching him work that lit the fire in me to do the same. Growing up, I had always loved writing, using words to make sense of my world. When I write, I feel like I can cut through all the noise — the chaos of life, the messy emotions, the impossible demands. Writing gives me a way to find clarity, to strip away everything that doesn’t matter and get down to the core of a story and the idea. But this was different. This lawyer wasn’t just writing down words; he was shaping lives. He was using his understanding of the law, his ability to weave arguments and tell compelling stories, to protect and uplift families like mine. That was the first time I understood that writing could be more than just a way to make sense of the world; it could be a tool for justice, a means of giving kids like Stafyrae a chance they would not otherwise have. My parents say I think too much. And they’re right. The reality is, sometimes it does all feel overwhelming. I think about the layers of needs, the mountains of paperwork, the endless data points, and, of course, all the human emotions tied up in these issues. It’s not just enough to rescue a child; you have to consider what happens next. What do you do with a broken child once they’re “saved”? What do they need to heal? How do you set them up to live, really live, with joy and a sense of belonging? These questions sometimes feel so enormous that they weigh on me, so I turn to my telescope, one of my great comforts. Staring into the night sky gives me perspective, like a reminder that all the problems we face on Earth, no matter how overwhelming, are really just tiny in the grand scheme of things. When I’m looking up at the stars, I’m reminded of how vast the universe is — so immense we can barely comprehend it. We’re all made of the same stardust, the same particles that form the stars, galaxies, and everything we see. In those quiet moments, I find peace, a reminder that I, like everyone, am both incredibly small and a part of something vast and beautiful. Mom has a saying: Adoption is a chance, not a magic wand. And as I’ve watched Stafyrae grow, I’ve realized how deeply true that is. Bringing her into our family didn’t make everything perfect. She has serious health conditions and developmental challenges that we work with every single day. She may not communicate like other kids her age, and she might never reach the milestones that most people take for granted. But put her in front of a telescope, let her gaze up at the stars, and you’ll see it — that moment when she becomes just another little kid in awe of the universe. For a few precious moments, she’s not a child with complex needs or a case study of what can go wrong; she’s just Stafyrae, looking up with quiet wonder, her whole world opening up in a single glance. Watching her over the years has shaped me in ways I can’t put into words. I know that as a lawyer, I’ll have the tools and resources to fight for kids like her, to make sure they have someone standing up for their right to be loved. But it’s more than that. I know that once I’ve reached a place in my career where I’m financially secure, I want to start a nonprofit co-op for kids who have been overlooked, kids who have been thrown away. I picture a place where they can come and use telescopes, where we can talk about the stars and explore the vastness of the universe together. Because kids like Stafyrae need more than just survival; they need the chance to dream, to feel wonder and hope. For me, this is not an idea — this is what I’m going to do. This is my mission. Right now, the first step is simple: work hard, get into law school, and pay for it. I’m not sure yet how I’ll make it all happen, but I trust that I will. This dream isn’t just something I want to do. It’s something I will do and I do not have the time for doubt. You will probably never find me at a school dance, teachers have told me I have a dry sometimes dark sense of humor, I can count my friends on one hand and I am lucky to have them all. If that is what it took to get me this far then I am glad for it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that even in this chaotic, often overwhelming world, there’s still room for hope, for wonder, and for a life that, even when it’s difficult, just like the stars themselves, can still be incredibly beautiful.

Minecraft is the single greatest tool for childhood creativity ever invented. For kids like my sister Stafyrae, who faces serious developmental challenges watching her build, explore, and create a world she has complete control over is something I have learned to love. For a while, she doesn’t have to think about her limitations or the support she usually needs; she’s just Stafyrae, the architect of a diamond-lit city with boundless possibilities. And I get to see that freedom play out next to my little brother, who, at just three years old, jumps right into Minecraft like a tiny adventurer, tackling creepers and other mobs with fearless enthusiasm. In his world, explosions are frequent and awesome. In mine, they are a reason for lots and lots of save files. When we play together, Stafyrae shows an entirely new side of herself. She carefully plans her structures, sometimes making things as simple as homes and gardens or as complex as lamp posts made from diamond blocks, which she insists will keep everyone safe at night. She works with incredible focus, deciding what each area will look like, and that pride she has when she finishes a build is something I rarely get to see outside of our games. In real life, these creative and precise decisions might feel overwhelming for her, but in Minecraft, Stafyrae is free to make her own choices without limits or hesitation. Playing Minecraft with Stafyrae and my little brother doesn’t feel like just a game. It’s like an alternate universe where they’re both the heroes of their own stories. My brother might only be three, but he thinks he’s a legendary creeper hunter and pizza is the icing on the cake. Watching him fearlessly chase mobs and fight to protect “his” castle is hilarious and heartwarming at the same time. He doesn’t understand the mechanics yet, but he knows he’s doing something important in his little world, and his confidence grows every time he “saves” us. When we play together, it’s pure fun—no treatments, no therapies, no accommodations, and no labels. We’re simply siblings, building, exploring, and laughing as we run across biomes. It’s special to witness my sister and brother finding their own forms of freedom and courage. I get to see Stafyrae, who so often faces barriers, zoom down rail lines she’s built and create structures that would be complex for anyone, let alone a kid with her challenges. My brother may not even realize he’s learning valuable skills in problem-solving, but he’s becoming a little more independent with each game. In Minecraft, we’re free of expectations. It’s a space where Stafyrae shines in ways she often can’t in daily life, and my little brother becomes braver with each play session. It reminds me that sometimes the best parts of us come out when we’re just allowed to be ourselves, even in a pixelated world.

Growing up as the oldest child in a multi-generational household, I learned early that we are all part of something bigger. Everything we do—every task, every decision—can become a gesture of love for the people around us. As the oldest, I’ve often found myself helping out. I look after my younger siblings, tend my grandmother’s vegetable garden, and help out on small family projects like the mother-in-law’s house that my aunt and uncle renovated, knowing it will eventually pass to my younger brother. Love, for us, is in every detail, every shared task, every nail hammered into a board. Each of us contributes something essential, and we know we’re not just doing these things for ourselves but for the family. That kind of unity has always been the root of my definition of success. When I was seven, my parents sat me down for a conversation that changed my life. They told me that we would be adopting a distant relative, a little girl who needed a home. I remember my first reaction was mixed. Life was already busy, and the idea of painting a nursery and adding more responsibilities didn’t immediately thrill me. But my parents were committed, and as I watched them prepare for her arrival with care and anticipation, I started to realize what love in action really meant. They didn’t see this adoption as an extra burden; they saw it as a chance to share their love, to offer someone else a safe and loving home. Over the years, my sister blossomed in our family, and we saw her true self start to shine through. Sadly, Her development and health challenges became increasingly evident. By the time she was three, it was clear her needs would be complex and lifelong. When it got bad mom just shrugged and said adoption is a chance, not a magic wand. This wasn’t an easy journey for my family. The adoption process was grueling, expensive, and filled with paperwork. We didn’t receive emotional support or financial aid. My parents had to lean on each other. I watched our attorney, who worked long hours to finalize the adoption, fight for our family with a quiet intensity and kindness that left a lasting impression on me. When I asked him why he did all this work, knowing he was underpaid and overworked, he simply looked at me and said, “Because your sister deserves a home.” That statement hit me harder than anything I’d ever heard. At that moment, I saw what I wanted to do with my life. Up to that point, I’d loved writing, solving problems, and working with people, but I never quite knew how to make it all fit together. Watching that attorney help my family made me realize that family law was more than just a job—it was an act of service and love. I wanted to be able to do for other families what that attorney had done for us and as a lawyer, I really could. From that moment on, I focused my energy. I started working hard to save money. I learned a lot from my dad and my uncle who works as a political consultant, about planning and managing people’s needs. I took these lessons to heart, eventually putting my skills to the test by purchasing a drive-up coffee house at auction. I developed a logo, wrote a business plan, and began growing a line of teas that I hope will bring something unique to our community. I named the business “AND GO Coffee” because it reflects the drive and commitment I want to carry into my career. With enough work, I plan to launch AND GO as a functional business in 2026, using the proceeds to support my family and fund my law school journey. Looking back now, I can see that everything I’ve done, from caring for my sister to working on family projects, has been about love—creating a future where love is present, purposeful, and protective. Love taught me to help my family thrive, and it led me to a career path where I can make that impact for other families. To me, that’s what success is: a life rooted in love, in the belief that every child deserves a home and every family deserves support. I know that with every case I take on, I’ll be carrying that sense of purpose with me. And in a world that can sometimes feel indifferent, I’ll know that I’m using my skills to create a little more love. That’s success to me.

I will never forget that day: My mom sat me down and told me she and my dad had been asked to adopt a baby. Why are people giving away babies? For the next year I would watch my mother cold-call lawyers, cry, fight, and spend thousands of dollars to save a little girl that no one else seemed to care about. Watching my parents adopt Stafyrae Adomova changed everything for me. She wasn’t just a distant relative with multiple health challenges and developmental delays. She was, and is, my sister—a little girl who deserved love, a chance to grow, and to be safe and wanted. From the moment she came into our home, I realized how different her life could have been. She could have easily been discarded and forgotten. But because my parents chose her, she became part of a family that loved her and wanted her to thrive. Seeing Stafyrae's transformation made me understand the true power of family, especially for kids like her who face tough odds. Stafyrae didn’t just need medicine and therapy—she needed to know she was valuable, that someone cared about her future. Watching her struggle and then slowly blossom in our home opened my eyes to the reality that too many children don’t get that chance. Too many kids, like my sister, are stuck in systems that don’t prioritize their emotional well-being or long-term growth. It became clear to me that I wanted to change that. As a family law attorney, I could make that change. I could help kids like Stafyrae find homes that cherish them, families that would love them unconditionally. But pursuing that dream wasn't easy. Coming from a multi-generational, financially struggling family meant law school wasn’t exactly on the horizon. The cost of an in-state law degree is staggering—about $145,000 on average—and for a long time, it seemed like an unattainable goal. I wasn’t sure how I’d ever make it. Still, I refused to give up. For years, I saved every penny I could, pushing lawnmowers and doing yard work in my neighborhood. I wasn’t making much, but I was determined to build something meaningful. Eventually, I scraped together enough money to buy a mobile coffee house at an auction. It was a big risk, but I saw an opportunity to create a business that could help fund my dream of becoming a lawyer. I started writing a business plan, designed a custom logo, and began cultivating my own line of organic teas. I named the business AND GO coffee, and my plan is to launch it as a fully functional operation by the fall of 2026. The proceeds will not only help support my family, but they’ll also fund my law education. Every cup of coffee sold brings me closer to achieving my dream of becoming a family law attorney who can help children find loving homes like Stafyrae’s. This scholarship would be a lifeline for me. It would mean I could buy the axles needed for my coffee house, purchase the lumber to finish repairing the roof, and keep my dream alive. A $500 investment in AND GO coffee would be an investment in my future—a future where I can create real, tangible change for children like my sister. It would bring me one step closer to becoming the kind of lawyer who makes sure every child has the opportunity to be loved, to be safe, and to be part of a family that wants them. That’s the future I’m working toward. Every dollar, every hour of hard work, brings me closer to that goal.

For as long as I can remember, math has been the cornerstone of my future. While some see math as just numbers and formulas, I see it as the foundation for making dreams tangible. Sometimes when it all just feels out of control the numbers are there, no emotions, just facts. It’s the skill that has allowed me to take an idea and turn it into something real—like my mobile coffee business, AND GO coffee. At 15, I used my entrepreneurial skills to purchase a mobile coffee house at auction. This wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment decision. I had to carefully calculate the risks and rewards, figure out costs, and determine if I could make a profit. Without the strong foundation in math I wouldn’t have been able to pull it off. Writing a business plan came next, another step that demanded financial forecasts. And then there was the decision to grow my own line of organic teas—a process that took more math than I initially expected, from calculating the cost of raw ingredients to estimating investment vs. return. Money management has been crucial to my success, especially because I’m not parent-funded. Every dollar counts, and I've had to stretch resources, reinvest profits, and be strategic with spending. Managing cash flow, ensuring I’m not overspending, and keeping track of every transaction—all of this requires a solid grasp of numbers. The discipline of budgeting has taught me the importance of both precision and flexibility. It’s a game of constant adjustment, and math is the rulebook. I plan to launch AND GO coffee as a fully functional business by the summer of 2026, using the proceeds to fund law school specializing in family law. I’m inspired by my adopted my sister, Stafyrae Adomova. Watching her find a loving home made me realize that, as a lawyer, I can help create second chances for children like her. I believe that family law is my way of building a future where I can bring families together, and it all starts with the math that fuels my entrepreneurial success. Math is amazing but my baby sister is pure magic. My parents adopted her after she was born to a relative. They had no plans to adopt. All of the things that had to fall into place to give my sister a chance at life were a miracle and miracles are worth fighting for.

Every day of my life feels like a stepping stone to the future. I don’t just dream about where I want to go; I plan and act. My journey into entrepreneurship started earlier than most would expect. When I was 15, I picked up a mobile coffee house at auction. I didn’t go in without a plan. I spent weeks writing a business plan. I decided to grow my own line of organic teas—an idea that felt natural because I’ve always cared about sustainability. By the time I was 16, I had laid the foundation for a business that would serve as both a source of income and a creative outlet. I’m working to launch AND GO Coffee as a business by the summer of 2026. My goal is to build it into something meaningful: sustainability, quality, and community. But it’s not just about creating a business; AND GO Coffee is my way of funding my future, specifically my path to law school. Every dollar I earn is a step toward my ultimate goal of becoming a family law attorney. Family law is my passion because of my family’s experience. My parents were called upon to adopt a relative’s child, my sister Stafyrae. Stafyrae has multiple developmental challenges, and watching my parents bring her into our family deeply affected me. I realized that so many children need someone to make sure they’re not discarded or overlooked. As a lawyer, I want to help create hope for kids like her. Law school is notoriously tough. So are the exams. That’s why I’m studying both the SAT and the ACT. Some people ask why I’m putting in double the effort. I have anxiety, especially when it comes to exams, so I know the LSAT and the bar exam will be even more challenging. The more I can train myself to handle high-pressure tests, the more confident I’ll be when the time comes to take the ones that really matter. Every hour I spend grinding today is an investment in tomorrow. Whether I’m at the library with Nathan, drying tea leaves, or laying tile in the mobile café, I’m always moving forward. My life is built on daily steps toward a bigger goal: becoming the kind of family law attorney who can make a real difference, one child at a time. I’m not just thinking about the future; I’m building it.

Every day of my life feels like a stepping stone to the future. I don’t just dream about where I want to go; I plan and act. Each day is part of a larger goal—whether it’s laying tile in my mobile coffee house, drying herbs for my organic tea line, or cramming for the SAT and ACT with my tutor Nathan at the public library. Everything I do is part of a bigger picture that’s centered around one idea: building a career in family law that can help children like my sister, Stafyrae Adomova, find their way home. My journey into entrepreneurship started at a young age, probably earlier than most would expect. When I was 15, I used some money I had picked up pushing every lawn mower I could to buy a mobile coffee house at auction. That may sound ambitious (it was) But I didn’t go in without a plan. Before the auction, I spent weeks researching how to run a small business, writing a detailed business plan, and thinking about how I could make my vision come to life. I decided to grow my own line of organic teas—an idea that felt natural because I’ve always cared about sustainability and wellness. By the time I was 16, I had laid the foundation for a business that would serve as both a source of income and a creative outlet. I’m working to launch AND GO Coffee as a fully functional business by the summer of 2026. My goal is to build it into something meaningful, something that reflects the values I hold dear: sustainability, quality, and community. But it’s not just about creating a business; AND GO Coffee is my way of funding my future, specifically my path to law school. Every dollar I earn is a step toward my ultimate goal of becoming a family law attorney. Family law has become my passion because of my own family’s experience. When my parents were called upon to adopt a relative’s child, my sister Stafyrae, everything changed. Stafyrae has multiple developmental challenges, and watching my parents love her and bring her into our family with such openness and dedication deeply affected me. I realized that so many children like Stafyrae need someone to fight for them, to make sure they’re not discarded or overlooked but instead welcomed into families that will cherish them. That’s what I want to do as a lawyer: help create second chances for kids who deserve a loving home. Of course, getting there won’t be easy. Law school is notoriously tough, and so are the exams. That’s why I’m preparing now, studying both the SAT and the ACT. Some people ask why I’m putting in double the effort, but for me, it’s about mastering the skill of test-taking. I have anxiety, especially when it comes to exams, so I know the LSAT and the bar exam will be even more challenging. The more I can train myself to handle high-pressure tests, the more confident I’ll be when the time comes to take the ones that really matter. Balancing everything isn’t easy. But I know that every hour I spend grinding today is an investment in tomorrow. Whether I’m at the library with Nathan, drying tea leaves for AND GO Coffee, or laying tile in the mobile café, I’m always moving forward. My life is built on daily steps toward a bigger goal: becoming the kind of family law attorney who can make a real difference, one child at a time. I’m not just thinking about the future; I’m building it.

My entrepreneurial journey began at an age when most kids were still figuring out what they wanted to do with their weekends. By the time I was 15, I had already purchased a mobile coffee house at auction, designed a custom logo, written a business plan, and begun developing my own line of organic teas. These steps weren’t just random; they were carefully laid out in a plan and that plan has a name: AND GO Coffee. It all started with my parents. they adopted the child of a relative, my baby sister, Stafyrae Adomova. Stafyrae has developmental challenges and special health needs, but in our home, she became so much more—our little sister -Proof that miracles are real. Watching my parents step up in a moment when Stafyrae’s future hung in the balance ignited a fire in me. I realized I wanted to help more children like her find their way home. And for me, family law is the path to making that happen. But law school is expensive, and so I needed a way to fund my dream. That’s where AND GO Coffee comes in. The idea to create a mobile coffee business came from a combination of practical needs and my passion for connecting with people. Coffee has a way of bringing people together, and with a mobile platform, I could bring that connection to anyone, anywhere. It didn’t take long for me to start scanning for opportunities, and one day, I stumbled upon an auction for a retired mobile coffee house. The moment I saw it, I knew this was my chance. I placed my bid, hoping my calculations were right, and when the hammer came down in my favor, I felt like I had just acquired a gold mine. Of course, buying a mobile coffee house was just the beginning. I knew branding was critical to standing out in the market, so I threw myself into designing a logo that would reflect the brand—speed, efficiency, and a sense of adventure. I’m not a professional designer, but I’m a firm believer in the idea that if you want something done right, just do it. After several sketches and a few late-night design sessions, I came up with a design: sleek, energetic, and bold. With the foundation set, I turned my attention to writing a business plan. This was perhaps the most critical step because I knew I needed structure. The business plan outlined everything—our target audience, financial projections, marketing strategies, and of course, the line of organic teas I had started developing. I’ve always had an interest in organic, sustainable products, and I wanted to make sure my coffee business offered something special to customers. By curating and growing my own line of teas, I could ensure that AND GO Coffee would stand out in an otherwise crowded marketplace. All of this is leading to the summer of 2026, when I plan to launch AND GO. Each step brings me closer to the end goal—funding my education as a law student while also creating a safe, sustainable atmosphere for people to connect. As a family law attorney, I’ll be able to offer second chances and help create the kind of beautiful, loving families that every child deserves. AND GO Coffee is just the beginning, but it’s a beginning I’m incredibly proud of. By turning a mobile coffee house into a successful business, I’m paving the way to achieving my ultimate dream: helping children like Stafyrae find homes filled with love and care while simultaneously creating a space where people can just people.

Writing has always been my way of understanding the world, a way of piecing together life’s chaos into something that makes sense. In fiction, everything happens for a reason, even if that reason is hidden within the folds of a complex plot. But in real life, I’ve learned that things don’t always fit together so neatly—especially in the realm of family law. That’s where I want to make a difference, and writing is the tool I believe will help me bridge the gap between the disorder of real life and the clear narrative of hope and resolution that I seek to create. The first law of fiction is that it must be believable. No matter how fantastic the setting or how unlikely the scenario, fiction only works if the reader can suspend disbelief. The world I create with my pen or keyboard feels so tangible because it follows this rule: even the wildest imaginings must have a structure that readers can follow. I believe this same principle applies to the world of family law. When life seems chaotic for the children I will one day represent, they need something to hold onto, a way to make sense of the unpredictable events around them. That’s where I want to step in, to help bring order and clarity in a system that too often seems confusing or overwhelming to them. Writing historical fiction has been a release for me, a way of exploring the "what ifs" of the past, and imagining how things could have unfolded differently. But fiction, as freeing as it can be, is not enough. I want to use my skills as a writer to make tangible changes in the world, and family law feels like the perfect place to do that. I’ve seen firsthand the impact that stability and love can have on a child’s life. My sister, Stafyrae, is living proof of that. When my parents adopted Stafyrae, a distant relative with multiple developmental challenges, I saw how the legal process helped to create a kind of magic for her—a pathway to a loving home and a future she might not have otherwise had. Watching my parents navigate that journey inspired me to consider family law as a career, but more than that, it showed me how I can use my talents to help children like her. As a family law attorney, I will write legal arguments, briefs, and case summaries, all of which will have to be clear, persuasive, and grounded in the facts. The skills I’ve developed through writing fiction—crafting believable stories, creating compelling characters, and tying together plotlines in a way that feels satisfying—will serve me well in this role. But beyond the mechanics of writing, there’s something deeper: the ability to imagine a better future for those I represent, and to use my words to advocate for that future. With every case I take on, I’ll be telling a story. A child’s story. A family’s story. I will fight for the happiest ending possible. Ultimately, writing gives me the freedom to imagine, to create, and to hope. And in the world of family law, I will use that freedom to help children like Stafyrae. By blending my passion for storytelling with my desire to create real-world change, I will use my writing to carry me through the challenges of law school, the courtroom, and beyond. In this way, the stories I write will no longer be just fiction—they’ll become the reality for the families I work to protect.

I stand at the precipice of my future, fueled by the desire to practice law and a relentless work ethic that has been forged through the challenges of my upbringing. My name is Grey Edward Barnum, and I am driven by the belief that, through hard work and perseverance, I can not only shape my destiny but also advocate for others who find themselves in circumstances like my own. Born into an impoverished multi-generational family, my childhood has been marked by struggles that many would find daunting. Our home lacks basic amenities; the old power lines can barely support a few space heaters, and the local fire brigade frequently reminds us about the regulations surrounding our woodstove. Yet, it is in this environment of adversity that I have learned resilience and determination. My experiences have taught me that nothing in life is handed to us, and that the most rewarding paths are often the hardest to walk. Recognizing the financial burdens of college, I took the initiative to work every summer for the last four years. I pushed lawn mowers, transforming sweat into savings. This determination culminated in my purchase of a dilapidated drive-up coffee stand at auction. At just 15, I crafted my first business plan, designed a logo, and learned the hands-on skills necessary to renovate my stand, from driving nails to laying tile—though my mom still won’t let me near the high-speed tile saw! With a soft launch scheduled for summer 2025, AND GO Coffee is not just a business to me; it represents my tenacity and vision for a better future. Family plays an integral role in my life. In 2019, my parents welcomed my younger sister, Stafyrae Adomova, into our home. They were granted irrevocable custody, and despite her small stature and loud personality, she is a miracle in our lives. Stafyrae deserves a loving family, and my parents’ commitment to her has deepened my understanding of what it means to support and nurture those we love. This experience has ignited a passion within me to pursue a career in law, specifically to advocate for families and children in need. I envision a future where I can help build families, protect their rights, and ensure that every child has a safe, loving environment. I know that college will present its own set of challenges, but I have always believed that the hardest things are worth fighting for. With every obstacle I’ve faced, my resolve has only strengthened. I am prepared to immerse myself in my studies and embrace the rigorous demands of a law degree. My ambition is to specialize in family law, to ensure that no child is left without a voice and no family is deprived of support. Receiving this scholarship would not only alleviate the financial burdens of my education but also affirm my belief that hard work and determination can pave the way for success. It would empower me to continue my journey, enabling me to turn my aspirations into reality. I stand ready to face the challenges ahead, armed with the lessons of my past and a deep-seated desire to effect positive change in the world. Thank you for considering my application; I am eager to contribute to the field of law and, by extension, to the betterment of families like my own.

I stand at the precipice of my future, fueled by the desire to practice law and a relentless work ethic that has been forged through the challenges of my upbringing. My name is Grey Edward Barnum, and I am driven by the belief that, through hard work and perseverance, I can not only shape my destiny but also advocate for others who find themselves in circumstances like my own. Born into an impoverished multi-generational family, my childhood has been marked by struggles that many would find daunting. Our home lacks basic amenities; the old power lines can barely support a few space heaters, and the local fire brigade frequently reminds us about the regulations surrounding our woodstove. Yet, it is in this environment of adversity that I have learned resilience and determination. My experiences have taught me that nothing in life is handed to us, and that the most rewarding paths are often the hardest to walk. Recognizing the financial burdens of college, I took the initiative to work every summer for the last four years. I pushed lawn mowers, transforming sweat into savings. This determination culminated in my purchase of a dilapidated drive-up coffee stand at auction. At just 15, I crafted my first business plan, designed a logo, and learned the hands-on skills necessary to renovate my stand, from driving nails to laying tile—though my mom still won’t let me near the high-speed tile saw! With a soft launch scheduled for summer 2025, AND GO Coffee is not just a business to me; it represents my tenacity and vision for a better future. Family plays an integral role in my life. In 2019, my parents welcomed my younger sister, Stafyrae Adomova, into our home. They were granted irrevocable custody, and despite her small stature and loud personality, she is a miracle in our lives. Stafyrae deserves a loving family, and my parents’ commitment to her has deepened my understanding of what it means to support and nurture those we love. This experience has ignited a passion within me to pursue a career in law, specifically to advocate for families and children in need. I envision a future where I can help build families, protect their rights, and ensure that every child has a safe, loving environment. I know that college will present its own set of challenges, but I have always believed that the hardest things are worth fighting for. With every obstacle I’ve faced, my resolve has only strengthened. I am prepared to immerse myself in my studies and embrace the rigorous demands of a law degree. My ambition is to specialize in family law, to ensure that no child is left without a voice and no family is deprived of support. Receiving this scholarship would not only alleviate the financial burdens of my education but also affirm my belief that hard work and determination can pave the way for success. It would empower me to continue my journey, enabling me to turn my aspirations into reality. I stand ready to face the challenges ahead, armed with the lessons of my past and a deep-seated desire to effect positive change in the world. Thank you for considering my application; I am eager to contribute to the field of law and, by extension, to the betterment of families like my own.

I wish I could live online. Online I am smiling while holding a power tool. My parents both grew up in slightly less abusive and impoverished homes than my grandparents. My mom and dad believed it was their job to give me survival skills. As a result, I have pictures of me in a respirator pulling sheetrock out of a trailer at age 4. At 15 I bought my own drive-up coffee stand and am working to remodel it. I know how to pull a subfloor. I can cut marble on a rock saw. I can write well enough but, what I can’t ever really seem to do is tell you about it. When I try my brain is going a mile a minute screaming most of the way and I can barely speak. When I meet someone for the first time it is like a voice in my head is shouting “what do they want?”. I have only had one or two friends in my entire life and I lost one because I could not handle the visits in the moment. I can’t give people what they want. Books on the other hand are safe, and so are nails, so are screws. Even if I do drive the nail wrong I can just hit it harder. Even if I drive the nail wrong I can still build something that will stand. You would probably think that with this kind of skillset, I am headed for a career in construction but, that is not my path. When I was seven my parents sat me down. A member of our extended family was carrying a child that, for reasons I will not go into, they had no desire to keep but also were not going to abort. My parents were asked to raise the baby as their daughter which is how my sister Stafyrae was born. Stafyrae came to us through a process called non-parental custody and later, through kinship adoption. Kinship laws in Washington state are a mess and are changing rapidly due to the immigration crisis and political pressures from multiple sides. The average non-contested adoption in the US starts at $9,000 and can easily run as high as $30,000 with none of that money going to the birth mom. My own parents spent out over $7,000 and still got stuck for some of my sister’s prenatal care which insurance won't cover. Their saving grace was a family law attorney who knew how to work the bench. As I watched him (Frank Richard Ricketts) work one day I asked how he got the judge to do what he wanted. He just stopped, looked at me, and replied: “I stick to the facts”. I realized in that moment that in law it did not matter if anyone liked me. Their like for me would be based on my results, my facts, and my ability to present them. I can give a little girl like my sister a home where she is loved and wanted if I just stick to the facts. I will never be the cool guy at the party but, I can get through law school and help. I do not think it is fair to say I have let my anxiety define me but, I have let myself be redefined based on having it, almost like learning to color inside the lines. Sometimes if I stand back a little and look at the bigger picture the possibilities created by the lines do seem rather beautiful.