From a young age, I learned to read the room before I even stepped into it. That’s what being disabled teaches you—not just how to navigate the world, but how to anticipate it. Always anticipating at every turn. How to assess every space for obstacles you weren’t invited to talk about. How to become fluent in unspoken expectations, whispered judgments, and the quiet resilience it takes to still show up anyway. Living with a disability in a world that was never built with me in mind has shaped every lens through which I view society, systems, and success. But instead of seeing limitation, I see design flaws—fixable ones. I don’t see myself as broken. I see the world as unfinished. The disabled community has taught me more about innovation than any textbook ever could. We are the original life hackers. We bend time around flare-ups. We carve paths through pain with humor, grace, and ingenuity. We write emails from bed. We find ways to thrive on bad days and still create space for joy. We survive systems that weren’t made for us, and then we build better ones. And we don’t do it for credit—we do it for each other. That worldview, born from lived experience, is the foundation of everything I want to do. I’m currently studying psychology and criminal justice, with a long-term goal of becoming a lawyer specializing in AI, disability rights, and social equity. I want to be part of the wave of systemic redesign—the next generation of changemakers who don’t just ask for access but demand better blueprints. In the courtroom, in policy, in tech, and in education—I want to actually build bridges where people like me no longer have to explain why they deserve to cross. I believe that the empathy, resourcefulness, and fierce advocacy that arise from disability are leadership traits the world desperately needs. I don’t want to be an exception to the rule. I want to help rewrite the rulebook. Being disabled has given me a kind of x-ray vision. I see cracks in systems most people walk right over. And I plan to use that perspective to ensure others don’t fall through. This scholarship would not only ease the financial strain of higher education—it would affirm what I already know: that lived experience is power. And that power, when nurtured, doesn’t just change a life. It can change the world.

The criminal justice system in the United States doesn’t just need a bandage. It needs surgery. Deep, meticulous, trauma-informed, and compassionate repair. And not just of its policies, but of its entire worldview—how it sees people, how it measures harm, how it defines justice. One of the most pressing and poisonous issues I see in the system today is its total lack of integration of trauma-informed care. At nearly every level—from policing and arrest to court proceedings, sentencing, incarceration, and reentry—the system ignores or outright penalizes trauma symptoms. This results in a brutal cycle where people who are already vulnerable are retraumatized by the very structures that claim to deliver justice. This issue is personal for me. I’m a neurodivergent woman—I live with autism and ADHD. I’m a mother. And I’m someone who has fought, clawed, and educated my way through the legal system not for recognition, but for survival. I’ve sat in courtrooms that seemed more interested in keeping their docket clear than understanding why a child might be scared to go with a parent who yells. I’ve watched my own neurodivergence be misunderstood as emotional instability. I’ve experienced poverty, eviction, and the terrifying gaps between safety nets. And I’m still standing. So no, this isn't theoretical for me. It's not a debate topic. It's the backdrop of my life. I want to change the system because I’ve lived what it feels like to be failed by it. And I believe people who carry both lived experience and academic training are uniquely positioned to lead reform that actually works. Right now, I’m pursuing a double major in Criminal Justice and Psychology at UMKC. I also plan to minor in philosophy and writing, with the long-term goal of earning a dual JD/MSCS-AI (law and computer science with a focus on artificial intelligence and ethics). This isn’t just a resume booster for me—this is part of my mission. I want to develop systems that use ethical technology to identify trauma markers in case files and testimonies, flagging them for judges, attorneys, or social workers who may otherwise overlook signs of neurodivergence, PTSD, or abuse. I want to train lawyers, officers, and probation staff in trauma response techniques. I want to build bridges between mental health care and legal process. But most of all, I want to listen. I want to help redesign a system where listening matters more than labeling. Where kids aren’t punished for crying, and where no one has to choose between safety and silence. Scholarships like this one don’t just fund degrees. They create ripple effects. They keep people like me—first-gen, low-income, disabled single mothers—from having to choose between rent and textbooks. They give us the room to learn, grow, and lead. If awarded this scholarship, I would use it to continue building resources that directly benefit trauma-impacted and neurodivergent communities within the legal system. I would be able to say yes to internships, volunteer opportunities, and certification programs without worrying how I’ll afford groceries. I would continue documenting and publishing my ideas for ethical reform, creating accessible education tools, and mentoring other young parents or survivors trying to get into law. Justice shouldn’t only belong to the privileged. Safety shouldn’t be a gamble. Dignity shouldn’t be rationed. We are not here to keep the status quo breathing. We are here to build something braver.

There is a certain kind of silence that falls when someone you love forgets your name. It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s a hush—a stillness where recognition used to live. I’ve heard that silence more than once in my life, and it’s changed the way I see the world. I lost two great-grandmothers to Alzheimer’s disease. These were women whose hands raised families, built communities, and held entire histories. Watching them fade was like watching a well-written novel lose its pages, one memory at a time. But it wasn’t just the forgetting that haunted me—it was how the world around them struggled to respond. Doctors gave vague answers. Support systems buckled. Family members felt helpless. It planted something in me: not just grief, but fire. A drive to understand what was happening and why it hurt so deeply. Years later, I met Jackson—the love of my life. Brilliant, complex, and full of ideas, he’s the kind of person who can make you laugh and rethink your entire philosophy in one breath. But Jackson also lives with a traumatic brain injury, and as the years have unfolded, so has his struggle with early cognitive decline. Some days are vivid. Some are shadowed. I see the way his brain tries to bridge the gaps, the way he fights to hold onto timelines, names, moments. Dementia is not an abstract concept to me. It’s intimate. It sits at the dinner table. It changes how we plan a grocery trip. It shapes how I love, how I advocate, and how I study. I’m currently pursuing a double major in Psychology and Criminal Justice, with plans to continue toward doctoral-level study. My dream is to become a lawyer and scholar who specializes in the intersection of law, cognition, and humanity. I want to fight for those who cannot speak clearly for themselves—those whose words are lost not because they don't care, but because their brain no longer lets them form the sentences. Though my focus isn't in direct medical research, my work is deeply tied to the understanding of the brain and its behaviors. I study psychology not just to understand people, but to decode the silent battles happening inside them—especially in the courtroom, where cognition and trauma are so often misunderstood or misjudged. I want to be the kind of lawyer who can see the full picture: the biology, the behavior, the backstory. And with Jackson, my education is personal. Every class I take, every article I read, adds to the toolkit I use to support him. To advocate for his needs. To spot the moments where his brain is overwhelmed and respond not with frustration, but with strategy and compassion. I’m not just learning for me. I’m learning to be the best partner I can possibly be. I owe him that. I owe myself that. I owe every future client and human I encounter that. Dementia doesn’t just affect memory. It reshapes identity, connection, and safety. I’ve seen the toll it takes—on elders, on lovers, on caregivers, on systems. But I’ve also seen what awareness can do. I’ve seen the power of knowing. The comfort of being understood. This scholarship would not only help me fund my education—it would validate the path I’ve chosen. A path rooted in empathy, research, and advocacy. A path lit by the memories I’ve lost and the minds I fight to protect. I want to turn pain into power. Silence into strategy. Forgetting into fierce, intentional remembering. This is how we change the world. One mind at a time.

For me, wellness is not a luxury—it’s an act of resistance. As a pansexual, neurodivergent, single-parent student, I exist at the intersection of multiple identities that are often misunderstood, marginalized, or erased altogether. Mental and physical wellness aren’t just checkboxes on a self-care list. They are the scaffolding that holds me upright while I push through a world that wasn't built for people like me. Pursuing higher education while raising my daughter has taught me that wellness isn’t about perfection—it’s about survival, and then about creation. I’m not just getting a degree; I’m rewriting the narrative for my family. That means learning how to care for my ADHD brain, advocate for accommodations without shame, and build rituals of stability in a life that constantly demands adaptability. It means forgiving myself for late assignments and missed meals. It means turning burnout into strategy and anxiety into motion. But let’s not romanticize it—it’s hard. Sometimes impossibly hard. There are days when I am stretched between courtrooms and Canvas, between co-parenting battles and Blackboard deadlines. There are weeks when I forget what rest feels like. The system expects me to function as if I were only one thing—just a student, just a mom, just queer—but I’m all of those things, and I carry them all into every room I enter. That’s why mental and physical health aren’t side quests—they are central to the mission. I’ve had to rebuild what wellness means for me: grounding practices, medication management, community, and honesty. I’m unlearning shame. I’m modeling regulation and resilience for my daughter. I’m showing up in class with a brain that’s wired differently and still has every right to be there. I am not aiming for flawless. I’m aiming for full, fierce, and functional. And by prioritizing wellness—even when it’s messy, even when it looks like crying in the school parking lot and then turning in an A-paper—I am building the kind of life I want Everly to believe is possible. Being the example to her that I want to be while being secure in my identities is my dream because I want her to always feel like her dreams are possible too. She deserves that, and that starts with believing in myself. Wellness is not about being okay all the time. It’s about believing you're worth fighting for. And I am. Thank you for the opportunity to apply to this scholarship, and I hope to be considered for it!

In Chapter Two of Real Insights, John Graff speaks to the pivotal moments that reveal not only what we're capable of, but who we're becoming. That chapter isn’t just a reflection on professional success—it’s a call to harness personal struggle as momentum. For me, that message resonates deeply. As a single parent, neurodivergent student, and aspiring legal innovator, I don’t have the luxury of waiting for the “right time” to chase my goals. Every late-night study session after my daughter falls asleep, every moment spent navigating systems that weren’t built with people like me in mind—those are my proving grounds. They’re not obstacles to the journey; they are the journey. I’m pursuing a double major in Criminal Justice and Psychology with minors in Philosophy and Data Science. But my vision goes far beyond the degree: I want to become an attorney, then earn a PhD to work at the intersection of law, AI, and ethics. I see a future where courtroom bias is checked by transparent algorithms, where underrepresented voices have tools to fight back, and where children like my daughter grow up knowing that justice isn’t just an ideal—it’s a system that can be rebuilt. The insights in Graff’s chapter ask us to lean into what makes us different. For me, that’s my lived experience. I’ve been the defendant, the dreamer, the dropout, and the comeback. I’ve seen how the system fails the most vulnerable—especially young mothers, children, and anyone trying to “make it” without a safety net. That’s why I won’t stop until I’m part of changing it. If ambition is the flame, and drive is the fuel, then impact is the fire I leave behind. I’m not just studying for a career. I’m studying to shift the trajectory of my family, my community, and the legal field itself. And that, to me, is the real insight Graff offers: that when we show up authentically, consistently, and boldly, we don’t just rise—we help others rise with us.

At one point in my life, I truly considered becoming a police officer. I’ve always been drawn to frontline service—where the stakes are high, and someone’s life could change because you chose to care, to intervene, to act with integrity. But as I began to understand myself more clearly, especially as a neurodivergent woman of color with a deep sense of justice and empathy, I realized my path wasn’t about wearing the badge. It was about reshaping the very systems behind it. So I took a step sideways—not away from public safety, but toward the legal structures that define it. I am now pursuing a degree in Criminal Justice (Pre-Law), paired with Psychology, and planning to go all the way: law school, multiple advanced degrees, and a future at the intersection of mental health, ethics, and criminal law. My goal isn’t to fight against police officers—it’s to work with the ones who serve with compassion, uphold ethical boundaries, and want a justice system that truly works for the people it claims to protect. I deeply respect officers who carry the weight of their responsibility with courage and discernment. The ones who pause, de-escalate, listen. The ones who don’t see a suspect, but a human being in crisis. These are the officers I want to support as a future attorney—because a just society requires partnerships between people who understand their power and choose to wield it responsibly. Law enforcement and legal professionals should not be adversaries. We should be allies. As a lawyer, I want to work directly with ethical officers to ensure that the clients I represent—often people from marginalized, misunderstood, or underserved communities—get real, fair outcomes. Not just in the courtroom, but at the point of contact with the justice system itself. And let’s be real: the system isn’t perfect. Too many families, like mine, have experienced harm, profiling, or trauma in its name. But that’s why I’m here—not to burn the whole thing down, but to rebuild it from the inside, with people who believe in justice the way I do. I plan to specialize in criminal law with a strong emphasis on mental health and systemic reform. Many of the clients I hope to serve—survivors of trauma, neurodivergent individuals, people of color, families in crisis—need advocates who don’t just know the law, but understand the human soul behind it. I want to stand in courtrooms and at negotiation tables, not to win for the sake of ego, but to protect, to heal, to hold people accountable and give them a path forward. Detective Augustin Gonzalez was a hero who showed up for people at the World Trade Center and throughout his career. He used his strength to help others. That’s the kind of legacy I want to be part of—just from a different angle. If I can build partnerships with officers like him in the future, I know real change is possible. Not performative change, but sustainable, soul-level transformation—where empathy meets structure, and humanity is centered in every case. This scholarship would help me continue my education and step into that vision with both clarity and courage. I may not be wearing the uniform, but I’m showing up to serve justice all the same.

My earliest memories of mental health aren’t framed in therapy rooms or textbooks—they’re framed in the silence after being misunderstood, in the tension before a meltdown, in the blur between brilliance and burnout. I am a BIPOC, queer, neurodivergent woman who has spent her life navigating systems that were never built for people like me. And still—I’ve made it this far. Not because it was easy, but because I’ve learned to make meaning out of the very chaos that once threatened to swallow me. For as long as I can remember, I’ve carried the invisible weight of misophonia, ADHD, autism, and complex PTSD. I wasn’t diagnosed until adulthood. Before then, I was labeled “dramatic,” “disruptive,” “overly sensitive,” “too much.” School was especially brutal. I would flinch in agony at the sound of gum chewing or pencil tapping, and teachers would mock me or tell me to “get over it.” I learned to mask, to self-police, to shrink myself into something more manageable—something quieter. But there’s nothing quiet about what I’ve been through, and nothing passive about who I’ve become. What saved me wasn’t a perfect system—it was a series of imperfect but deeply human moments: a college professor who finally saw me, a friend who sat with me during a panic attack without needing to fix it, a therapist who said, “Your brain isn’t broken—it’s brilliant.” Those moments lit a fire in me. If healing could feel like that—gentle, nuanced, deeply affirming—then I wanted to learn how to offer that to others. That’s why I’ve committed myself to a career in the mental health field. I’m currently double majoring in Psychology and Criminal Justice (Pre-Law) with minors in Writing and Philosophy. I plan to pursue a dual JD/MS in Computer Science with an emphasis in AI, followed by multiple PhDs in Psychology, Law, and Ethics. Yes, I know that sounds like a lot. But when you’ve spent your whole life being underestimated, you dream big not just out of ambition—but out of necessity. I want to build tools that bridge the gap between marginalized communities and the care they deserve. Whether it’s developing culturally attuned mental health tech, providing trauma-informed legal advocacy, or creating platforms that translate neurodivergent needs into accessible language for educators and policymakers—everything I do is rooted in the belief that healing is a justice issue. Mental health is not a side topic for me—it’s the very core of how I move through the world. It informs how I parent my daughter. It influences how I show up in advocacy spaces. And it has taught me the most revolutionary truth of all: we don’t need to be “fixed.” We need to be understood. Receiving the Arnetha V. Bishop Memorial Scholarship would be more than a financial boost. It would be a validation of the path I’ve chosen and the lives I hope to touch. Arnetha Bishop was a champion of mental health equity—especially for those most often left behind. I want to carry that legacy forward by creating systems, spaces, and support networks that don’t just include marginalized people, but are built by us, for us. This work is personal. This work is sacred. And I’m just getting started.

When I was nine, my mother stitched together a Halloween costume for me out of nothing but scrap fabric, a bent safety pin, and sheer force of will. We didn’t have money, time, or the “right” materials, but I walked into school the next day as the proudest ghost-astronaut-princess anyone had ever seen. It wasn’t the costume itself that made the moment stick—it was what it taught me: the belief that you can create something meaningful from what the world throws away. That’s been the story of my life ever since—taking what’s broken, overlooked, or unfinished and shaping it into something bold, useful, and alive. My mother, like Lena B. Davis, stitched hope into everything she touched. Not always through thread and fabric, but through actions that held our world together: showing up at every school meeting, making meals stretch when money ran out, whispering “you’re meant for more” when I doubted myself. She sewed her love into me so tightly that even now, when I unravel, her threads are what hold me. But life didn’t offer us a ready-made pattern. Growing up as an underrepresented, neurodivergent student in a system that rarely made space for difference, I struggled to be understood. I faced school suspensions for “talking back” when I was simply confused. I was overlooked for leadership roles because I didn’t speak the way others did. I was treated like a problem to solve instead of a person to support. Those experiences ignited something in me: not just a desire to succeed, but to redesign the very structures that left me and so many others behind. My aspirations are stitched directly from those early hardships. I’m currently pursuing degrees in Criminal Justice and Psychology, with minors in Writing and Philosophy, and long-term plans to earn a dual JD/MSCS-AI and multiple PhDs focused on law, ethics, and cognitive science. My goal? To create technology and legal tools that simplify, clarify, and humanize the systems people are most often failed by—especially in education, parenting, and the justice system. Every scholarship I apply for is part of a larger pattern—one thread in a tapestry I’m determined to complete. This one, especially, feels personal. Lena B. Davis believed in the power of kindness, care, and consistency. That’s the same power I hope to carry forward—not just in my career, but in my everyday life. Whether I’m advocating for my daughter during a school meeting, mentoring a fellow student, or designing a new accessibility tool for a community app, I carry Lena’s legacy, and my mother’s, with me. To honor their impact, I’m committed to continuing the cycle: supporting other young people who feel invisible in traditional settings, mentoring first-generation college students, and creating resources that help the unheard speak, the unseen be visible, and the underestimated rise. In the end, I want to be someone who stitches seeds of hope into every life I touch—not through grand gestures, but through every small, intentional act. Because I know now what I knew as that little girl in her scrappy costume: when you believe in someone, you don’t need perfect tools. You just need thread, and time, and heart. And that’s exactly what I bring.

There’s a photo of me—age seven—sitting on the floor of my room, surrounded by stacks of books, a spiral-bound notebook in one hand, a half-snapped pencil in the other. I was crying, not because I didn’t know the answer to the question in front of me, but because I did know the answer and couldn’t make my brain follow the steps to get it down on paper. I thought something was wrong with me. I thought I was broken. What I didn’t know then—and what I now understand through the lens of diagnosis, reflection, and a whole lot of life—is that my brain was wired differently. I was navigating the stormy waters of ADHD, trauma, and early misophonia, undiagnosed and unacknowledged. But I also didn’t know that those exact struggles would later shape the foundation of something far bigger than myself. Something bold. Something revolutionary. I’m building an empire. Not an empire of power or profit, but of systems. Systems designed for people who’ve always been told they don’t belong in them. Systems that bend to fit neurodivergent minds instead of trying to erase them. Systems that take what broke me—and millions like me—and turn that blueprint into a bridge. 🎓 The Dream, In Sharp Focus When I graduate, I don’t just want a diploma—I want a lever. A way to shift systems that are stuck, outdated, or stacked against people like me. Right now, I’m pursuing a double major in Criminal Justice (Pre-Law) and Psychology, with minors in Philosophy, Criminology, and Writing. That might sound like a lot, and it is. But I’ve never been someone who does things halfway. My ultimate goal is to earn a dual JD/MSCS-AI (Juris Doctor + Master of Science in Computer Science with an AI emphasis), followed by multiple PhDs in AI Ethics, Forensic Psychology, and Law. Why? Because I want to sit at the table where the rules are written—and rewrite them with precision. I want to create AI-driven legal tools that help the marginalized and overwhelmed navigate, not drown. I want to make paperwork less traumatizing. I want to teach self-advocacy to people who’ve only ever known silence or survival. I want to train future lawyers, developers, policymakers—and kids like mine—to build better systems. I don’t want to be the only one who makes it out. I want to be the first of many who never had to get lost in the first place. 💔 The Why: Trauma, Advocacy, and Legacy This dream wasn’t born in comfort. It was born in courtrooms and crisis lines and long nights where the power bill was overdue and my daughter still needed a bedtime story. I’ve been a single mom navigating custody, a neurodivergent adult self-diagnosing and self-advocating, a creator bootstrapping a business from a cracked phone and a secondhand laptop. I’ve been evicted while writing scholarship essays. I’ve started companies with nothing but brain fog and a dream. And I’ve never stopped showing up. Because I knew that every obstacle I faced was pointing me toward a gap I was meant to fill. Every time I had to explain a complex legal document to another mom in crisis, I thought: There should be an app for this. Every time I had to soothe my child while silently unraveling from sensory overload, I thought: There should be a system for this. Every time I had to fight for my daughter to be heard in school, or for myself to be understood in a meeting, I thought: There should be someone in charge who gets it. So I decided to become that someone. 🛠 The Future: From Boothkeeper to System Rebuilder Right now, I run The Boothkeeper’s Empire—a hybrid business blending storytelling, vendor empowerment, and digital tools. I design ADHD-friendly templates, teach others how to monetize their ideas, and help people create order from chaos. But I want to scale. I want to apply what I’ve learned from surviving as a low-income, neurodivergent parent and a tech-savvy builder to bigger problems: I want to start a nonprofit offering legal-literacy kits for people in crisis. I want to build apps that translate legal, academic, and medical jargon into plain language. I want to launch an AI policy watchdog that protects people, not just corporations. I want to write books—some academic, some poetic—that bridge the gap between systems and stories. I want to teach. I want to code. I want to testify before Congress. And I want to tuck my daughter in every night knowing she’ll never have to fight this hard just to be seen. 💸 Why This Scholarship Matters This isn’t just a tuition boost. This is breathing room. This is hope. With this scholarship, I could: Pay for tuition and fees without relying on credit cards or cutting meals. Buy the software I need to learn legal tech and data analytics. Focus on internships instead of scraping together odd jobs. Afford child care while I attend research assistant meetings or study. Invest in assistive tech for my sensory and cognitive needs. And beyond the dollars—this scholarship would remind me that I’m not doing this alone. That somewhere, someone read my story and said: Yes. This girl matters. Let’s help her rise. 📚 The Legacy I Want to Leave I don’t want to just pass my classes. I want to pass down systems. I want to leave behind tools that help other young women, single parents, trauma survivors, and neurodivergent dreamers not just survive—but thrive. One day, I want someone to open a courtroom self-advocacy kit, or an AI ethics toolkit, or a trauma-informed parenting guide and see my name in the credits. I want to be a whisper in someone’s ear that says, You’re not broken. The world is just catching up. 🌱 Final Words: A Message to My Younger Self To the seven-year-old girl on the floor, who thought she wasn’t enough: You are. You always were. To the future me, standing on a stage in a cap and gown, holding that degree: This is not the end. It’s the threshold. With this scholarship, I will walk through that door—and leave it wide open behind me. Because if I can rise, I will bring a ladder. And if I can build, I will build bridges. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: Sometimes the most powerful systems are born from the minds that were once misunderstood.

Faith, to me, has never looked like a straight line. It looks more like a storm—chaotic, electric, and sometimes loud—but always moving toward light. I didn’t grow up in a picture-perfect church pew with my hands folded neatly in prayer. My faith was built in the trenches—through heartbreak, neurodivergence, loss, and survival. But it’s that raw, real kind of faith that’s carried me through every academic challenge and pushed me to pursue a future not just for myself, but for every little girl like me who thought she wasn’t made for this world. There were nights I didn’t believe I’d make it to college, let alone find myself preparing to pursue degrees in law, psychology, and technology all at once. There were days when my brain felt like a warzone—ADHD ricocheting against anxiety, trauma interrupting even the smallest routines. But faith kept whispering, “You’re not done.” Sometimes that voice came from God. Other times it came from the way the wind rustled my daughter’s curls, or the way a professor said, “I see you.” Faith taught me that survival is not enough. I want to thrive—and I want to build something that outlasts me. When I imagine what Patricia Lindsey and Eva Mae Jackson stood for—education, integrity, community—I see reflections of what I’m trying to become. These women were clearly not just leaders, but lifters. They didn’t just shine; they helped others glow. And that’s what I want my life to look like too. Faith has shaped my goals in the most radical way: by giving me permission to dream bigger than what I can currently see. I don't just want a degree—I want to build an empire. Not out of ego, but out of purpose. I want to make education accessible for neurodivergent students like me. I want to innovate in the fields of law and AI, rewriting systems that were never built for people like us. I want to write books, design tools, and fund scholarships like this one—so someone else’s road is smoother than mine. Faith gives me the courage to take on all of it. When I stumble, I remember the story of Peter walking on water—not because he was fearless, but because he stepped out anyway. That’s what academia feels like for me. The waves are always high, but I keep walking. Beyond faith, I am pushed by my daughter. She is the living embodiment of everything I believe in. Her presence reminds me that I’m not just breaking generational cycles—I’m building new ones. She deserves to grow up in a world where smart, soft-hearted people are allowed to lead. I intend to help create that world. I am also deeply motivated by those who didn’t get to make it this far—my sisters, who passed before they were born. I carry them in everything I do. I want to show the universe that their lives mattered, even in silence. That’s the thing about faith: it lets you build altars out of absence. It teaches you how to hold grief in one hand and ambition in the other. If I am awarded this scholarship, it will go directly toward building the kind of future that faith told me was possible. I will show up for my education with the same grit, gratitude, and grace that’s carried me this far. I’ll bring honesty into every leadership role I step into. And I’ll make sure that my success is never just mine—it will be something I pour back into my communities, like the women this scholarship honors once did. I don’t know what every step of this journey will look like. But I know Who’s walking with me. And I know where I’m going.

If I could start a business with my sisters—the twin girls I never got to meet—I know exactly what it would be: The Sisterhood Studio. A powerhouse collective designed to uplift women and nonbinary creatives through storytelling, strategy, and soul-driven entrepreneurship. It would be a mix of a digital branding agency, an emotional healing platform, and a community where people like me—those who’ve lost something or someone—can build something that lasts. My sisters passed away before they took their first breath, at just eight months along in my mom’s pregnancy. I was still a child when it happened, too young to understand grief but old enough to feel that something was missing. As I grew up, I started dreaming of what they might have been like. Would they have had my humor? Would we have been a trio of chaos and brilliance? I imagine one of them would be the quiet visionary—sketching logos or scripting ad copy. The other? The bold speaker—pitching investors and commanding every room. I’d be the soul in the middle, anchoring us with empathy and fire. The Sisterhood Studio would be our love letter to girlhood, resilience, and creative rebellion. We’d specialize in helping underrepresented founders—especially neurodivergent, queer, or grieving women—launch businesses that feel like them. No more “corporate templates” or “market-safe” voices. Just real people building real things with people who see them. Every product we’d offer—branding kits, business coaching, digital resources—would be infused with the very essence of what I’ve learned from losing them: that time is not guaranteed, but meaning is something we can make. Our slogan would be: Born to Build What Was Lost. Because that’s what I’m doing—every time I create, write, or show up for my dreams, I do it for all three of us. Losing them gave me an odd kind of drive—not the kind that burns out, but the kind that burns through. When you know how fragile life is, you don’t waste it. I’ve faced hardship, yes, but I’ve also faced it with the ghost-light of two sisters at my back, and that’s made all the difference. If I’m awarded this scholarship, it will help me move closer to launching the kind of business we’d be proud of. I want to create jobs, spark joy, and give people tools to write their own legacies. It may be just me on paper, but everything I do is built in threes. They never got to walk this world, but through The Sisterhood Studio, they will leave their mark on it.

I’ve lived with misophonia my entire life, long before I knew the word for it. Long before I understood why certain sounds—chewing, pen clicking, sniffling—could trigger such intense emotional distress. As a child, I thought I was just “too sensitive” or “overreacting.” In academic settings, this invisible battle meant struggling to stay in classrooms where the smallest noise could spark full-body panic. And because misophonia isn’t widely understood, I had to navigate those spaces without accommodations, support, or even the language to explain what I was going through. In high school and college lecture halls, I mastered the art of fake focus. I’d sit near the door to escape if needed. I brought earplugs everywhere. I cried in bathroom stalls after group projects. I started associating learning—not with curiosity—but with constant defense. When a condition is invisible, and when your reactions are met with confusion or mockery, you internalize shame. But I never gave up on education—I just had to fight harder for peace within it. It wasn’t until my twenties that I discovered the word “misophonia” and felt, for the first time, that I wasn’t broken—I was part of a community. Learning about the condition gave me clarity and power. I began requesting accommodations, such as permission to use noise-canceling headphones, to sit near exits, or to complete certain activities remotely. I began to succeed, not because my misophonia vanished, but because I finally stopped hiding it. This shift has motivated me to speak up—for myself, and for others who are still silent in classrooms, workspaces, or homes where their condition is misunderstood. I’ve started including accessibility tips and misophonia awareness in online content I create as a digital artist and advocate. I’ve even helped friends and classmates understand their own sensory struggles by sharing my experience and resources. Living with misophonia has made me more empathetic, more attuned to the invisible pain others carry. It’s driven me toward fields that explore human behavior, communication, and justice. As a future lawyer and psychology student, I hope to continue advocating for inclusive policies—not just for misophonia, but for all forms of neurodivergence that are underrecognized and underserved. Going forward, I plan to continue building awareness around misophonia through creative platforms, mental health content, and community education. I’m also working on launching a neurodivergent-friendly educational project that includes resources for managing sensory challenges in academic settings. My mission is to make sure the next generation of students doesn’t have to wait as long as I did to be understood. Misophonia has been a painful part of my life—but it’s also been a teacher. It taught me resilience. It taught me how to advocate. And most of all, it taught me that what makes us different doesn’t have to isolate us—it can empower us to build bridges for others. If awarded this scholarship, I will carry its impact forward, turning every sound I used to fear into fuel for the work ahead. In my photo you can see that I almost always live with headphones on!

When I read about Kalia D. Davis’s life, I was struck by more than her accomplishments—I felt her drive, her joy, and her fierce commitment to excellence. She reminded me of the kind of person I’ve always aspired to be: someone who shows up fully, gives generously, and pours heart into every part of life—from sports and service to school and sisterhood. For me, that same sense of purpose and belonging came through music. I found my footing, quite literally, on a football field with a trumpet in my hands, surrounded by the thunderous power of a hundred instruments moving as one. I was a member of the Pride of Wildcat Land marching band at Kansas State University. We weren’t just playing songs—we were creating something bigger than ourselves, something that required discipline, teamwork, sacrifice, and an unrelenting commitment to growth. But band was more than just music or movement for me. It was healing. It was community. It was breath. During my time at K-State, I was also surviving something no college handbook could have prepared me for. A deeply traumatic event derailed my mental health, sent my GPA into freefall, and left me navigating single parenthood and the aftermath of invisible wounds. There were days I wasn’t sure I’d ever find my way back. But the band gave me a rhythm when I felt lost. It gave me structure, focus, and people who didn’t need an explanation to offer belonging. That experience taught me that showing up matters—especially when it's hard. That kindness is power. That purpose is something we rebuild, not something we wait to be handed. I’m now working closely with Kansas State University to clear up the academic wreckage left in the wake of that chapter. A late withdrawal is in process, and I’m returning stronger—with a new major, renewed clarity, and deeper resolve than ever before. My sights are now set on advocacy, social impact, and the pursuit of justice—because I know what it feels like to fall through the cracks of systems that weren’t built to catch you. I want to help change that. This scholarship represents more than financial support. It’s a torch passed on from someone whose life was filled with light, dedication, laughter, and love. It would honor the same values I’ve clung to while rebuilding: resilience, work ethic, empathy, and ambition. It would remind me that people like Kalia—people who lived wholeheartedly and served others while chasing their dreams—are never forgotten. They live on in the way we carry ourselves, in the choices we make, and in the communities we commit to strengthening. I don’t take this opportunity lightly. If selected, I’ll continue marching forward in Kalia’s name—with kindness in my step and purpose in my stride. I’ll pursue my education with everything I’ve got, and I’ll use it to advocate for those who feel unheard or unseen. I’ll teach my daughter what it looks like to live with drive and dignity. I’ll pay it forward. Because honoring a legacy means continuing the work. It means living, loving, learning, and leading—every day—with heart.

I didn’t grow up on a reservation or speaking Lakota fluently, but I grew up with knowing. Knowing that my family carried something sacred—something survivors carry when the world tries to erase you and you refuse to disappear. My family is part Lakota, and though history frayed many of the visible threads, the spiritual and emotional fabric stayed intact. I felt it in the way my grandmother braided my hair—tight and purposeful like she was braiding in memory. I saw it in the way we handled grief—honoring silence, sensing the presence of those no longer with us. And I carried it in my bones, through years of trauma, healing, rebuilding, and resistance. Smudging and being intentional all of my life from the influence of my Dad will always be something that sticks with me. I remember that he would smudge my eyes for me to see a bright future and for that I am thankful because my dreams are bigger than ever. My life hasn’t followed a traditional academic path. I’m a neurodivergent, disabled single mother who once faced homelessness and now dreams of earning multiple degrees. I want to become a lawyer, a professor, and eventually someone who reshapes the systems that continue to fail people like me—like us. And I’m not climbing this mountain just for myself. I’m climbing for my daughter, and for the communities I hope to serve. My lived experience as a Native American—especially as someone from a family that carries this heritage quietly but proudly—has given me a unique kind of resilience. It’s also given me a responsibility. I don’t want to just “represent” Indigenous voices. I want to protect them. I want to amplify them. I want to rebuild trust in legal systems that have done too much damage and provide tools of defense, healing, and empowerment that are actually usable, accessible, and rooted in cultural respect. Being Native isn’t a checkbox for me. It’s a compass. It’s what reminds me to lead with empathy, to listen more than I speak, and to make space for other people’s pain without rushing to fix it. This scholarship wouldn’t just help me financially—it would be a step toward fulfilling a legacy. A legacy that refuses to be forgotten. A legacy that teaches us that survival is not the ceiling—it’s the floor we rise from. I am my ancestors’ wildest dream, but I’m also their strategy. And I intend to keep going.

I didn’t plan to become a mental health advocate. I became one by default—when I realized no one else was coming. By the time I was 19, I’d dropped out of college after surviving sexual assault, struggling with undiagnosed neurodivergence, and navigating a mental health system that mistook survival for stability. I was told I was “too articulate to be traumatized,” “too calm to be struggling,” “too young to be burned out.” What they didn’t see was a young woman dissociating in lecture halls, fighting to finish sentences through executive dysfunction, and waking up every day trying to earn the right to rest. Years later, I finally received a diagnosis: autism and ADHD. It was like someone handed me the instruction manual to a machine I’d been trying to operate blindfolded. Everything began to make sense—my sensory overloads, my people-pleasing to survive, my overanalysis of every moment. But what hurt most was realizing that if someone had caught this earlier, I might’ve stayed. I might’ve finished school. I might’ve healed faster. And I might not have lost as much time to misunderstanding. That’s why I’m going back now—not just to rebuild my life, but to help change the way we approach mental health entirely. I’m pursuing a degree in psychology and criminal justice because I believe the systems we interact with most—education, health care, the courts—are deeply in need of mental health literacy, trauma-informed design, and humanity. I want to be a bridge between lived experience and institutional change. I want to walk into rooms where decisions are being made and bring the voices of the overlooked with me. My dream is to work with youth, survivors, and neurodivergent individuals who’ve been mislabeled, misdiagnosed, or flat-out ignored. I want to advocate for better access to early assessment, more inclusive therapy modalities, and systems of care that listen before they diagnose. I want to see funding redirected to crisis prevention instead of crisis management, and I want mental health care to become something you don’t have to fight for. I also want to speak on the intersection between mental health and motherhood. As a single mom, I’ve had to advocate not just for myself but for my daughter—navigating a world that still doesn’t treat mental illness or neurodivergence with nuance. Parenting with a disability is not a deficit. But the lack of support is. It is my mission to ensure that mental health systems stop penalizing parents for their struggles and start equipping them to heal and thrive—so their children don’t grow up thinking silence is strength and burnout is bravery. Brian’s story is a heartbreaking reflection of what happens when our systems fail to respond with care. I carry his story with me now—as a reminder that behind every statistic is a person who mattered deeply. If awarded this scholarship, I will use it not just to further my education, but to amplify stories like his and mine. To build programs, advocacy tools, and public campaigns that keep us from losing more lives to silence, stigma, and slow response. Because no one should have to become their own emergency contact. And no one should have to become an advocate just to survive.

If you ask me where I plan to serve, I’ll tell you: wherever change is slowest and justice is most overdue. That’s why I want to work in state-level family law reform, focused on custody, domestic violence, and disability rights. I’m currently in the midst of a custody case that has forced me to reckon with a broken system from the inside out—while protecting my child from the cracks it’s left behind. And I’m not the only one. Thousands of parents—especially single mothers, neurodivergent folks, and survivors—are gaslit and gutted by outdated laws that don’t reflect the realities of trauma, coercion, or safe parenting. So I’m going to change that. My interest in government began not in a courtroom, but at the kitchen table. I grew up learning that you don’t wait for permission to care about people. But as I got older, I realized caring isn’t enough—you need to codify that care. I believe that laws should act like scaffolding: flexible when they need to be, strong when someone’s safety is at stake, and supportive of every person trying to stand back up. My goal is to become a trauma-informed lawyer and eventually work with state-level committees or think tanks that help rewrite policies around child safety, parental rights, and judicial discretion. One current policy issue I care deeply about is the way family courts treat trauma and neurodivergence. The law still hasn’t caught up to modern mental health knowledge. Too often, neurodivergent parents are labeled “unstable” for needing sensory accommodations or parenting support—while abusers are considered “stable” if they’re quiet and professional in court. I want to help reform the way courts weigh evidence, interpret “best interests of the child,” and evaluate parenting capability. As a woman with autism and ADHD who has navigated abuse and rebuilt her life from the ground up, I carry both the academic insight and the lived experience to shape policy that sees the full picture. Civil discourse plays a vital role in shaping public policy—but only if the people shaping the conversation are listening. Right now, too many conversations in government are echo chambers for the privileged. We need to bring in voices from every background—especially those who’ve lived through the very issues we’re legislating. I’ve already started contributing to that discourse through legal documentation, survivor networks, and digital advocacy. But I want to scale that up. I want to be at the table when new policies are drafted—not as a token, but as a tactician. The truth is, my daughter deserves better. All of our kids do. And I refuse to raise her in a world where “justice” is just a word on a plaque instead of a path she can walk. That’s why I’m in school. That’s why I’m studying hard, filing motions, staying up late to write declarations, and showing up to class anyway. Because I believe we can design a better system—one rooted in empathy, transparency, and care that actually translates into policy. This isn’t just a career path for me—it’s a course correction for everything that’s failed us so far. And I plan to make it count.

I never planned on becoming an expert in survival—but life doesn’t ask for your permission. During college, I experienced sexual assault and the aftermath that so many survivors know too well: the shame, the disbelief, the silent unraveling of everything I thought was safe. I had to drop out. Not because I wasn’t capable, but because I was navigating a trauma no one prepared me for—and no system protected me from. That experience didn’t break me. It built a calling. Now, I’m returning to finish what I started—with new purpose and sharper vision. I’m studying Criminal Justice and Psychology, with a deep focus on trauma-informed law, mental health advocacy, and the intersection of justice and healing. While I’m not pursuing a traditional social work degree, my work is social at its core: it’s about systems, safety, stories, and the people trapped between them. I plan to become a legal reform advocate and a trauma-informed attorney—one who builds bridges between social work, criminal law, and mental health. My focus is on rewriting the way our legal and support systems respond to sexual violence: from how survivors report, to how they're treated in court, to the resources they can access before and after speaking up. Because too often, survivors are forced to choose between silence and re-traumatization. Why am I passionate about this work? Because I lived it. Because I saw firsthand how easy it is for smart, capable, hopeful people to be silenced by shame and dismissed by institutions. Because I don’t want my daughter—or anyone’s daughter—to grow up in a world where the systems built to protect them instead punish their vulnerability. To address sexual violence, I’m working on multiple fronts. Academically, I’m pursuing coursework in cognitive science, philosophy, psychology, and law to deeply understand how belief systems, trauma, and justice interact. Personally, I mentor other survivors and contribute to online communities focused on recovery and advocacy. Legally, I’m working toward a future where survivors don’t have to prove their worthiness to be believed. I’m also passionate about pushing diversity and inclusion within this work—because not all survivors are treated equally. Black, brown, disabled, and LGBTQ+ survivors face even higher barriers to justice and support. I know this not just through research, but through lived experience as a disabled single parent navigating both poverty and prejudice. And I bring that lens into everything I do: inclusive safety, not performative policy. This scholarship would allow me to continue school while caring for my daughter and managing my disability without the financial strain that too often forces survivors to choose between stability and education. I live close to campus and have a stable home—what I need now is time. Time to learn, time to grow, and time to build the future I’m already fighting for. I am not just studying social systems—I’m rebuilding them. Not in theory, but in practice. One survivor at a time. One policy at a time. One truth at a time. Because when you’ve lived through something that tried to take your voice, you learn how to make that voice carry farther than it ever did before.

The case that forever changed how I see the world wasn’t just a headline or a footnote in a textbook. It was People v. Turner—the 2016 sexual assault case against Brock Turner, a Stanford student whose six-month sentence for raping an unconscious woman behind a dumpster sparked national outrage. I wasn’t just a reader of that story—I was a survivor trying to return to college after experiencing sexual violence myself. And watching how easily the legal system bent to protect Turner’s future while ignoring his victim’s pain made something click in me, deep and irrevocably. That case shattered the illusion that justice is neutral. It revealed how privilege—racial, academic, socioeconomic—can shield some while burying others. But more than that, it cracked open a truth I carry into every room now: who we design systems for shapes who survives them. It was the victim’s letter—read aloud in court and published worldwide—that gutted me the most. She wasn’t a legal scholar. She was just a person trying to be heard. Her voice made waves, not because it was polished, but because it was human. That changed the way I saw advocacy forever. I realized the most powerful tool in the courtroom isn’t just precedent—it’s presence. Real stories. Lived experience. That’s what I bring to the table. That case cemented my path toward law and mental health. It’s why I’m double majoring in Criminal Justice and Psychology with minors in Cognitive Science and Philosophy. My goal is to become a trauma-informed attorney and legal reform advocate, specializing in how survivors interact with the legal system and how bias—conscious and unconscious—derails justice. I want to help rewrite laws and court processes to center equity, consent, and recovery—not just punishment. I want survivors to feel heard, believed, and protected—not retraumatized by the very systems meant to shield them. And I want judges, attorneys, and law enforcement to receive the kind of training that makes those outcomes possible. Legal cases like People v. Turner don’t just expose the flaws in our systems. They expose the work we have to do. They remind me that one person’s story—when amplified—can ignite change on a massive scale. That’s what I want to do with my life: amplify, advocate, rebuild. And not just for me. For my daughter, too. Because I don’t want her to grow up in a world where her safety is negotiable or where silence is easier than speaking out. I want her to inherit systems better than the ones I survived. So yes, the law can disappoint us. But it can also evolve. And I believe the most powerful evolution starts with survivors who refuse to disappear. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I study. And that’s why this scholarship would help me not just stay in school—but keep turning those hard lessons into hope and action.

I used to think surviving was enough. Then I became a mother, and suddenly surviving wasn’t the goal anymore—rewriting the world was. My passion for mental health is not just academic; it’s personal, ancestral, and painfully current. I live with autism, ADHD, and PTSD, and I’ve watched generations before me break under the weight of untreated trauma. When I dropped out of college after a sexual assault, I thought my story had ended. But it was just the prologue. Now I’m a full-time student again, raising my daughter, and building a career that centers on the radical idea that people deserve systems that don’t break them. I am double majoring in Criminal Justice (Pre-Law) and Psychology, with minors in Cognitive Science and Philosophy. My career goal is to become an attorney who specializes in trauma-informed policy, civil rights, and neurodiversity in the justice system. I want to help design legal frameworks that account for how brains work under distress, how bias creeps into courtrooms, and how marginalized communities are too often punished for surviving. Mental health has shaped every corner of my worldview. It’s why I create tools for trauma survivors navigating legal systems. It’s why I started a digital brand to support neurodivergent parents. It’s why I’ve written and spoken publicly about my own experience—not because I want pity, but because I know representation changes outcomes. Diversity and inclusion aren’t just boxes to check—they’re the soil I’m planting my future in. As a disabled, queer woman and primary parent of a mixed-race daughter, I am deeply invested in transforming institutions that were never designed for people like us. I believe that our legal and mental health systems must be collaborative, not adversarial. That healing and justice aren’t mutually exclusive. That empathy belongs in every room where decisions are made. I also believe we need more people at the intersection of these disciplines—people fluent in psychology and the law, who understand the human cost of policy failures. That’s why I’m not just studying to pass the bar. I’m studying to raise it. Through my education, I hope to create innovative mental health training programs for law enforcement and court professionals. I want to work with legislative bodies to pass trauma-informed policy. And eventually, I’d like to help build an organization that provides holistic support—legal, emotional, and practical—for survivors and families in crisis. This scholarship would not only support my education—it would help keep my family housed, fed, and stable while I take on this work full-time. Balancing parenting, school, and disability is already a tightrope walk. But I walk it because I believe that the view from the other side will be worth it. For me. For my daughter. For every kid who grows up needing a world that doesn’t just see their pain—but does something about it. I’m not here to fit into broken systems. I’m here to build better ones. And I’m asking for your help to do it.

Some people read books to escape. I read books to come back to myself. I spent my college years trying to outrun a trauma that began on campus and left me shattered in ways that took years to understand. I dropped out, not from lack of ambition, but from a system that failed to protect me. I became a mom, a fighter, a builder of a new reality. Through it all, the one thing that anchored me was a pile of worn books—psychology, philosophy, criminal justice, and memoirs by other survivors—stacked like a lighthouse on my nightstand. They didn’t fix me. They gave me language. And language gave me direction. Today, I am returning to college as a non-traditional student and single mother pursuing a double major in Criminal Justice (Pre-Law) and Psychology, with minors in Cognitive Science and Philosophy. My career path is shaped by lived experience and intellectual obsession. I plan to become an attorney, and eventually, a cross-disciplinary legal expert working at the intersection of AI, law, and trauma-informed policy. My dream is to help design systems that don’t retraumatize the most vulnerable people navigating them. I want to help rewrite the rules—both literally and legally. Mental health has shaped every decision I’ve made. I live with autism, ADHD, and PTSD—not as weaknesses, but as invitations to reimagine strength. Therapy taught me to advocate for myself. Neurodivergence taught me to innovate. Trauma taught me to listen. These lessons aren’t just personal—they’re the scaffolding for how I plan to serve others. My daughter, Everly, is growing up watching her mom not just survive—but rebuild an empire of meaning. The social issue I’m most passionate about is system reform for survivors. I believe no one should have to choose between healing and education, or between safety and success. I’ve started using my voice online to advocate for accessible legal resources, restorative justice practices, and trauma-informed parenting. Through my business, I’ve created tools to help other women stay organized through chaos. I’ve also developed scripts and documentation guides for survivors facing family court battles—because justice shouldn’t belong only to the most well-resourced. Books taught me that systems are designed by people—and people can change. Philosophy challenged me to think critically about power. Psychology showed me how beliefs become behaviors. Criminal justice exposed the cracks where harm hides. And my own story taught me that those cracks are where light gets in. This scholarship wouldn’t just help pay for tuition—it would help create space. Space to stay housed, fed, and present for my daughter while chasing a future that’s bigger than either of us. I don’t want to survive college. I want to transform through it. With your support, I’ll do just that.