As a lifelong advocate, I have long been discouraged from pushing for initiatives that help my community through arguments surrounding their associated costs and economic barriers. The billions of dollars it takes to implement universal health programs, the millions needed to fund public education effectively, the thousands it costs just to get one person off the streets, and, most of all, the average person’s inability to provide even a dollar towards getting there. These arguments were designed to discourage me from pursuing my goals. Yet, in a world where a handful of individuals possess wealth measured in trillions, I am certain that expensive does not mean impossible. More importantly, when billions of people in that same world face homelessness and hunger, they are urgently needed. This reality has given me purpose, driving me to create positive change in my community through grant writing, so I may help fund essential projects that address barriers to brighter futures for people globally.​ Utilizing my analysis, research, and argument skills to understand and outline the importance of certain projects to everyone, so that those with the financial resources may help make them possible. As a Political Science student, my coursework has even better equipped me to write effectively to achieve my goals, allowing me the privilege of aiding changemakers on many essential projects. Since the beginning of my collegiate career in 2025, I have been able to utilize knowledge gained from my classes to pursue initiatives such as: - Teaming up with the Rural Education and Development Programme (REDEP) to obtain grants that help refurbish neglected boreholes and implement accessible literacy programs for underserved citizens in Central Ghana, guided largely by my expanded understanding of International Organizations from international relations courses. - Aiding multiple of my classmates at the University of Colorado in writing and submitting financial aid appeals following standard economic teachings that allowed them to get grants and loans that better reflect their financial situations, thus allowing them to finance and continue their respective educations. - Help the United States’ Center for Safe Sport with the background administrative tasks necessary to support the essential front-line work they do to protect US athletes from abuse, all stemming from my understanding of political non-profit management. I look forward to continuing to empower others through impactful grant writing, both during my remaining years at the University of Colorado and throughout my future career, remaining committed to opening doors and creating brighter futures for communities in need.

In 2007, a Massachusetts woman had a seemingly normal, late-night sexual encounter with her long-term boyfriend. Or that is what she surmised using the little information she was able to gather in her half-asleep state, surrounded by the darkness of her bedroom. However, in reality, it was her boyfriend’s brother impersonating the man to gain a level of compliance from the woman that would allow him to convince her to have sex with him. Upon waking and discovering this, the survivor of this assault pursued a long-time legal battle that would reframe the way the legal world views rape, leading to the creation of a term that would entrap scholars and legislators in debates for the following decades: rape by deception. Rape by deception occurs when the rapist tricks the victim into participating in intercourse. At present, this form of rape is a legal theory rather than a formal legal classification, as legislators and legal scholars frequently clash on whether or not rape is the correct way to describe the act. However, when examining the psychology of the two parties, it becomes clear that rape is the only logical conclusion. For the perpetrator, their awareness that misrepresentation is necessary to obtain consent exemplifies understanding that the victim doesn't actually want the true outcome. If they did, there would be no need to lie. Their intent is for sex to occur despite knowing the other party's clear distaste, which would definitionally classify them as a rapist. And how, if the actions of the aggressor in cases such as these would allow them to be easily classified as a rapist, would the crime itself not be rape? The supposed answer to that question, in my state of Colorado's law, is that the victim usually provides a form of consent surrounding the misrepresented intercourse. Most cases of this nature that enter our court system involve the rapist posing as an individual or creating a scenario in which the other party would desire to or be comfortable with having sex in. Thus, the victims do tend to provide a kind of agreement based on the lies the perpetrator tells. Upholding this agreement as consent in these circumstances, however, doesn't follow any legal logic. Contractual agreements, which represent another kind of consent, would never stand in court if they represented the kinds of supposed agreements made in rape by deception cases. A defendant bringing a contract as evidence before a judge that included lies about identity would only serve to prove that the plaintiff did not actually agree to it, but something else with someone else entirely. Present laws and rulings, however, witness these circumstances, and side with the rapist, allowing fraud to be a kind of rape loophole. The astounding oversight by courts and legislatures on this matter is a prime example of a problem championed by non-profit mission statements and advocacy. As a young professional studying political science and striving to break into grant writing for the non-profit sector, I have volunteered with the US Center for Safe Sport, a group that works on rape by fraud cases that involve the abuse of athletes that is misrepresented as athletic training by their coaches. They have inspired me to continue working to fund legal aid and advocacy surrounding this issue, using grant proposals that make arguments like this one. Be it an advocacy group that needs money to do canvassing for rape by deception legislation, or an organization that helps legally represent survivors, grant writers are an essential part of the progress. I am proud to continue to be a part of it.

As a lifelong advocate, I have long been discouraged from pushing for initiatives that help my community through arguments surrounding their associated costs and economic barriers. The billions of dollars it takes to implement universal health programs, the millions needed to fund public education effectively, the thousands it costs just to get one person off the streets, and, most of all, the average person’s inability to provide even a dollar towards getting there. These arguments were designed to discourage me from pursuing my goals. Yet, in a world where a handful of individuals possess wealth measured in trillions, I am certain that expensive does not mean impossible. More importantly, when billions of people in that same world face homelessness and hunger, they are urgently needed. This reality has given me purpose, driving me to create positive change in my community through grant writing for non-profits, so I may hopefully help fund essential projects that address barriers to brighter futures for people globally.​ Utilizing my analysis, research, and argument skills to understand and outline the importance of certain projects to everyone, so that those with the financial resources may help make them possible. As a Political Science student, my coursework has even better equipped me to write effectively to achieve my goals, allowing me the privilege of aiding changemakers on many essential projects. Since the beginning of my collegiate career in 2025, I have been able to utilize knowledge gained from my classes to pursue initiatives such as: - Teaming up with the Rural Education and Development Programme (REDEP) to obtain grants that help refurbish neglected boreholes and implement accessible literacy programs for underserved citizens in Central Ghana, guided largely by my expanded understanding of International Organizations from international relations courses. - Aiding multiple of my classmates at the University of Colorado in writing and submitting financial aid appeals following standard economic teachings that allowed them to get grants and loans that better reflect their financial situations, thus allowing them to finance and continue their respective educations. - Help the United States’ Center for Safe Sport with the background administrative tasks necessary to support the essential front-line work they do to protect US athletes from abuse, all stemming from my understanding of political non-profit management. I look forward to continuing to empower others through impactful grant writing, both during my remaining years at the University of Colorado and throughout my future career, remaining committed to opening doors and creating brighter futures for communities in need.

As a lifelong advocate, I have long been discouraged from pushing for initiatives that help my community through arguments surrounding their associated costs and economic barriers. The billions of dollars it takes to implement universal health programs, the millions needed to fund public education effectively, the thousands it costs just to get one person off the streets, and, most of all, the average person’s inability to provide even a dollar towards getting there. These arguments were designed to discourage me from pursuing my goals. Yet, in a world where a handful of individuals possess wealth measured in trillions, I am certain that expensive does not mean impossible. More importantly, when billions of people in that same world face homelessness and hunger, they are urgently needed. This reality has given me purpose, driving me to create positive change in my community through grant writing for non-profits, so I may hopefully help fund essential projects that address barriers to brighter futures for people globally.​ Utilizing my analysis, research, and argument skills to understand and outline the importance of certain projects to everyone, so that those with the financial resources may help make them possible. As a Political Science student, my coursework has even better equipped me to write effectively to achieve my goals, allowing me the privilege of aiding changemakers on many essential projects. Since the beginning of my collegiate career in 2025, I have been able to utilize knowledge gained from my classes to pursue initiatives such as: - Teaming up with the Rural Education and Development Programme (REDEP) to obtain grants that help refurbish neglected boreholes and implement accessible literacy programs for underserved citizens in Central Ghana, guided largely by my expanded understanding of International Organizations from international relations courses. - Aiding multiple of my classmates at the University of Colorado in writing and submitting financial aid appeals following standard economic teachings that allowed them to get grants and loans that better reflect their financial situations, thus allowing them to finance and continue their respective educations. - Help the United States’ Center for Safe Sport with the background administrative tasks necessary to support the essential front-line work they do to protect US athletes from abuse, all stemming from my understanding of political non-profit management. I look forward to continuing to empower others through impactful grant writing, both during my remaining years at the University of Colorado and throughout my future career, remaining committed to opening doors and creating brighter futures for communities in need.

As a lifelong advocate, I have long been discouraged from pushing for initiatives that help my community through arguments surrounding their associated costs and economic barriers. The billions of dollars it takes to implement universal health programs, the millions needed to fund public education effectively, the thousands it costs just to get one person off the streets, and, most of all, the average person’s inability to provide even a dollar towards getting there. These arguments were designed to discourage me from pursuing my goals. Yet, in a world where a handful of individuals possess wealth measured in trillions, I am certain that expensive does not mean impossible. More importantly, when billions of people in that same world face homelessness and hunger, they are urgently necessary. This reality has given me purpose, driving me to create positive change in my community through grant writing, so I may help fund essential projects that address barriers to brighter futures for people globally.​ Utilizing my analysis, research, and argument skills to understand and outline the importance of certain projects to everyone, so that those with the financial resources may help make them possible. As a Political Science student, my coursework has even better equipped me to write effectively to achieve my goals, allowing me the privilege of aiding changemakers on many essential projects. Since the beginning of my collegiate career in 2025, I have been able to utilize knowledge gained from my classes to pursue initiatives such as: - Teaming up with the Rural Education and Development Programme (REDEP) to obtain grants that help refurbish neglected boreholes and implement accessible literacy programs for underserved citizens in Central Ghana, guided largely by my expanded understanding of International Organizations from international relations courses. - Aiding multiple of my classmates at the University of Colorado in writing and submitting financial aid appeals following standard economic teachings that allowed them to get grants and loans that better reflect their financial situations, thus allowing them to finance and continue their respective educations. - Help the United States’ Center for Safe Sport with the background administrative tasks necessary to support the essential front-line work they do to protect US athletes from abuse, all stemming from my understanding of political non-profit management. I look forward to continuing to empower others through impactful grant writing, both during my remaining years at the University of Colorado and throughout my future career, remaining committed to opening doors and creating brighter futures for communities in need. ​

The doomsday clock is closer to midnight than it claims. As I sat alone in the dingy motel room, doing my nightly reading log surrounded by crack pipes and needles, looking at my cardboard book through the only eye that wasn't swollen shut- claiming that we only had two seconds to the end felt generous. It felt more accurate to say that the world's end is being played out right before my eyes. As I sit in a world over a decade later where that feels minuscule comparatively, the irony doesn't go unnoticed. It has only proven to me that our society seems to have a proclivity for almost collapsing before being caught on the edge of doom by that fraction of a second remaining. Or, more accurately, the people who are devoted to helping humanity in a way that keeps us from going over the edge. While referencing the activists and heroes in our history books, I am also speaking about those we don’t always see. There isn't a national holiday for the therapist who saved my life during my continued struggles with CPTSD or the CEO of the local domestic violence shelter that housed my family for many months. I don't see news stories on the surgeon who reconstructed my mother after years of malpractice or those who worked at the free food programs that I used in elementary school. Usually, people don't even know their names, but their work plays an essential role in our society by giving the world the ability to not only remain but to progress. Even if they’re not Nobel Prize winners, people like the aid workers in the DRC who have been giving food to locals have been the only line of defense between the mass starvation and numbers that would officially categorize the tragedy as a famine. They’re, in a sense, the people using their hands to scoop the water out of the metaphorical flooding lifeboat that is our world. Despite not fixing our society- they still frequently stop it from collapsing, giving others the necessary resources to create and implement solutions. When you truly see the impact, it is reasonable to conclude that those who have dedicated their careers to public service are some of the most under-recognized while also being the most important. That is where I come in. Growing up abused by my father, raised by a single disabled mother, and going to an international school, I’ve always been intimately connected to advocacy. My connection with injustice has dictated so much of who I am, creating a personal passion for equity in hopes of making the world reflect what it should be. However, it has never been my intention to be someone with a name that lives on in our culture, even though my advocacy is so much of who I am. Those who have spent their lives working behind the scenes to make change happen have always seemed more incredible. The work that has resonated with me is that of grant writers, one of the many background workers who- while not being the leaders and figureheads of a movement- are essential for funding any change initiative. As writers, we connect people to purpose, and when also getting the tools that make it possible- the words of a person dedicated to change can make tomorrow a promise and not a question. Not in the way of our cultural saviors, but in the way of keeping the famine at bay, dealing with childhood abuse, or holding back the clock. Even if my words only buy us one more millisecond.

The doomsday clock is closer to midnight than it claims. As I sat alone in the dingy motel room, doing my nightly reading log surrounded by crack pipes and needles, looking at my cardboard book through the only eye that wasn't swollen shut- claiming that we only had two seconds to the end felt generous. It felt more accurate to say that the world's end is being played out right before my eyes. As I sit in a world over a decade later where that feels minuscule comparatively, the irony doesn't go unnoticed. It has only proven to me that our society seems to have a proclivity for almost collapsing before being caught on the edge of doom by that fraction of a second remaining. Or, more accurately, the people who are devoted to helping humanity in a way that keeps us from going over the edge. While referencing the activists and heroes in our history books, I am also speaking about those we don’t always see. There isn't a national holiday for the therapist who saved my life during my continued struggles with CPTSD or the CEO of the local domestic violence shelter that housed my family for many months. I don't see news stories on the surgeon who reconstructed my mother after years of malpractice or those who worked at the free food programs that I used in elementary school. Usually, people don't even know their names, but their work plays an essential role in our society by giving the world the ability to not only remain but to progress. Even if they’re not Nobel Prize winners, people like the aid workers in the DRC who have been giving food to locals have been the only line of defense between the mass starvation and numbers that would officially categorize the tragedy as a famine. They’re, in a sense, the people using their hands to scoop the water out of the metaphorical flooding lifeboat that is our world. Despite not fixing our society- they still frequently stop it from collapsing, giving others the necessary resources to create and implement solutions. When you truly see the impact, it is reasonable to conclude that those who have dedicated their careers to public service are some of the most under-recognized while also being the most important. That is where I come in. Growing up abused by my father, raised by a single disabled mother, and going to an international school, I’ve always been intimately connected to advocacy. My connection with injustice has dictated so much of who I am, creating a personal passion for equity in hopes of making the world reflect what it should be. However, it has never been my intention to be someone with a name that lives on in our culture, even though my advocacy is so much of who I am. Those who have spent their lives working behind the scenes to make change happen have always seemed more incredible. The work that has resonated with me is that of grant writers, one of the many background workers who- while not being the leaders and figureheads of a movement- are essential for funding any change initiative. As writers, we connect people to purpose, and when also getting the tools that make it possible- the words of a person dedicated to change can make tomorrow a promise and not a question. Not in the way of our cultural saviors, but in the way of keeping the famine at bay, dealing with childhood abuse, or holding back the clock. Even if my words only buy us one more millisecond.

The doomsday clock is closer to midnight than it claims. As I sat alone in the dingy motel room, doing my nightly reading log surrounded by crack pipes and needles, looking at my cardboard book through the only eye that wasn't swollen shut- claiming that we only had two seconds to the end felt generous. It felt more accurate to say that the world's end is being played out right before my eyes. As I sit in a world over a decade later where that feels minuscule comparatively, the irony doesn't go unnoticed. It has only proven to me that our society seems to have a proclivity for almost collapsing before being caught on the edge of doom by that fraction of a second remaining. Or, more accurately, the people who are devoted to helping humanity in a way that keeps us from going over the edge. While referencing the activists and heroes in our history books, I am also speaking about those we don’t always see. There isn't a national holiday for the therapist who saved my life during my continued struggles with CPTSD or the CEO of the local domestic violence shelter that housed my family for many months. I don't see news stories on the surgeon who reconstructed my mother after years of malpractice or those who worked at the free food programs that I used in elementary school. Usually, people don't even know their names, but their work plays an essential role in our society by giving the world the ability to not only remain but to progress. Even if they’re not Nobel Prize winners, people like the aid workers in the DRC who have been giving food to locals have been the only line of defense between the mass starvation and numbers that would officially categorize the tragedy as a famine. They’re, in a sense, the people using their hands to scoop the water out of the metaphorical flooding lifeboat that is our world. Despite not fixing our society- they still frequently stop it from collapsing, giving others the necessary resources to create and implement solutions. When you truly see the impact, it is reasonable to conclude that those who have dedicated their careers to public service are some of the most under-recognized while also being the most important. That is where I come in. Growing up abused by my father, raised by a single disabled mother, and going to an international school, I’ve always been intimately connected to advocacy. My connection with injustice has dictated so much of who I am, creating a personal passion for equity in hopes of making the world reflect what it should be. However, it has never been my intention to be someone with a name that lives on in our culture, even though my advocacy is so much of who I am. Those who have spent their lives working behind the scenes to make change happen have always seemed more incredible. The work that has resonated with me is that of grant writers, one of the many background workers who- while not being the leaders and figureheads of a movement- are essential for funding any change initiative. As writers, we connect people to purpose, and when also getting the tools that make it possible- the words of a person dedicated to change can make tomorrow a promise and not a question. Not in the way of our cultural saviors, but in the way of keeping the famine at bay, dealing with childhood abuse, or holding back the clock. Even if my words only buy us one more millisecond.

4. Verifiable Involvement: US Center for SafeSport Volunteer: Elizabeth Calkins (Elizabeth.calkins@safesport.org), August of 2021- Present In 2016, Dr. Larry Nassar was arrested on reports of him sexually abusing over 200 women and children while serving as their sports physician. Now, in the year 2025, thousands more survivors have come forward to heroically prosecute other members of sports leadership who have done the same to them. These horrific realities illustrate the very heart of SafeSport. This nonprofit organization uses education, safety, and legal counsel to work towards a world where no athlete has to face the horrors of these mistreatments. From 2021 to today, I have had the privilege of being an administrative volunteer for the center and supporting them in reaching this goal. Overland High School Debate Team President/Student Teacher: Cayley Olsen (colsen@cherrycreekschools.org), October of 2023- May of 2025 Public discourse holds a magical power in our democracy, and I thus taught my debaters that a debate competition is not just an academic activity- it is an essential space for changing the world. At every chance, I reminded them that every judge and opponent is a person in society who makes decisions impacting what we care about. My debaters and I didn't just compete to win trophies, we competed to change the actions of the human beings around us. To educate consumers on the ethics of the products they use, or to argue for support from that voter for greener climate solutions. My time with the OHS Debate Team gave me and those around me medals and school trips, yes, but more than that it gave us critical thinking skills and a voice that will allow us to go forth and help the world. Grant Writing for the Overland High School Marching Band: Jennifer Korth (jkorth@cherrycreekschools.org), August of 2024- January of 2024 To me, grant writing is the process of writing to convince others to give money to causes that help our society, and there's nothing more helpful than education. Music education specifically teaches teamwork, discipline, cultural awareness, coordination, critical thinking, and other important skills that are contained in the least funded parts of our already underfunded education system. The Think 360 Arts Program uses grants and other programs to help fill those gaps. For the Overland community specifically, we struggle with lacking many resources, but one of the largest is in instruction. There are schools in our community that have upwards of five instructors for just the band program, where we have one, and we thus frequently rely on poorly paid alumni volunteers to make our mission possible. In writing for this grant, I was working to get them the compensation they deserve for the work they do. Arapahoe County Student Poll Worker: Worker Contract added in the picture section, November of 2024 To put it simply- polls are powerful. Polls are so powerful that the threat of going to the polls has been used as a political tactic to convince officials to act, fearing they may not be reelected, for centuries. They are so powerful that people have died to get the ability to step into the buildings we use to house them, and others have camped outside in an attempt to keep them out. So powerful that our government effectively ceases to exist without them. I have always heard and seen their impacts, but working for twelve hours in the clubhouse of a retirement community gave me the truly wonderful opportunity to understand what voting can do. …And many more including speaking at school board meetings and writing to my representatives!

Growing up, I thought being surrounded by my father’s crack pipes, left in random places, subjected to "creative" punishments, and visiting family in supervised rooms was the average American family dynamic. That was until I got my first restraining order, but I don't think it felt real until I spent all my time taking care of my mother after surgeries while couch surfing at my friend’s houses. Then, my family was odd, weird, ill, or even insane, and I spent my time in clinical offices where they asked me how I felt and why. I would explain feelings and events that I considered growing pains—sadness that most of my family was gone, nervousness at the constant changes in my life, the dread I felt when waking up every day—average things. However, the experts I seemed to go through at an abnormal speed disagreed. These seemingly normal things were then called Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and some version of depression that I don't remember. Which just meant more time in the clinical offices, except this time they said they were going to treat me. Something that sounded amazing to my young mind as, naively, I thought treating was synonymous with fixing—I believed they would fix me. I felt that I would one day wake up from a full, nightmare-free sleep excited to greet a day without the crippling fear of my family, possible economic insecurity, or a never-ending lack of joy. Admittedly, I would spend so much time dreaming of what my “fixed life” would look like that I started to believe science had to be wrong as my life looked nothing like that even after doing everything the professionals said. So, I tried harder. That was seven years ago, and I still fail to live up to the expectations that a younger version of myself dreamed of. Recovery is a kind of myth in that sense; you will never be fixed because the aftermath is a trauma in itself, and trauma is an essential part of who you are. At one point in my life, this was a devastating realization. But in my future- in a life of recovery- it doesn't mean much. Recovery is simply the feeling of having therapy before a dinner party, packing my Fluoxetine in a suitcase destined for Thailand, and spending bad days on a porch swing with the love of my life. It still exists, sure, and I still feel sick to my stomach at the idea of living some days. But that is just today, not forever. It couldn't be; I refuse for this to be one of the only goals I don't reach.

The amount of times I have broken down and sobbed in public over this past year is mortifying, and more of it than I would like to admit has been surrounding my plans for my future. Specifically, how I am meant to afford such an expensive secondary education, something that has always been such a central part of my dream career. It begs one to think about whether or not college is central to success. I seriously considered other paths and options, such as trade schools and the like, but they simply didn't fit into the life I have always hopefully envisioned for myself. If anything, my contemplations have cemented the importance of going to college more than ever, for my version of success depends on it. I can guarantee that the responses you receive when asking people to describe what success means to them will vary greatly. Success, in essence, is relative because it is tied to the joy we all strive for, even if we do not always express it. For instance, one of my dear friends, Jayden, aims to attend law school to become a corporate lawyer. He made this decision based on his salary expectations, reflecting his value of economic security and financial stability. In contrast, I find joy in something slightly different: helping others. This perspective shapes how I measure success; that when I reach the end of my life, I will know that I made a meaningful impact on human suffering, surrounded by a collection of "thank you" cards received over the years, and comforted by the idea that my work will always live on in the hearts of others. It is then that I will know I led a successful life. Although these definitions of success differ slightly, there is a common thread: the need for continuous learning. This necessity for learning exists in various forms, whether or not it is achieved in a traditional classroom setting. However, the truth is that, despite this reality and our cultural value of education as a critical measure of success, we do very little to make it accessible for everyone. All this to say, being a public servant is the most successful thing I will ever picture myself being, done on the metric of helping people. But frankly- like a person trying to help another find an object in a room in which they are unfamiliar- someone without the information or tools needed to do so is ineffective and stalling. A person aware of the layout of the room is much more effective than one with the knowledge to actually solve the problem. I feel that most of the time I am stumbling around trying to help others in a world in which I am unfamiliar- the blind leading the blind. It is for these exact reasons that education plays a crucial role in achieving my fulfilled and successful life, and scholarships make that possible. Without resources like this scholarship, it is nearly impossible to aid anyone successfully.

Growing up, I thought being surrounded by my father’s crack pipes, left in random places, subjected to "creative" punishments, and visiting family in supervised rooms was the average American family dynamic. That was until I got my first restraining order, but I don't think it felt real until I spent all my time taking care of my mother after surgeries while couch surfing at my friend’s houses. Then, my family was odd, weird, ill, or even insane, and I spent my time in clinical offices where they asked me how I felt and why. I would explain feelings and events that I considered growing pains—sadness that most of my family was gone, nervousness at the constant changes in my life, the dread I felt when waking up every day—average things. However, the experts I seemed to go through at an abnormal speed disagreed. These seemingly normal things were then called Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and some version of depression that I don't remember. Which just meant more time in the clinical offices, except this time they said they were going to treat me. Something that sounded amazing to my young mind as, naively, I thought treating was synonymous with fixing—I believed they would fix me. I felt that I would one day wake up from a full, nightmare-free sleep excited to greet a day without the crippling fear of my family, possible economic insecurity, or a never-ending lack of joy. Admittedly, I would spend so much time dreaming of what my “fixed life” would look like that I started to believe science had to be wrong as my life looked nothing like that even after doing everything the professionals said. So, I tried harder. That was seven years ago, and I still fail to live up to the expectations that a younger version of myself dreamed of. Recovery is a kind of myth in that sense; you will never be fixed because the aftermath is a trauma in itself, and pain is an essential part of who you are. It is a devastating realization that no therapy will ever erase what happened to me. I always thought it would; why else would there be people who have recovered and survived CPTSD? Maybe the reality is more motivating; it gives me hope, as cheesy as it sounds, in knowing that there is a world so breathtaking that people like me can find something so incredible that the pain becomes bearable. If the trauma never goes away, survivors must have discovered something so ethereal on the other side that the option of something like suicide is no longer appealing. We don't all get there, unfortunately, but all we can do is use all the life we have left to find the wonder that can coexist with hell itself and remain wonderful. Maybe it lies in my dream of becoming a grant writer, at my first-choice college, or in people. Perhaps I'll have to search the surface of Mars for it, but I will find it—I’ll continue to work with my therapist and take my medicines just so I do—but for now, all we can do is hope.

The doomsday clock is closer to midnight than it claims. As I sat alone in the dingy motel room, doing my nightly reading log surrounded by crack pipes and needles, looking at my cardboard book through the only eye that wasn't swollen shut- claiming that we only had two seconds to the end felt generous. It felt more accurate to say that the world's end is being played out right before my eyes. As I sit in a world over a decade later where that feels minuscule comparatively, the irony doesn't go unnoticed. It has only proven to me that our society seems to have a proclivity for almost collapsing before being caught on the edge of doom by that fraction of a second remaining. Or, more accurately, the people who are devoted to helping humanity in a way that keeps us from going over the edge. While referencing the activists and heroes in our history books, I am also speaking about those we don’t always see. There isn't a national holiday for the therapist who saved my life during my continued struggles with CPTSD or the CEO of the local domestic violence shelter that housed my family for many months. I don't see news stories on the surgeon who reconstructed my mother after years of malpractice or those who worked at the free food programs that I used in elementary school. Usually, people don't even know their names, but their work plays an essential role in our society by giving the world the ability to not only remain but to progress. Even if they’re not Nobel Prize winners, people like the aid workers in the DRC who have been giving food to locals have been the only line of defense between the mass starvation and numbers that would officially categorize the tragedy as a famine. They’re, in a sense, the people using their hands to scoop the water out of the metaphorical flooding lifeboat that is our world. Despite not fixing our society- they still frequently stop it from collapsing, giving others the necessary resources to create and implement solutions. When you truly see the impact, it is reasonable to conclude that those who have dedicated their careers to public service are some of the most under-recognized while also being the most important. That is where I come in. Growing up abused by my father, raised by a single disabled mother, and going to an international school, I’ve always been intimately connected to advocacy. My connection with injustice has dictated so much of who I am, creating a personal passion for equity in hopes of making the world reflect what it should be. However, it has never been my intention to be someone with a name that lives on in our culture, even though my advocacy is so much of who I am. Those who have spent their lives working behind the scenes to make change happen have always seemed more incredible. The work that has resonated with me is that of grant writers, one of the many background workers who- while not being the leaders and figureheads of a movement- are essential for funding any change initiative. As writers, we connect people to purpose, and when also getting the tools that make it possible- the words of a person dedicated to change can make tomorrow a promise and not a question. Not in the way of our cultural saviors, but in the way of keeping the famine at bay, dealing with childhood abuse, or holding back the clock. Even if my words only buy us one more millisecond.

The doomsday clock is closer to midnight than it claims. As I sat alone in the dingy motel room, doing my nightly reading log surrounded by crack pipes and needles, looking at my cardboard book through the only eye that wasn't swollen shut- claiming that we only had two seconds to the end felt generous. It felt more accurate to say that the world's end is being played out right before my eyes. As I sit in a world over a decade later where that feels minuscule comparatively, the irony doesn't go unnoticed. It has only proven to me that our society seems to have a proclivity for almost collapsing before being caught on the edge of doom by that fraction of a second remaining. Or, more accurately, the people who are devoted to helping humanity in a way that keeps us from going over the edge. While referencing the activists and heroes in our history books, I am also speaking about those we don’t always see. There isn't a national holiday for the therapist who saved my life during my continued struggles with CPTSD or the CEO of the local domestic violence shelter that housed my family for many months. I don't see news stories on the surgeon who reconstructed my mother after years of malpractice or those who worked at the free food programs that I used in elementary school. Usually, people don't even know their names, but their work plays an essential role in our society by giving the world the ability to not only remain but to progress. Even if they’re not Nobel Prize winners, people like the aid workers in the DRC who have been giving food to locals have been the only line of defense between the mass starvation and numbers that would officially categorize the tragedy as a famine. They’re, in a sense, the people using their hands to scoop the water out of the metaphorical flooding lifeboat that is our world. Despite not fixing our society- they still frequently stop it from collapsing, giving others the necessary resources to create and implement solutions. When you truly see the impact, it is reasonable to conclude that those who have dedicated their careers to public service are some of the most under-recognized while also being the most important. That is where I come in. Growing up abused by my father, raised by a single disabled mother, and going to an international school, I’ve always been intimately connected to advocacy. My connection with injustice has dictated so much of who I am, creating a personal passion for equity in hopes of making the world reflect what it should be. However, it has never been my intention to be someone with a name that lives on in our culture, even though my advocacy is so much of who I am. Those who have spent their lives working behind the scenes to make change happen have always seemed more incredible. The work that has resonated with me is that of grant writers, one of the many background workers who- while not being the leaders and figureheads of a movement- are essential for funding any change initiative. As writers, we connect people to purpose, and when also getting the tools that make it possible- the words of a person dedicated to change can make tomorrow a promise and not a question. Not in the way of our cultural saviors, but in the way of keeping the famine at bay, dealing with childhood abuse, or holding back the clock. Even if my words only buy us one more millisecond.

Growing up, I thought being surrounded by my father’s crack pipes, left in random places, subjected to "creative" punishments, and visiting family in supervised rooms was the average American family dynamic. That was until I got my first restraining order, but I don't think it felt real until I spent all my time taking care of my mother after surgeries while couch surfing at my friend’s houses. Then, my family was odd, weird, ill, or even insane, and I spent my time in clinical offices where they asked me how I felt and why. I would explain feelings and events that I considered growing pains—sadness that most of my family was gone, nervousness at the constant changes in my life, the dread I felt when waking up every day—average things. However, the experts I seemed to go through at an abnormal speed disagreed. These seemingly normal things were then called Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and some version of depression that I don't remember. Which just meant more time in the clinical offices, except this time they said they were going to treat me. Something that sounded amazing to my young mind as, naively, I thought treating was synonymous with fixing—I believed they would fix me. I felt that I would one day wake up from a full, nightmare-free sleep excited to greet a day without the crippling fear of my family, possible economic insecurity, or a never-ending lack of joy. Admittedly, I would spend so much time dreaming of what my “fixed life” would look like that I started to believe science had to be wrong as my life looked nothing like that even after doing everything the professionals said. So, I tried harder. That was seven years ago, and I still fail to live up to the expectations that a younger version of myself dreamed of. Recovery is a kind of myth in that sense; you will never be fixed because the aftermath is a trauma in itself, and pain is an essential part of who you are. It is a devastating realization that no therapy will ever erase what happened to me. I always thought it would; why else would there be people who have recovered and survived CPTSD? Maybe the reality is more motivating; it gives me hope, as cheesy as it sounds, in knowing that there is a world so breathtaking that people like me can find something so incredible that the pain becomes bearable. If the trauma never goes away, survivors must have discovered something so ethereal on the other side that the option of something like suicide is no longer appealing. We don't all get there, unfortunately, but all we can do is use all the life we have left to find the wonder that can coexist with hell itself and remain wonderful. Maybe it lies in my dream of becoming a grant writer, at my first-choice college, or in people. Perhaps I'll have to search the surface of Mars for it, but I will find it—I’ll continue to work with my therapist and take my medicines just so I do—but for now, all we can do is hope.

Growing up, I thought being surrounded by my father’s crack pipes, left in random places, subjected to "creative" punishments, and visiting family in supervised rooms was the average American family dynamic. That was until I got my first restraining order, but I don't think it meant anything until a new person was added. Or maybe even when I spent all my time taking care of my mother after surgeries while couch surfing. Then, I was odd, weird, ill, or even psychologically broken, and I spent my time in clinical offices where they asked me how I felt and why. I would explain feelings and events that I considered growing pains- sadness that most of my family was gone, nervousness at the constant changes of my life, the dread I felt when waking up every day- average things.  However, the experts I seemed to go through at an abnormal speed disagreed. These seemingly normal things were then called Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, General Anxiety Disorder, and some version of depression that I don't remember. Which just meant more time in the clinical offices, except this time they said they were going to fix me. Recovery is a kind of myth in that sense, you will never be fixed because the aftermath is a trauma in itself. The horrors not just of re-living the misery in memory, but in so many of the people and experiences that come after. The only difference between avoidance and recovery is the possibility that treatment will make you better than the worst. That is recovery in a nutshell, it is still there, and it still sucks. Every relapse tells you that the best you will ever get still won't be as good as the life you would have had if it hadn't happened. You are given this opportunity to live the life of your dreams, to live the fantasies that give you a purpose- and you just can't. It gives you this taste of hope before it's ripped away again, or your possible tomorrow ends up being more misery cloaked in a dream. However, I am now able to relax knowing the nightmares end when I wake up and I'm not encased in misery forever. It is a devastating realization, that no therapy will ever erase what happened to me. I always thought it would, why else would there be people who have recovered and survived CPTSD? Maybe the reality is more motivating; it gives me hope, as cheesy as it sounds, in knowing that there is a world so breathtaking that people like me can find something so incredible that the pain becomes bearable. That, if the trauma never goes away, survivors must have discovered something so ethereal on the other side the option of something like suicide is no longer appealing. We don't all get there, unfortunately, but all we can do is use all the life we have left to find the wonder that can coexist with hell itself and remain wonderful. Maybe it lies in my dream of becoming a grant writer, at my first-choice college, or in people. Perhaps I'll have to search the surface of Mars for it, but I will find it- I'll continue to work with my therapist and take my medicines just so I do- but for now, all we can do is hope.

Me and my academic planners have an exclusive- and arguably toxic- relationship. Every Saturday, I sit at my desk and plan every possible thing I need for the next week, down to my meal prep, my workouts, and sometimes even my showers. It has its benefits, many people who don’t know me well consider me the most “put together” person they know, and I am even writing this twenty six days before the deadline. But those close to me see how it can be a double-edged sword, especially when my plan doesn't work out the way I hoped it would, and higher education has been the best example of this I have ever personally encountered. When I decided to become a grant writer, planning played the same role it did at any other moment in my life. Thus began my ingenious five-step plan. Step one: college, majoring in Political Science and minoring in English. This combination will help me learn to address problems and persuade others to support that process, the two essential strengths of any technical writer. After that, I needed to seek out volunteering opportunities and internships. When speaking with several career grant writers, I learned that both experiences are essential for enhancing my resume and skill set. I was advised to start with a government internship to gain experience in fast-paced environments, so I worked as a student election worker during the 2024 election. Volunteering is then supposed to address the lack of direct grant writing internships by giving me similar experiences and networking opportunities. This would lay the foundation for step three: the entry-level, probably at a non-profit as they tend to work with newly graduated candidates the most, but I’m not opposed to working for a business. I could continue to work in this more traditional sphere, but I will more than likely want to start working for different causes via contract when I get the opportunity, they tend to pay better, but I'm not entirely sure yet, thus making my last steps a bit more fluid. Solid plan right? Except I had no clue college would be as expensive as it is. I was always told that need-based aid and my good academics would get me to the point where I could afford it, but now even my parents have recognized they had been wrong in telling me that. As of now, the cheapest school I have applied to costs thirty thousand dollars a year for everything from tuition to books, and the most expensive wants over sixty thousand. I have been working since I turned fourteen and have gotten a few scholarships, but there is absolutely no way I can do it on my own. This is the negative of being a planner, I can never accurately plan for everything and panic when I realize I am only human. Yesterday, I marked the ‘no’ tab in my spreadsheet to yet another negative scholarship decision. It's incredibly overwhelming, and every time I look at my tuition estimate I feel a wrench in my heart as well as my plans. But I know, deep down, that all I can do is plan for the worst and the best and work as hard as I can to make it happen. And, it will be ok, even if it doesn’t go according to plan.

As a human being, sometimes you watch the news and get that 'sinking into the depths of despair because of everyone's stupidity' feeling. As someone with anxiety, these feelings frequently migrate over to the notes app on my phone so I can rant about all of the things I wish were not happening or why I believe the way I do on an issue. The most recent one to make its way out of my phone and into the world looked something like this: Representative Crow, My name is Isabella and I am one of your many constituents in the incredible city of Aurora, Colorado. Admittedly, I know you probably have not heard ‘incredible’ in that sentence in quite some time- and I, of course, will be one of the first to admit that we have much work to do- but when our home has been so frequently attacked on the national stage, it feels necessary to remind ourselves. Because, representative, we are incredible. Unfortunately, we are also under attack from an administration that is set on changing that, and when I.C.E raids begin in our area in the coming weeks that is exactly what is going to happen… A rant ensued about all the reasons we needed to protect the immigrant population in my community and how I thought my representative should do so. As I clicked send, I sat back in my chair and stared off into the distance. I did feel a little better—not by much, but a little—and a common thread of joy snuck into the black hole of stress I tried to alleviate. When asked what community service means to me, it is usually with a tone of confusion, thinking of the horrors of the complex sex abuse cases that go through the U.S Center for Safe Sport or the tediousness of writing a grant for a school program. I know the dread when working with these organizations all too well, but that is just it. We should not have to look at a world and feel nothing but dread, and we should not live idly in it when it strips us of our joy. Community service is one of the only ways we can reclaim our happiness, and it is thus an investment in the well-being of ourselves and our communities. While I plan for the volunteering I do to evolve into a career in grant writing, the aspect of community service will not be changing. I will continue to use my words to try and help our society- whether it is funding the construction of a hospital in a rural area or getting food to nonprofits feeding underserved communities- because the greatest service we can give is more joy. Not just for facilitating it but for the change it inspires for you, them, and everyone else. Equally, equitably, always.

“Colored people don’t like Little Black Sambo. Burn it. White people don't feel good about Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Burn it. Someone has written a book about tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book. Serenity, Montag. Peace, Montag. Take your fight outside. Better yet, into the incinerator. Funerals are unhappy and pagan? Eliminate them, too. Five minutes after a person is dead he is on his way to the Big Flue….Forget them. Burn all, burn everything….” (Page 57) During the mere 15-minute walk to school I took this morning, I learned that Georgian activists have been pushed into protest over the government’s decision to postpone talks about joining the E.U. and Syria’s civil war has taken on new heights due to Israel's war with Gaza. It was a lot- it always is- and, while I disagree, my morning walks frequently explain why so many people have chosen to disconnect. Unplugging from the suffering and choosing what they consider to be neutrality. Simultaneously, as the citizens of Syria and Georgia went about their morning routines, the idea of unplugging must have sounded even better to them. If only, right? Just like the wonderful words of Ray Bradbury in his novel “Fahrenheit 451” suggest, the ignorance of me and my peers truly is bliss, but only because we have the privilege to be ignorant. Those without it, like the protesters in Georgia, suffer in the unseen with nothing but their limited resources to combat it. In the polarizing, dystopian city the story takes place in, we view this exact thing taking place with one Guy Montag. In a society that has entirely banned books, Montag is a dutiful firefighter who burns literature. At least until he receives the above lecture from his boss, Captain Beatty, it forces him to question why those he prosecutes are tied to the stories that supposedly make people so unhappy. Eventually, Montag rebels, culminating in his outburst: “Why doesn’t someone want to talk about it? We’ve started and won two atomic wars since 2022! Is it because we’re having so much fun at home that we’ve forgotten the world?” (pg. 70). Bradbury’s shocking revelation at the climax of the plot highlights the ignorance that readers themselves possess regarding the global issues in this storybook world. This ignorance is conveyed through the perspective of Montag, a character who does not have to confront or acknowledge these problems in his daily life. As a result, Bradbury demonstrates that our ignorance of the world he depicts reflects reality- ignorance afforded to us by the sheer fact that they don't affect us personally. This concept alone carries significant implications, and further analysis of Bradbury's reality at his time for writing strengthens it even further. Written in 1953 during the horrors of the Nazi regime, we saw this exact privilege at play- a privilege leveraged for power. As genocide plagued the Jewish community, non-Jewish Germans and those in peripheral countries knew about wartime events through Nazi propaganda that pushed a simplistic narrative. They blamed the country's hardships on the 'greed' of the Jewish population and painted an image of re-education camps being used to remedy this. These falsehoods allowed the privileged population to live in blissful ignorance of what was occurring as those most directly harmed suffered one of the worst crimes in human history. One of their most infamous tactics was the burning of literature that opposed any aspect of their regime, an act that is central to the plot of Bradbury's novel, as a means to preserve that ignorance. Those who could not see the truth as it occurred had to rely on the words of others to be informed of it and, as is done in the book and frequently in our society, those in power wrote a narrative that kept people in a state of complacency. It is clear that this was the exodus for Bradbury's story but, despite the arguments of proponents, the actual commentary on this destruction isn't one we see in history books. Instead, it is entirely his own as he incorporates the added setting of a future America and the importance of advanced technology into the plot line. While pulling from the lessons the present was teaching him, he writes a cautionary tale warning us of what he believes to be coming, pushing us to take preventative actions to avoid continuing this profound historical event into the future of our country. Technology's central role in the plot also suggests that he believed that innovations in how we communicate would take his fears to a whole new level. Bradbury's fears and suspicions were not unfounded; in a world that this book was based around, we see this happening all the time. I listen to the 15-minute podcast from NPR “Up First” every day to keep myself informed. While this makes it easier to stay updated, it can also lead to an overwhelming rush of bad news. When the people around us follow in the footsteps of the citizens in “Fahrenheit 451,” these exact problems are replicated. People globally then leave those who don't have the privilege to ignore- or even not know- what is happening to weather away in the horrors of humanity. In a day and age where his work so openly applies, we must choose to read and know. We must choose to be unhappy at the happenings of the world so those it impacts more personally can one day have the same choice. We must understand ignorance the way Ray Bradbury did so we may never be doomed to live in his projection of the future.

After spending my entire high school career struggling, I can say openly the worst part of trauma is the aftermath. The recovery, something that should be a beacon of light, is more accurately a reminder that the pain will be with you forever. Every relapse tells you that the best you will ever get still won't be as good as the life you would have had if it didn't happen. You're given this opportunity to live the life of your dreams, to live the fantasies that give you a purpose- and you just can't. It gives you this taste of hope before its ripped away again, or your possible tomorrow ends up being more misery cloaked in a dream. More misery for it to give you, because when kindness is sparse, you'll do anything to get some. Any of it, the smallest amounts make you drunk, and the world can treat you as horribly as it wants but hey- it's better than before, right? When I finally escaped my father, they came to torment me. My grandfather to neglect, my grandmother to excuse, and my other grandmother to blame. Then Mom got sick, and even though she was still here and there, I spent so much of my time seemingly mourning a living woman. Recovery is a kind of myth in that sense, you will never be fixed because the aftermath is a trauma in itself. The horrors not just of re-living the misery in memory, but in so many of the people that come after. The only difference between avoidance and recovery then becomes the possibility that treatment will make you better than the worst. I escaped childhood abuse and neglect placed upon me by my father- I have been homeless, left at random men's houses, abandoned on street corners. I have grown matts and mold in my hair because my father would pawn all of my belongings to buy meth, I used to snack on uncooked pasta when I feared being not fed, and even all these years later I flinch when people touch me. Now, I have permanent access to a hairbrush and food, I know I will actually be picked up from school, and yet I still remember. That is recovery in a nutshell, it is still there, and it still sucks- but I am now able to relax knowing the nightmares end when I wake up and I'm not encased in misery forever. It's a really sad realization, that no therapy will ever erase what happened to me. I always thought it would, why else would there be people who have 'recovered' and 'survived' CPTSD? Maybe the reality is more motivating; it gives me hope, as cheesy as it sounds, in knowing that there is something so wonderful out there that people like me are able to find something so incredible that the pain becomes bearable. That, if the trauma never goes away, survivors must have found something so incredible on the other side the option of something like suicide is no longer appealing. We don't all get there, unfortunately, but all we can do is use all the life we have left to find the wonder that can coexist with hell itself and still remain wonderful. I'll find it, I'm working on it with my therapist every Thursday, I just have to make sure I'm up in time for school tomorrow.

The doomsday clock is closer to midnight than it claims. As I sat alone in the dingy motel room, doing my nightly reading log surrounded by crack pipes and needles, looking at my cardboard book through the only eye that wasn't swollen shut- claiming that we only had two seconds to the end felt generous. It felt more accurate to say that the world's end is being played out right before my eyes. As I sit in a world over a decade later where that feels minuscule compared to the pressing humanitarian crises occurring. It has only proven to me that our society seems to have a proclivity for almost collapsing before being caught on the edge of doom by that fraction of a second remaining. Or, more accurately, the people who are devoted to helping humanity in a way that keeps us from going over the edge. While referencing activists and heroes in history, I also mean those we don’t always see. There isn't a national holiday for the therapist who saved my life during my struggles with CPTSD or the CEO of the local domestic violence shelter that housed my family for months. I don't see news stories on the surgeon who reconstructed my mother after years of medical malpractice or those who worked at the free food programs I used in elementary school. People often don’t know their names, but their work plays an essential role in our society by giving us not only the ability to remain but to progress. Even if they’re not Nobel Prize winners, aid workers in the DRC, for example, have been the only line of defense against mass starvation. Even if it hasn't gotten better, they have kept it from getting worse. They’re, in a sense, using their hands to scoop water out of the metaphorical flooding lifeboat that is our world. Despite not fixing our society, they frequently stop it from collapsing, giving others the necessary resources to create and implement life-saving solutions. When you truly see the impact, it’s reasonable to conclude that those dedicated to public service are some of the most under-recognized yet most important individuals. That is where I come in. Growing up as a girl abused by my father and raised by a single disabled mother, I’ve always been intimately connected to advocacy. My connection with social injustice has dictated so much of who I am, creating a personal passion for equity and making the world reflect what it should be. However, it has never been my intention to be someone whose name lives on in cultural memory; those who work behind the scenes to create change have always seemed more incredible. The specific work that resonates with me is grant writing—one of many background roles that are essential for funding any aid, research, and initiative for change. As writers, we connect people to purpose, and when we provide tools that make change possible—the words of a person dedicated to change can make tomorrow a promise rather than a question. Maybe not as cultural saviors but in ways that keep famine at bay or hold back the clock—even if my words only buy us one more millisecond. This version maintains your original message while reducing wordiness for clarity and impact.

After spending my entire high school career struggling, I can say openly the worst part of trauma is the aftermath. The recovery, something that should be a beacon of light, is more accurately a reminder that the pain will be with you forever. Every relapse tells you that the best you will ever get still won't be as good as the life you would have had if it didn't happen. You're given this opportunity to live the life of your dreams, to live the fantasies that give you a purpose- and you just can't. It gives you this taste of hope before its ripped away again, or your possible tomorrow ends up being more misery cloaked in a dream. More misery for it to give you, because when kindness is sparse, you'll do anything to get some. Any of it, the smallest amounts make you drunk, and the world can treat you as horribly as it wants but hey- it's better than before, right? When I finally escaped my father, they came to torment me. My grandfather to neglect, my grandmother to excuse, and my other grandmother to blame. Then Mom got sick, and even though she was still here and there, I spent so much of my time seemingly mourning a living woman. Recovery is a kind of myth in that sense, you will never be fixed because the aftermath is a trauma in itself. The horrors not just of re-living the misery in memory, but in so many of the people that come after. The only difference between avoidance and recovery then becomes the possibility that treatment will make you better than the worst. I escaped childhood abuse and neglect placed upon me by my father- I have been homeless, left at random men's houses, abandoned on street corners. I have grown matts and mold in my hair because my father would pawn all of my belongings to buy meth, I used to snack on uncooked pasta when I feared being not fed, and even all these years later I flinch when people touch me. Now, I have permanent access to a hairbrush and food, I know I will actually be picked up from school, and yet I still remember. That is recovery in a nutshell, it is still there, and it still sucks- but I am now able to relax knowing the nightmares end when I wake up and I'm not encased in misery forever. It's a really sad realization, that no therapy will ever erase what happened to me. I always thought it would, why else would there be people who have 'recovered' and 'survived' CPTSD? Maybe the reality is more motivating; it gives me hope, as cheesy as it sounds, in knowing that there is something so wonderful out there that people like me are able to find something so incredible that the pain becomes bearable. That, if the trauma never goes away, survivors must have found something so incredible on the other side the option of something like suicide is no longer appealing. We don't all get there, unfortunately, but all we can do is use all the life we have left to find the wonder that can coexist with hell itself and still remain wonderful. I'll find it, I'm working on it with my therapist every Thursday, I just have to make sure I'm up in time for school tomorrow.

Greif and loss are such complex things to deal with for a little girl, especially when you are mourning a living man. It becomes even more complicated when you both love and despise him. When my abusive father was officially gone in January of the third grade, I very quickly learned that grief wasn't just for the dead, nor was it just for good people. When I finally rid myself of the grasp of the rest of my abusive family in middle school, I realized it was me and my mom against the world. In the process of parenting through her traumatic aftermath, she pushed me to express myself in healthy ways without a shred of a clue how to do it herself. She put me in good schools, advocating for me to my teachers and pushing books into my hands, and I started to learn in ways I never had before. Pretty quickly there became dedicated time for homework- even after long days at work trying to support my family, even when I sat on the uncomfortable plastic couches of a hospital room. I would loudly and stubbornly complain some days, so much so in the beginning that I now know the scolding monologue she used by heart. In my moments of low ambition, I can still remember her saying that abuse and grief could not take away my education because if, heaven forbid, I ever ended up in that same position again all I could rely on was my intellect to get me out. It was the only thing the unfortunate events of my life could never steal from me. So, I worked harder than I thought possible every day under her watchful eyes. The moments of her pain being a single parent and abuse survivor would force many to have to put things like school on the back burner, but she was there whenever she could be. I would say it paid off, but not in the way most would assume. With college-level coursework being in my schedule since I was fourteen and having good grades, I fit many conventional criteria for success as a student. However, when I know the sacrifices required to get me here, my achievements will always be measured in my ability to overcome adversity. And, as I walk across the graduation stage come May, I will do it with the same strength I started with. As to be expected of course- I am my mother's daughter after all.

The worst part of trauma is the aftermath. The recovery, something that should be a beacon of light, is more accurately a reminder that the pain will be with you forever. Every relapse tells you that the best you will ever get still won't be as good as the life you would have had if it didn't happen. You're given this opportunity to live the life of your dreams, to live the fantasies that give you a purpose- and you just can't. It gives you this taste of hope before its ripped away again, or your possible tomorrow ends up being more misery cloaked in a dream. More misery for it to give you, because when kindness is sparse, you'll do anything to get some. Any of it, the smallest amounts make you drunk and the world can treat you as horribly as it wants but hey- it's better than before, right? When I finally escaped my father, they came to torment me. My grandfather to neglect, my grandmother to excuse, and my other grandmother to blame. Then Mom got sick, and even though she was still here and there, I spent so much of my time seemingly mourning a living woman. Recovery is a kind of myth in that sense, you will never be fixed because the aftermath is a trauma in itself. The horrors not just of re-living the misery in memory, but in so many of the people that come after. The only difference between avoidance and recovery then becomes the possibility that treatment will make you better than the worst. I escaped childhood abuse and neglect placed upon me by my father- I have been homeless, left at random men's houses, abandoned on street corners. I have grown matts and mold in my hair because my father would pawn all of my belongings to buy meth, I used to snack on uncooked pasta when I feared being not fed, and even all these years later I flinch when people touch me. Now, I have permanent access to a hairbrush and food, I know I will actually be picked up from school, and yet I still remember. That is recovery in a nutshell, it is still there, and it still sucks- but I am now able to relax knowing the nightmares end when I wake up and I'm not encased in misery forever. It's a really sad realization, that no therapy will ever erase what happened to me. I always thought it would, why else would there be people who have 'recovered' and 'survived' CPTSD? Maybe the reality is more motivating; it gives me hope, as cheesy as it sounds, in knowing that there is something or someone so wonderful out there that people like me are able to find something so incredible that the pain becomes bearable. That, if the trauma never goes away, survivors must have found something so incredible on the other side the option of something like suicide is no longer appealing. We don't all get there, unfortunately, but all we can do is use all the life we have left to find the wonder that can coexist with hell itself and still remain wonderful. Oddly enough, part of my wonder has become grant writing, trying to fund projects that bring wonder back to the lives of others. Hopefully that means more people make it out of the darkness trauma harbors.

I believe that, as a collective human species, there are some experiences that we are destined to have through the things that happen in our society. In my corner of it specifically, I would say I have had my fair share of moments with what I would consider the most common human experience: The passion that characterizes watching something horrible occurs and wanting to change it. Sitting in my visitation waiting room as that abused little girl about to have her weekly meeting with her abuser, giving my mother her picc line medication and cooking her dinner at such a young age since she had no one else to help, or waiting in group therapy at the psychiatric hospital when I thought there was nothing good left in the world- I felt it. That empathy and passion could heal a wounded world. I cannot look at any of the suffering in our world and not feel the same. Yet, making an impact is hard when faced with problems like childhood neglect or mental health, especially when a new major issue seems to surface every few seconds. I see people every day who dedicate their lives to a better world and never get to see it. But I want to see my change, my impact, my holding back the flood moment that allows the heroes to save the day soon after, and it is money that creates a barrier for so many change seekers like me. This is why I have dedicated my education to working on my research, analysis, and communication skills in the hope of becoming a grant writer and trying to decrease money's impact as a barrier to the projects that help our world. As we look at those who struggle to get the aid needed to leave abusive situations to the very issue of world hunger, it is not the human experience of wanting to help that is holding us back. Unfortunately, the question of "why hasn't this changed" is usually followed by an account balance for either the research needed or the resources. When we feel this passion as human beings, we need people who help make it possible. Like I want to do for others, like you may do for me. It is only then that the nature of human passion moves forward, allowing passions to be important and keep the human race around so we can be passionate.

I have always been passionate and, admittedly, argumentative. I experienced so much of the misogyny and xenophobia in our society that there was no way I could be anything else. It is almost as if it was engraved into my genetic code by my soul itself. But just like I have always been passionate, there have always been criticisms- Saying that I will hopefully "calm down" when I am older, or that it's not very ladylike to argue about politics or the passive-aggressive you would be a great lawyer comment. They all affected me, but only one would become a central part of my life: the comments made with slight grimaces about me having a future spot on a great debate team. And I do, thank you very much. Going into my fourth year with the Overland Debate team, I have made some of the best connections, been present in some of the most important conversations, and fallen in love with the Lincoln Douglas Debate format. I have become the debate president, won many rounds, and competed at nationals. Yet, something always irked me: the fact that the rest of the world had a very different view of whether or not my team was as incredible as I think they are. Being the most diverse school in the state with maybe one or two kids who win awards per competition seemed to cement in people’s naive minds that debate was not "for people like us." After years of microaggressions, it starts to wear. It wouldn't be until the bus ride back from a taxing state competition in 2024 that included people giving us a hard time for even being in the venue for the tournament and taking pictures of a fellow Muslim teammate praying that I sat down and finally decided what debate meant for those who had to fight to speak. Every judge, for example, is a voter in the next election and is influencing policy, your opponent is a consumer who impacts the local economy, and the conversations we have to influence them. We debate with human beings who make decisions every day that can change the things we care about, and we must speak like the problems themselves are listening- because they are. When you are frequently left out of those conversations, especially when the topics have a unique meaning to you, people won't consider you in their decision-making. Therefore, those with spirits like Overland debaters must be in every conversation, or we will continue to live in a world where people believe certain aspects of life aren't for "people like us." This scholarship would help give one of those Overland debaters, the president in fact, the ability to be in more conversations than I ever thought possible.

After spending my entire high school career struggling, I can say openly the worst part of trauma is the aftermath. The recovery, something that should be a beacon of light, is more accurately a reminder that the pain will be with you forever. Every relapse tells you that the best you will ever get still won't be as good as the life you would have had if it didn't happen. You're given this opportunity to live the life of your dreams, to live the fantasies that give you a purpose- and you just can't. It gives you this taste of hope before its ripped away again, or your possible tomorrow ends up being more misery cloaked in a dream. More misery for it to give you, because when kindness is sparse, you'll do anything to get some. Any of it, the smallest amounts make you drunk, and the world can treat you as horribly as it wants but hey- it's better than before, right? When I finally escaped my father, they came to torment me. My grandfather to neglect, my grandmother to excuse, and my other grandmother to blame. Then Mom got sick, and even though she was still here and there, I spent so much of my time seemingly mourning a living woman. Recovery is a kind of myth in that sense, you will never be fixed because the aftermath is a trauma in itself. The horrors not just of re-living the misery in memory, but in so many of the people that come after. The only difference between avoidance and recovery then becomes the possibility that treatment will make you better than the worst. I escaped childhood abuse and neglect placed upon me by my father- I have been homeless, left at random men's houses, abandoned on street corners. I have grown matts and mold in my hair because my father would pawn all of my belongings to buy meth, I used to snack on uncooked pasta when I feared being not fed, and even all these years later I flinch when people touch me. Now, I have permanent access to a hairbrush and food, I know I will actually be picked up from school, and yet I still remember. That is recovery in a nutshell, it is still there, and it still sucks- but I am now able to relax knowing the nightmares end when I wake up and I'm not encased in misery forever. It's a really sad realization, that no therapy will ever erase what happened to me. I always thought it would, why else would there be people who have 'recovered' and 'survived' CPTSD? Maybe the reality is more motivating; it gives me hope, as cheesy as it sounds, in knowing that there is something so wonderful out there that people like me are able to find something so incredible that the pain becomes bearable. That, if the trauma never goes away, survivors must have found something so incredible on the other side the option of something like suicide is no longer appealing. We don't all get there, unfortunately, but all we can do is use all the life we have left to find the wonder that can coexist with hell itself and still remain wonderful. I'll find it, I'm working on it with my therapist every Thursday, I just have to make sure I'm up in time for school tomorrow.

Hi, I am Isabella Santana and I will be a high school junior this year! I was primarily raised by my mother Elizabeth, who was a single parent for most of my childhood following years of physical and emotional abuse and neglect we both suffered at the hands of my father. A few years after moving to Colorado from Illinois, my German shepherd Pirate was added to the mix and for many years it was us against the world. We have had many adventures together, survived years of struggle with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, seven of my mother's neck surgeries, and disability. Along the way, we have added other members to our odd little group, but my mother has remained my main pillar of support. Trailing my years of struggle with abuse, I have spent most of my teen years addressing my mental health struggles and trying to find joy in life's possibilities away from the abuse I used to consider unavoidable. I now spend my free time volunteering, participating in many extra-curricular activities, and learning about everything I can. As chaotic as it sounds, the hecticness of my life has led me to possibilities I never thought imaginable. Being raised by a single woman who was severely disabled introduced me to many of the systemic and social inequities in our society. It showed me how little accessibility was incorporated into day-to-day life, how little people thought of working mothers, and how much women were taken advantage of and prayed upon. Yet, the most important thing it taught me was something about sisterhood. I was raised by a village of women from co-workers who looked after me during work trips to women who allowed us a place in their homes as we ran from my father. They to taught me how women were unfairly treated, especially women of color, and how sisterhood spanned farther than I ever imagined. I also grew up being a caretaker for her and, in turn, learned how to look after myself very young. As I look toward the future, this is truly what has encouraged me to take an interest in advocacy, law, and legislature as I was introduced to issues surrounding it very young. These interests have shaped my academics and my desired career path, clearly being a major part of my life, and I attribute a lot of it to my experience as my mother's daughter.

Hi, I am Isabella Santana, and I will be a high school senior this year! I was primarily raised by my mother Elizabeth, who was a single parent for most of my childhood following years of physical and emotional abuse and neglect we both suffered at the hands of my father. A few years after moving to Colorado from Illinois, my German shepherd Pirate was added to the mix and for many years it was us against the world. We have had many adventures together, survived years of struggle with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, seven of my mother's neck surgeries, and being abandoned by much of my biological family. Along the way, we have added other members to our odd little group-my stepfather Brian, stepbrother Cameron, and my Saint Bernard puppy, a family given to me built on the foundations of love. Trailing my years of struggle with abuse, I have spent most of my teen years addressing my mental health struggles and trying to find joy in life's possibilities away from the abuse I used to consider unavoidable. I now spend my free time volunteering, participating in many extra-curricular activities, and learning about everything I can. As chaotic as it sounds, the hecticness of my life has led me to possibilities I never thought imaginable. If you would have told the version of me that was going between DV and women's shelters that I would have the opportunity to go to college for something I love, I would not have believed you. Even if that sounds super cheesy to you, the opportunity to do something I love and help others feels like a fever dream to me. This scholarship would allow me to pursue a career that will increase my overall happiness because I can use my hopes of being a grant writer to help people like me. If my life with CPTSD has taught me anything, it's that the people working in the background of non-profits and charities of things like the food pantry and homeless shelter I have used through my life is what buys people the gift of a better life. Not to mention, scholarships help support and protect me from the cycle of generational financial abuse and lack of access to healthcare. My ability to not only go to college but to support myself through college will open me up to financial means that aid in that process. In life after abuse, every step closer to happiness-even those accompanied by two or three steps back- increases your quality of life. Scholarship money allows me to take this step forward toward recovery and a better world for myself and my family.

The worst part of trauma is the aftermath. The recovery, something that should be a beacon of light, is more accurately a reminder that the pain will be with you forever. Every relapse tells you that the best you will ever get still won't be as good as the life you would have had if it didn't happen. You're given this opportunity to live the life of your dreams, to live the fantasies that give you a purpose- and you just can't. It gives you this taste of hope before its ripped away again, or your possible tomorrow ends up being more misery cloaked in a dream. More misery for it to give you, because when kindness is sparse, you'll do anything to get some. Any of it, the smallest amounts make you drunk and the world can treat you as horribly as it wants but hey- it's better than before, right? When I finally escaped my father, they came to torment me. My grandfather to neglect, my grandmother to excuse, and my other grandmother to blame. Then Mom got sick, and even though she was still here and there, I spent so much of my time seemingly mourning a living woman. Recovery is a kind of myth in that sense, you will never be fixed because the aftermath is a trauma in itself. The horrors not just of re-living the misery in memory, but in so many of the people that come after. The only difference between avoidance and recovery then becomes the possibility that treatment will make you better than the worst. I escaped childhood abuse and neglect placed upon me by my father- I have been homeless, left at random men's houses, abandoned on street corners. I have grown matts and mold in my hair because my father would pawn all of my belongings to buy meth, I used to snack on uncooked pasta when I feared being not fed, and even all these years later I flinch when people touch me. Now, I have permanent access to a hairbrush and food, I know I will actually be picked up from school, and yet I still remember. That is recovery in a nutshell, it is still there and it still sucks- but I am now able to relax knowing the nightmares end when I wake up and I'm not encased in misery forever. It's a really sad realization, that no therapy will ever erase what happened to me. I always thought it would, why else would there be people who have 'recovered' and 'survived' CPTSD? Maybe the reality is more motivating;it gives me hope, as cheesy as it sounds, in knowing that there is something so wonderful out there that people like me are able to find something so incredible that the pain becomes bearable. That, if the trauma never goes away, survivors must have found something so incredible on the other side the option of something like suicide is no longer appealing. We don't all get there, unfortunately, but all we can do is use all the life we have left to find the wonder that can coexist with hell itself and still remain wonderful.

I acknowledge that, as a collective human species, we have some level of shared experience that we are destined to have through both our shared psychology and society. When watching my disabled mother struggle with medical debt or my friends face adversity because of their race, I experienced one of the most common shared human experiences. The empathy you feel when you watch an individual or group struggle and want to help. I find it virtually impossible that any human being can look at the suffering in our world and not want to do everything they can to aid in this effort. While my personal experiences as a feminist with a natural inclination toward government may shape the way I go about it, humanitarianism resides in us all. Yet, making an impact is hard when faced with problems like climate change. Especially when a new major issue seems to surface every few seconds- like the increase in police brutality during the pandemic. An individual could work a lifetime and never make a dent, regardless of their best efforts. Those people, however, have an important place in human society as they allow us to go forward. Like a drizzle from a water pump into a large bucket, one that is getting filled to drench a devastating fire. Even if only in small segments, they are essential to progress and I hope to one day have a place among their ranks. For me, this place would include using a higher level of education surrounding public policy to better understand the laws that govern our society. Policy dictates every part of life in America, impacting every area and its flaws, making policy understanding essential for all areas of civil problem-solving. From environment to economics, I will gain a synopsis of most subjects and their laws to learn how to change policies to have specific impacts. With this, I could be a sustainability coordinator, grant writer, policy researcher, legislative aid, journalist, and many more titles focused on societal benefit and advocacy. Of course, as a teenager, it is fair to say my plan is not foolproof or concrete, but my goals are consistent- to dedicate my career to helping others. It is this knowledge that has been a guiding light in every aspect of my academic career, knowing that with my passion for advocacy and my research skills, my part in this shared human experience could be leveraged to help those who need it the most. I bring it with me to every debate meeting, every group discussion, and every hard day. My every academic and professional goal includes a question of how to help the world, even if only slightly. Including while writing this, knowing financial aid for college is an essential step on my path to improving lives and the world.

Hi, I am Isabella Santana and I will be a high school junior this year! I was primarily raised by my mother Elizabeth, who was a single parent for most of my childhood following years of physical and emotional abuse and neglect we both suffered at the hands of my father. A few years after moving to Colorado from Illinois, my German shepherd Pirate was added to the mix and for many years it was us against the world. We have had many adventures together, survived years of struggle with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, seven of my mother's neck surgeries, and disability. Along the way, we have added other members to our odd little group, but my mother has remained my main pillar of support. Trailing my years of struggle with abuse, I have spent most of my teen years addressing my mental health struggles and trying to find joy in life's possibilities away from the abuse I used to consider unavoidable. I now spend my free time volunteering, participating in many extra-curricular activities, and learning about everything I can. As chaotic as it sounds, the hecticness of my life has led me to possibilities I never thought imaginable. Being raised by a single woman who was severely disabled introduced me to many of the systemic and social inequities in our society. It showed me how little accessibility was incorporated into day-to-day life, how little people thought of working mothers, and how much women were taken advantage of and prayed upon. Yet, the most important thing it taught me was something about sisterhood. I was raised by a village of women from co-workers who looked after me during work trips to women who allowed us a place in their homes as we ran from my father. They to taught me how women were unfairly treated, especially women of color, and how sisterhood spaned farther than I ever imagined. I also grew up being a caretaker for her and, in turn, learned how to look after myself very young. As I look toward the future, this is truly what has encouraged me to take an interest in advocacy, law, and legislature as I was introduced to issues surrounding it very young. These interests have shaped my academics and my desired career path, clearly being a major part of my life, and I attribute a lot of it to my experience as my mother's daughter.

Hi, I am Isabella Santana and I will be a high school junior this year! I was primarily raised by my mother Elizabeth, who was a single parent for most of my childhood following years of physical and emotional abuse and neglect we both suffered at the hands of my father. A few years after moving to Colorado from Illinois, my German shepherd Pirate was added to the mix and for many years it was us against the world. We have had many adventures together, survived years of struggle with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, seven of my mother's neck surgeries, and the pandemic. Along the way, we have added other members to our odd little group-my stepfather Brian, stepbrother Cameron, and my saint bernard puppy. Trailing my years of struggle with abuse, I have spent most of my teen years addressing my mental health struggles and trying to find joy in life's possibilities away from the abuse I used to consider unavoidable. I now spend my free time volunteering, participating in many extra-curricular activities, and learning about everything I can. As chaotic as it sounds, the hecticness of my life has led me to possibilities I never thought imaginable. If you would have told the version of me that was going between DV and women's shelters that I would have the opportunity to go to college for something I love, I would not have believed you. Even if that sounds super cheesy to you, the opportunity to do something I love and help others feels like a fever dream to me. This scholarship would allow me to pursue a career that will increase my overall happiness. Working in a field you love is known to have positive impacts on your psyche. Getting a college degree in line with my interests would allow me to reap the benefits of this phenomenon. Not to mention, scholarships help support and protect me from the cycle of generational financial abuse and lack of access to healthcare. My ability to not only go to college but to support myself through college will open me up to financial means that aid in that process. In life after abuse, every step closer to happiness-even those accompanied by two or three steps back- increases your quality of life. Scholarship money allows me to take this step forward toward recovery and a better world for myself and my family.