At seven, I ripped off my shirt in our school cafeteria. The fluorescent lights felt like needles, the fabric like sandpaper against my skin. My classmates stared while I stood shaking, overwhelmed by sensations they barely noticed. This wasn't a tantrum; it was my brain short-circuiting from sensory overload. Living with Sensory Processing Disorder and ADHD meant the world came at me without filters. Simple things like classroom noise or clothing tags could derail my entire day. For years, I thought something was seriously wrong with me. Teachers saw disruption. I felt like I was drowning while everyone else swam effortlessly. Everything shifted when I started volunteering at Camp Anchor with kids and adults who have special needs. Joey, a twelve-year-old who rarely spoke, seemed unreachable to other counselors. But watching him cover his ears during loud activities or withdraw when things got chaotic, I recognized myself. Instead of forcing him into group activities, I sat quietly and started building with blocks. No talking, no pressure, just presence. Day after day, we built towers together, knocked them down, and started over. On the last day, Joey handed me a single red block and smiled the biggest smile I'd ever seen from him. That moment changed everything. My sensitivity wasn't a weakness; it was exactly what helped me understand Joey. Years of feeling overwhelmed had taught me to recognize when someone else was struggling, even when they couldn't put it into words. This realization led me to create "Making Sens-ory," a documentary about sensory processing differences. I'd never made a film before, but these stories needed telling. Balancing production with school was intense: late nights learning editing software, coordinating interviews while managing my own sensory challenges. Remembering Joey's smile kept me going through moments I wanted to quit. The film screened at festivals in Los Angeles, New York, and internationally. More importantly, teachers used it in classrooms, and parents reached out saying it helped them understand their kids better. Sharing my story wasn't just therapeutic; it was necessary. But making the documentary revealed a harsh reality. When people with disabilities turn 21, most support services disappear. Families who've relied on school programs suddenly find themselves alone, often waiting years for adult services that may never come. Watching this happen to Camp Anchor families broke my heart. That's why I'm studying business and entrepreneurship at Indiana University. As a first-generation college student, I carry my family's dreams alongside my own mission. I want to create companies that recognize disabilities as unique strengths rather than deficits. People with autism bring incredible attention to detail. Those with ADHD offer creative problem-solving. My sensory sensitivity helps me notice what others miss. I'm developing sustainable business models that provide ongoing support for adults with disabilities: meaningful work, skill development, and community connections that don't vanish on someone's 21st birthday. This scholarship would help me focus fully on building these solutions instead of worrying about student debt. More than that, it's an investment in all the Joeys who deserve better than a system that gives up on them. My journey from that overwhelmed kid in the cafeteria to someone building bridges has taught me that our biggest challenges often become our greatest strengths. I'm not fixing my differences; I'm using them to create a world where everyone's unique perspective adds value. In honor of Doc and Glo's belief in resilience and possibility, I'm committed to building spaces where differences aren't just tolerated but truly valued. The world needs all kinds of minds, not just the ones that fit easily into existing systems.