I believe relationships are what drive us as humans, they’re the root of all human nature. To me relationships aren’t just bonds, they’re connections. They are the lifelines that to connect us to each other. As I aspire to be a lawyer, I view these relationships and connections as the foundation of my career. Being a lawyer is more than just fighting for justice, it’s building a connection with those you’ve fault for. It’s building relationships with people who know you’ve got their back. My sister’s lifelong battle with Sickle Cell taught me that personal tragedy often masks systemic failure, pushing me to redefine where our community's effort fell short. In the hospital I realized families were there, but without smiles or laughter of a normal Halloween. While talking to the hospital liaison, she mentioned most children hadn’t celebrated Halloween in years due to their condition. This was the foundation of my realization that for community children, participating in Halloween traditions was a luxury denied by physical barriers or financial barriers. I refused to accept any barriers that prevented kids from experiencing that joy. As Vice President of FCCLA my junior year, I coordinated our club's participation in the local Trunk or Treat. Our goal was to address the financial barrier and bring social joy. However, when I looked at who we were reaching, I realized we were just adding onto an event that already existed, it didn’t reach those who were truly isolated, those who couldn’t leave the hospital. As President my senior year, we focused on filling the void. I led our team of 25 to eliminate the physical barrier by donating 150 goodie bags to the children's hospital. By coordinating with the hospital's liaison to ensure the bags contained non-food items alongside candy, I guaranteed every child could receive a treat regardless of their restrictions. When we delivered the bags to the hospital, the drop-off area doubled as the sign-out desk. I noticed a family checking out. Their daughter, who also had Sickle Cell, asked if they could celebrate Halloween this year. Her parents hesitated. Between medical bills and her condition, they didn’t think it was possible. Before they left, I gave them one of our bags filled with candy along with my contact information if they needed anything else. On Halloween night, they sent me a photo. The girl was dressed as Elsa, holding our bag and smiling, despite the at-home IV running in the background. It was here that leadership was redefined. I realized it wasn’t about charity work but instead about the methodical analysis required to find and fill the silent voids that current systems fail to reach. The entire process, from identifying gaps to fully executing the plan, is the foundation I continue to build through FCCLA and will carry into Political Science and law. The ability to find those that the system has left behind. At UNC Chapel Hill, I plan to continue this work and become the lawyer i’ve always wanted to be. Through student organizations and the relationships i’ve built focused on public policy and social justice, I intend to apply the same framework I developed through FCCLA, identifying who the system is missing and building solutions to reach them. My goal is to practice white collar law and hold institutions accountable for quiet failures that families, such as mine, navigate every day. Winterville taught me how to find them and Chapel Hill is where I'll learn to close them because going to college means finding what I can do to make the world a better place.

Being a first-generation, low income student, i’ve learned that you don’t need alot of money to make a real impact. Growing up, I was often the one on the receiving end of community support. That experience didn’t make me feel small, it made me realize that service isn’t a luxury for people who don’t need help, it’s a calling for everyone. My faith is the drive behind everything I do. I grew up watching my grandmother, known as sister Mercer, serve our local church. I aspire to be as regligious and disciplined as she is. I’ve started acting on this aspiration recently. My grandfather is a priest at a different local church located in Plymouth. Nearly every weekend I help cook and distribute 200 plates of food to those in need. Witnessing this devotion taught me that faith isn’t just a set of beliefs, it’s a commitment to action. Watching them has inspired me to translate my own faith into the leader I am today.  Leadership wasn’t always easy. I spent alot of late nights at my kitchen table, figuring out how to stretch my clubs budget so we could do something meaningful. When we donated over 30 pounds of candy and 150 easter eggs to the local Aces for Autism center, the mission felt deeply personal. My brother, who is only four and on the spectrum, goes there. Witnessing him and his friends find joy in something as simple as a easter egg hunt showed me that advocacy is really about creating moments for people who are often overlooked. I did something similar last year by organizing the donation of 150 goodie bags to the local sickle cell clinic. Some people might look at my background and see barriers, but I see perspective. Being low-income has helped me spot needs in my community that are often overlooked. This fall, i’m heading to UNC Chapel Hill to double major in philosophy and political science. Getting into a top university is both a blessing and a responsibility. I’m not just going there to get a degree, I’m going there to learn how to fight for justice. I want to take the principles I learned from my grandparents and my time spent in FCCLA and apply them to the legal system. I want to be the person to make sure fairness is accessible to all. I know my journey has been a mix of divine guidance and hard work. This scholarship would be a investment in a future advocate who is willing to do what it takes to bring justic. I’m beyond ready to take the values of love, faith, and service of my local community and bring them to the courtroom, making sure that loving my neighbor stays at the center of everything I do.

To most a giggle is a sound, but to me it was a mask. What began as genuine giggles, sparked by the messages of my first love, soon curled into annoyance for my friends who were tired of hearing about him. Slowly, I became someone unrecognizable, even to myself. This girl was no longer Jaelah, but “Giggle box.” This kept up until the photo evidence blurred my world. The stain on my glasses became impossible to ignore, a smudge I often read past. When anyone brought up the evidence, I tilted my head and forced out a giggle, soon becoming a reflex to fight the sinking feeling. Eventually, I stopped asking anyone to consider my feelings and instead started documenting how I felt through my notes, notes that would soon be a wipe for the smudge. Yet the “Giggle box” nickname remained, a name given to a silent voice. By the end of freshman year, I was no longer “giggle box” but instead Jaelah. Unlike the watery mask I was wearing, my focus was on my work and my notes, allowing me to earn the top spot in my freshman class. However, I could only feel as if it was the eye of the storm and when I mentioned switching schools my mom said, “But you’re doing so well.” This was the first time I prioritized myself. I knew I needed a fresh start even if she didn’t. By sophomore year, I let go. I stopped asking and instead opened up to my best friend, who listened to me reading my notes for hours and helped me realize the problem was never the smudge, it was the glasses entirely. By Junior year, the storm was finally below me. I was determined to see things differently, fueled by my new lenses. It started during a debate on free speech, where I argued that even harmful speech shouldn’t be censored. Shortly after, I took my first criminal justice class. It was there I studied the case of Cameron Willingham, a man wrongfully executed. The legal system failed Willingham and silenced him in the process. Cases such as his showed me that corruption and systemic failure often start at the top. This pushed me to pursue my interest in White Collar, because behind every systemic failure is someone who knew and I intend on finding them. Junior year refined “Giggles” for me. It wasn’t a mask but my genuine self. I transformed from the girl who didn’t have an opinion to one who led debates on justice as Vice President of FCCLA, ensuring everyone had a voice in addressing community issues. After coordinating the completion of 150 Halloween goodie bags, I went to drop them off and noticed a family checking out. Their daughter, who has Sickle Cell, asked if she could celebrate Halloween this year. Her parents hesitated. Between medical bills and her condition, they didn’t think it was possible. Before they left, I gave them one of our bags filled with candy, a Barbie doll, kinetic sand, and other warm items along with my contact information if they needed anything else. On Halloween night, they sent me a photo. The girl was dressed as Elsa, holding our bag and smiling, despite the at-home IV running in the background. Now as I'm writing this, the laughter is still here, but it comes from a place of strength, not silence, a voice ready to advocate for those like Cameron Willingham and the little girl that the system failed to protect.

To most a giggle is a sound, but to me it was a mask. What began as genuine giggles, sparked by the messages of my first love, soon curled into annoyance for my friends who were tired of hearing about him. Slowly, I became someone unrecognizable, even to myself. This girl was no longer Jaelah, but “Giggle box.” This kept up until the photo evidence blurred my world. The stain on my glasses became impossible to ignore, a smudge I often read past. When anyone brought up the evidence, I tilted my head and forced out a giggle, soon becoming a reflex to fight the sinking feeling. Eventually, I stopped asking anyone to consider my feelings and instead started documenting how I felt through my notes, notes that would soon be a wipe for the smudge. Yet the “Giggle box” nickname remained, a name given to a silent voice. By the end of freshman year, I was no longer “giggle box” but instead Jaelah. Unlike the watery mask I was wearing, my focus was on my work and my notes, allowing me to earn the top spot in my freshman class. However, I could only feel as if it was the eye of the storm and when I mentioned switching schools my mom said, “But you’re doing so well.” This was the first time I prioritized myself by knowing no one saw the smudge but me. I knew I needed a fresh start even if she didn’t. By sophomore year, I let go. I stopped asking questions and instead opened up to my best friend, who simply listened to me reading my notes for hours and helped me realize the problem was never the smudge, it was the glasses entirely. By Junior year, the storm was finally below me. I was determined to see things differently, fueled by my new lenses. It started during a debate on free speech, where I argued that even harmful speech shouldn’t be censored. Shortly after, I took my first criminal justice class. It was there I studied the case of Cameron Willingham, a man wrongfully executed. The legal system failed Willingham and silenced him in the process. Cases such as his showed me that corruption and systemic failure often start at the top. This pushed me to pursue my interest in White Collar, because behind every systemic failure is someone who knew and I intend on finding them. Junior year refined “Giggles” for me. It wasn’t a mask but my genuine self. I transformed from the girl who didn’t have an opinion to one who led debates on justice as Vice President of FCCLA, ensuring everyone had a voice in addressing community issues. After coordinating the completion of 150 Halloween goodie bags, I went to drop them off and noticed a family checking out. Their daughter, who has Sickle Cell, asked if they could celebrate Halloween this year. Her parents hesitated. Between medical bills and her condition, they didn’t think it was possible. Before they left, I gave them one of our bags filled with candy, a Barbie doll, kinetic sand, and other warm items along with my contact information if they needed anything else. On Halloween night, they sent me a photo. The girl was dressed as Elsa, holding our bag and smiling, despite the at-home IV running in the background. Now as I'm writing this, the laughter is still here, but it comes from a place of strength, not silence, a voice ready to advocate for those like Cameron Willingham and the little girl that the system failed to protect.