Education is important to me because it has always been more than grades or a degree. It is freedom. It is the ability to think for myself, to question, to grow, and to choose the direction of my own life. Education has given me language for things I once felt but could not explain. It has challenged me to confront ideas that are uncomfortable and to step outside of the narrow version of the world I grew up with. Most importantly, it has helped me understand myself more clearly. This past year of college has transformed me in ways I did not expect. Through classes, conversations, and late nights spent writing, I have discovered not only what I want to study but who I am becoming. Changing my major to English Creative Writing was not just an academic decision; it was a personal one. It meant choosing authenticity over safety. It meant trusting that my voice matters. Education gave me the courage to make that shift because it exposed me to stories, professors, and peers who encouraged critical thinking and self-reflection. Education is also important to me because it creates opportunity. It opens doors that might otherwise remain closed. As someone who wants to publish a novel centered on complex LGBTQ+ characters, I see education as preparation and responsibility. The more I learn about craft, history, culture, and people, the more intentional and impactful my writing can be. Education sharpens empathy. It teaches you to listen before you speak and to understand context before forming conclusions. The legacy I hope to leave is one of representation and honesty. I want to leave behind stories that make someone feel seen for the first time. Growing up, I did not always see myself reflected in literature in a way that felt full or empowering. I hope to change that by creating narratives where queer people and people of color are not side notes or tragedies, but protagonists with depth, strength, and complexity. If even one person reads my work and feels less alone, that would mean everything to me. Beyond writing, I hope my legacy reflects courage. I want to be remembered as someone who chose growth even when it was uncomfortable, who pursued passion even when it was uncertain, and who used her education not only for personal advancement but for community impact. Education has given me the tools to build a meaningful life; I hope to use those tools to build spaces where others feel empowered to do the same. To me, education is not just about what I accomplish. It is about what I contribute. The legacy I hope to leave proves that knowledge paired with compassion can create lasting change. Best, Jalyne Beakoi.

Rugby family, to me, means belonging in its most real and unfiltered form. It is not just about wearing the same jersey or practicing on the same field. It is about trust, accountability, and shared resilience. Rugby is a sport that demands connection. You cannot succeed alone. Every pass, every tackle, every phase of play depends on the people around you. That constant reliance builds something deeper than teamwork. It builds loyalty. It builds respect. It builds a family. What makes rugby different from other sports is the culture surrounding it. There is a level of grit and toughness, but also an overwhelming sense of support. You push each other physically, but you also check in mentally. When someone gets knocked down, the team pulls them back up. When someone doubts themselves, there is always another voice reminding them of their strength. Rugby family means knowing that no matter how hard practice was or how tough a loss feels, you are never carrying it alone. For me personally, rugby represents growth. It challenges me to be stronger than I think I am. It forces me to trust my instincts and my teammates. It has taught me how to communicate clearly under pressure and how to stay composed in chaotic moments. I have learned that confidence is not about being the loudest person on the field, but about being dependable. Showing up consistently. Doing the hard work when no one is watching. My rugby family has shown me that strength and vulnerability can exist at the same time. This past year of my life has been transformative in many ways. I have grown into myself more fully, gained confidence in my identity, and learned the importance of surrounding myself with people who uplift and challenge me. Rugby feels like an extension of that growth. It is empowering to be in a space where strong, driven women support each other and compete fiercely without tearing one another down. Being part of a rugby family means celebrating each other’s victories and pushing through setbacks together. As I continue playing rugby in college, I have both personal and team-oriented hopes. Personally, I want to elevate my game. I want to become faster, stronger, and more technically skilled. I want to study the strategy behind the sport and understand the flow of the game on a deeper level. I hope to step into leadership roles over time, not just through words, but through effort and example. For the team, I hope to contribute to a culture that values discipline, inclusivity, and resilience. I want to help create an environment where every player feels seen and supported, whether they are a seasoned veteran or brand new to the sport. College rugby is competitive and demanding, and I am excited by that challenge. I want to compete at a high level while also building friendships that last long after college has finished. Ultimately, rugby family means commitment to the game, to growth, and to each other. In college, I hope to honor that commitment by giving everything I have on and off the field, and by becoming someone my team can always rely on. Sincerely, Jalyne Beakoi.

The first time I noticed her, she was arguing with a barista about oat milk. “It’s not the same,” she said, completely serious, hands wrapped around a ceramic mug like it personally offended her. “Almond milk tastes smooth.” I laughed before I could stop myself. She turned, eyebrows raised. “You disagree?” “No, I completely agree,” I said, a chuckle escaping with a smile. That was how it started. Her name was Maya. She had paint on her hands half the time and wore silver rings. We kept running into each other at the little bookstore café off campus. First, it was shared tables because there were no seats left. Then it was “accidentally” saving each other's chairs. Then it was planned. I told myself I just liked talking to her. What do you want to write about? What scares you? What would you do if no one expected anything from you? No one had ever asked me that last one before. One afternoon, we walked through the park behind the café, leaves crunching under our shoes. The air smelled like early fall, cool and sharp. She was telling me about a mural she wanted to paint someday, something bold and impossible to ignore. “Do you ever feel like you’re waiting for your life to start?” she asked. “All the time,” I said. That night, lying in bed, I let myself imagine it, her hand in mine, her laugh close to my ear, her name written next to mine in the margins of my notebook. The image didn’t feel forced. It felt natural and terrifying. Because liking her meant admitting something I had avoided for so long. It meant I couldn’t pretend anymore. A week later, we were back at the café. It was crowded, warm, and loud. She slid into the seat across from me and smiled like I was the best part of her day. “I have a question,” she said. “Okay.” “Why do you look at me like you’re about to say something and then don’t?” I froze. There it was. The moment. The choice. I could laugh it off. Change the subject. Or I could risk it. “I think I’m tired of pretending,” I said quietly. “Pretending what?” I swallowed. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure she could hear it. “That I don’t like you.” The noise of the café didn’t disappear like it does in movies. Cups still clinked. Someone dropped a fork. The espresso machine hissed dramatically. But between us, everything was still. She didn’t look shocked. She didn’t look uncomfortable. She looked relieved. “Good,” she said, smiling slowly. “Because I’ve been pretending too.” I blinked. “You have?” She reached across the table, her rings cool against my skin as she laced her fingers with mine. “I was starting to think you’d never say it.” The fear didn’t vanish. It shifted. It turned into something brighter. Walking home later, her hand brushing mine every few steps, I realized this wasn’t just about liking someone. It was about choosing honesty. About letting myself want what I actually wanted. About finally stepping into my own story instead of watching it from the sidelines. And for the first time, my life didn’t feel like it was waiting to start. It felt like it already had. By: Jalyne Beakoi

I used to think identity was something you were just supposed to know. Like everyone else, I got a piece of paper with the answers, and I was the only one still staring at a blank page. This first year of college changed that for me. Coming here gave me space. Space away from expectations. Space away from the version of myself I thought I had to be. In that space, I finally allowed myself to ask the questions I had been quietly carrying for years. I stopped pushing down the way my heart reacted to certain people. I stopped explaining away feelings that didn’t fit the mold I had grown up around. And slowly, gently, I realized I am a lesbian. That realization didn’t come with fireworks. It came with fear, relief, and grief all at once. Fear of how people might see me differently. Relief that I finally understood myself. Grief for the years I spent trying to be someone else. There were moments I felt isolated, especially when I felt like I didn’t fully fit anywhere yet. Even within LGBTQ+ spaces, I sometimes questioned if I was “queer enough” or “sure enough.” Identity can feel fragile when it’s new. At the same time, this year has been one of the most empowering seasons of my life. I joined a women's rugby club where many of them showed that it was okay not to know who I am and to figure it out. Once I stopped hiding from myself, I started making braver decisions. One of the biggest was changing my major to English Creative Writing. Before, I was on a completely different path with biology, trying to choose something safe. But writing has always been the place where I feel most honest. It is where I can truly speak. It is where I make sense of pain, love, confusion, and growth. Switching majors felt terrifying. It meant stepping into uncertainty. It meant admitting that I want something completely different. But it also felt right in a way nothing else had. I want to publish a book one day. Not just any book, but a story filled with complex, flawed, powerful LGBTQ+ characters who are more than stereotypes. I want queer people to see themselves as heroes. I want them to read about love that feels familiar and possible. I want them to know they are not alone in the quiet questioning, the fear, or the joy of becoming who they are. Growing up, I did not see many stories that reflected my experience. When representation did exist, it often felt tragic. That shapes you. It makes you wonder if your story matters. Writing is how I push back against that. It is how I create the kind of world I needed when I was younger. The obstacles I have faced due to my identity have mostly been internal battles: self-doubt, internalized shame, and the fear of disappointing people I love. But those struggles have deepened my empathy. They have made me more determined to tell stories that feel real. I am passionate about writing because it is a freedom I never thought I could have. I want to pursue creative writing not just as a career, but as a calling. I want to contribute to a literary space where LGBTQ+ stories are celebrated and given the depth they deserve. This first year of college has been about becoming, becoming honest, becoming brave, becoming myself. Writing is how I will continue that journey, and how I hope to help others feel seen along the way. Sincerely, Jalyne Beakoi.