# How I Embody Selflessness There is a song called “How to Save a Life” by The Fray that makes me think about how much a small act of kindness can matter. Sometimes, we don't realize how much someone is struggling or how much they need someone to show them they care. I learned that firsthand when I was in tenth grade. At the time, I was dating someone who struggled with his self-esteem and mental health. Toward the end of our relationship, he started withdrawing from people and cancelling plans more often. We were getting close to breaking up, and I was hurt because I didn't understand why he was pulling away. He never told me he was thinking about hurting himself, and I had no idea how bad things had gotten for him. One afternoon, after he cancelled our plans again, I decided to make him a basket of treats and drop it off at his house. I even made gluten-free cupcakes because he has celiac disease. It might seem like a small thing, but I am naturally shy, and showing up unexpectedly with a gift was way outside my comfort zone. Our relationship was already struggling, and I could have easily decided to stop trying. Instead, I wanted him to know that I still cared about him, no matter what happened between us. He didn't say anything about the basket for a few days, so I wasn't sure if it had meant anything to him. When we eventually talked and ended our relationship on good terms, he told me something I will never forget. That night, he had been struggling so much that he was considering taking his own life. He told me that the basket reminded him he wasn't as alone as he felt and stopped him from attempting suicide that night. I had no idea he was hurting that much. I wasn't trying to save his life, and I didn't have the right words to make everything better. I was just a teenager who wanted someone she cared about to know he mattered. I never expected a basket of treats to make such a difference, but it taught me that we don't always know what someone else is going through or how much a simple gesture can mean. That experience changed how I look at helping others. I learned that selflessness isn't always about making a huge sacrifice or knowing exactly what to do. Sometimes, it's about putting your own discomfort aside and reaching out, even when you aren't sure how the other person will respond. As a sophomore at West Virginia University, I hope to carry that lesson into my future career in physical therapy. I want to help people through difficult times and remind them that their struggles don't define them. Michael Rudometkin's legacy reminds me that life is about more than personal achievements. It's also about the people we care for and the difference we make in their lives. I may never know the full impact of every kind thing I do, but I want to keep showing up for people when they need it. Sometimes, the smallest things can mean the most.

If I’m being honest, this prompt makes me a little uncomfortable. I’m competitive by nature, but comparing myself to other students and explaining why I deserve something more than they do feels strange. I know there are countless hardworking, talented students applying who have overcome challenges and worked tirelessly toward their goals. Rather than saying I’m “better,” I think what gives me an advantage is the perspective and determination I bring with me. I’m a sophomore at West Virginia University, majoring in exercise physiology, double minoring in psychology and dance, with goals of becoming a physical therapist focused on athletes and individuals with hypermobility disorders like Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. Living with POTS, Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, and anxiety has shaped the way I see the world. Those experiences have taught me resilience, adaptability, and empathy in ways I could not have learned from a textbook. I’ve learned how to advocate for myself, push through difficult days, and continue pursuing big goals even when the path changes unexpectedly. In fact, I completely changed my career direction after starting college—a decision that was scary, but ultimately led me to a path I’m passionate about. I’m also deeply involved in leadership, service, and mentoring, because helping others has always mattered to me. I don’t think I deserve this scholarship because I’m above anyone else. I think I deserve it because I will work incredibly hard to make the most of every opportunity I’m given and use my education to create a meaningful impact in the lives of others.

When I was nine years old, I convinced my mom to order agar plates so I could test bacteria in dog saliva for a science fair project. Looking back, asking for petri dishes as a child was probably not the most typical request, but I was fascinated by the idea that a simple question could become an experiment. That slightly gross little project sparked my love for science and introduced me to something I still love today: using curiosity to understand how the world works. My name is Harper, and I recently completed my freshman year at West Virginia University, where I made the Dean’s List and officially became a sophomore majoring in exercise physiology, with minors in psychology and dance. Thanks to AP and dual enrollment courses in high school, I’m also entering this next chapter with enough credits to be nearly a junior (technically). My college journey has already included one major plot twist: I originally planned to pursue forensic biology and eventually forensic pathology. But somewhere between classes, experiences, and learning more about myself, I realized my interests were shifting toward movement, rehabilitation, and helping people feel stronger in their own bodies. That change did not lessen my passion for STEM—it strengthened it. What excites me most about STEM is that it is constantly evolving. Science is not about having every answer; it is about asking better questions. Exercise physiology sits at the intersection of biology, biomechanics, anatomy, psychology, and health sciences. It combines analytical thinking with human connection in a way that deeply resonates with me. I love understanding not only how the body functions, but also how movement can improve quality of life. My long-term goal is to attend physical therapy school and become a physical therapist specializing in athletes and individuals with hypermobility disorders, including Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. Living with POTS and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome myself has given me a firsthand understanding of what it feels like to navigate a body that does not always cooperate. It has also shown me the impact that knowledgeable healthcare providers can have. Too often, hypermobile individuals spend years feeling misunderstood or dismissed. I want to help change that. I am especially interested in combining science with education and advocacy. Through my minors in psychology and dance, I hope to incorporate movement and mental wellness into my work, particularly for young people. Dance has always been one of my favorite forms of expression and connection, and I have seen how movement can build confidence, resilience, and joy. I hope to create spaces where science and compassion work together—not only helping people recover physically, but helping them feel empowered. As a woman pursuing a STEM field, I know there are still spaces where women remain underrepresented, particularly in leadership and science-based healthcare specialties. I want to contribute not only through my own work, but by encouraging other young women to pursue curiosity unapologetically—even if that curiosity starts with testing dog saliva in a petri dish. Science has already taken me on an unexpected path, and I am excited to continue following where it leads. If there is one thing STEM has taught me, it is that sometimes the best discoveries begin with a question—and a willingness to embrace a little uncertainty.

Growing up, I don’t think I fully understood how complicated emotions could be until I heard Olivia Rodrigo’s SOUR. What stood out to me wasn’t just the music—it was the honesty. Her lyrics didn’t try to make feelings sound pretty or resolved. They were messy, sometimes contradictory, and completely real. That was something I hadn’t seen reflected so clearly before, and it made me feel understood in a way I didn’t expect. One lyric that has always stuck with me comes from “brutal”: “I’m so insecure, I think / That I’ll die before I drink.” It sounds dramatic at first, but underneath it is something very real—the pressure to grow up, to meet expectations, and to somehow feel confident while doing it. As a freshman in college, I’ve felt that same tension. There’s this unspoken expectation that you’re supposed to suddenly have everything figured out—your major, your career, your identity—when in reality, most of us are still trying to understand who we are. For me, that uncertainty showed up in a major way this year when I changed my career path. I came into college thinking I knew exactly what I wanted to do, and then realized that what I was passionate about was shifting. Letting go of that original plan felt overwhelming at first, like I was falling behind or making the “wrong” choice. But listening to SOUR reminded me that growth is not linear. Feeling lost is not failure—it’s part of figuring things out. Another lyric that resonates with me is from “hope ur ok”: “His parents cared more about the Bible than being good to their own child.” What I appreciate about this song is how it extends empathy outward. It’s not just about personal pain—it’s about recognizing the struggles of others and hoping they find peace. That perspective has influenced how I approach relationships and community. It reminds me that everyone is carrying something unseen, and that kindness matters more than we often realize. This idea connects deeply to my own experiences, especially living with chronic health conditions. Navigating POTS, Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, and anxiety has taught me that people’s challenges are not always visible. There are days when everything looks “normal” from the outside, but feels completely different on the inside. Olivia’s music captures that disconnect so well—the feeling of being okay and not okay at the same time. What SOUR ultimately taught me is that emotions don’t need to be simplified to be valid. You can feel confident and insecure, excited and overwhelmed, certain and completely lost—all at once. And that doesn’t make you weak; it makes you human. As I continue to grow and figure out my path, I carry that lesson with me. Life is not about having everything perfectly mapped out—it’s about being honest with yourself, adapting when things change, and allowing space for both struggle and growth. In a way, SOUR became more than just an album to me. It became a reminder that even in the most uncertain moments, there is something powerful in simply feeling—and in knowing you’re not alone in it.

My great-grandmother, Sarah—known to all of us as “Mammies”—has always been larger than life. With ten grandchildren and fourteen great-grandchildren, she has spent decades at the center of our family, known for her warmth, her independence, and, famously, her ability to charm just about anyone she met. Even now, at almost 92, one thing has not changed: she still flirts shamelessly with my sister’s long-term boyfriend every time he is introduced… which has been at least twenty times. But behind those moments of humor is a much harder reality. Over the past several years, Mammies has experienced a slow and steady progression into dementia, and the last two years have been especially difficult. Just weeks before my brother’s wedding, she fell and broke her hip—a turning point that marked a noticeable decline in her independence. Before that, she had been living on her own, even with significant short-term memory loss. She drove until she was 90, when a wrong turn onto a highway—going the wrong direction—made it clear that things had to change. Now, she requires 24/7 care. My grandmother and great-aunt alternate weeks to stay with her, doing their best to honor her wish to remain at home. While she can still walk (a bit unsteadily) and hold conversations, those conversations often reset within minutes. Some days she recognizes me and my siblings; other days, she knows we belong to her but cannot quite place who we are. She always remembers my mom. Somehow, that connection has stayed strong. Watching dementia unfold in someone you love is both heartbreaking and disorienting. It is not a single moment of loss, but a series of them—small, repeated, and unpredictable. It is answering the same question over and over again. It is seeing someone forget that your brother is married, even though he has been with his wife since they were teenagers. It is watching hands that once cooked, cleaned, and cared for others now constantly fiddle with objects, searching for something they cannot quite name. It is also witnessing the emotional and physical toll caregiving takes on a family. My grandmother, who should be enjoying her retirement, instead spends her time providing full-time care for her own mother. The responsibility is immense, and while it is rooted in love, it is also exhausting. There are difficult decisions, too—like removing Mammies’ access to email and social media after she was scammed out of $10,000, or ensuring she is never left alone near a stove after multiple unsafe incidents. Through all of this, I have learned that dementia does not just affect one person—it reshapes an entire family. It requires patience, flexibility, and an incredible amount of compassion. It also highlights the gaps in our understanding and support systems for those living with dementia and for the people who care for them. At the same time, this experience has shown me the importance of meeting people where they are. Even when Mammies forgets names or repeats stories, there is still joy in the moment. There is still connection in laughter, in shared presence, and in the simple act of sitting beside her. I have learned that dignity is not tied to memory, and that people deserve respect and compassion at every stage of life. As I pursue my education in exercise physiology with interests in psychology and healthcare, this experience has deepened my desire to work in fields that support individuals with complex and often misunderstood conditions. Dementia has shown me how critical research, early intervention, and caregiver support truly are. It has also taught me that behind every diagnosis is a person—and a network of people—who deserve care, understanding, and advocacy. Mammies may not always remember my name, but she still reaches for my hand when I sit next to her. And in that moment, I am reminded that connection is not lost—it simply changes. That is the most important lesson she has given me.

If you saw me standing in a lineup, the first thing you would probably notice is not my personality—it’s my height. At six feet tall, I’ve spent most of my life being “the tall girl.” Naturally, people assume that means I played basketball or volleyball. I did not. Instead, I chose dance and cheer, where I was consistently the tallest person on the team… by a lot. Being the tallest dancer comes with its own unique challenges. Every formation had to be adjusted, every line had to be rebalanced, and I became very familiar with phrases like “Can you step back just a little?” or “Try not to stand all the way up.” I learned early how to shrink myself—not physically, because that was not an option—but in the way I moved, so I would not stand out more than necessary. But height was not my only “awkward” thing. I am also left-handed, which might not seem like a big deal until you are in a dance or cheer routine where everyone is expected to lead with their right side. For years, I had to train myself to mirror movements that did not come naturally to me. While everyone else instinctively started with their right, I had to stop, think, and then adjust. It felt like my brain and body were constantly negotiating with each other. Over time, though, something unexpected happened. What once felt like a disadvantage became a strength. Because I had to work so intentionally to match my team, I developed the ability to move comfortably on both sides. Now, I can perform almost completely ambidextrously—though my left side will always feel like home. Looking back, the things that made me feel different are the same things that shaped how I approach challenges today. Being “the tall one” taught me how to adapt while still owning who I am. Being left-handed in a right-handed world taught me patience, problem-solving, and how to see things from a different perspective. Those lessons extend far beyond dance. As a freshman at college pursuing a career in physical therapy, I am drawn to working with individuals who may not fit into a “standard” mold—athletes recovering from injuries, or people with conditions like hypermobility who move through the world differently. I understand what it feels like when your body does not quite match the expectations around you, and I want to help others feel confident and capable anyway. If there is one thing I have learned, it is that being “awkward” is often just another way of being unique. The traits that set us apart—whether it is height, handedness, or something less visible—can feel uncomfortable at first. But they also push us to grow in ways we might not otherwise. I may never be the person people expect when they see a six-foot-tall girl walk into a room, and honestly, I am okay with that. Because the things that made me stand out are the same things that taught me how to adapt, connect, and embrace who I am—awkward moments and all.

My name is Harper, and I am a freshman at West Virginia University majoring in exercise physiology, with minors in psychology and dance. My goal is to become a physical therapist, working with athletes and individuals with special needs—particularly those with hypermobility conditions like Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. I am drawn to this field because it combines science, movement, and compassion in a way that allows me to make a meaningful, personal impact on others’ lives. My interest in working with individuals with special needs is both personal and experiential. Living with POTS, Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, and anxiety has given me firsthand insight into what it feels like to navigate the world with physical and invisible challenges. I understand how frustrating it can be when your body does not function the way others expect it to, and how important it is to have supportive professionals who listen, adapt, and genuinely care. Through volunteering and working with younger students, I have learned that support goes far beyond instruction—it is about connection. While teaching dance and swimming at summer camp, I often worked with children who needed extra patience, encouragement, or alternative ways of learning. Some were hesitant to try new things, while others struggled with coordination or confidence. These experiences taught me that progress looks different for everyone, and that success is not always measured by perfection, but by growth and effort. One of the most important lessons I have learned is the value of meeting people where they are. Individuals with special needs often require personalized approaches, whether that means breaking down a skill into smaller steps, finding new ways to communicate, or simply taking extra time to build trust. I have seen how powerful it can be when someone feels understood and supported, and how that sense of belonging can transform their confidence and willingness to try. As a future physical therapist, I plan to make a difference by creating an environment where individuals feel both challenged and encouraged. I want to help people build strength and improve their physical abilities, but also to feel confident in their bodies and proud of their progress. I am especially passionate about working with individuals who may not fit into traditional systems, helping them find ways to succeed that work for them. Beyond the clinical setting, I hope to incorporate movement and dance into my work, using it as a tool for both physical development and emotional expression. Movement can be incredibly empowering, especially for individuals who may feel limited by their bodies. By combining therapy with creativity, I hope to create opportunities for people to experience both growth and joy. Financially, I am committed to funding my education to the best of my ability. While my family is supportive, my siblings and I are expected to take on the responsibility of paying for college ourselves. This scholarship would help ease that burden and allow me to focus more fully on my education and my goal of serving others. Wesley Beck’s life is a powerful reminder of the impact that compassionate professionals can have. I hope to honor that legacy by building a career rooted in patience, empathy, and a commitment to helping individuals with special needs feel capable, included, and valued.

To me, a life of service is not defined by one moment or one role—it is built through consistent choices to show up for others, even in small ways. Service is something I have seen modeled throughout my life and something I have worked to carry into my own experiences through leadership, volunteering, and the way I connect with people around me. Growing up in a busy household as the middle of five siblings, I learned early how to listen, adapt, and support others. Those skills carried into my involvement in school and my community. In high school, I was active in Key Club, National Honor Society, and the National Honor Society for Dance Arts, where I eventually served as president. Through these organizations, I participated in service projects ranging from school beautification efforts to prom dress drives, all of which reinforced the importance of giving back to the community that shaped me. Some of my most meaningful experiences with service come through teaching. During the summers, I work at a camp where I teach both dance and swimming. What started as a job quickly became something more. I work with younger kids who are often nervous, whether it is about performing in front of others or simply putting their faces in the water for the first time. In these moments, my role becomes less about instruction and more about encouragement. Helping a child gain confidence—whether by mastering a new dance or swimming across the water for the first time—shows me how impactful patience and support can be. Service has also been shaped by my own personal experiences. Living with POTS, Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, and anxiety has given me a deeper understanding of what it means to struggle, adapt, and persevere. These challenges have strengthened my empathy and have made me more aware of the importance of meeting people where they are. They have also influenced the path I have chosen for my future. I am currently a freshman at West Virginia University majoring in exercise physiology, with minors in psychology and dance. My long-term goal is to become a physical therapist, focusing on athletes and individuals with hypermobility, including those with conditions like Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. I want to help people not only recover physically, but also feel confident and capable in their own bodies. Beyond clinical work, I hope to continue using movement as a tool for connection and empowerment. Dance has always been an important part of my life, and I have seen firsthand how it can help people express themselves, build confidence, and improve their mental well-being. In the future, I hope to create opportunities for youth to explore movement and mental health in ways that are accessible and supportive. Mrs. Marion Makins’ legacy of service through education, faith, and community is a powerful reminder that making a difference does not require recognition—it requires consistency, compassion, and a willingness to invest in others. As I continue my education, I am committed to carrying those values forward by using my knowledge, experiences, and passions to serve others in meaningful ways. Service is not something I plan to do someday—it is something I strive to live out every day, and something I will continue to build upon throughout my life and career.

Some of my earliest memories are of waking up before sunrise and sitting at the kitchen table with my mom while she drank her coffee before leaving for a long nursing shift. In those quiet early hours, we often watched episodes of Forensic Files together. At the time, it simply felt like a small routine we shared before the day began. I didn’t realize then that those moments would spark a curiosity that would eventually shape my future career. Watching those stories unfold fascinated me. Each episode showed how science, medicine, and careful investigation could uncover the truth behind unanswered questions. What stood out most was the role medical professionals played in helping provide answers—not only for the legal system, but for families searching for understanding and closure. At the same time, I was growing up watching my mom dedicate her life to caring for others as a nurse. She often spoke about her patients not just in terms of their illnesses, but as people with stories, fears, and families who loved them. Through her example, I learned that medicine is not just about knowledge or technical skill—it is about compassion and respect for the lives you are helping. These two influences—those early mornings watching Forensic Files and witnessing my mom’s commitment to her patients—eventually led me to discover forensic pathology. I was immediately drawn to the field because it combines scientific investigation with a deeper purpose. Forensic pathologists work to determine causes of death and uncover important truths, often in situations where answers are desperately needed. Their work can help families find closure and can also contribute to justice when circumstances surrounding a death are unclear. What inspires me most about forensic pathology is the opportunity to serve others in a meaningful and often overlooked way. Even though the patients are no longer living, the work still profoundly affects the people who remain. Providing accurate answers requires both scientific precision and a deep sense of responsibility to the families and communities impacted by those cases. While medicine is central to my goals, I am also passionate about psychology and mental health, particularly when it comes to supporting young people. Dance has been an important part of my life for many years, and I have seen firsthand how movement can help people express emotions, build confidence, and develop resilience. In the future, I hope to combine these interests by creating opportunities for youth to explore mental health through movement and creative expression. Although forensic pathology, psychology, and dance may seem like very different interests, they are all connected by one core motivation: helping people feel seen, understood, and supported. Whether it is providing answers to families through medical investigation or helping young people develop confidence and emotional strength, I want my work to make a meaningful difference in people’s lives. Those early mornings at the kitchen table may have seemed ordinary at the time, but they quietly shaped the path I am now pursuing. By combining compassion, curiosity, and a dedication to service, I hope to build a career in medicine that honors both the scientific pursuit of truth and the human stories behind every case.

Making a positive impact on the world often begins with something simple: caring about people and being willing to show up for them when it matters most. Throughout my life, I have learned that compassion is not only expressed through grand gestures, but through consistent acts of service, empathy, and dedication to helping others. As I pursue my education and future career, my goal is to combine science, psychology, and creative expression to support individuals and strengthen the communities around me. My long-term goal is to become a forensic pathologist. This field requires scientific precision and objectivity, but it also requires compassion and respect for the people behind every case. A forensic pathologist serves not only the legal system, but also grieving families who deserve answers and understanding. By carefully investigating causes of death, forensic pathologists can help bring clarity, justice, and closure to families during some of the most difficult moments of their lives. Knowing that my work could help provide those answers is one of the primary reasons I am drawn to this career. At the same time, my interests extend beyond the laboratory. I have always been passionate about psychology and the ways mental health affects individuals, especially young people who may struggle to express what they are feeling. I believe that understanding the human mind is essential for supporting others and creating healthier communities. Through my studies, I hope to continue learning how emotional well-being, resilience, and communication shape the lives of the people around us. Another important part of my life is dance. For many people, dance is simply an art form or a sport, but for me it has always been a powerful tool for expression, confidence, and emotional release. Movement can provide an outlet for feelings that are difficult to put into words, and it can help young people build both physical and mental strength. In the future, I hope to use dance and movement-based programs as a way to promote mental health awareness and self-confidence among youth. Combining these passions may seem unconventional, but they all share a common purpose: helping people feel seen, understood, and supported. As a future forensic pathologist, I hope to provide answers that help families find closure. Through my interest in psychology, I hope to better understand the challenges people face and advocate for mental health awareness. Through dance and movement, I hope to empower young people to build confidence and resilience in their own lives. Community service has already shown me how meaningful it can be to contribute to something larger than myself. Whether through volunteering, mentoring younger students, or participating in service organizations, I have seen firsthand how small efforts can create meaningful change. These experiences have reinforced my belief that everyone has the ability to make a difference when they choose to care about others. Making a positive impact on the world does not require one single path. Instead, it requires dedication to using your unique strengths to help others. By combining science, empathy, and creativity, I hope to build a career and a life centered on compassion, service, and the belief that every person deserves dignity, understanding, and support.

Relationships & Impact Some of my earliest memories are of waking up before sunrise and sitting in the dim living room as my mo drank her coffee before heading out for a nursing shift. The house would be quiet, the sky still dark outside, and I would watch her pack her bag for the day ahead. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the responsibilities she carried as a nurse. What I understood was that people depended on her, and that she cared deeply about the people she helped. My mom has always been one of the most important relationships in my life. Long before I understood what “human connection” really meant, she was quietly showing me what it looked like in action. She became a mother young, raising my oldest brother as a single mom before later building the family we have today. Our family eventually grew into a blended one with five kids: my mom’s oldest, Gage; my dad’s oldest, Vanessa; and then me, Camden, and Everleigh. Being the middle of five siblings meant our house was rarely quiet, but it also meant I grew up surrounded by different personalities, perspectives, and relationships that all had to find ways to fit together. Watching my mom navigate all of that taught me something powerful about relationships: they require patience, empathy, and the willingness to show up for people every day. She approached both parenting and nursing in the same way—with compassion and genuine care for others. Whether she was helping a patient through a difficult moment at work or helping one of us through a challenge at home, she always took the time to listen first. She made people feel seen, even when they were overwhelmed or unsure of themselves. Because of her example, I learned early that meaningful connections are not accidental. They are built intentionally through small actions—listening when someone needs to talk, offering encouragement when someone is struggling, and making space for people to feel understood. As I grew older, those lessons began shaping the way I interact with others in my own communities. In high school, I was involved in organizations like Key Club, Interact Club, and National Honor Society, where service projects allowed me to connect with people beyond my immediate circle. I also spent summers teaching swim lessons at a summer camp pond fed by a cold mountain stream. Many of the kids arrived nervous or unsure of themselves, especially on the first day. What helped them most was not simply learning swimming techniques—it was building trust. When a child realized someone believed in them and would patiently guide them through each step, their confidence grew. By the end of the session, the same kids who were once afraid to put their faces in the water were swimming across the pond with pride. Experiences like that reinforced the lesson my mom had been teaching me all along: when people feel supported and connected, they are capable of far more than they initially believe. Now, as an 18-year-old freshman at West Virginia University, I carry those lessons with me as I pursue my education and continue building meaningful relationships with the people around me. College has introduced me to individuals from different backgrounds and experiences, and each new connection has reinforced how powerful empathy and communication can be in creating community. As I work toward a future in healthcare, I hope to bring the same compassion and attentiveness to others that my mom has modeled throughout my life. The relationships we build—whether in families, communities, or patient care—are what turn knowledge into impact, and I hope to spend my life strengthening those connections. Just as I once watched my mom leave before sunrise to care for others, I hope to carry that same commitment forward—using compassion and connection to make a difference in the lives of the people I serve.

If you had asked me when I was nine what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer probably would have involved science, animals, or something slightly weird. That was the year I convinced my mom to order agar plates online so I could grow bacteria from dog saliva for a science fair project. It was equal parts fascinating and gross, which, honestly, still describes a lot of biology. That experiment sparked my curiosity about the human body and how science can uncover answers that aren’t always obvious. Now I’m a freshman at West Virginia University majoring in forensic biology with minors in psychology and dance. My goal is to become a forensic pathologist, a physician who studies disease and injury to determine how and why someone died. While forensic pathology is often associated with criminal investigations, it is fundamentally a medical specialty. It requires understanding disease processes, trauma, and human physiology in order to uncover the truth. What draws me most to healthcare is the opportunity to help people through knowledge. Sometimes that help comes in the form of treatment and healing, but other times it comes through answers. In forensic medicine, those answers can provide closure to families, contribute to public health knowledge, and ensure that science and evidence guide important decisions. Behind every case is a real person and real loved ones searching for understanding, and that responsibility is something I take seriously. My interest in healthcare is also personal. I live with postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS), hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (EDS), and anxiety. Growing up with chronic health conditions meant spending more time in medical offices than most teenagers. While that wasn’t always fun, it gave me a deep appreciation for the healthcare professionals who work patiently and compassionately with their patients. It also taught me resilience and self-advocacy at a young age. Navigating those experiences helped me realize how powerful compassionate healthcare providers can be in someone’s life. Healthcare has always been part of my world in other ways too. My mom is a registered nurse with backgrounds in critical care and pediatrics, so some of my earliest memories involve waking up early with her before one of her shifts. We’d snuggle up together while she drank her coffee and watch episodes of Forensic Files, and I’d listen to her talk about the importance of teamwork, quick thinking, and compassion in medicine. Those early mornings made healthcare feel less like an abstract career and more like a meaningful way to serve others—and probably also explain why I grew up both fascinated by science and unusually comfortable with true crime. Outside of academics, I try to balance science with creativity and service. Dance has been a major part of my life for years, and I served as president of my high school’s National Honor Society for Dance Arts while mentoring younger dancers. I’ve also spent summers teaching swimming and dance at camps, which taught me patience, leadership, and the importance of encouraging others as they learn new skills. Sometimes that meant helping kids master a new move, sometimes it meant removing spiders from cabins—both equally important camp responsibilities. Ultimately, I chose a career in healthcare because it allows me to combine curiosity, compassion, and service. Science gives us the tools to understand the human body, but healthcare professionals use that knowledge to help people during some of the most difficult moments of their lives. My goal is to become the kind of physician who approaches medicine with both precision and empathy, using science to uncover answers while never forgetting the human stories behind them.

When people think about social issues, they often picture problems that are far away or too big for one person to influence. But I’ve learned that many important social issues start at a much more personal level—in our communities, in our schools, and in the way we support the people around us. For me, one issue that has become especially important is increasing awareness and understanding of invisible illnesses and mental health challenges. I am currently a freshman at West Virginia University majoring in forensic biology with minors in psychology and dance. While my academic focus is in science, my motivation for pursuing higher education is closely connected to my personal experiences living with chronic illnesses, including postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS), hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (EDS), and anxiety. These conditions are often called “invisible illnesses” because the people living with them may look healthy on the outside while struggling with significant challenges internally. Growing up with these conditions helped me realize how misunderstood invisible illnesses can be. There is often a lack of awareness about what people with chronic conditions experience, especially among young people. Sometimes the hardest part is not the symptoms themselves, but the feeling that others may not fully understand what you are going through. Because of that, one of the ways I try to address this social issue is by being open about my experiences and encouraging conversations about both physical and mental health. Advocacy can take many forms. For me, it often happens through everyday interactions and leadership opportunities. In high school, I was involved in several service organizations, including National Honor Society, Key Club, and the National Honor Society for Dance Arts. Through these groups, I participated in community service projects ranging from school beautification to helping organize prom dress drives for students who might not otherwise have access to formalwear. These experiences reinforced my belief that service doesn’t always have to be dramatic or large-scale to make a difference. Sometimes small acts of support can have a meaningful impact on someone’s life. Working with younger students has also been an important part of how I try to make a difference. During the summers, I teach dance and swimming at camp, where I often work with children who are learning not just new skills, but also confidence and resilience. Being a mentor allows me to model perseverance and positivity, especially on days when my own health challenges made things more difficult. I want the kids I work with to see that obstacles do not have to define what you are capable of achieving. My long-term goal is to become a forensic pathologist, a career that combines science, medicine, and public service. While forensic pathology is often associated with criminal investigations, it is ultimately about helping communities understand truth through science. By determining causes of death and contributing to public health knowledge, forensic professionals help bring answers to families and support justice within society. Addressing social issues does not always require grand gestures. Sometimes it begins with empathy, education, and the willingness to speak openly about challenges that many people experience but few feel comfortable discussing. Through my advocacy, service, and future career in science, I hope to contribute to a world where people feel supported, understood, and empowered to overcome the obstacles they face.

Mental health has been part of my life for as long as I can remember—not just as a concept, but as something real that shapes how people think, feel, and move through the world. Growing up, I saw how mental health challenges could affect daily life, relationships, and the way someone sees themselves. Because of those experiences, I learned early that mental health is just as important as physical health, even though it isn’t always treated that way. I am currently a freshman at West Virginia University majoring in forensic biology with double minors in psychology and dance. While my major focuses on science and forensic medicine, my interest in psychology and mental health is deeply personal. I have lived with anxiety and chronic health conditions, including postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS) and hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. Navigating those diagnoses during my teenage years taught me that mental and physical health are closely connected. Chronic illness doesn’t only affect the body—it can also impact confidence, stress levels, and emotional wellbeing. Through those experiences, I developed a strong belief that people deserve to feel heard and supported when they are struggling. One of the most important things I learned is that mental health challenges are not a sign of weakness. Instead, they are part of the human experience, and talking openly about them can help reduce the stigma that prevents so many people from seeking help. My experiences have also shaped my relationships. They have taught me to listen more carefully, to approach others with empathy, and to recognize that everyone is fighting battles that may not be visible. Whether I am helping a friend through a stressful time, teaching younger students at summer camps, or working with teammates in dance, I try to create spaces where people feel comfortable being themselves. Sometimes the most meaningful support comes from simply letting someone know they are not alone. These lessons are a large part of why I chose to pursue a minor in psychology alongside my science studies. My long-term goal is to become a forensic pathologist, a career that sits at the intersection of medicine, science, and public service. While forensic pathology focuses on understanding disease and injury after death, it also plays an important role in supporting families and communities searching for answers. The emotional impact of loss, trauma, and uncertainty is profound, and mental health awareness is essential when working with people who are grieving or processing difficult circumstances. Through my education, I hope to combine scientific expertise with compassion and psychological understanding. I want to be a professional who not only seeks truth through science but also recognizes the emotional realities that families face during moments of crisis. By approaching my work with empathy, patience, and respect, I hope to help people feel supported even in the most difficult situations. Mental health awareness begins with conversations, compassion, and education. My experiences have taught me that understanding others, advocating for mental health, and reducing stigma can have a lasting impact. As I continue my education and eventually enter my career, I hope to carry those values with me and contribute to a world where mental health is treated with the same care, attention, and respect as physical health.

If you ask me where my interest in healthcare began, I could give you the polished answer about science and curiosity — which is true — but the real answer starts much earlier, at about 5:00 a.m., half-asleep on the couch with my mom before one of her hospital shifts. My mom is a registered nurse who worked in critical care, and some of my earliest memories are of waking up with her in the dark, eating breakfast together, and watching episodes of Forensic Files before she left to take care of patients. At the time, I mostly thought it was cool that she knew medical words and saved lives for a living. Looking back, I realize those mornings quietly shaped how I see healthcare — as both science and service. My own curiosity about the human body kicked into high gear when I was nine and convinced my mom to order agar plates so I could grow bacteria from dog saliva for a science fair project. It was weird, slightly gross, and completely fascinating. That experiment sparked my love for biology and the scientific method, which eventually led me to pursue forensic biology at West Virginia University with the goal of becoming a forensic pathologist. Although forensic pathology is often associated with criminal investigations, it is fundamentally a medical specialty. It requires deep knowledge of disease processes, trauma, physiology, and public health. What draws me most to healthcare is the opportunity to help people through knowledge — sometimes by healing, and sometimes by providing answers. In forensic medicine, those answers can bring closure to families, identify health risks to communities, or ensure justice. Healthcare is not always about saving a life in the moment; sometimes it is about honoring a life through truth and understanding. My interest is also personal. Living with postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS), hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (EDS), and anxiety has given me firsthand experience as a patient. I’ve seen the healthcare system from the exam table, not just the classroom. That perspective has shaped the kind of professional I want to become — someone who listens, explains, and treats patients and families with dignity. Chronic illness taught me resilience, self-advocacy, and patience, but it also showed me how powerful compassionate healthcare providers can be in someone’s life. Outside of academics, I bring creativity and leadership into everything I do. Dance has been my lifelong outlet, and I served as president of my high school’s National Honor Society for Dance Arts while teaching younger students. Summers working at camps as a swim and dance instructor strengthened my ability to mentor kids, stay calm under pressure, and occasionally remove spiders from cabins — an underrated life skill. At six feet tall, I’ve also learned to take up space with confidence, whether that’s on stage, in a classroom, or in a leadership role. The difference I want to make in healthcare is rooted in compassion, communication, and truth. I want to contribute to a field that helps people understand what happened to their loved ones, advances medical knowledge, and supports communities. Healthcare can be intimidating and overwhelming, especially during moments of crisis, and I want to be someone who brings clarity and humanity into those situations. Those early mornings with my mom showed me that healthcare is more than a career — it’s a commitment to showing up for people when they need you most. That is the kind of difference I hope to make.

Growing up in West Virginia has shaped who I am in ways I didn’t fully appreciate until I left home for college. There is something deeply grounding about being raised in a place where community matters, where people show up for one another, and where pride in your roots runs strong. That sense of belonging is one of the reasons I chose to attend West Virginia University. For me, pursuing higher education isn’t just about earning a degree — it’s about honoring where I come from and building a future that allows me to give back. My personal journey has not been without challenges. Living with chronic health conditions throughout my teenage years forced me to develop resilience earlier than many of my peers. There were moments when simply keeping up with school, activities, and responsibilities felt overwhelming. However, those experiences also taught me perseverance, adaptability, and the importance of support systems. I learned how to advocate for myself, manage obstacles, and continue moving toward my goals even when the path was difficult. Rather than discouraging me from pursuing higher education, these challenges strengthened my determination to succeed. Service to others has also played a significant role in shaping my goals. Throughout high school, I was involved in community organizations, volunteer initiatives, and leadership opportunities that allowed me to contribute to causes larger than myself. Whether participating in service clubs, community projects, or mentoring younger students, I discovered how meaningful it is to invest time and energy into helping others grow. These experiences reinforced my belief that education is not only a personal opportunity but also a tool for making a positive impact. My love for my home state has been a constant influence. West Virginia often faces stereotypes and challenges, but those of us who call it home understand its beauty, resilience, and strength. From the mountains to the small towns like Shepherdstown that hold so much history and pride, this state represents perseverance. Being part of the West Virginia community means carrying forward values of hard work, loyalty, and connection — values that I bring with me into my education. As a freshman majoring in Forensic Biology with minors in Psychology and Dance, my goal is to combine science with compassion and understanding. My experiences with adversity and service have shown me that knowledge has the power to create change, open opportunities, and help others navigate difficult circumstances. Higher education is my pathway to gaining the skills and perspective necessary to contribute meaningfully, both within my field and within my community. Ultimately, my journey has taught me that where you start does not limit where you can go — but it does shape the person you become along the way. I am proud to be from West Virginia, proud to be a Mountaineer, and motivated to use my education to make a difference in the place that has given me so much.

When I think about what I want to build, I don’t see one finished product or job title. I see a future that is still taking shape, built through education, curiosity, and a commitment to helping others. As a forensic biology major with double minors in psychology and dance, I am intentionally combining my interests to create a path that allows me to make a meaningful impact in my community. At the core of my goals is my plan to become a forensic pathologist. In this role, I hope to contribute accurate and ethical medical findings that provide clarity, accountability, and closure. While my work would focus on postmortem medicine, it still plays an important role in public health by identifying disease patterns, contributing to medical data, and supporting prevention efforts. I want to help strengthen trust in science and ensure that difficult questions are answered carefully and responsibly. Alongside this career path, I am also working to build spaces that support mental health and self-confidence, especially for young people. Through my studies in psychology and dance, I have seen how movement and creative expression can support emotional well-being. Teaching dance and swimming has shown me how important it is for kids to feel capable and supported, particularly in environments where pressure or insecurity can be overwhelming. In the future, I hope to help develop programs that combine mental health education with movement-based activities to give youth healthy outlets for expression and growth. Building this future takes time and consistency. Every class I take, skill I develop, and challenge I work through contributes to the path I am creating. Higher education has pushed me to think critically, manage responsibility, and balance ambition with empathy. It has helped me understand that progress does not come from having everything figured out, but from continuing to move forward with purpose. The future I am building is one where science, creativity, and service intersect. Through education, I hope to support families seeking answers, provide opportunities for youth empowerment, and contribute positively to my community. I know this path will continue to evolve, but I am committed to using my education to build something that matters.

My academic and career goals are rooted in a lifelong passion for science, service, and problem-solving. As a freshman at West Virginia University pursuing a Bachelor of Science in a biological science–based field, I am motivated by the belief that scientific knowledge has the power to improve lives, strengthen public health systems, and create meaningful change. I approach my education with focus, discipline, and curiosity, knowing that each course and experience is a step toward a future where I can contribute to both research and community well-being. My interest in science began early and has only grown stronger over time. From conducting my first independent experiment in elementary school to excelling in advanced science coursework, I have always been drawn to understanding how the human body functions and how science can be applied to real-world challenges. As a self-described overachiever, I set high standards for myself academically—not out of pressure, but because learning energizes me and gives me a sense of purpose. In college, my academic goal is to build a strong foundation in biological sciences, emphasizing critical thinking, data analysis, and ethical responsibility. I am particularly interested in how biological systems intersect with public health, chronic illness, and disease prevention. My coursework is preparing me not only to succeed academically, but to think beyond the classroom about how scientific advancements can be translated into accessible, community-centered solutions. Professionally, my long-term goal is to become a forensic pathologist. While this role focuses on postmortem examination, it plays a crucial role in advancing public health by identifying patterns of disease, uncovering undiagnosed conditions, and contributing to accurate medical and epidemiological data. Understanding cause of death is essential to preventing future harm, improving safety standards, and guiding public health policy. Through this work, I hope to contribute to research and education that benefits entire populations, particularly those impacted by complex or under-recognized medical conditions. Alongside my academic pursuits, I remain committed to service and mentorship. I have volunteer experience in healthcare settings, including assisting with COVID-19 vaccine clinics, and I teach dance and swimming during the summer months while working as a lifeguard. These experiences have reinforced the importance of education, prevention, and communication in promoting public health. Whether teaching water safety or supporting healthcare access, I have seen how knowledge can empower individuals and protect communities. Financial support through this scholarship would allow me to remain fully focused on my education and academic goals, ensuring that financial barriers do not limit my ability to contribute meaningfully to the sciences. I am deeply committed to using my education not only for personal success, but to advance scientific understanding and public health outcomes. By pursuing rigorous academic training in biological sciences and maintaining a service-oriented mindset, I aim to become a scientist and healthcare professional who contributes thoughtfully, ethically, and purposefully to the future of global health.

Education has always been more than a requirement for me—it has been a source of direction, resilience, and possibility. Long before I understood what my future career might look like, learning gave me a sense of curiosity and confidence that continues to guide me today. As an eighteen-year-old undergraduate student, my education has helped me define not only what I want to do, but who I am becoming, even as I navigate challenges that have made the journey more complex than I ever expected. My love for science began in fourth grade, when I completed a project testing whether dog saliva had antimicrobial properties. I still remember the excitement of forming a question, designing an experiment, and discovering that the answer was real and measurable—it turns out dog saliva does have antimicrobial effects. That project sparked something lasting. It showed me that science is not limited to textbooks or labs; it is a way of understanding the world and using curiosity to improve it. From that moment on, learning became something I genuinely loved, not just something I was expected to do. As I continued through school, my dedication to learning remained strong. In eighth grade, I was honored as a Top 50 Student in my entire county, which includes four middle schools. That recognition mattered to me not just because of the award itself, but because it reflected years of effort, consistency, and genuine engagement with my education. At that point, I still believed success followed a straightforward path—work hard, do well, and the rest would fall into place. High school taught me that the path is rarely that simple. I live with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (hEDS), asthma, migraines, anxiety, (and most recently attention deficit disorder--diagnosed after my 1st semester in college). Managing chronic health conditions while keeping up academically required adjustments I never anticipated. There were days when fatigue, pain, or brain fog made focusing difficult, and moments when I had to learn how to advocate for myself rather than push through at any cost. These challenges tested my confidence, but they also reshaped my relationship with education. Instead of stepping back from my goals, I learned to adapt. I developed time management strategies, asked for help when I needed it, and learned how to work with my body and mind rather than against them. Education became more than achievement—it became a tool for resilience. Through learning, I gained a deeper understanding of my own health, the healthcare system, and the importance of informed advocacy. These experiences gave my academic goals greater meaning and direction. Today, I am majoring in forensic biology with double minors in psychology and dance. While this combination may seem unconventional, it reflects how education has allowed me to shape a future that aligns with both my interests and values. I aspire to become a forensic pathologist—a career that blends science, ethics, and service. Though my future patients will not be living, my work will still impact families and communities by uncovering truth, identifying underlying medical conditions, and contributing to public health awareness and prevention. At the same time, my education has encouraged me to think beyond a single role. My studies in psychology and dance represent my passion for mental health, movement, and youth empowerment. Teaching dance and swimming during the summer months, along with working as a lifeguard, has shown me how powerful mentorship and physical activity can be for young people. Dance, in particular, creates space for expression, confidence, and connection—especially for those who may feel limited by physical or mental challenges. By combining psychological understanding with movement, I hope to one day develop programs that support youth mental health, resilience, and self-worth. Education has also shaped my sense of responsibility to my community. During the COVID-19 pandemic, I volunteered alongside my mother, a nurse with experience in adult ICU and pediatrics, as she helped run vaccine clinics. Assisting with paperwork and clinic flow taught me that service does not always happen in visible or glamorous ways. Sometimes it means showing up consistently, supporting systems, and helping others access care during critical moments. That experience reinforced my belief that education should prepare us not only for careers, but for service. The challenges I have faced—health-related and otherwise—have not diminished my optimism. They have strengthened it. Education has taught me perseverance, adaptability, and purpose. It has shown me that growth is not defined by a lack of obstacles, but by how we respond to them. BlueHill REI LLC and Harmony by EmmaSky Batana Oil believe that who a student is becoming matters just as much as where they are going. I carry that belief with me every day. My education has shaped me into someone who is curious, resilient, and committed to making a difference. No matter where I started or what challenges I face, I know that learning will continue to open doors—not only for me, but for the people and communities I hope to serve.

My goal of pursuing a career in healthcare is driven by a desire to serve others through science, advocacy, and compassion—even in spaces where patients cannot speak for themselves. As an eighteen-year-old college freshman planning to become a forensic pathologist, I understand that my work will not involve traditional patient care. Instead, it will focus on truth, accountability, and education, all of which play a critical role in improving health outcomes for individuals, families, and communities affected by chronic illness, lung disease, and complex medical conditions. Living with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (hEDS), asthma, migraines, and anxiety has given me firsthand experience with how challenging it can be to manage chronic conditions—especially ones that are often misunderstood or minimized. While none of these diagnoses are considered rare individually, navigating multiple conditions simultaneously has shown me how easily patients can fall through the cracks. These experiences have shaped the way I view healthcare: not just as treatment, but as responsibility, communication, and advocacy. My youngest sister’s medical journey has further solidified this perspective. At just eleven years old, she manages ADHD, juvenile idiopathic arthritis, hEDS, asthma, and Hashimoto’s disease. Watching a child balance complex medical needs has been both heartbreaking and eye-opening. It has highlighted how overwhelming chronic and autoimmune conditions can be for families, and how crucial it is for healthcare professionals to approach these cases with patience, clarity, and respect. As a future forensic pathologist, I plan to improve lives by contributing to accurate medical understanding and public health awareness. Forensic pathology plays an important role in identifying underlying medical conditions—including pulmonary disease, rare disorders, or complications of chronic illness—that may otherwise go undetected. Accurate cause-of-death determinations can lead to better research, prevention strategies, and education, ultimately benefiting living patients who share similar conditions. In this way, my work will support individuals with lung disease and complex diagnoses by improving awareness and systemic understanding. In addition to my career in forensic medicine, my double minors in psychology and dance reflect my commitment to supporting mental health and empowerment—especially for youth. Through movement-based programs and mental health education, I hope to create spaces where young people, particularly those managing chronic illness or feeling misunderstood, can build confidence, body awareness, and emotional resilience. Dance has taught me how powerful movement can be as a form of expression and healing, and psychology has given me tools to understand the mental impact of long-term illness. Sammy Hason, Sr.’s legacy of resilience, lifelong learning, and compassion deeply resonates with my own goals. I plan to honor that legacy by combining scientific integrity, advocacy, and education to improve lives—not only through my work in forensic pathology, but through community engagement that empowers others to feel seen, supported, and understood.

My “Pie in the Sky” dream is to become a forensic pathologist—someone who speaks for those who can no longer speak for themselves and brings truth, science, and compassion into moments where families and communities need answers the most. It’s a dream that feels both deeply exciting and, at times, almost too big to say out loud. The path is long, demanding, and uncertain, but it’s the kind of goal that lights something up inside me and refuses to let go. What first sparked this dream was my love of science paired with a strong sense of justice and service. I’ve always been curious about how the human body works, but I’m equally drawn to the “why” behind human behavior and the impact trauma has on individuals and communities. Forensic pathology sits at the intersection of these interests—it’s science with purpose. It requires precision, emotional strength, and empathy, and the responsibility that comes with it is what makes the work meaningful to me. At the same time, my dream doesn’t stop there. Alongside my academic goals, I’m deeply fascinated by psychology and the power of creative expression, especially dance. Dance has been a constant in my life, and teaching it—along with teaching swimming and working as a lifeguard—has shown me how movement, mentorship, and trust can reach young people in ways traditional settings often can’t. Someday, I dream of combining my understanding of psychology with dance and community outreach to support youth, particularly those who feel unseen, misunderstood, or disconnected. Whether through structured programs, mentorship, or creative spaces, I want to use both science and art to serve others. Of course, before any of that can happen, there are very real and challenging steps ahead. Right now, my focus is on completing my undergraduate degree in forensic biology, while also pursuing minors in psychology and dance—fields that reflect both sides of who I am. From there, the next courageous leap is medical school, followed by years of training and specialization. It’s intimidating to think about the time, discipline, and resilience this path requires, especially when I don’t have every detail figured out yet. But I’ve learned that courage isn’t having all the answers—it’s continuing forward anyway. What keeps me grounded is community. I’ve grown through mentors, instructors, healthcare professionals, and family members who modeled dedication and service. I believe in accountability, in dreaming out loud, and in taking small, intentional steps toward goals that once felt impossible. My “Pie in the Sky” dream may be ambitious, but it’s rooted in heart, curiosity, and a genuine desire to make a difference. As Women’s History Month celebrates the courage of women who dared to dream bigger than their circumstances, I am choosing to do the same. I don’t know exactly where this journey will lead, but I know the direction—and I’m ready to keep growing toward it.

Service has always been a meaningful part of my life, shaped both by my own interests and by the example set by those around me. As an undergraduate majoring in Forensic Biology with double minors in psychology and dance, I give back to my community through education, safety, and healthcare-related service, all with the goal of supporting others in practical and compassionate ways. During the summer months, I teach both dance and swimming, using these opportunities to mentor younger students and help them build confidence and life skills. Dance has been a significant part of my life, and sharing it allows me to create a positive and encouraging space where students can express themselves, develop discipline, and gain self-esteem. Because my teaching is seasonal, I work intentionally to make each summer meaningful—focusing on inclusivity, encouragement, and personal growth rather than competition alone. I also teach swimming and work as a lifeguard during the summers at a rural, spring-fed swimming area where access to formal instruction is limited. In this setting, water safety education is especially important. Teaching children and teenagers how to swim and remain safe around water has reinforced my understanding of responsibility and prevention. As a lifeguard, I serve as both a safety presence and a trusted mentor, helping create an environment where families feel secure and supported. Beyond athletics and instruction, some of my most impactful service experiences have been in healthcare settings. My mother is a nurse with experience in both adult ICU and pediatrics, and during the COVID-19 pandemic, she helped run vaccine clinics in our community. I often volunteered alongside her, assisting with paperwork, organizing patient information, and supporting clinic flow. While my role was administrative, being part of these clinics showed me how service behind the scenes is just as essential as direct patient care. Watching healthcare workers lead with calm, compassion, and resilience during such a challenging time left a lasting impression on me. My academic interests reflect these experiences. Studying forensic biology has strengthened my passion for science-driven service and ethical responsibility, while my psychology minor has given me insight into emotional and mental well-being. Together, these fields have helped me understand that meaningful service requires both technical knowledge and empathy. Looking ahead, I plan to continue giving back through careers and volunteer work that support public health, youth education, and mental well-being. I hope to remain involved in mentoring young people through athletics and the arts, while also pursuing opportunities in healthcare or forensic-related fields that allow me to advocate for others and contribute to systems that protect and serve communities. Priscilla Shireen Luke’s legacy of hope and selflessness reflects the values I strive to live by. Through seasonal teaching, safety-focused service, and healthcare volunteering, I am committed to making a positive impact now and building a future rooted in compassion, responsibility, and service to others.

Bravery, to me, has never meant pushing through pain without acknowledging it. It has meant continuing to show up for myself and my goals, even when things are difficult. As an eighteen-year-old college freshman, I have faced both physical and mental challenges that could have easily changed my academic path, but instead have shaped the way I approach obstacles with resilience and determination. I live with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS) and hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (hEDS), which affect my energy levels, joints, and overall physical endurance. Chronic pain has been a part of my daily life, and during treatment for a tailbone fracture, doctors also discovered spina bifida occulta. Learning to manage multiple diagnoses—especially ones that aren’t always visible—has been overwhelming at times. More recently, I was diagnosed with ADD, which helped explain long-standing struggles with focus, organization, and mental fatigue. Even with these challenges, I have taken intentional steps to stay on track with my career goals. One of the most important things I’ve learned is how to advocate for myself. I communicate with my professors when needed, use academic accommodations, and create routines that allow me to work more efficiently without pushing myself past my limits. College has taught me that success doesn’t always look like doing everything at once—it often means pacing yourself and being flexible. Managing my physical health has also required me to rethink what strength looks like. I attend medical appointments, listen to my body, and allow myself rest when necessary, even when it’s frustrating to slow down. Choosing to take care of my health has helped me stay consistent in my academics rather than burning out or falling behind. On the mental health side, I’ve worked to manage anxiety by seeking support, staying organized, and reframing setbacks as learning experiences. Receiving my ADD diagnosis during my first year of college was emotional, but it ultimately gave me tools and clarity that have helped me become more confident and productive. Understanding how my brain works has allowed me to develop strategies that actually support my success. Living with chronic illness has strengthened my empathy, patience, and problem-solving skills—qualities that directly support my future career goals in science and healthcare. Adversity has not stopped me from pursuing my aspirations; it has taught me how to adapt and keep moving forward. Honoring Audra Dominguez’s legacy means continuing to face challenges with courage, honesty, and the determination to keep building a future I believe in, even when the path isn’t easy.

My commitment to mental health advocacy is deeply personal and rooted in both family experience and self-discovery. As the middle child of five siblings, I have often found myself in a caregiving and mediator role within my family. My younger brother has ADHD, mixed type, and my youngest sister has ADHD with possible mild autism spectrum disorder. Growing up alongside them gave me early insight into how misunderstood neurodivergence can be—and how critical patience, empathy, and advocacy are for mental well-being. Over the years, I have supported my siblings by helping them navigate school challenges, emotional regulation, and moments of frustration when they felt “different” or overwhelmed. Sometimes support meant helping with organization and routines; other times it meant simply listening without judgment. I learned that mental health support does not always require solutions—it requires presence, understanding, and reassurance. Two weeks ago, I was diagnosed with ADD myself. This diagnosis has helped me reframe my own experiences and has strengthened my compassion for others facing mental health challenges, especially those that are invisible. Understanding my own brain has reinforced my belief that mental health struggles are not weaknesses, but differences that deserve respect and support. It has also motivated me to speak openly and honestly about mental health to help reduce stigma within my community. As a freshman majoring in Forensic Biology with a strong interest in healthcare, I plan to integrate mental health advocacy into my future career. Whether working directly with patients, collaborating with colleagues, or engaging in community outreach, I aim to create environments where individuals feel heard, supported, and valued. My academic studies will equip me with scientific knowledge, while my lived experiences have already taught me empathy, adaptability, and emotional awareness. By continuing to advocate for mental well-being—especially for neurodivergent individuals—I hope to help shift the narrative around mental health in healthcare settings. Compassionate care begins with understanding, and I am committed to being a healthcare professional who prioritizes both mental and emotional health alongside physical care.

I am Harper, an eighteen-year-old freshman at West Virginia University majoring in Forensic Biology with double minors in psychology and dance. While my academic goals are rooted in science and service, athletics and youth sports have been just as influential in shaping who I am and how I give back to my community. Through my experiences as both an athlete and a youth instructor, I have seen firsthand how sports can build confidence, resilience, and a sense of belonging—values that align closely with the legacy of Jimmie “DC” Sullivan. Growing up, sports were more than competition for me; they were a foundation for personal growth. Dance has been a central part of my life for many years, teaching me discipline, time management, teamwork, and adaptability. As both a performer and collaborator, I learned how effort and accountability to a group can elevate everyone involved. These lessons followed me beyond the studio and into my work with younger athletes. One of the most meaningful ways I have contributed to youth sports is through teaching swimming during the summers. The pool I work at is not a traditional facility—it is a cold, spring-fed pond in a rural community. Many of the children I teach have limited access to formal swim instruction, making water safety both a challenge and a necessity. Teaching swimmers ranging in age from six to seventeen, I quickly learned that coaching is not just about technique. It is about patience, encouragement, and meeting each child where they are. Watching a child overcome fear, master a new skill, or gain confidence in the water has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. As a certified lifeguard and swim instructor, I understand the responsibility that comes with youth sports. Safety, trust, and mentorship go hand in hand. I strive to create an environment where young athletes feel supported, capable, and proud of their progress—whether that progress is swimming independently for the first time or simply believing in themselves a little more than they did before. Looking ahead, I plan to continue making a positive impact through youth sports by combining my academic interests with community involvement. With a background in psychology and dance, I hope to support programs that emphasize both physical activity and mental well-being. I am particularly passionate about inclusive and adaptive sports opportunities that ensure all children—regardless of ability or background—have access to positive athletic experiences. In college and beyond, I intend to volunteer, coach, and advocate for youth-focused athletic programs that foster confidence, resilience, and lifelong healthy habits. Jimmie “DC” Sullivan’s commitment to youth sports and community involvement reflects the kind of impact I strive to make. Through ambition, drive, and service, I aim to use sports as a tool for empowerment—helping the next generation grow not only as athletes, but as confident, capable individuals who carry these lessons into every part of their lives.

When I first saw the name of this scholarship, Ella’s Gift, it stopped me in my tracks. Some of the most important people in my life have carried that name. My childhood best friend at summer camp was Ella, the first person outside my family who taught me what true friendship felt like. Later, one of my closest friends from dance in middle and high school was also an Ella. She, like me, struggled with anxiety and depression, and we bonded over the quiet battles most people couldn’t see. Now, my college roommate—who has become like family—is also named Ella. It feels almost poetic that this scholarship, tied to someone who lived and fought fiercely, is connected to a name that has been woven throughout my own story of struggle and growth. My struggle has never been with substance abuse directly, but it has always been a shadow in my life. Addiction runs on both sides of my family, and I’ve seen the way it takes hold of people I love. Because of this, I keep a tight guard over myself. For me, there is no such thing as casual risk with substances. I’ve made a commitment to sobriety because I know how quickly it can become dangerous. My challenge has come from mental health—specifically, anxiety that can be both invisible and overwhelming. For me, anxiety doesn’t just live in my head—it shows up in my body. I break out in hives across my chest, neck, and face. Sometimes the symptoms arrive before I even process what I’m anxious about, making it feel like my body is betraying me. It can be humiliating, especially in public spaces, when I can’t hide the blotchy red evidence of what I’m feeling inside. I’ve had moments where I’ve wanted to retreat from opportunities—social, academic, even professional—because of fear of my anxiety spiraling out of control. But I’ve learned recovery isn’t only about avoiding something destructive; it’s also about building systems that keep you steady and moving forward. Over time, I’ve developed ways to manage my anxiety, and those strategies are part of my daily life. Therapy has been a cornerstone, giving me tools to understand triggers and reframe my thinking. Exercise and dance let me channel nervous energy into movement. Journaling helps me untangle thoughts that feel too big in my head. Most importantly, I’ve built a support system of friends, family, and mentors I can reach out to instead of isolating myself. College has tested these skills more than ever. I’m a freshman majoring in forensic biology with a minor in psychology, with the long-term goal of becoming a forensic pathologist. It’s a challenging major, and the rigor has collided with my anxiety more than once. There have been nights when I questioned if I was strong enough to keep going, especially when balancing coursework with mental health. But every time, I’ve returned to the practices that keep me grounded. And every time, I’ve come out stronger. I’ve learned resilience isn’t about never falling—it’s about building the ability to stand back up. Academically, my goals are rooted in both science and service. Forensic pathology is not just about solving puzzles; it’s about bringing answers and closure to families during their darkest moments. I know firsthand how much it matters to have stability and support when life feels uncertain. My dream is to combine science, empathy, and determination in a career where I can give families that same sense of clarity and care. As I continue forward, my plan for managing recovery is simple but non-negotiable: I will keep prioritizing my mental health the same way I prioritize my education. I will continue therapy and maintain routines that protect my well-being—healthy sleep, exercise, mindfulness, and boundaries around substances. I will also keep leaning on my support system, not only when things are difficult but as a daily reminder that I am not alone. I think often of the “Ellas” in my life—friends who carried their own struggles with grace, and a name that now carries the story of a young woman who fought fiercely to better herself. Each Ella has been a reminder of resilience and love in a different form. This scholarship is not just an opportunity for financial support—it feels like a way of honoring the strength and spirit that name represents in my life. I may not have chosen my anxiety, and I cannot erase the family history of addiction. But I can choose what I do next. I choose to keep growing, to keep showing up for myself and for others, and to pursue a future where my struggles don’t define me but instead give me the strength to make an impact.

When I was younger, I was tested as “gifted” in math. Numbers came easily to me, and I loved solving puzzles and equations. Fast forward to now: I’m a freshman in college taking calculus, and for the first time, math feels less like solving a fun puzzle and more like wrestling with a brick wall. Despite hours of studying, tutoring, and enough practice problems to wallpaper my dorm, I’m still not exactly “cooking” these exams. I’ve stared at the same derivative so long I could swear it started mocking me. And yet, through the frustration, I’ve come to realize why calculus is so important in STEM. Calculus forces you to think differently. It’s not about memorizing neat little formulas—it’s about understanding change, relationships, and motion in ways that are deeply connected to how the world works. Even though it humbles me daily, I can feel it stretching the way I think. STEM careers require persistence, problem-solving, and creative approaches when the first (or fifth) attempt doesn’t work. That’s exactly what this course is teaching me, whether I like it or not. In my major, forensic biology, calculus might not appear as directly as in engineering or physics, but its influence is there. Forensic science relies on math to interpret patterns, probabilities, and measurements. Blood spatter trajectories, toxicology reports, and DNA quantification all require the kind of critical and quantitative thinking calculus builds. I might not be solving integrals in a crime lab, but the logical framework I’m gaining will make me a sharper scientist. What’s also striking to me is how calculus connects STEM disciplines together. Engineers use it to design safe bridges, computer scientists to optimize algorithms, and biologists to model population growth. It’s like a common language that allows different fields to talk about change and complexity. By learning it now—even if I trip and stumble along the way—I’m preparing myself to collaborate across disciplines, which is increasingly important in science. But maybe the most valuable lesson calculus teaches isn’t about math at all. It’s about mindset. Calculus shows you that some problems won’t be solved in two minutes, no matter how smart you are. They require patience, persistence, and sometimes a whole new perspective. It teaches humility and resilience—the ability to fail, adjust, and keep going. Honestly, those skills may be even more useful in life than in the classroom. So while my exam scores may not scream “gifted in math” right now, I know this struggle is shaping me into a stronger STEM student. Grappling with calculus doesn’t mean I don’t belong in science—it means I’m putting in the hard work of growth. Just like derivatives reveal the hidden rate of change, I think this course is revealing something about me: that I’m capable of persistence, even when the problem set feels impossible. And that’s exactly the kind of scientist I want to be.

Some of the most awkward yet fun times of my life happened around the dinner table. At birthdays and holidays, my mom would invite non-custodial parents—and sometimes their new spouses and children—to join us. I’ll never forget one Christmas meal where my sister’s mother, her husband, and their kids came to celebrate with my mom’s extended family. We ended up laughing through a chaotic white elephant gift exchange, passing around goofy presents in a room packed with people who technically weren’t all related but still felt like family. Those moments taught me early that family doesn’t have to fit a perfect mold. Love can stretch across complicated situations, and joy can grow out of even the most awkward circumstances. I grew up in a blended family of five children. I am the middle child, but the oldest of the three kids my parents had together. My half-brother and half-sister were raised primarily by my parents, though my sister visited her mom out of state and my brother’s father was in and out of his life. Being in between the older two and younger two gave me a unique role: I was old enough to understand my siblings’ struggles but also someone my younger brother and sister looked up to. That position taught me to balance empathy with leadership. I couldn’t fix my half-brother’s pain when his dad didn’t show up, but I could see how much it mattered that my parents—and the rest of us—did. I learned that consistency and care often matter more than perfection. Blended families face challenges: different parenting styles, complicated schedules, and shifting dynamics. But mine gave me resilience, patience, and perspective. I watched my parents work tirelessly to provide for five children while making sure each of us felt valued. Their perseverance taught me that love is not diminished by being shared—it grows stronger. These lessons fuel my academic and career goals. I am studying forensic biology with a minor in psychology and hope to become a forensic pathologist. What draws me to this field is the chance to bring answers and closure to families in their hardest moments. I know from my upbringing that the presence or absence of support can deeply shape someone’s life. Forensic pathology combines science, empathy, and determination in a way that allows me to make an impact when people need it most. My family taught me that life is rarely simple, but it can still be full of meaning. I’ve learned to find strength in challenges, to value connection over perfection, and to recognize the power of showing up for others. Those lessons will guide me as I pursue my career and use my talents to help people. In the future, I want to carry forward the legacy my parents gave me: perseverance, love, and the ability to turn complicated situations into something meaningful.

When my dad got diagnosed with cutaneous mastocytosis, I thought he’d finally start taking his health seriously. Honestly, he didn’t. Aside from popping an antihistamine every day, his life looks pretty much the same as before. He still eats what he wants, still acts like it’s just an annoying rash, and then complains constantly about the itching and hives that cover his torso. Meanwhile, my mom, who’s a nurse, is at her wit’s end trying to explain the seriousness of it to him. The two of them clash about it all the time, and I just sit there, caught between his denial and her frustration. It’s not the neat, inspirational story people probably want to hear, but it’s the truth. And weirdly, I am grateful for it, just not in the way I expected. I’m grateful because it’s forced me to see illness differently. I used to think being sick meant you go to the doctor, follow the rules, and try to get better. Now I know it’s not that simple. Illness isn’t just medical—it’s emotional, messy, and stubborn. My dad’s refusal to change anything has made me realize that sometimes people would rather cling to “normal” than face the reality of their disease. It frustrates me, but it also makes me wonder if that’s his way of surviving it. Living with mastocytosis in the background of our family has also taught me patience in a way nothing else could. It’s hard watching someone complain about their symptoms while ignoring the things that might make them better. It’s like watching a slow-motion car crash you can’t stop. I’ve had to learn to bite my tongue, to accept that people don’t change just because you want them to. That patience—sitting with discomfort, letting people handle things their way—isn’t something I’d have learned otherwise. Another thing I’ve gained is a sharper awareness of hidden struggles. To most people, my dad looks fine. Nobody sees the rashes under his shirt or hears him scratching at night. They don’t see my mom’s frustration boiling over when he refuses to adjust his habits. That’s been eye-opening for me. It makes me realize how many people out there are carrying invisible battles that no one notices. It’s made me softer toward people, more willing to assume there’s something going on under the surface. I wouldn’t wish mastocytosis on anyone, least of all my dad. But I can’t deny it’s shaped me. It’s taught me that people cope with hard things in ways that don’t always make sense. It’s taught me patience, even when I don’t feel like being patient. And it’s taught me to notice the hidden struggles that exist in almost everyone I meet. Those are lessons I probably wouldn’t have gotten without this disease being part of my family’s story. So no, I’m not grateful for the rashes, or the itching, or the tension it’s caused between my parents. But I am grateful for the perspective it’s given me. It’s messy, frustrating, and not the picture-perfect “silver lining” story. But it’s real.

I am an unapologetic Sabrina Carpenter fan, and not just because she’s taken over my playlists or because I’d happily wear anything from her sparkly tour wardrobe. As a six-foot-tall dancer who often feels like the human equivalent of an exclamation point in group photos, Sabrina has taught me something I didn’t expect: how to own your presence without apology, and how to laugh at yourself along the way. On stage, Sabrina isn’t afraid to be playful, cheeky, or even sarcastic. She’s got this sharp sense of humor woven into her music and performances that reminds me not to take myself too seriously. As a dancer, I’ve had my fair share of awkward moments—like being the only one to kick a little too high in rehearsal, or realizing my ponytail could probably knock someone out if I spin too fast. But watching Sabrina, I’ve learned that confidence isn’t about being perfect; it’s about leaning into what makes you unique and amplifying it. If she can write witty lyrics about heartbreak and still make the audience laugh, I can definitely survive a little awkwardness at center stage. Her career has also impacted me by showing the importance of versatility. Sabrina went from Disney Channel actress to chart-topping pop star with ease, proving that your first act doesn’t have to define your future. As an 18-year-old just starting college, that lesson resonates deeply. Right now, I’m a forensic biology major, but I also have a long history in dance. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll have to choose between art and science, but Sabrina’s career reminds me that life doesn’t have to fit neatly into one box. You can carry pieces of every passion with you, and sometimes those passions even make each other stronger. And then there’s her music itself. Songs like “Feather” or “Nonsense” aren’t just catchy—they’re liberating. They tell you it’s okay to flirt with being ridiculous, to laugh at your own jokes, and to strut like you’re the star of your own music video. For me, that’s powerful. Dance is about expression, but so is life. Sabrina’s career has given me permission to live a little louder, to embrace my quirks, and to turn even tough moments into fuel for creativity. Finally, Sabrina’s work ethic and stage presence inspire me. She’s five feet tall and somehow commands arenas full of people. If she can do that, I can definitely find my own way to stand tall (literally and figuratively). Being six feet tall in high school often meant feeling out of place, but now I realize it’s a gift. Sabrina’s confidence has helped me shift my perspective: I’m not “too tall.” I’m just tall enough to take up the space that’s mine. So why am I a fan of Sabrina Carpenter? Because she makes me laugh, makes me think, and makes me want to dance like nobody’s watching—even though at six feet tall, everybody definitely is.

I’m Harper, a freshman at West Virginia University majoring in forensic biology. My passion for health and wellness has grown from both personal challenges and meaningful experiences. Living with POTS and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome has taught me resilience and the importance of balancing physical and mental well-being. These conditions pushed me to value wellness not just as the absence of illness, but as adaptability, strength, and perseverance. In high school, I faced the painful reality of losing two classmates to suicide, which deepened my compassion and showed me how mental health and physical health are intertwined. I also experienced a traumatic event with my dance team when a man struggling with severe mental illness attacked staff at a restaurant. Hiding under a table with my teammates, I watched my mom—who is a nurse—rush to help an injured woman. That moment underscored for me how vital it is to center care on human dignity and empathy. These experiences shaped my values, but also raised an important question: how can I use empathy to guide my future in health and forensic science? For me, empathy is the ability to step outside of yourself and connect with the feelings of others. It goes beyond kindness—it means listening, understanding, and responding in ways that respect a person’s humanity. In health-related careers, empathy is essential because health is never just about the body; it is always about the person as a whole. In forensic pathology, empathy may seem less obvious. My “patients” will no longer be alive to tell their stories. Yet behind every case is a family searching for answers, a community touched by loss, and a life that mattered. Empathy means approaching each case not as a file, but as a human story deserving of truth and dignity. The experiences I described earlier shaped my understanding of empathy. Losing classmates to suicide revealed the devastating consequences of untreated mental health struggles, while the restaurant attack showed me empathy in action—protecting others, showing courage, and easing suffering in moments of crisis. Living with chronic conditions myself has taught me another layer of empathy: what it feels like to be misunderstood, dismissed, or unseen. I carry that awareness forward as motivation to ensure no one in my care feels overlooked. In my career, empathy will guide me to keep my work human-centered. That means meeting grieving families with honesty and compassion, explaining difficult findings with clarity, and treating each case with respect. It also means recognizing the connections between trauma, mental health, and forensic cases, and using my platform to advocate for awareness and understanding. Empathy is not passive—it is a responsibility. It demands patience, humility, and action. In forensic pathology, empathy will drive me to uphold truth with sensitivity, comfort families with respect, and honor the lives of those who can no longer speak for themselves. Together, my journey has taught me that science and empathy are not opposites—they are partners. It is through both that I hope to serve, to heal, and to honor the dignity of every life I encounter.

My name is Harper, and I am a freshman at West Virginia University studying forensic biology. I chose this field because I want to bring truth and closure to families through science, evidence, and empathy. It is a challenging career path, but like Kalia D. Davis, I believe in pursuing excellence and using hard work, kindness, and determination to leave a lasting impact. Sports have always been an important part of my life, particularly dance, track, and cheerleading. While dance is an art form, it is also an athletic discipline that requires strength, endurance, and teamwork. I served as president of the National Honor Society for Dance Arts in high school and was a leader in Charisma Dance Ensemble, where I choreographed and performed. I also ran hurdles in track and cheered, both of which challenged me to balance focus, resilience, and team spirit. Through athletics, I learned how to support others, celebrate our shared accomplishments, and push through both physical and mental obstacles. At WVU, I continue to build on those lessons through involvement in the Forensics Club, Kombucha Club, and the First-Year Leadership program. Beyond athletics, I believe in serving my community and uplifting others. In high school, I was active in NHS and Key Club, volunteering for school beautification projects, clothing and prom dress drives, and mentoring younger students. Each experience reminded me that leadership is not about recognition—it is about impact. Even small actions, like helping a student find confidence in themselves or contributing to a more welcoming environment, can ripple outward and change lives. I have also faced challenges that shaped who I am. Living with POTS and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, along with anxiety, has tested me in ways most people don’t see. Balancing health struggles with academics, leadership, and athletics has not been easy, but it has taught me resilience and adaptability. I have learned that perseverance doesn’t mean ignoring difficulties; it means facing them honestly and continuing forward with determination. These lessons fuel my ambition to succeed academically and personally, not only for myself but for the people I hope to serve in my future career. What resonates most with me about Kalia’s story is her ability to balance excellence with joy—excelling in academics, sports, leadership, and service, while also being known for encouragement, laughter, and kindness. That balance is what I strive for in my own life. I want to work hard and aim high, but I also want to be the kind of person others can rely on for support, positivity, and strength. This scholarship would help me continue my journey at WVU with greater focus and less financial stress, allowing me to dedicate more energy to my studies, campus involvement, and service opportunities. My dream is to become a forensic pathologist, a role that requires rigorous training and years of education. Support from this scholarship would not only help ease the financial burden of pursuing that path, but it would also carry the honor of continuing Kalia’s legacy of ambition, drive, and impact. Like Kalia, I want to live a life that inspires others—to work with passion, serve with kindness, laugh with joy, and learn with curiosity. Carrying forward her spirit of excellence would be a privilege, and I hope to honor her memory by striving to embody those same values in everything I do.

Mental health has touched my life in ways I never could have imagined, and those experiences have shaped how I see the world, my relationships with others, and my goals for the future. For me, the journey has not only been about coping with trauma but also about learning the importance of empathy, resilience, and advocacy. During my junior year of high school, I lost two peers to suicide. One of them I had known since pre-K, and the other since middle school—he was also the older brother of one of my dance teammates. Their deaths shook my entire community. I found myself asking questions with no easy answers: How could people who had been part of my everyday life suddenly be gone? Could anyone have noticed the signs? Could anyone have helped? Those losses made me confront, for the first time, the reality that mental health struggles are everywhere, even when they are invisible. As if that weren’t enough, later that same year, my dance team and I were at a restaurant during regionals when a man suffering from severe mental health issues entered and began attacking the staff with a hammer. The chaos was instant and terrifying. My teammates and I hid under the table while our instructors and chaperones, including my mom, positioned themselves between us and the man. I will never forget the sound of screaming, the fear in my teammates’ eyes, or the split second when I realized we were in real danger. When the man fled, my mom—who is a nurse—rushed to help a woman who had been struck in the head. I can still picture her in her white sweater, stained with the blood of a stranger she was determined to help. Later, a crisis-response team with a therapy dog came to support us, and while their comfort meant so much in the moment, the memory of that night is something that will always stay with me. These two experiences—losing friends to suicide and witnessing violence fueled by mental illness—forced me to recognize both the fragility of life and the urgent need to address mental health openly. For a long time, I carried guilt and fear. I wondered if I had done enough for my peers, or if I could ever feel truly safe in public again. Over time, though, I realized that staying silent or suppressing my feelings only deepened the pain. Healing came when I began to talk about what happened, when I leaned on my family, my teammates, and the resources available at school. I learned that acknowledging trauma doesn’t make me weak—it helps me move forward. These experiences have changed how I connect with others. I’ve become more intentional about checking in on my friends, even when they seem fine. I’ve learned that asking “How are you really?” can make a difference, and that sometimes listening is more powerful than giving advice. I’ve also developed a deep respect for people who dedicate their lives to supporting mental health, whether through counseling, medicine, or advocacy. As I continue my education at West Virginia University, studying forensic biology, I carry these lessons with me. My career goals focus on forensic pathology, but I know that my compassion and understanding of mental health will influence how I approach my work. Forensic science is about uncovering the truth, but it’s also about bringing closure to families who are often suffering from unimaginable loss. My own experiences with loss and trauma have given me an empathy that I hope will one day comfort the families I serve. Most of all, I want to contribute to a culture where mental health is not stigmatized, where people feel safe to seek help, and where tragedies can be prevented. I know from personal experience that bringing darkness into the light is the only way it can fade. That is why I am determined to use my voice, my education, and my story to honor those I’ve lost, to stand beside those who are struggling, and to keep building a future where no one has to face their mental health journey alone.

My name is Harper, and if you asked the people closest to me to describe me, they would probably say I’m someone who can find humor in almost anything, but who also takes her goals seriously. I’m motivated by curiosity—the kind that makes me want to figure out how things work, why they happen, and what stories they tell. That curiosity is what pulled me toward forensic biology. I’ve always loved science, but I’m especially drawn to the way forensic science uses biology to solve real-world mysteries. Shows like Forensic Files might make some people squeamish, but for me, they’re fascinating. I don’t just watch for entertainment; I watch because I see the impact of answers being uncovered, and the closure that truth can provide to families and communities. What I enjoy most about science is that it’s never boring. Every discovery, whether big or small, opens the door to a new question. Science is also practical—what you learn can be applied to make a real difference in people’s lives. In my own life, I’ve found joy in connecting science to everyday situations. One of my favorite experiences was doing a small experiment testing the antimicrobial properties of dog saliva using agar plates. It sounds funny (and it was), but it reminded me that science doesn’t always have to be intimidating—it can be playful and creative while still teaching you something meaningful. That blend of problem-solving, curiosity, and sometimes even humor is what makes me love the subject. Looking ahead, my plan is to major in forensic biology and eventually become a forensic pathologist. It’s a career that combines two things I care deeply about: science and service. Forensic pathology doesn’t just answer “how” someone died—it can shed light on broader issues, like healthcare access, community safety, and even public health. I want to use my education not only to work on individual cases but also to make a positive impact on the systems and communities connected to those cases. As I continue learning and growing, I want to hold onto the same curiosity and lightheartedness that got me here. Science can be challenging, but I think approaching it with passion and a sense of humor makes the hard parts worthwhile. My hope is that through my education and future work, I can combine compassion with science—helping people find answers, helping communities seek justice, and always remembering that at the end of every case, there are real lives and stories that matter.

One issue that matters deeply to me is the intersection of healthcare and justice. Growing up in West Virginia, I’ve seen how families in rural areas often struggle to access medical care. At the same time, I’ve also seen how systemic inequities can affect not only health outcomes, but also the way those outcomes are understood in the legal system. When deaths go unexplained or misinterpreted, communities suffer from both unanswered questions and a lack of accountability. That is why I am passionate about pursuing forensic biology, with the goal of becoming a forensic pathologist. For me, this field represents both science in service of truth and medicine in service of community well-being. My commitment to these issues started with smaller efforts that taught me how health and justice are community concerns, not just individual ones. In high school, I served as president of the National Honor Society for Dance Arts, where I organized events like the Charisma Minis dance camp and Candy Grams to raise funds for community needs. I also participated in clothing and food drives, helping provide families with essentials that impact overall health and stability. As a counselor at Camp Strawderman, I worked with children from diverse backgrounds, which opened my eyes to how socioeconomic circumstances shape well-being from a young age. These experiences showed me how vital it is to support people holistically—through resources, compassion, and advocacy. While these contributions may seem small, they have guided my vision for a bigger impact through forensic science. Forensic pathology addresses two issues I care deeply about: ensuring families receive truthful answers about their loved ones, and helping the justice system function with accuracy and fairness. In many cases, especially in underserved areas, forensic pathologists are the ones who bring clarity to situations clouded by uncertainty. Their work can highlight overlooked medical conditions, reveal patterns of violence, or even expose systemic failures in public health. Studying forensic biology is my first step toward this path. Biology excites me because it explains the fundamental mechanisms of life and death, while forensic science applies that knowledge to real-world problems. Through my education, I want to gain the technical expertise necessary to uncover truth in complex cases, but also to apply that truth in ways that serve families and communities. My long-term goal is to work in a medical examiner’s office, where I can combine scientific rigor with compassion for the people who depend on clear answers. I also hope to use my education to advocate for stronger healthcare systems in rural regions. As a forensic pathologist, I would not only investigate causes of death, but also see firsthand the preventable health disparities—such as untreated conditions or delayed diagnoses—that contribute to mortality rates. By sharing those findings and advocating for change, I can help bridge the gap between science, medicine, and public policy. Education is more than my personal pathway; it is the tool I will use to create positive change. This scholarship’s mission—to empower women in STEM to serve and uplift their communities—captures exactly what I hope to do. My journey in forensic biology will be grounded in science, but fueled by compassion and responsibility. By combining the precision of STEM with the heart of service, I want to bring clarity, equity, and healing to the people and communities who need it most.

Healthcare has always played a central role in my life—not just as a field of study, but as a lived experience. As an 18-year-old college freshman majoring in Forensic Biology, I am pursuing my dream of becoming a forensic pathologist. My path is deeply personal. Living with POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome) and Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS), I have spent countless hours in hospitals, undergoing tests, learning medical terminology, and interacting with healthcare professionals who inspired me. These experiences sparked my passion for the sciences and motivated me to be part of the healthcare field, not only as a patient, but as a professional dedicated to making a difference. My conditions have shown me both the power and the gaps in our healthcare system. I have seen how frustrating it can be when doctors dismiss symptoms simply because a patient doesn’t "look sick" or because the condition is rare and poorly understood. I’ve also seen the profound difference a compassionate, informed provider can make. I want to become that provider. I’ve chosen forensic pathology not only because I am fascinated by the intersection of medicine and justice, but because it gives a voice to those who can no longer speak for themselves. As a forensic pathologist, I hope to advocate for victims, bring closure to families, and contribute to the broader understanding of how systemic factors—like poverty, race, and disability—can influence health outcomes and mortality. Being a woman in healthcare is powerful. It is also necessary. Women bring unique perspectives, empathy, and lived experiences that can reshape patient care and research. I understand what it means to feel unheard in a clinical setting, and I want to ensure others never feel that way. I believe representation matters—especially for young girls and people with chronic illnesses who rarely see themselves reflected in medical professionals. By sharing my story and leading with compassion, I hope to break down stigmas around invisible illnesses and disabilities, and inspire others to pursue careers in healthcare, regardless of the obstacles they face. Financial challenges are a reality of higher education, especially when navigating both tuition and healthcare costs. Scholarships like this one offer more than just financial relief—they offer belief in my potential. With your support, I can focus more on my studies and less on how I’ll afford textbooks or medications. I can continue to push forward in a field where women, especially those with disabilities, are still underrepresented. And one day, I will serve in a role that allows me to combine science, justice, and advocacy in a meaningful way. Ultimately, I chose healthcare because I believe in the power of care—not just in treatment, but in listening, understanding, and empowering others. As a future forensic pathologist, as a woman, and as someone living with chronic illness, I am ready to challenge the status quo, uplift those who feel unseen, and help shape a more inclusive and compassionate healthcare future.

Living with chronic illness is like running a marathon on a track that keeps shifting beneath your feet. For me, that marathon includes Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS) and Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS), two conditions that challenge me daily in both subtle and dramatic ways. EDS causes my joints and connective tissues to be fragile, leaving me prone to injury, pain, and fatigue. POTS complicates things further, with sudden dizziness, heart rate spikes, and overwhelming exhaustion that can turn something as simple as standing up into a battle. Academically, these conditions have forced me to learn resilience earlier than most. Some days, it has meant missing class for medical appointments, sitting in pain during exams, or catching up on lessons from a bed instead of a desk. At times, I’ve wondered how much easier life would be without the constant unpredictability of chronic illness. But these challenges have also taught me discipline, time management, and the importance of speaking up for myself—skills I might not have developed so strongly otherwise. Even with these hurdles, I refused to let my illnesses define my potential. In high school, I graduated summa cum laude while balancing leadership roles. I captained my school dance team, where I not only choreographed and performed but also supported teammates, learning to lead with empathy. As president of the National Honor Society for Dance Arts, I organized events like children’s dance camps and fundraisers, discovering the joy of building community even while quietly battling my own health struggles. I also worked part-time at a laundromat, where long shifts required stamina and grit. These experiences reminded me that while my body may sometimes feel fragile, my spirit is anything but. Now as a college freshman, I continue to balance my academic goals with my health. There are days when symptoms demand adjustments, but I’ve learned that resilience doesn’t mean pushing past every limit—it means knowing when to rest, when to adapt, and when to fight through. I use careful planning, communicate with professors about accommodations, and practice self-advocacy in spaces where invisible illness might otherwise go unnoticed. My goal is not only to succeed academically but to model persistence for others who face invisible battles. This scholarship represents more than financial support. It represents recognition that students with chronic illness are still capable of brilliance, leadership, and impact. The relief of tuition assistance would allow me to focus less on financial strain and more on the pursuit of my education and long-term career goals. I hope to one day channel my resilience and empathy into a career that allows me to uplift others—whether through advocacy, community leadership, or mentoring those who feel held back by circumstances outside their control. Jules’ story is especially inspiring to me. Like her, I know what it means to have to pause dreams because of health, but also what it means to keep love, generosity, and hope at the center of life. To receive this scholarship in her honor would be a privilege, not just for the practical support it offers, but because it carries forward her legacy of selflessness and strength. I may live with chronic illness, but I also live with determination, ambition, and a belief in the power of resilience. With this scholarship, I will continue proving that while chronic illness is part of my story, it will never be the ending.

Taylor Swift’s twelfth studio album, The Life of a Showgirl, reflects the resilience and creativity it takes to spend nearly two decades in the public eye. While her career is full of iconic performances, the one that stands out to me most is her 2021 Grammy performance of “Cardigan,” “August,” and “Willow.” Watching Taylor weave those songs together in an enchanting woodland set was moving not just for its musicality, but for how it captured the magic of performance itself—the way art can transport both the audience and the performer into a new world. As someone who has lived much of my own life on stage, this performance struck me deeply. I grew up dancing, eventually becoming captain of my high school dance team and later dance captain in my school’s production of Mamma Mia. Those roles taught me the discipline of rehearsal, the adrenaline of live performance, and the responsibility of leading others to create something beautiful together. When I watched Taylor sing barefoot on that glowing moss-covered stage, surrounded by her collaborators, I recognized the same balance of vulnerability and confidence I have felt under the stage lights. What moved me most was her ability to make such a massive global platform feel intimate. The Grammys are notorious for their grandeur, yet Taylor’s performance felt like a story told around a campfire—personal, warm, and spellbinding. That is the mark of a true showgirl: not just dazzling with spectacle, but inviting the audience into an experience that feels authentic. Taylor’s Grammy medley reminded me why I fell in love with performing in the first place. Dance, for me, has always been about more than the steps; it’s about connection—between the music, the movement, and the people watching. Taylor embodied that same principle, proving that even at the height of fame, the heart of performance is honesty. In the end, what makes this performance unforgettable is the way it redefines what it means to be a “showgirl.” It’s not about sequins or spotlights, but about the courage to bare your soul on stage. Taylor did that on music’s biggest night, and it inspires me to keep carrying that same spirit into every performance of my own.

My junior year of high school began with tragedy. Within a matter of weeks, two classmates died by suicide. One was the brother of a close friend. The other was someone I’d known since childhood—we shared daycare, preschool, elementary school, and memories I hadn’t revisited in years. Though we weren’t close anymore, his passing hit hard. It felt like losing a piece of where I came from. These losses shook our school community, and they shook me. I had been managing my own anxiety for years, but now mental health didn’t feel personal—it felt universal. Urgent. Unavoidable. During that time, I had to make a choice: ignore my own needs and go into autopilot, or prioritize my mental and emotional health in a way I never had before. I chose the latter. I reached out to people I trusted—my mom, my friends—and let them in. They became my support system. I started talking honestly about what I was feeling instead of bottling it up. I leaned into routines that kept me grounded: getting enough sleep, journaling, staying active through dance, and carving out quiet time for myself. I let myself grieve, and I let others help me carry that grief. That fall, I realized that mental health isn’t something you address only when it becomes a crisis. It’s something you protect and prioritize—especially when life is hard. I also learned that asking for help doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. That season of loss taught me how to care for myself and others with more honesty, more patience, and more presence. It made me more intentional about creating spaces—on my dance team, in volunteer work, in everyday conversations—where people feel safe being real. Physically, I was also managing chronic conditions: POTS and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. That meant days of dizziness, pain, and fatigue layered on top of everything else. As a six-foot-tall dancer and student leader, I often felt like I had to “push through” no matter what. But prioritizing my health taught me something different—it’s not about doing everything, it’s about doing what matters sustainably. I became more mindful about rest, hydration, boundaries, and balance. These lessons are shaping how I approach my future, especially as I head to West Virginia University to study forensic biology. I plan to become a forensic pathologist—not just because I love science, but because I care deeply about people and their stories. After experiencing personal and community loss, I’m drawn to a field where truth and compassion intersect. I want to provide families with answers. I want to bring peace where there’s pain. I know the road ahead will be challenging—academically, physically, and emotionally. But I also know how to care for myself through those challenges. I’ve learned how to build resilience, not by ignoring my needs, but by honoring them. That’s what health means to me: showing up for yourself so you can show up for others. In a world that often glorifies overwork and burnout, choosing to prioritize my health has been a quiet but radical act. It’s a choice I’ll keep making—through school, through life, and in the way I serve others.

Hi! I’m Harper, a high school senior and soon-to-be forensic biology major at West Virginia University. I’ve always been curious—about how things work, what’s really going on beneath the surface, and most of all, how I can use what I learn to help people. That curiosity is what led me to fall in love with science at nine years old, when I asked my mom to order agar plates for a science fair experiment to test if dog saliva was antibacterial. (Surprisingly, it was! My results showed it inhibited bacterial growth.) That quirky little project opened my eyes to how science can answer questions no one expects—and sometimes lead to really weird, really fascinating discoveries. Over time, that curiosity turned into something more focused: a passion for forensic science. I plan to become a forensic pathologist so I can help bring truth and closure to families who’ve lost loved ones. It’s not a glamorous job, but it’s important. And to me, it’s a way to make the world a little more honest, a little more compassionate, and a lot more just. As a woman entering a STEM field, I know I’m stepping into a space where people like me have often been underestimated or ignored. I’ve felt that already—when my ideas are talked over in group settings, or when people act surprised that I’m both a dancer and a science nerd. But here’s the thing: I don’t plan to shrink myself to fit into someone else’s expectations. At six feet tall, I’ve learned to take up space—on stage, in labs, in leadership roles, and in life. Outside of academics, I stay pretty busy in the best way. I’m president of the National Honor Society for Dance Arts at my school and a leader in our Charisma Dance Ensemble. I also teach dance and swimming at an overnight camp each summer—part coach, part counselor, part sunscreen enforcer. These experiences have helped me become a better communicator and mentor, especially to younger girls. One of my goals is to help them find their voices and see that they deserve to take up space, too. Living with chronic conditions like POTS, Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, and anxiety has shaped me as well. I’ve had to become my own health advocate—something many women experience in a system that often dismisses our pain or concerns. I’ve learned to ask the right questions, to speak up, and to keep pushing forward even when things are difficult. That kind of resilience is something I’ll carry with me into forensic science—and into the way I support and uplift other women in my field. Through my future career, I hope to be a source of answers for grieving families and a reminder that science, when done with compassion, can be healing. I also hope to show other young women that they belong in STEM—not because they fit a mold, but because their voices, experiences, and perspectives are essential. This scholarship would help me move forward in that journey—not just to build a career I’m proud of, but to be part of something bigger: a future where more women are supported, heard, and leading the way.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve asked questions—lots of them. When I was nine, I convinced my mom to order agar plates for a science fair experiment testing whether dog saliva was antibacterial. It was a weird project, but it sparked a passion for scientific inquiry that’s only grown stronger with time. That curiosity, paired with a deep desire to help others, led me to choose forensic biology as my field of study. This fall, I’ll begin my undergraduate journey at West Virginia University, majoring in forensic biology. My ultimate goal is to become a forensic pathologist—a career that sits at the intersection of science, truth, and justice. I want to bring answers to families who have lost loved ones, using evidence and data to speak for those who can’t. In a world where misinformation can be loud and damaging, I believe science has the power to cut through the noise and deliver clarity. I want to be part of that. Choosing STEM was never about prestige—it was about purpose. I’m drawn to STEM because it values precision, evidence, and continuous discovery. But as a woman in this field, I also understand that being here matters beyond my personal goals. Women remain underrepresented in many scientific disciplines, especially in leadership roles. That gap isn’t just a numbers problem—it’s a missed opportunity for innovation, inclusion, and empathy. As a woman in STEM, I hope to be part of the solution. I want to model what it looks like to balance strength with vulnerability, logic with compassion. Living with chronic illnesses like POTS and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome has given me resilience, and my experiences have taught me to advocate for myself and others. These lessons will follow me into my career, where I plan to approach science not just with technical skill, but with humanity. Beyond academics, I’ve been a leader in my school’s dance community, a mentor at summer camp, and an active member of service organizations like Key Club and National Honor Society. These experiences have shown me the power of community and collaboration—values that are just as essential in STEM as they are on stage or in service. I want to help change the perception of who belongs in science. I want younger girls to see someone tall, passionate, empathetic, and maybe a little quirky, and think, “If she can do it, maybe I can too.” That’s how representation works—it plants the seed of possibility. Being part of a community of women in STEM means more than just pursuing a degree—it means lifting as we climb. It means sharing knowledge, encouraging curiosity, and building networks that support not just achievement, but well-being. That’s the kind of future I want to be part of, and the kind of difference I hope to make. This scholarship would not only support my education—it would connect me to a community of like-minded women ready to change the world through science. I’m ready to contribute.

In 4th and 5th grade, I really wanted to be on my school’s Math Field Day team. I loved math and solving problems, so it stung when I wasn’t chosen. I wasn’t told I was too exceptional—I just wasn’t picked. No one saw my potential, and that left me questioning if I really belonged in the world of “math kids.” Everything changed one week into 6th grade. My math teacher noticed something in me and recommended I be tested for the gifted program. I qualified, skipped 6th grade math, and jumped into 7th grade honors math. That was the first time I felt like someone saw what I could really do. From there, my math journey took off. I took Math I in 8th grade, junior-level honors math as a freshman, and college math classes through dual enrollment by 11th grade. I went from being overlooked to leading the way—and I fell in love with the process. I love math because it’s logical, fair, and honest. You can’t guess your way through it. It rewards persistence, and every challenge has a solution if you stick with it. That makes it comforting in a way—especially when other parts of life feel uncertain. Math has taught me patience, problem-solving, and critical thinking. These are skills I’ll carry with me into my future. I’m planning to study forensic biology in college and hope to become a forensic pathologist. Math may not seem central to that career, but it absolutely is. Whether I’m analyzing data, interpreting evidence, or finding patterns, the logical mindset math has given me will be essential. Most importantly, math reminds me how far I’ve come. I wasn’t a standout student early on. I had to earn every step forward, and that journey made me love math even more. It’s not just a subject I’m good at—it’s a subject that helped shape who I am. And yes, I still make room for fun: my favorite dad joke is, “What’s the square root of the 49ers? Colin Kaepernick (#7).” Math doesn’t always have to be serious to matter.

When I first read the prompt for this scholarship, I hesitated. I don’t know if I’ve achieved anything I’d call “great.” I haven’t invented anything groundbreaking or won a national competition. But what I have done is keep going—through pain, exhaustion, and the kind of daily challenges that aren’t always visible. And I’ve come to realize that continuing to show up and move forward, especially when it’s hard, is something to be proud of. I live with POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome), Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, and anxiety. Each of these conditions comes with its own challenges, but together, they’ve made things like standing for long periods, walking the long halls in my high school, or even getting through a class without dizziness feel like mountains to climb. Some days, my joints ache or dislocate easily. Other days, my heart races just from standing up. And then there are the mental hurdles—fighting through anxiety when everything already feels overwhelming. But here’s the thing: I’ve never wanted my conditions to define me. I love science. I love dance. I love working with kids, helping others, and finding purpose in small things. So, I’ve learned how to adjust and keep going. When I choreograph and perform with my school’s dance ensemble, I adapt movement to protect my joints, take breaks when needed, and prioritize recovery. But I still perform. I’ve led as president of the National Honor Society for Dance Arts and helped others grow in their confidence and creativity. Teaching swimming at summer camp—while managing heat intolerance and fatigue—meant pacing myself, staying hydrated, and listening closely to my body. It also meant letting my campers see that strength doesn’t always look like perfection. Sometimes, it looks like patience and determination. In school, I’ve learned to advocate for myself—asking for accommodations when necessary and learning how to manage my time and energy to meet deadlines and stay involved in extracurriculars. I’m active in NHS, Key Club, and leadership roles because I care about building community and contributing, even if it takes extra effort on my part. And in all of this, science has remained my anchor. This fall, I’ll be studying forensic biology at West Virginia University, with the goal of one day working in forensic pathology. I’ve always been fascinated by how science uncovers the truth, and I want to be part of the team that brings answers and closure to families. It’s a career that requires focus, empathy, and attention to detail—all things I’ve had to strengthen through my experiences. I may not have one defining moment of greatness, but I’ve built something meaningful through consistency, resilience, and a deep desire to keep showing up. I’ve danced through dislocated joints, taught lessons through brain fog, and led through quiet determination. That may not win trophies, but to me, it’s a victory. What I’ve learned is that greatness doesn’t always come in a single moment—it comes in the choice to keep going, again and again, even when it would be easier to stop. That’s the kind of strength I hope to bring into the STEAM field, and the kind I’ll carry with me into college and beyond.

From the moment I swabbed my dog’s mouth for a third-grade science fair project, I’ve been drawn to the hidden world of biology and what it can reveal. That project—testing bacteria levels in dog saliva using agar plates—sparked a curiosity that hasn’t faded. Over time, my interest in science grew into something more focused: a passion for forensic biology and the role it plays in healthcare and justice. This fall, I’ll begin studying forensic biology at West Virginia University. I’m pursuing a career in forensic pathology not only because I love science, but because I believe in the importance of truth. Forensic pathology is a unique intersection of medicine and justice. It’s a branch of healthcare that may not involve daily patient care but still directly impacts lives by uncovering answers after tragedy and helping bring closure to grieving families. I want to be part of that work—to use science as a tool for compassion and clarity. Healthcare is so much more than hospitals and prescriptions. It’s about advocating for others, easing pain—both physical and emotional—and improving lives through knowledge and care. As someone who lives with POTS (postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome), Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, and anxiety, I know what it’s like to feel dismissed, misunderstood, or simply exhausted by the process of seeking answers. These experiences have made me a more empathetic person and will help me be a more thoughtful, patient-focused healthcare professional. I want to be someone who listens, who validates, and who does everything in their power to uncover the truth for those who no longer have a voice. As a woman entering the healthcare field, I also know I’m part of a much bigger story. Historically, women have been underrepresented in science and leadership roles in medicine. But our perspectives—shaped by resilience, empathy, and multitasking on levels only a big sister in a five-kid household can understand—bring strength to the field. I want to be part of a new wave of women in healthcare who challenge outdated assumptions and lead with both intellect and heart. Outside of academics, I’ve grown as a leader through dance and service. I’m president of the National Honor Society for Dance Arts and choreograph for my school’s Charisma Dance Ensemble. I’ve learned to lead with confidence, communicate with clarity, and build community through movement. I also lead and participate in projects through NHS and Key Club, such as school beautification efforts and prom dress drives. During the summer, I teach dance and swimming at an overnight camp, balancing roles as a coach, mentor, and sunscreen enforcer. These experiences have shaped my character—and my commitment to helping others grow, heal, and thrive. Pursuing a degree in healthcare isn’t just about career goals for me—it’s about using the skills and strengths I’ve developed to make a lasting difference. I want to stand for truth, advocate for the overlooked, and prove that science and compassion don’t just coexist—they make each other stronger. With support from this scholarship, I hope to keep pushing forward and one day become a voice of both reason and reassurance in the world of forensic healthcare.

I found Chappell Roan’s music during one of those late-night playlist rabbit holes, and honestly, I’ve been obsessed ever since. Her songs are emotional, dramatic, bold, and somehow still super relatable. Whether I’m crying over something dumb or dancing around my room like it’s a concert stage, she just gets it. What I love most about her is that she’s completely herself. She doesn’t try to tone anything down—her lyrics, her outfits, her voice—it’s all loud in the best way. She’s proud, emotional, and kind of chaotic (in a good way), and it makes me feel like it’s okay to be all those things, too. Songs like Pink Pony Club or HOT TO GO! make me want to scream-sing and wear glitter eyeliner, even if I’m just going to math class. There’s also a lot of heart in her music. Even the upbeat songs have real feelings behind them. You can tell she’s been through stuff, and she’s not afraid to show it. That makes her music feel comforting—like someone’s saying, “Hey, I’ve been there too,” but with a beat you can dance to. As a young woman trying to figure out who I am and where I fit, Chappell Roan feels like a reminder that I don’t have to have it all together. I can be confident and insecure at the same time, and that’s okay. I can feel too much and still be strong. And I can take up space, even when I feel like I’m not supposed to. I support her not just because I love her music, but because she represents something bigger—being unapologetically yourself, even when it’s scary. And in a world where so much feels filtered and fake, that’s honestly pretty inspiring.

LeBron James is definitely one of my favorite athletes—not just because he’s incredible on the court, but because of the kind of person he is off the court. Obviously, he’s one of the greatest players to ever play the game. But what really makes me admire him is how much he values his family, how involved he is in his community, and how he stays grounded even with all the fame. I especially look up to him because my younger brother is a really talented high school basketball player. He’s obsessed with watching NBA highlights, and I’ve seen how inspired he gets by players like LeBron. And honestly, if he’s going to look up to any athlete, I’m glad it’s someone like LeBron. He works hard, he lifts up the people around him, and he shows that you can be successful and still be kind and humble. That’s something I really respect. I also love how much he shows up for his kids and supports them. Being a good dad and husband seems just as important to him as being a great athlete. In a world where athletes sometimes let fame go to their heads, he seems like a genuinely good person who hasn’t forgotten who he is or where he came from. Now, is he the greatest basketball player of all time? I’m not totally convinced. I think he’s definitely in the top three with Michael Jordan and Kobe Bryant. MJ had that intensity and drive that made him unstoppable, and Kobe had this insane work ethic that inspired a generation. LeBron is probably more consistent and versatile than both of them, and he’s played at a high level for such a long time, which is seriously impressive. But I also think greatness isn’t just about stats or rings. If we’re talking about character and impact outside the game, I think LeBron might beat them there. He opened a school. He speaks up about real issues. And he’s managed to stay focused and positive throughout a long career under constant pressure. That kind of influence matters, especially to kids growing up watching him—not just as an athlete, but as a person. So yeah, I don’t know if I can pick one “GOAT,” but I know LeBron is one of the best to ever do it—and he might just be the best person among them. That’s what makes me a fan.

When I was in fourth grade, I marched into the kitchen and asked my mom to order agar plates from Amazon. Once she picked her jaw up off the floor—because really, what 9-year-old wants agar?—she said yes. I proceeded to collect samples from our dogs' mouths to test the bacteria in their saliva. Gross? Maybe. Fascinating? Definitely. What surprised me most was the result: instead of growing bacteria, the dog saliva actually inhibited bacterial growth. That unexpected finding didn’t just win me a science fair ribbon—it sparked my obsession with the scientific method and launched my journey toward forensic science. Now, I’m an 18-year-old senior preparing to attend West Virginia University to major in forensic biology. My dream is to become a forensic pathologist: part scientist, part detective, part truth-teller. While the job doesn’t come with a badge or theme music like in crime shows, it offers something much more meaningful—the chance to speak for those who can no longer speak for themselves. I want to bring families closure, uncover hidden truths, and ensure that even in death, every life is treated with dignity. Forensic pathology excites me because it sits at the intersection of science, justice, and service. It’s not about the spotlight—it’s about getting the facts right when it matters most. Whether I’m helping solve a criminal case or identifying public health trends, I’ll be doing work that makes a tangible difference. I’ve always been the person who asks “why” and keeps digging until I understand the answer. Now, I want to turn that curiosity into a career that helps others. Living with POTS, Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, and anxiety has taught me a lot about perseverance, time management, and compassion—qualities I know will serve me well in this field. These conditions have made life more complicated, yes, but they’ve also shaped me into someone who shows up fully, even when things get tough. I’ve learned how to advocate for myself, and now I want to use my voice—and eventually, my work—to advocate for others. Outside of academics, I’m active in Charisma Dance Ensemble and Key Club. Dance is where I express myself and feel most at home in my own body; volunteering is where I connect with and serve my community. During the summer, I teach both dance and swimming, helping younger kids build confidence and skills. I also enjoy horseback riding, reading, and trying to keep the snack shelf stocked in a house with five siblings (a nearly impossible task). Empowering others—especially women—is central to who I am. I aim to lead by example and show younger girls that they can thrive in science, medicine, leadership, or wherever their passions take them. Whether it’s organizing inclusive events at school, mentoring students, or just standing tall (literally—I’m six feet!), I try to take up space with confidence and encourage others to do the same. This scholarship would be an investment not just in my education, but in the future I’m working toward: one where truth matters, women lead boldly, and science brings healing. Thank you for considering my application.

I was nine years old when I ran my first science experiment, which involved testing dog saliva for its antibacterial properties (spoiler: it worked surprisingly well). While other kids were building volcanoes, I was ordering agar plates and swabbing the inside of a retriever’s mouth like it was a crime scene. That’s when I knew science wasn’t just a subject—it was something I felt connected to, curious about, and oddly at home with. That same curiosity now drives my goal of becoming a forensic pathologist. I’m preparing to attend West Virginia University to major in forensic biology. It’s not the most common answer to “What do you want to be when you grow up?”—and that’s exactly why I’m drawn to it. Forensic pathology sits at the intersection of science, justice, and empathy. It’s about uncovering truth when there are no eyewitnesses. It’s about giving a voice to those who can no longer speak. It’s about making peace with complexity and learning how to read stories written in biology. My contribution to science won’t just come from lab results—it’ll come from how I show up in spaces where empathy, rigor, and resilience are all required. Living with POTS, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS), and anxiety has given me an intimate understanding of how the human body can be unpredictable, and how critical it is to have scientists and healthcare professionals who truly listen. These conditions have taught me to be patient with my body, strategic with my time, and relentless in my commitment to keep moving forward. And trust me, showing up to chemistry lab while your joints feel like jelly and your heart rate is doing its own thing? That’s dedication. Science often needs more women, but more importantly, it needs women who aren’t afraid to lead with both intellect and compassion. That’s the kind of scientist I want to be. Whether I’m teaching swim lessons at summer camp or organizing dance routines as part of my school's leadership team, I’ve learned how to connect with people, how to communicate clearly, and how to adapt in real-time—all skills I’ll carry with me into labs, classrooms, and eventually into the autopsy suite. I also want to pay it forward. I’ve volunteered with National Honor Society to bring STEM presentations to local elementary schools, showing young students—especially girls—that science isn’t scary. It’s creative, hands-on, and often just a matter of asking good questions and being brave enough to search for answers. My younger sister, who also has EDS and severe ADHD, reminds me daily of why representation and compassion matter in scientific fields. I want her to grow up knowing that her differences aren’t limitations—they’re part of what make her powerful. I want her, and others like her, to see women in science not as exceptions, but as the norm. With this scholarship’s support, I’ll continue my education, pursue forensic pathology, and contribute to science not just by solving problems, but by caring deeply about the people behind them.

Mental Health, Ambition, and Being the Big Sister She Deserves Living with POTS, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS), and anxiety means I navigate every school day with both ambition and caution. These conditions don’t clock out when I walk into a classroom or a dance studio—they follow me everywhere. But I’ve learned to work with them, not against them. Managing my health—both physical and mental—isn’t a side task. It’s central to everything I do and everything I dream of becoming. I’ve always been a high achiever. I maintain a 4.1 GPA, lead in my school’s dance team, and teach dance and swimming each summer at an overnight camp. I plan to major in forensic biology at West Virginia University with the goal of becoming a forensic pathologist. My dream is to give a voice to those who no longer have one—to uncover truth and bring compassion into science. But I know that dream isn’t possible unless I also care for myself along the way. Some days, that means managing brain fog, heart palpitations, or anxiety during class. Other days, it’s feeling overwhelmed by small things and reminding myself to breathe and regroup. But I’ve learned to be proactive. I use planners and digital reminders when my focus is scattered. I build in recovery time after long days. I journal to manage racing thoughts, and I’m learning to give myself grace when my mind or body needs a break. I also speak up when I need help—whether that’s asking for flexibility from teachers or leaning on trusted friends and family. But what’s shaped me just as much as my own challenges is my relationship with my 10-year-old sister. She also has EDS, along with severe ADHD. I see her struggling with attention, sensory overload, and pain that most adults would find difficult to manage. Watching her try so hard every day—often feeling different, often frustrated—has made me more empathetic, more patient, and more aware of the support systems we all need. I try to model what I want her to learn: that it’s okay to rest, okay to ask for help, okay to cry—and still get back up and try again. We do our stretches together. We talk about the things we’re nervous about. And sometimes, I just sit with her and let her be exactly who she is, without rushing to fix anything. In those moments, I’m reminded why mental health matters so deeply: because people need space to feel safe, seen, and supported—especially young girls like her, growing up in a world that doesn’t always make room for difference. I want to take that mindset with me to college and into my future career. I want to succeed not by pushing through at all costs, but by showing that strength includes softness, and that being whole matters more than being perfect. This scholarship would help me continue that journey—by honoring not only my ambition, but the care I’ve learned to give myself, and the example I hope to set for my sister.

When I was in fourth grade, I came home from school, handed my mom a list of science fair materials, and casually asked her to order agar plates. She paused—probably wondering why her 9-year-old suddenly sounded like a lab technician—and then ordered them anyway. I used them to test bacteria in dog saliva (spoiler: it inhibited bacterial growth), and from that strange little experiment, a lifelong love of science was born. Today, I’m preparing to attend West Virginia University to major in forensic biology. My goal is to become a forensic pathologist—someone who uses science to speak for those who can’t, to uncover truth, and to bring clarity to families and communities. Forensic pathology is not glamorous work, but it is deeply meaningful. It combines the puzzle-solving part of science that I love with the human impact I care deeply about. My path hasn’t always been easy. I live with chronic conditions like POTS and Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, as well as anxiety, all of which have challenged me physically and mentally throughout high school. But instead of slowing me down, they’ve helped shape me into someone who’s more determined, more empathetic, and more resilient. I’ve had to learn how to advocate for myself, listen to my body, and manage my time with precision—and all of those skills will serve me well in both college and my future career. Outside the classroom, I’m a dancer and a teacher. I serve in a leadership role on my school’s dance team, the Charisma Dance Ensemble, and I’ve helped choreograph performances and mentor younger dancers. Every summer, I teach swimming and dance at an overnight camp, which has been one of the most joyful and fulfilling parts of my year. Watching kids grow more confident, master new skills, and learn to work as a team reminds me why I love teaching—and how powerful small moments of encouragement can be. In everything I do, I try to lead with curiosity, compassion, and creativity—whether that’s guiding a child through a backstroke or navigating a group science project. In the future, I hope to use those same traits as a forensic pathologist. I want to bring dignity to every case, comfort to grieving families, and a strong scientific voice to the justice system. The work might be behind the scenes, but its impact is personal, powerful, and lasting. I believe making a positive impact doesn’t always mean being in the spotlight. Sometimes it means asking tough questions, paying attention to the details, or being the person who listens when others can’t speak. That’s the kind of person I strive to be—and the kind of professional I hope to become.

Selflessness isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about consistently choosing to show up for others—whether that means lending a hand, offering encouragement, or sharing your time. I try to live by this value every day, whether I’m teaching at summer camp, volunteering for community projects, or working toward a career where I can make a meaningful impact. Every summer, I teach swimming and dance at an overnight camp. Each day, I work with children during their one hour of swimming lessons, six days a week. While my time with each child is limited, I always try to give my full attention and encouragement. One camper, in particular, was initially terrified of the water. Over the course of several days, I worked with her during each lesson, helping her gradually build confidence in the water. By the end of the week, she swam across the pool on her own. Although I couldn't stay after hours to work individually with her, the progress we made during our lessons showed me how much small acts of patience and encouragement can help someone conquer their fears. As an active member of Key Club, I’ve participated in various service projects, including a school beautification effort where we planted flowers and landscaped the school grounds. It may have been a small task, but it created a welcoming space for everyone who uses it. I’ve also volunteered with the National Honor Society, giving STEM presentations to elementary school students. Sharing my passion for science and encouraging younger students to explore their curiosity was incredibly rewarding. Additionally, I participated in a prom dress drive, helping students who couldn’t afford a dress feel confident and included. These experiences taught me that selflessness doesn’t have to be complicated—it’s the little things that make a difference. Selflessness also means perseverance, especially when life isn’t easy. I live with POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome), Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, and anxiety. There are days when my health challenges make everything feel harder, but I’ve learned to push through, adapt, and stay focused on my goals. These challenges have shaped my resilience and strengthened my determination to pursue a career where I can help others in their most vulnerable moments. That’s why I’m pursuing a career as a forensic pathologist. I plan to major in forensic biology at West Virginia University. Forensic pathologists help give a voice to the voiceless, offering answers to families and justice to communities. I’m drawn to this field because it combines my love of science with my desire to serve others. While the work is often behind the scenes, I know it can make a significant difference in the lives of those affected by tragedy. Michael Rudometkin’s legacy of helping others and making the world a better place is something I strive to emulate. Whether I’m teaching at camp, volunteering with my community, or pursuing a career in forensic science, I aim to live with purpose, compassion, and an unwavering commitment to service. Thank you for considering my application. I am honored to contribute to the ongoing legacy of service and community that Michael Rudometkin inspired.

Brains, Ballet Shoes, and Surprisingly Clean Dog Saliva Hi, I’m Harper—named after the legendary Harper Lee, which might explain why I’m rarely seen without a book in my hand and a plot twist in my head. Whether I’m curled up with a forensic thriller, dancing my heart out at halftime, or perfecting a water stunt mid-backflip in the deep end, I’m living proof that life doesn’t have to fit neatly into one genre. I grew up in West Virginia, smack in the middle of five siblings, which means I’ve mastered the fine art of sharing snacks, bathroom schedules, and the remote control (mostly). I’m six feet tall, which makes me easy to spot in a crowd—and occasionally mistaken for a substitute gym teacher. But behind the height and the jokes, I’m a determined student, a passionate dancer, a bookworm with a forensic fixation, and someone who has turned challenges into fuel for big dreams. One of my earliest memories is sitting beside my mom in the early morning hours, snuggled up and inhaling the smell of her coffee while we watched Forensic Files before she left for work. Back then, she was an adult ICU nurse (she’s now in pediatrics), and together, we bonded over crime scene analysis before sunrise. Most kids started their day with cartoons—I started mine with autopsies and blood spatter patterns. That’s where my fascination with forensic science was born. Fast-forward to fourth grade when I brought home science fair paperwork and told my mom I needed agar plates. After recovering from the shock that her nine-year-old knew what agar was, she ordered them. My project? Swabbing things to test bacterial growth. I predicted dog mouths would be filthy. Turns out, my golden doodle’s saliva actually reduced bacteria growth on the plates. Not only did I learn how to run a controlled experiment—I also learned to never underestimate a curly-haired dog with unexpectedly sanitary slobber. I also live with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and POTS, which means my body doesn’t always cooperate with my plans. Some days I feel like I’m doing the cha-cha with gravity. But these conditions have given me resilience, adaptability, and a deeper appreciation for the moments when everything does work. I’ve learned to listen to my body and still chase after my goals with a fierce determination—and sometimes, a compression sock or two. Dance has been my anchor through it all. As captain of my school’s team, I’ve led with encouragement, celebrated small victories, and turned practices into safe, joyful spaces. Whether I’m performing in a stadium or choreographing routines, dance is where I find my voice without saying a word. It’s also a great warm-up for artistic swimming, my summer sport of choice. (Picture synchronized swimming with nose clips, glitter, and occasional chaos—it’s even better than it sounds.) I’m headed to West Virginia University to major in forensic biology, with my eyes on medical school and a future as a forensic pathologist. My goal is to use science to bring truth and justice, to give victims a voice, and to bring answers where there’s uncertainty. So, who am I? I’m Harper: horse-loving, dance-leading, mystery-reading, artistic-swimming science nerd with a golden doodle sidekick and a lot of ambition. My story is still being written—but I promise, it’s a good one. There may even be a sequel.

To me, empowerment isn’t just a word—it’s a feeling, a fire, and a quiet kind of strength. It’s what happens when I lace up my dance shoes before leading my team onto the football field. It’s what I feel when I speak up about living with anxiety and chronic illness, or when I teach younger students and see them believe in themselves just a little more. Empowerment is the voice inside me that says, “You’ve got this,” even when everything feels like it’s working against me. As a young woman, especially one living in a world that hasn’t always made space for strong female voices, empowerment has become personal. It’s the way I’ve pushed forward in male-dominated spaces—like forensic science—where women have historically been underrepresented. I want to be part of changing that. My dream of becoming a forensic pathologist isn’t just about solving mysteries or working in a lab (though I’m very excited about that); it’s about using my knowledge to be a voice for those who no longer have one. That, to me, is the ultimate form of empowerment: turning passion into purpose, and using education as a tool to bring justice and healing to others. Being empowered also means recognizing that my body doesn’t always work the way I want it to—but that doesn’t make me less. Living with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and POTS has taught me to listen to my body, advocate for myself, and get creative with how I meet my goals. Some days are harder than others, but I’ve learned to redefine strength. It’s not just about pushing through—it’s about choosing rest when needed, and resilience when it matters most. Dance has played a huge role in shaping that mindset. As captain of my school’s dance team, I discovered that empowerment often means lifting others up. Whether I was choreographing routines, encouraging teammates, or celebrating someone’s small victory, I found joy in creating a space where every girl felt seen and strong. That kind of leadership isn’t about being loud or bossy—it’s about helping others recognize their own power. Service has deepened this belief, too. Participating in projects like the Jefferson High School Prom Dress Drive, organized by Miss Shenandoah’s Teen 2025, allowed me to help other young women feel confident and beautiful, regardless of income or circumstance. I’ve learned that empowerment grows stronger when shared—and that community support can be one of the most powerful tools for change. Empowerment, to me, is also about identity. I’m six feet tall. I ride horses. I read murder mysteries like it’s my job. I’m the middle child of five, and I go by my middle name—Harper, named after Harper Lee. I don’t fit into any one box, and I don’t want to. Being female doesn’t mean being one thing—it means being everything we want to be, and owning it unapologetically. As I move forward—toward college, toward my degree in forensic biology, and eventually toward medical school—I carry all these pieces of empowerment with me. They’ve helped shape who I am, and they’ll guide who I become. My hope is that I’ll not only find success, but also help others—especially young women—see that they can define their own version of strong, too.

The Science of Strength: How Mental Health Has Shaped My Journey My story isn’t one of dramatic plot twists or made-for-TV breakthroughs. Instead, it’s a quiet, steady balancing act—one that involves managing anxiety, living with chronic conditions like Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and POTS, and still showing up for school, dance practice, service projects, and the people I love. It’s a journey that has shaped my beliefs, strengthened my relationships, and clarified my career aspirations in ways I never expected. I was diagnosed with anxiety when I was younger, but it took time to truly understand what that meant for me. Anxiety isn’t always the dramatic kind that people picture—it can be quiet, sneaky, and incredibly persistent. It shows up in the middle of the night before a big test. It whispers self-doubt before I step on stage to perform. It lingers during long school days when my body isn’t cooperating and I’m trying to hide that I’m dizzy, in pain, or just worn out. But instead of letting anxiety define me, I’ve learned to work with it. I’ve built systems: routines that keep me grounded, coping strategies that help me stay calm, and support networks that remind me I don’t have to face everything alone. I’ve become more introspective, more resilient, and—ironically—more empathetic. My experiences have taught me that everyone is carrying something, whether or not we can see it. That awareness has made me a better friend, a better listener, and a better leader. One of the most difficult seasons of my life was the fall of my junior year, when two classmates died by suicide within a short span of time. One was the brother of a close friend, and the other I had known nearly my entire life—we’d gone through daycare, preschool, elementary school, and more together. Though we weren’t close anymore, his passing felt like losing a piece of my childhood. These losses shook our school community. They made conversations about mental health feel urgent and personal. For me, it reinforced the belief that mental health is health—full stop. It’s not secondary, it’s not something to be ashamed of, and it’s not something we can afford to ignore. That belief is a major reason why I’m pursuing a career in forensic pathology. I’ve always been fascinated by science—I was that fourth grader asking my mom to buy agar plates off Amazon so I could swab dog saliva for a science fair project (she was concerned, but supportive). My love for science deepened as I grew older, especially through watching Forensic Files in the early mornings with my mom, who was then an adult ICU nurse. Snuggled beside her, inhaling the smell of her coffee and listening to real-life investigators piece together truths from fragments of evidence, I found myself completely absorbed. She now works as a pediatric nurse, and her compassion continues to influence how I see both science and service: as deeply human pursuits. What I didn’t know then, but understand now, is that my desire to work in forensic pathology is rooted not just in curiosity, but in compassion. Losing those classmates, dealing with my own mental and physical health struggles, and witnessing the toll of unspoken pain in others have all fueled my passion for pursuing justice and clarity through science. I don’t want to just work in a lab—I want to be a part of bringing peace to families who are hurting and answers to cases that deserve closure. Mental health has also impacted my relationships in the best way. I’ve learned to be more open with the people in my life—my family, my friends, my teammates. I’ve learned that vulnerability is not weakness, it’s connection. As a dancer and captain of my high school team, I’ve tried to foster a space where everyone feels seen and supported. I know what it’s like to struggle silently, so I make it a point to check in with others, to celebrate small wins, and to create a team culture where no one feels alone. Even in my volunteer work—whether it’s helping run a prom dress drive or teaching young kids how to swim—I try to show up with that same mindset. Everyone needs a safe space. Everyone needs kindness. And sometimes, just showing up with a little empathy can make all the difference. I plan to carry these values with me into college, medical school, and beyond. As a future forensic pathologist, I’ll be focused on science, yes—but more importantly, I’ll be focused on people. Every case will be more than a file; it will be someone’s story, someone’s family, someone’s grief. I want to honor that by being not only accurate and detail-oriented, but also compassionate and human. In the end, my experience with mental health has taught me that strength doesn’t always look like perfection. Sometimes it looks like showing up, even when it’s hard. It looks like asking for help, offering it to others, and choosing to be honest about what you’re going through. It looks like turning pain into purpose, and challenge into clarity. That’s the kind of strength I hope to carry with me—into classrooms, labs, crime scenes, and conversations. And that’s the kind of strength I want to use to make a difference.

I’ve been a Sabrina Carpenter fan since her Girl Meets World days—back when she played Maya, the effortlessly cool best friend who somehow managed to be rebellious, hilarious, and wise beyond her years, all while wearing amazing outfits. I’d come home from school, grab a snack, and get glued to the TV, already knowing she’d steal every scene. Even as a kid, I knew: this girl was going places. Fast forward to now, and I’ve seen her live in concert (yes, she ate), screamed every lyric to Feather like it was a universal truth, and followed her transformation from Disney star to pop icon with glitter, grace, and glorious levels of sass. Sabrina isn’t just talented—she’s absolutely magnetic. She’s also, let’s be honest, fun-sized. Meanwhile, I’m six feet tall. If we took a picture together, it would look like the beginning of a very niche buddy comedy. But I kind of love that. Sabrina may be small in stature, but she’s larger than life in confidence, creativity, and vocal runs that defy logic. Her stage presence fills the room—and that’s saying something, coming from someone who can pirouette across a football field without blinking. As a dancer, I’m extra picky about performance quality—and Sabrina delivers. She’s not just singing, she’s storytelling, with every movement, outfit change, and sly smirk. Her artistry has taught me that it’s not about fitting a mold—it’s about owning your space. Whether you’re 4'11" or 6 feet tall (hi), being authentically you is always the right move. Sabrina’s lyrics are witty, vulnerable, and occasionally savage in the best way possible. She captures the chaos of being a young woman with humor and honesty. Whether she’s calling out someone who ghosted her or throwing shade with a smile, she’s saying everything we’ve all thought—but with better rhymes and killer boots. As someone managing anxiety and chronic health conditions like Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and POTS, Sabrina’s career reminds me that resilience and reinvention are powerful. She started on a Disney set, and now she’s commanding stages, charts, and group chats everywhere. Watching her glow up with humor, authenticity, and sparkly eyeliner has helped me stay confident, even on days when things feel overwhelming. So yes, I’m an unapologetic Sabrina Carpenter fan. She makes me laugh, dance (flawlessly, thank you very much), and believe that being smart, strong, sparkly, and just a little bit sarcastic is actually a superpower. If she ever needs a backup dancer who can also perform a flawless crime scene investigation, she knows who to call.

When it comes to Team USA, no athlete inspires me more—or gets louder cheers from me—than Simone Biles. Yes, I’m six feet tall and primarily a dancer and swimmer, not a gymnast. But despite not being able to pull off a single backflip (on purpose), I’ve always been in awe of the way Simone dominates her sport with power, elegance, and an unapologetic sense of self-worth. She’s not just a world-class gymnast; she’s a masterclass in resilience. Simone’s athletic accomplishments speak for themselves: a record-breaking number of medals, skills literally named after her, and gravity-defying routines that make even physics look stunned. But what truly makes her my favorite is her courage off the mat. She’s been vocal about mental health, choosing to prioritize her well-being during the 2020 Tokyo Olympics, even when the world was watching. That moment wasn’t just brave—it was revolutionary. As someone who’s experienced anxiety myself, and who manages chronic health conditions like POTS and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, Simone’s transparency gave me permission to do the same. It’s easy to celebrate athletes when they’re standing on podiums. It’s harder—and more powerful—to support them when they choose to sit something out in order to take care of themselves. That takes a different kind of strength. Watching her handle the pressure with grace made me feel more confident handling my own challenges, both as a student and as a dancer. Simone Biles reminds us that being the best in the world isn’t just about medals or scores—it’s about knowing your limits, setting boundaries, and using your voice. She has redefined what it means to be a champion, and that’s something I’ll cheer for every single time.

Ever since I was young, science has fascinated me, and one of my earliest memories is snuggling up with my mom early in the morning before she went to work as an ICU nurse. As we watched Forensic Files, I could smell her coffee brewing, and I was completely captivated by how science played a crucial role in solving real-life mysteries. It wasn’t just the intrigue of the crime that grabbed my attention; it was the way forensic experts used biology, chemistry, and meticulous investigation to uncover the truth. Little did I know, those quiet mornings would ignite my lifelong passion for forensic science. By fourth grade, I was already experimenting on my own, asking my mom to order agar plates from Amazon (she was a bit shocked but went along with it). I worked on a science fair project testing dog saliva and germs, and that hands-on experience revealed to me that science wasn’t just something I read about—it was something I could use to understand the world around me. This curiosity blossomed into a passion for forensic biology, where I could combine my love for science with a desire to help others. The forensic pathologists and scientists I saw on Forensic Files inspired me to pursue a career where I could use biology to solve real-world problems. Forensic biology lets me investigate the smallest pieces of evidence—whether it’s DNA, tissue samples, or trace evidence—and piece them together to uncover the truth. This career feels particularly meaningful to me because, like my own challenges with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and POTS, I’ve learned that there’s power in finding answers. I want to use my scientific curiosity to provide closure to families and make a difference. Alongside my academic aspirations, I’m equally passionate about community service. I’m involved in Key Club, where I’ve contributed to initiatives like the Prom Dress Drive, which provides dresses and accessories to students in need, helping them feel confident for their big events. I’ve also taught dance and swimming to younger students, instilling confidence, resilience, and teamwork. These experiences have taught me that service doesn’t have to be grand—it can be something small but meaningful, like helping someone feel confident or empowered. As I look to the future, I hope to combine my career goals with my community service ambitions. I want to educate young people—especially young women—about the possibilities in forensic science and other STEM fields, encouraging them to pursue careers in science. I also plan to volunteer with organizations supporting families affected by crime, helping them navigate the difficult process of finding closure after a tragedy. This fall, I’ll attend West Virginia University to study forensic biology, with the goal of becoming a forensic pathologist. I know that my work will involve a lot of science, but what excites me most is the opportunity to use my skills to help others. The books, shows, and personal experiences that have shaped me have given me the tools to do just that—and I can’t wait to continue this journey. Through my passion for science and my desire to serve my community, I hope to make a lasting impact, not just in forensic science, but in the lives of those who need it most.

Murder Mysteries, Microscopes, and the Books That Shaped Me If you asked ten people what kinds of books shaped their future careers, most would probably say something inspirational, maybe even a little philosophical. Me? I owe my ambition to a stack of murder mysteries and forensic thrillers—preferably with a tough, brilliant forensic pathologist solving crimes one autopsy at a time. While other kids were reading about dragons or dystopias, I was nose-deep in Patricia Cornwell novels, making mental notes about trace evidence, time of death, and which lab tool did what. Normal? Maybe not. But I loved every second of it. Reading has always been a huge part of my life, but it wasn’t just about entertainment—it was about discovery. Books became windows into the careers I dreamed about. In the pages of crime thrillers, I found strong, intelligent female characters who used science to speak for those who no longer could. I was captivated by their logic, their precision, and their compassion. These fictional experts didn't just solve mysteries—they gave people closure. That resonated deeply with me. Those stories taught me that justice isn’t always flashy. It’s often quiet, painstaking, and methodical. And sometimes, it’s found beneath a microscope. The characters I read about weren't superheroes—they were scientists. That realization was empowering. It showed me that using my brain and curiosity could be just as powerful as anything in fiction. Books also gave me confidence in the classroom. When I started studying anatomy, biology, and even medical terminology, I already had a foundation—thanks to hours of “light” reading involving toxicology reports and post-mortem exams. It sounds morbid, but it felt like preparation. When you have Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and POTS, you already live with a body that requires constant observation and problem-solving. Reading about forensic pathology made me feel less helpless—it made me feel capable. I’ve also learned empathy from the books I love. Behind every mystery is a human story—someone who mattered. That’s why my ultimate goal is to become a forensic pathologist. I want to help give a voice to the voiceless and bring clarity to families in moments of deep loss. Whether it's solving real-life mysteries or providing closure through science, I want to use my education to make a difference. This fall, I’ll be attending West Virginia University to study forensic biology. I know the work won’t be easy, but I also know the power of being the person who looks at the facts and says, “Here’s what the evidence tells us.” The books I’ve read didn’t just entertain me—they prepared me. They gave me heroes to look up to, career paths to explore, and the understanding that truth and empathy can coexist. By the way, my middle name—and preferred name—is Harper, inspired by Harper Lee, the brilliant author behind To Kill a Mockingbird. Just as Lee used her writing to examine justice, empathy, and human nature, I plan to use my education and passion for forensic science to bring clarity to those in need. Reading shaped my imagination—but more importantly, it shaped my purpose.

One of the most meaningful community events I’ve participated in is the Jefferson High School Prom Dress Drive, organized by Miss Shenandoah’s Teen 2025 in partnership with Project PowHERful. The goal of the event is simple but powerful: collect and distribute prom and homecoming dresses, accessories, and professional clothing to students who might not otherwise be able to afford them. What seems like a room full of clothing racks is actually a space filled with confidence, support, and celebration. I initially volunteered to help sort and organize donations, but it quickly became clear that my job was about more than color-coding dresses or matching shoes. As students came in, some were nervous or quiet, unsure if they belonged or if they'd find something that fit. But with a little encouragement and a lot of patience (plus some impressive fashion detective work), they began to come out of their shells. I watched shy smiles turn into full-on grins as students twirled in front of mirrors, realizing they didn’t just look good—they felt seen. It’s hard to describe the feeling you get from witnessing someone discover their own beauty. For many of these students, this was a chance to feel special during a milestone moment like prom, and it meant the world to be part of making that happen. And let’s be honest—helping someone find the perfect outfit is way more satisfying than anything you’ll see in a makeover montage. That said, I also left with a healthy appreciation for wrinkle release spray, an unreasonable amount of glitter on my face, and a deep respect for anyone who can organize shoes by size under pressure. Events like this may seem small in the grand scheme of things, but they spark something bigger. I’d love to see our community expand efforts like this into year-round support. What if every school had a closet where students could borrow professional clothes for interviews, internships, or job fairs? What if mentorship programs connected students with volunteers in their fields of interest? What if we treated everyday moments with the same importance we give to prom night? This fall, I’ll be attending West Virginia University to study forensic biology with the goal of becoming a forensic pathologist. It might seem like a far leap from styling dresses to performing autopsies, but in both cases, the goal is the same: to give people the dignity and care they deserve. I want to be a voice for those who can no longer speak and bring clarity and compassion to families who are navigating unthinkable loss. The Jefferson High School Prom Dress Drive reminded me that dignity comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s a carefully chosen outfit. Sometimes it’s listening, serving, or simply showing up. And sometimes, it’s being willing to sacrifice your favorite black hoodie to a glitter explosion in the name of making someone feel worthy. Honestly? I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Glitter and all.

Top 3 Billie Eilish Songs That Speak to My Soul (and My Nervous System) Being a Billie Eilish fan means accepting that your playlists will be equal parts hauntingly beautiful, emotionally devastating, and weirdly comforting. Billie doesn’t just write music—she exposes the things we often feel but don’t say out loud. For someone like me, who lives with anxiety, POTS, Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, and a tendency to overthink everything, her songs feel like journal entries from someone who “gets it.” Here are the top three Billie songs that hit me hardest—and why. 1. “everything i wanted” This song feels like a warm, eerie hug for anyone who’s ever felt invisible in their struggles. It resonates with me because it reflects the strange duality of success and sadness—the feeling of achieving something but still not feeling "okay." As someone who has accomplished a lot academically and creatively, I’ve sometimes battled the guilt of not feeling as proud or happy as I’m “supposed” to. When Billie sings, “I had a dream I got everything I wanted... but when I wake up I see you with me,” it reminds me of the support I’ve had from my family, teachers, and friends—the people who help me stay grounded when my mind tries to spiral. It’s a mental health anthem disguised as a lullaby. 2. “idontwannabeyouanymore” Billie absolutely nailed what it feels like to battle insecurity and self-doubt. This song hits especially hard for someone like me who’s tall (six feet!) and often feels like I literally and metaphorically take up more space than I should. I’ve spent years trying to embrace my uniqueness, and this song reminds me I’m not alone in those struggles. The line “If teardrops could be bottled, there’d be swimming pools filled by models” is genius—and painfully accurate. It’s comforting to hear someone admit that being trapped in your own head can be exhausting. But instead of drowning in those thoughts, Billie’s honesty makes me want to swim out of them and keep going. 3. “bury a friend” Okay, this one is intense—and a little creepy—but hear me out. The chaotic, disjointed nature of this song actually mirrors what anxiety feels like. It captures that restless, questioning, heart-racing energy that never seems to have an off switch. The way the music stutters and pulses reminds me of what it’s like to feel your body reacting before your brain can explain why. For someone who deals with both anxiety and the unpredictability of POTS, this song somehow makes the chaos feel cool. Also, any artist bold enough to whisper "What do you want from me?" like she’s in a horror movie and a therapy session at the same time gets my full respect. Billie Eilish’s music resonates with me because she doesn’t pretend everything’s perfect. She says the uncomfortable, messy, dark stuff with poetry, vulnerability, and just enough weirdness to make you feel okay being exactly who you are. Whether I’m dancing, studying anatomy, or just trying to survive a high-symptom day, her songs remind me that feeling deeply is a strength—not a flaw. And honestly? If I ever need a soundtrack for a dramatic science fair flashback or a moody forensic pathology montage in my future career, I know exactly where to start.

Mental health has played a powerful role in shaping who I am, both in quiet, everyday ways and through moments of deep grief. I’ve lived with anxiety for most of my life, learning how to navigate its challenges while also trying to show up for others. That personal experience has made me more introspective, more compassionate, and more committed to creating a future where mental health isn’t something we whisper about—but something we understand, support, and protect. Last fall, two of my classmates died by suicide. Though we weren’t particularly close, the impact of their loss has stayed with me. One was the brother of a friend; the other, someone I had known for years—we went through daycare, pre-K, elementary school, middle school, and part of high school together. When I heard the news, it didn’t matter that we weren’t in daily contact anymore. The grief and shock felt personal, like a piece of the community had suddenly gone missing. What struck me the most was how invisible their pain had been. On the surface, nothing seemed different. That realization forced me to rethink how we view mental health—not just as an individual challenge, but as a shared responsibility. It made me start checking in more with people around me. I realized how easy it is to assume someone is okay just because they’re smiling or showing up to school. And I saw clearly how silence around mental health can be devastating. My own journey with anxiety has made me more attuned to others’ emotional states, but I’ve also learned that mental health isn’t something anyone can handle alone. I’ve relied on supportive friends, my family, and trusted adults to get through difficult moments. Those experiences helped me recognize the value of compassion and communication—skills that now shape how I move through the world and the kind of person I strive to be. It’s also a big part of why I want to become a forensic pathologist. I want to serve in a field where I can give voice to those who can no longer speak. Working in forensic science won’t change the past, but it can provide clarity, justice, and sometimes even peace. Experiencing loss in my own community deepened my resolve to contribute to meaningful work—work that honors lives and helps families find answers in the face of heartbreak. Mental health awareness has also changed my relationships. I’ve become more open about what I’m going through, and in return, others often feel safe opening up to me. I’ve learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness; it’s how we connect and support each other through difficult times. My dance team, Key Club, and volunteer work have all become spaces where I try to bring empathy and encouragement, making sure others know they’re not alone. Understanding mental health has shifted how I see the world. I no longer view strength as pretending everything is fine. I see strength in asking for help, in speaking up for others, in being gentle in a world that can be harsh. Mental health affects every part of who we are—how we learn, how we lead, how we relate to others—and I believe it deserves just as much care and attention as our physical health. Losing classmates to suicide changed me. It made me more determined to speak up, to listen more closely, and to work toward a future where no one feels like their pain has to stay hidden. It also reminded me that healing happens in community—and I hope to be someone who helps build that kind of support wherever I go.

In Olivia Rodrigo’s “ballad of a homeschooled girl,” she sings, “Each time I step outside, it’s social suicide.” While the line is written with humor, it struck a deeply personal chord with me. That lyric captures what so many teenagers—myself included—quietly experience: the overwhelming anxiety of simply existing in a world that feels like it’s always watching and judging. My name is Jude-Desiree Boone, but I go by Harper, and I’ve spent much of my teenage life learning to live with anxiety, as well as chronic conditions like POTS and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. These invisible illnesses add another layer to the already complicated puzzle of adolescence. There were many days when just walking into a classroom or showing up to dance practice felt like stepping into a spotlight I never asked for. I’d overthink everything I said, how I looked, and whether I was being “too much” or “not enough.” That one lyric sums up the mental loop that’s played in my head far too often. And yet, even through those struggles, I’ve learned to push forward. I’ve led my high school dance team as captain, worked hard academically, and found ways to support others in my community. But Rodrigo’s lyric reminds me that the strength we show on the outside often masks the battles we’re fighting within. It also reflects the bigger truth of adolescence—trying to find where you fit while constantly feeling like you don’t. One of the reasons I’m such a fan of GUTS is because Olivia Rodrigo doesn’t shy away from these kinds of uncomfortable feelings. She puts them front and center—awkwardness, insecurity, heartbreak, overthinking—and in doing so, gives her listeners permission to feel all of it without shame. For me, this kind of honesty is powerful. It reminds me that it’s okay to not have everything figured out and that there’s value in simply being real. This fall, I’ll be attending West Virginia University to major in forensic biology, with the ultimate goal of becoming a forensic pathologist. I want to give a voice to those who can no longer speak for themselves—to bring justice and truth into the world. My experiences living with anxiety and chronic illness have taught me empathy, resilience, and the importance of listening closely to what others may not be saying. I plan to carry those lessons with me into my studies and my future career. Connecting Rodrigo’s lyric to my own life has helped me realize that I’m not alone in these feelings—that the messiness of being a teenager is more common than it seems. Adolescence is complicated and often uncomfortable, but it’s also full of growth and unexpected strength. I’m proud of how far I’ve come, and even more excited about where I’m going.

I’ve loved Broadway musicals for as long as I can remember, but Wicked has always stood out as something truly special. It’s more than just a show to me—it’s a story that mirrors my own journey in unexpected and powerful ways. Elphaba’s story of being misunderstood, judged for things beyond her control, and ultimately finding her inner strength resonates deeply with my own experiences living with anxiety, POTS, and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. Like Elphaba, I’ve often felt like I had to prove myself—whether it was pushing through physical challenges in school or learning how to speak up and lead as dance team captain. Watching her struggle and grow reminds me that it’s okay to be different, and that real strength comes from embracing who you are, even when the world tries to tell you otherwise. One of the lines that sticks with me the most is from the song Defying Gravity: “It’s time to try defying gravity.” Every time I hear that, I feel like it’s speaking directly to me. I’ve had to defy a lot—health limitations, anxiety, self-doubt—but like Elphaba, I’ve found that I’m capable of more than I ever imagined. That message of resilience and transformation has helped me keep going, even on the hardest days. I love Wicked not just for the music and magic (though those are incredible), but because it celebrates the power of being different, the beauty of inner strength, and the importance of staying true to yourself. That’s a message I carry with me every day—and why I’ll always be a fan.

My name is Jude-Desiree "Harper" Boone, and I am a passionate, determined, and community-driven individual. Throughout my high school years, I’ve faced a variety of challenges, including living with chronic conditions like POTS and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, as well as managing anxiety. These obstacles have shaped me in ways that have taught me resilience, compassion, and the importance of perseverance. I’ve learned to not only face my challenges head-on but to use them as stepping stones for personal growth. I believe these qualities make me well-suited to receive this scholarship, as they align with my deep desire to make a meaningful impact in my community and beyond. In addition to overcoming my personal challenges, I’ve always been dedicated to giving back to my community. As a member of Key Club, I’ve worked on various projects that have ranged from organizing dress drives to beautifying my school grounds and supporting younger students in science projects. These experiences have shown me the power of small acts of kindness and how they can have a ripple effect on others. By contributing to my community, I’ve realized how deeply rewarding it is to help others—whether that’s through service, mentorship, or simply providing a supportive environment. One of my greatest passions is dance, which has provided me with a sense of identity and purpose throughout high school. As captain of my dance team, I learned the importance of leadership, teamwork, and fostering an inclusive, positive environment. I used my role as captain to encourage my teammates to push past their limits, build confidence, and support each other. Dance has given me a creative outlet and a way to express myself that I am incredibly grateful for, and I plan to continue pursuing it in college as I know how important it is for personal well-being and community building. I also aspire to use my education to make a positive impact on a larger scale. Whether through healthcare, advocacy, or public service, I am driven to create change that benefits others. I’ve always been drawn to forensic science, and I plan to pursue a career as a forensic pathologist. My goal is to give a voice to victims who can no longer speak for themselves and help bring closure and justice to families. Through this work, I hope to contribute to a society where justice is more accessible, and victims’ stories are never forgotten. This scholarship will allow me to pursue higher education, a step that is critical for achieving my long-term goals. College will equip me with the knowledge, skills, and experiences I need to make a tangible difference in my community and the world. I hope to use my education not only to further my career but also to continue my journey of self-improvement and service to others. By selecting me for this scholarship, you’re not just helping me achieve my academic dreams, but also empowering me to keep giving back to my community, pursue my passion for forensic science, and continue making a positive impact in the lives of others.

Living with anxiety, along with POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome) and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, has shaped my journey in ways that I never could have predicted. Every day, I face a series of challenges, both physical and mental, that require me to navigate life with patience and perseverance. While these conditions can sometimes feel overwhelming, they have also given me the strength to push forward and the clarity to understand why pursuing a college degree is so important to me. Anxiety, especially, has been a constant companion in my life. At its worst, it can paralyze me, making even simple tasks feel like insurmountable obstacles. It’s often triggered by uncertainty, changes in routine, or stress, and it can affect my ability to focus and interact with others. On days when my anxiety spikes, it can be difficult to even leave the house, let alone keep up with schoolwork or personal commitments. But over time, I’ve learned how to manage my anxiety by recognizing my triggers and finding coping mechanisms that work for me, like grounding exercises and relying on my support network. One of the ways I’ve been able to keep going is by focusing on my passions, particularly dance. Dance has been my therapy, my escape, and my way of grounding myself. The physical movement allows me to focus on something other than my worries, and the creative expression lets me channel my emotions in a healthy way. Even on days when anxiety is heavy, dancing brings a sense of peace, helping me regain control when everything feels out of my grasp. It’s taught me the importance of self-care and resilience, and it’s one of the reasons why pursuing a college degree is so crucial to me. For me, college represents more than just an academic achievement—it’s a place where I can continue to grow, both personally and professionally. I’ve faced many obstacles, but I’ve never let them define me. Instead, they’ve motivated me to pursue a path that aligns with my passions and long-term goals. My health conditions may limit me in certain ways, but they’ve also pushed me to develop a strong sense of determination. I want to pursue a college degree to gain the skills and knowledge that will allow me to make a positive impact, especially in areas like healthcare, education, or advocacy, where I can use my experiences to help others facing similar struggles. Pursuing a degree will also allow me to take on new challenges, but with the added support and resources that college provides. I’m excited by the idea of being in an environment that encourages growth, offers opportunities to learn from diverse perspectives, and allows me to collaborate with others. In many ways, my health struggles have made me more resilient and better prepared to handle the ups and downs of college life. I’ve learned how to manage setbacks, stay organized despite challenges, and reach out for support when I need it. These skills will be invaluable as I move into the next chapter of my life. Ultimately, my experiences with anxiety and chronic illness have taught me that life is unpredictable, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less worth pursuing. College is important to me because it represents a chance to build the future I’ve always dreamed of, despite the hurdles I may face along the way. It’s an opportunity to learn, grow, and, most importantly, prove to myself that no challenge is too big to overcome.

For me, continuing my education is all about unlocking new opportunities and growing in ways I never imagined. I want to dive deeper into the subjects that interest me, gain the skills to help others, and use my education to make a difference. I’ve always felt connected to my home state of West Virginia, and I hope to use what I learn in college to give back to the community that’s shaped me. Education isn’t just a way to get a degree—it’s the foundation for making the world a better place, and I’m excited to take the next step in that journey. One of the things that has really shaped who I am is dance. Being on my high school’s dance team wasn’t just about learning new moves—it completely transformed me. Dance gave me a way to express myself, build confidence, and find a community that felt like family. It’s hard to explain, but there’s something so powerful about moving your body to music, and it became my go-to way of dealing with stress. Whether it was a tough school day or just a rough moment in life, dance was always there to lift me up. Being captain of the dance team my senior year was definitely one of the highlights. I loved the chance to lead and support my teammates, watching everyone grow in their own way. I made it a priority to create an environment where everyone felt comfortable, valued, and motivated to do their best. Seeing the team bond and improve together was so rewarding. It also taught me the importance of being a good leader—not just by giving orders, but by listening and encouraging others to shine. But dance wasn’t just about team spirit—it was also a way for me to cope with some of the tougher moments in my life. I deal with health challenges that can make day-to-day tasks feel overwhelming, but dance always gave me an outlet. On days when everything felt like too much, dance was my escape. It wasn’t just a hobby—it was a way for me to clear my mind, express how I was feeling, and reset. I honestly don’t know how I would have made it through some of those tough moments without it. When it comes to crime, I’ve been fortunate that it hasn’t impacted me directly, but it has shaped my career aspirations. I’ve always been interested in forensic science and have a deep desire to become a forensic pathologist. I want to be the voice for victims who can no longer speak for themselves. I believe that by uncovering the truth behind a person’s death, I can help bring justice to those who have been wronged and give closure to families. Forensic pathology blends my interest in science with a desire to make a real difference in the world, and I’m eager to pursue the education and training needed to follow this path. At the end of the day, art—especially dance—has been a huge part of my life. It’s given me the confidence to keep going, the joy of being part of something bigger than myself, and the ability to cope with challenges. I want to keep building on that by furthering my education and using it to help others. I’m ready for the next chapter, and I can’t wait to see where it takes me.

Throughout high school, my volunteer work has helped shape my goals for higher education and deepened my love for my home state of West Virginia. Through projects that serve others, I’ve gained a clearer understanding of the kind of person I want to become—someone who gives back, lifts others up, and works to strengthen the communities that raised them. As an active member of Key Club, I’ve participated in a wide range of service activities, each leaving a unique impact. One of the most meaningful was the Jefferson High School Dress Drive, where we collected homecoming and prom dresses, suits, accessories, and even interview clothing for students in need. Watching students light up as they found outfits that made them feel confident and included reminded me that true service preserves people’s dignity. That experience helped me understand how something small—a dress, a tie—can spark a sense of belonging and self-worth. It also inspired me to think about how I can continue creating opportunities for others, especially in areas like rural West Virginia, where access to resources can be limited. In another project, I helped plant flowers around our school grounds. While it may seem simple, this effort showed me how even small beautification projects can change the atmosphere of a place. Seeing students and teachers enjoy the bright, welcoming environment reminded me how much our surroundings affect how we feel. I began to think about how environment, wellness, and education are all connected—ideas I hope to explore more deeply in college through studies in public health or community development. One of the most rewarding aspects of my service work has been engaging with younger students. As part of National Honor Society and my science class, I visited local elementary schools to lead hands-on science projects. Watching the excitement and curiosity in those kids’ eyes reminded me how powerful education can be. It also helped me realize how much I enjoy mentoring and teaching—experiences that have made me consider how education might play a role in my future career, whether as a teacher, healthcare provider, or advocate. All of these experiences have shaped my belief in the importance of service, especially in my own state. West Virginia is more than just where I live—it’s home. It’s a place filled with resilient, hardworking people who care deeply about one another. Through volunteering, I’ve come to appreciate the unique challenges and strengths of our communities, and I’m determined to use my education to give back. Whether by improving access to health resources, supporting local schools, or starting new initiatives to empower youth, I want to use what I learn in college to strengthen the state that has given me so much. Volunteering has also helped me develop real-life skills like leadership, teamwork, and time management. But more than anything, it’s taught me that service is not just about helping others—it’s about growing alongside them. Each project has brought me closer to understanding who I am and what I value: community, kindness, and perseverance. I’m excited to pursue higher education not just to earn a degree, but to prepare for a life of purpose. I want to be someone who listens, who leads, and who brings hope—especially to places like West Virginia, where I see endless potential. My service experiences have shown me that change starts with those who care enough to act. I’m ready to take that next step.

As a dancer and student with POTS and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, my journey on stage—and in the classroom—has been a constant exploration of resilience, where every step forward is a testament to my ability to overcome limitations. While my body may not always cooperate, my passion for dance has fueled my determination to find creative solutions and redefine what it means to be a dancer. Instead of being defined by my diagnosis, I’ve chosen to let it become a part of my strength. My dance training, coupled with my academic pursuits in subjects like anatomy and physiology, has given me a deeper understanding of the intricate workings of the human body. This knowledge hasn’t just helped me academically—it has become essential to managing my conditions in a thoughtful and proactive way. By learning how muscles, joints, and systems function (and malfunction), I’ve been able to build daily routines, adjust my training methods, and listen to my body with intention. This unique combination of dance and science has been incredibly empowering, transforming my challenges into tools for growth. But beyond managing my health and academics, I’ve had to navigate what it means to be a young woman in a world that still often places male voices and bodies at the forefront—whether on stage, in medicine, or in leadership. While dance is one of the few sports dominated by female participation, it’s still heavily influenced by male choreographers, directors, and traditional ideals of beauty and strength. Similarly, in classrooms and doctor’s offices, I’ve had to learn how to speak up, advocate for myself, and be taken seriously, even when my pain was invisible or misunderstood. These experiences have taught me that strength doesn’t always look like perfection or power—it looks like persistence. It looks like showing up to class even on days when standing feels like a victory. It looks like learning to say “no” when my body needs rest, even when my heart wants to keep going. It looks like rewriting the rules for what it means to be both a dancer and a young woman who leads with empathy and determination. Balancing my health, schoolwork, and training has taught me valuable lessons about time management, boundary-setting, and self-worth. I’ve learned how to create schedules that allow for flexibility and rest, how to communicate openly with teachers and peers, and how to measure success not by comparison but by personal progress. Each of these skills has helped me grow into a more confident, capable individual, both in and out of the spotlight. What I’ve found most powerful, though, is the sense of community I’ve built through vulnerability. By being honest about my conditions and sharing my experiences, I’ve connected with others facing similar struggles—especially other young women who are learning to own their voices and challenges. Through these connections, I’ve realized that our stories matter, and that the strength we build through adversity can ripple outward and inspire change in others. The support I received throughout high school—along with my own willingness to adapt and grow—has been paramount to my success on and off the stage. My journey has not been easy, but it has shaped me into someone who is resilient, compassionate, and unafraid to challenge norms. I am proud of who I am becoming: a stronger, more self-aware young woman ready to thrive in a world that often underestimates those who move differently, speak softly, or take their time to rise.