Mental health is important to me as a student because I know how deeply it can affect every part of a person’s life. It affects concentration, motivation, attendance, relationships, and the ability to complete everyday tasks. A student may look successful from the outside while struggling internally. I have maintained a high GPA and earned recognition on the President’s List, but those achievements do not erase the mental health challenges I have faced. I have experienced depression, OCD, panic attacks, and a psychiatric hospitalization. I also live with chronic physical illnesses that require ongoing treatment. Managing my health while attending college has taught me that academic ability does not protect someone from becoming overwhelmed. Sometimes success means earning a high grade. Other times it means asking for an accommodation, attending an appointment, or completing one assignment during a difficult week. Mental health support gives students the stability they need to continue their education instead of feeling ashamed for struggling. I also understand why students may hesitate to ask for help. They may fear being judged, misunderstood, or treated as less capable. My own experiences taught me that needing support is not evidence of weakness. Receiving appropriate care can make persistence and growth possible. My experiences have also shaped my interest in psychology and criminal justice. I am majoring in criminal justice and minoring in psychology because I want to become a forensic psychologist. I am especially interested in wrongful convictions, interrogation psychology, and the ways mental illness can affect behavior within the legal system. During my internship with the DeKalb County District Attorney’s Office, I worked with Victim Services in the Homicide and Gangs Unit. I supported victims’ families, helped provide grief and therapy resources, and observed emotionally difficult court proceedings. That experience showed me that people involved in the justice system often carry trauma that others cannot see. I advocate for mental health by taking people seriously and helping them find practical support. I completed Adult Mental Health First Aid training so I could better recognize warning signs and respond without judgment. When someone is struggling, I listen before assuming what they need. I encourage professional help when it is necessary and share useful resources when I have them. I also speak honestly about mental health because secrecy and shame can convince people that they are alone. In my school community, I advocate for students using accommodations and asking professors for help. Accommodations are not unfair advantages. They allow students with disabilities and health conditions to access the same education as everyone else. I have learned to communicate with professors, advisors, and disability services when a health issue affects my coursework. By doing that openly, I help challenge the idea that capable students should handle everything alone. Mental health matters to me because students cannot fully learn when they are focused on surviving. Advocacy does not always require a large organization or public campaign. It can begin with listening, sharing a resource, checking on someone, or refusing to treat mental illness as a personal failure. My goal is to bring that approach into forensic psychology and advocate for people whose behavior is often judged before their experiences are understood.

My disability taught me systems are built around what is common, and when you are not common, you spend a lot of time trying to convince people that what you are experiencing is real. I was nine when I was diagnosed with Juvenile Dermatomyositis, a rare autoimmune disease. By the time doctors finally figured out what was wrong, my lungs had already been permanently damaged. A lot of the delay came down to things I couldn't control. My skin was too dark, they said, and the symptoms didn't look the way they expected them to. While people argued over whether it was eczema or hormones, my lungs developed honeycombing that could never be reversed. Eventually, I was told I had three to five years to live without a transplant. I was a kid, but I learned being sick and being believed are two different things. Because my case was so rare and so severe, I became something doctors had not really seen before. I was the only child my age in Georgia with the condition. Around the same time I was diagnosed, a young Black boy with the same disease died. A lot of the medications and treatments doctors tried with me ended up helping them recognize and treat Black children who came after me. I never felt angry about that. I just think about how strange it is that sometimes people have to suffer before systems learn how to do better. Living with a physical disability means my body has opinions about everything I do. I've done homework from infusion centers with a needle in my chest port. I've studied through migraines caused by medications and gone to class after nights where I barely slept because pain doesn't really care that you have an exam the next morning. Life keeps moving, and eventually you stop waiting for things to get easier and just learn how to move with it. The financial side of being sick is something people don't talk about enough. Medical bills, transportation, groceries, responsibilities at home they don't disappear because you're exhausted. I worked overnight shifts while helping take care of my mother, who is a three-time cancer survivor and lives with congestive heart failure and permanent nerve damage. Looking back, I think I got so used to being tired that I stopped noticing it. Somehow, through all of that, I graduated with a 4.02 GPA and made the President's List for four semesters. I never saw those accomplishments as me defeating my disability. I just wanted proof that my goals still mattered, even with everything else going on. I think being disabled also changed the way I see institutions. I know what it feels like when your pain doesn't fit someone's expectations. I know what it feels like to be overlooked. Once you've experienced that, it's hard not to notice when other people are being ignored too. I study Criminal Justice and Psychology at GSU because I want to become a forensic psychologist. During my internship with the District Attorney's Office, I sat with families going through some of the hardest moments of their lives. I helped victims navigate systems that often felt cold and confusing because I understood what it felt like to need help and keep running into barriers. People like to talk about resilience in a really inspirational way, but I don't think that's what this experience gave me. It made me pay attention. It made me question things. It made me unwilling to accept "that's just how it is" when people are being left behind.

Before I ever understood what mental health meant, I understood what it felt like to be different. Living with a chronic autoimmune disease from childhood meant hospitals, medications, and conversations about transplants became normal to me long before they should have. Physical illness forced me to grow up quickly, but it also made me painfully aware of how invisible suffering can be. People can look perfectly fine while carrying burdens that consume every part of their lives. I eventually learned that the same thing is true for the mind. My own struggles with anxiety, obsessive thoughts, depression, and trauma did not make me feel resilient. They made me feel ashamed. I spent years believing that if I were stronger, more disciplined, or simply more grateful, I would stop feeling the way I did. They say comparison is the thief of joy but it’s hard not to compare yourself to everyone who seemed happy when you felt like you were breaking inside. Instead of asking for help I became very good at hiding. Hiding exhaustion. Hiding fear. Hiding the fact that some days getting out of bed felt like an accomplishment. Pretending protected me from judgment but it also isolated me. There is something deeply lonely about suffering while convincing everyone around you that you are fine. That loneliness changed the way I view other people. Experiencing my own struggles made it impossible for me to see the world in simple categories. I stopped believe that people are either strong or weak, good or bad, stable or unstable. Human beings are far more complicated than that. The classmate who seems lazy may be drowning in depression. The mom who is constantly overwhelmed and working hard may be experiencing burnout. The friend who constantly apologizes may be carrying years of trauma. The person everyone describes as difficult may have spent their entire life feeling abandoned. Pain changes people, and understanding that truth has made me slower to judge and quicker to listen. Those experiences have also changed my relationships. I do not think love is shown through grand gestures as much as it is shown through patience. Some of the people who made the biggest difference in my life never solved my problems. They simply stayed. They sat with me when I was overwhelmed. They reminded me that I was more than my worst moments. Their compassion taught me something I carry into every relationship now. People do not always need answers. Sometimes they need someone willing to remain present while they find their own. My experiences with mental health also shaped my goals. Studying Criminal Justice and Psychology has shown me how often trauma, grief, and mental illness intersect with systems that were never designed with compassion in mind. During my internship with the DeKalb County District Attorney’s Office, I worked with victims and families whose lives had been shattered by violence. Sitting with people in the aftermath of unimaginable loss taught me that pain does not follow rules. Grief is messy sometimes violent. Trauma is messy. Healing is messy and never the same for each person. Yet people continue moving forward anyway. Witnessing that strength deepened my desire to pursue a career where I can advocate for vulnerable populations and help people feel seen rather than reduced to a diagnosis,a statistic, or a case number. Mental health has changed my understanding of the world because it changed my understanding of people. I used to think strength meant enduring everything alone with grace. I used to think vulnerability was something to overcome. Now I believe the opposite. I think some of the strongest people are those who wake up every day carrying invisible battles and still choose to love, hope, and keep going. I think compassion matters more than assumptions. I think being understood means more to people than they think and it can save lives. Most of all, I have learned that people should not have to earn empathy. They should not have to reach a breaking point before they are taken seriously. They should not have to hide their pain to make others comfortable. If my experiences have given me anything, they have given me the conviction that every person deserves dignity, especially on the days when they struggle to believe they deserve it themselves.

I used to think surviving was enough. For most of my childhood, doctors told my family I probably would not live long enough to think about college, careers, or the future in general. I was diagnosed with Juvenile Dermatomyositis, a rare autoimmune disease that attacked my muscles, skin, and lungs. Before my diagnosis, my symptoms were repeatedly dismissed because the signs presented differently on darker skin. By the time doctors understood what was happening, the disease had already damaged my lungs. I spent years moving between infusions, scans, medications, and hospital rooms while trying to grow up at the same time. Those experiences changed the way I see systems, power, and justice. I am now a first-generation college student majoring in Criminal Justice with a minor in Psychology because I want to work at the intersection of law, behavior, and advocacy. My goal is to become a criminal psychologist or attorney focused on systemic reform, wrongful convictions, and the treatment of marginalized communities within both the legal and healthcare systems. I want to help people who are ignored, misjudged, or treated like statistics instead of human beings. Growing up chronically ill taught me how deeply inequality shapes outcomes. I watched doctors dismiss pain because they could not visibly see it. I learned how access to care, race, income, and education can determine whether someone receives help or gets left behind. I also learned how easily institutions can fail people while still appearing functional from the outside. Those lessons followed me into my interest in criminal justice. I became fascinated with forensic psychology, interrogations, false confessions, and the way mental illness impacts behavior and sentencing. I started asking difficult questions about who gets believed, who gets protected, and who gets punished. Outside of school, I try to serve my community in direct and practical ways. I have volunteered through LifeLine Animal Project fostering rescue animals and bottle-feeding neonatal kittens. I also participated in advocacy work surrounding Juvenile Dermatomyositis awareness, especially for children of color whose symptoms are often overlooked. My mother and I have spoken publicly online about my illness in hopes of helping families recognize warning signs earlier. After sharing my story, one young girl was able to receive treatment sooner because her family recognized similarities in her symptoms. That moment reminded me that even small acts of honesty can save lives. I am also deeply interested in victim advocacy and restorative justice. Through my studies and experiences, I have realized that helping people does not always look dramatic. Sometimes it means listening carefully, researching thoroughly, or standing beside someone during the worst moment of their life. I want a career where I can combine analytical thinking with compassion and use both to challenge systems that fail vulnerable people. Catrina Aquilino’s life reflected curiosity, service, and a belief that every person deserved care regardless of their background. That belief resonates with me deeply. I know what it feels like to depend on strangers to take your suffering seriously. Because of that, I want my career to become a source of protection, advocacy, and dignity for others.

I never had a roadmap for this. Nobody in my family had been here before me so there was no one to call when I did not understand my financial aid award letter or did not know what a credit hour was or sat in my first college classroom wondering if I actually belonged there. I figured it out the same way I have figured out most things in my life. By refusing to stop moving until something made sense. Being first generation does not feel like a badge. It feels like building a house with no foundation already poured. Every decision I make, every semester I finish, every obstacle I get through is laying something down for whoever comes after me. My younger family members are watching. My mother is watching. And I feel that every single day I show up. My mother never got to finish her education the way she wanted to. She was too busy surviving. Cancer. Heart failure. Domestic violence. She poured everything she had into making sure I had a shot she never got. There were nights she was sick and still made sure my assignments were done and my appointments were kept. She never said this out loud but I understood it. This degree is hers too. Getting it is the least I can do with everything she gave up. In college I am pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Criminal Justice with a minor in Psychology and a concentration in Legal Studies at Georgia State University. I chose this path because I know what it feels like when systems decide your pain does not qualify for urgency. I was misdiagnosed for months as a child because my skin was too dark to show the classic symptoms of the rare autoimmune disease that was destroying my lungs. That experience did not just change my health. It changed everything about how I understand power and who gets protected by it. I currently intern with the District Attorney’s Office in the Homicide and Gangs unit as a victims advocate. I sit with families at the worst moments of their lives and make sure they are not forgotten in the process. That work confirmed what I already knew. I want to spend my career at the intersection of forensic psychology and criminal law advocating for people who were failed before they ever walked into a courtroom. My plan is grounded and intentional. I maintain a 4.02 GPA while managing a chronic illness, caregiving for my mother, and building financial stability through savings, investments, and income I manage carefully. My grandparents have set aside savings for my education. I have stocks and a savings account earning interest. I do not take any of it for granted because I know how quickly things can shift. After my undergraduate degree I plan to pursue either a JD or a graduate degree in forensic psychology. I am currently doing research in social and behavioral health of adolescents which is helping me figure out which direction serves the work best. Being first generation means I am the first but I refuse to be the last. Everything I build here I am building for the people behind me who deserve a foundation I never had.

I never viewed higher education as simply a degree. To me it represents stability, independence, and the ability to create change in systems that often fail vulnerable people. Growing up low income while managing a severe chronic illness forced me to understand very early how much access, education,and opportunity shape a person’s future. For much of my childhood, college did not even feel guaranteed. I was diagnosed with Juvenile Dermatomyositis after months of doctors dismissing my symptoms because my skin did not present the typical signs they were trained to recognize. By the time I was properly diagnosed my lungs had already been damaged. Doctors eventually told my family I likely would not survive past fourteen without a lung transplant that I probably would not survive either. While most children were planning future careers casually, I spent years focused on survival, hospital visits, surgeries, infusions, and medications. At the same time, my family struggled financially under the weight of medical bills, transportation costs, and instability. My mother worked night shifts at Grady Hospital while battling cancer and recovering from a medical injury she sustained while working in healthcare. My grandparents opened their home to us when medical expenses became overwhelming. My grandmother retired as a surgical technician partly to help raise me while my mother worked overnight shifts. I watched multiple generations of my family sacrifice financially and emotionally to keep me alive and supported. Those experiences completely changed the way I view education. Higher education, for me, is not about status or prestige. It is about gaining the tools, knowledge, and professional credibility necessary to advocate for people who are ignored by larger systems. I currently study Criminal Justice with a minor in Psychology because I want to work in criminal psychology, behavioral analysis, and systemic reform. I am especially interested in wrongful convictions, interrogation psychology, trauma, gang violence, and how mental health intersects with the legal system. My experiences with medical bias made me deeply aware of what happens when institutions stop seeing people as individuals. I understand what it feels like to know something is wrong while authority figures dismiss your reality. That perspective is one of the main reasons I want to work in fields connected to justice reform and advocacy. Higher education is already helping me build that future. Through my coursework, research training, certifications, and experiences around the District Attorney’s Office involving homicide and gang-related cases, I have begun understanding how deeply violence, trauma, poverty, and systemic inequality shape communities. These experiences strengthened my desire to work with vulnerable populations and contribute to meaningful reform rather than simply observing problems from a distance. Outside of school, I have also worked consistently while balancing my health and academics. I have experience in food service, catering, scheduling, customer service, and community advocacy work surrounding chronic illness awareness. My mother and I have openly educated people online about Juvenile Dermatomyositis, particularly the lack of awareness surrounding how the disease appears in children of color. Through those conversations, another young girl was able to receive medical attention earlier after her family recognized symptoms through our advocacy. That moment showed me that creating a positive impact does not always require enormous resources. Sometimes information, honesty, and persistence can change someone else’s trajectory entirely. In the future, I want my career to combine psychology, criminal justice, and advocacy in ways that help people who are often overlooked by institutions. I want to contribute to research, support reform efforts, and advocate for individuals harmed by systemic failures. I also want to continue speaking openly about healthcare inequities and chronic illness awareness in underserved communities. Higher education is giving me more than a career path. It is giving me the ability to transform survival into purpose and use my experiences to help people who feel unseen, unheard, or left behind by the systems meant to protect them.

My “awkward” thing is that I feel everything too deeply while also analyzing everything too much. It is a very strange combination to live with. I was the kid who cried over injured animals on the side of the road, got emotionally attached to fictional characters, and stayed awake replaying conversations wondering if someone secretly felt hurt by something I said three weeks earlier. At the same time, I was also quietly analyzing people constantly: their tone, body language, inconsistencies, motivations, and emotional reactions. I still do it now without realizing it sometimes. I also ask questions that people usually keep to themselves. As a child, I would randomly ask adults things like, “What happens when people know they’re dying?” which understandably made conversations very uncomfortable very quickly. Even now, I tend to skip surface level interactions and accidentally turn normal conversations into psychological deep dives I blame my ethics class. Some people find that interesting. Other people look at me like I am the oddest person in the world. Being homeschooled and chronically ill amplified that awkwardness. Much of my childhood was spent at infusions, appointments, surgeries, and recovering at home instead of participating in normal school routines. I spent a lot of time alone, which made me observant but also slightly detached socially. I became very self-aware very early. Doctors once told my family I likely would not live past fourteen without a lung transplant I probably would not survive. When you grow up hearing things like that, your brain develops differently. While other kids casually planned for adulthood, I kept journals full of things I wanted to do before I died because I genuinely did not expect adulthood to happen for me. At the same time, I desperately wanted to seem normal. I tried to hide how emotionally sensitive I actually was because people often mistake sensitivity for weakness. In reality, I think it is the reason I connect so deeply to the work I want to pursue now. I currently study Criminal Justice with a minor in Psychology because I am fascinated by human behavior, systemic injustice. I have also spent time around the District Attorney’s Office observing areas connected to homicide and gang-related cases. What stood out to me most was not only the violence itself, but how many layers of grief, fear, trauma, and generational pain surrounded every case. I could not stop thinking about the families afterward. That emotional sensitivity people once saw as awkward became the reason I care so deeply about advocacy and justice now. Ironically, the same traits that made me feel out of place growing up became strengths academically and professionally. My hyperawareness helps me notice patterns. My emotional sensitivity helps me empathize with people others dismiss too quickly. My curiosity pushes me to ask difficult questions and look deeper into situations instead of accepting easy answers. I also think what makes me stand out is that I learned how to balance realism with ambition. I know what exhaustion, uncertainty, and survival mode actually feel like. I know what it means to study after infusions, work while managing chronic illness, and continue building a future while never fully knowing what your health may look like years from now. But I also know how to keep moving anyway. So I guess my “awkward” thing is this I care too much, notice too much, and think too deeply about almost everything. For a long time, I thought that made me strange. Now I think it is exactly what makes me who I am.

People think selflessness is something dramatic or extraordinary. In my life, it has usually looked much quieter. It looks like showing up for people consistently, even when life is difficult for you too. That is the kind of selflessness I try to practice every day. Growing up with a chronic illness changed the way I see other people’s pain. I was diagnosed with Juvenile Dermatomyositis after months of doctors dismissing my symptoms, and much of my childhood was spent in hospitals, infusion centers, and doctors’ offices. I remember how isolating and frightening that experience felt, especially watching my family struggle to hold everything together financially and emotionally. Instead of allowing those experiences to make me withdrawn or bitter, they made me more aware of how much people need support during vulnerable moments. One of the clearest examples of altruism in my life came through advocacy work surrounding my illness. My mother and I began openly educating people online about Juvenile Dermatomyositis and the lack of awareness surrounding how the disease presents in children of color. We shared our experiences honestly because we knew other families were probably facing the same confusion and fear we once experienced. Eventually, another family reached out after recognizing symptoms in their young daughter through our discussions and educational posts. Because they pursued medical care earlier, the child was able to receive treatment much sooner. That moment permanently changed how I viewed helping others. I realized that advocacy does not always require money, status, or authority. Sometimes sharing knowledge and being willing to speak openly about painful experiences can genuinely change someone else’s life. I also practice selflessness in smaller, quieter ways that rarely receive recognition. My mother has battled cancer and sustained a medical injury while working in healthcare, so as I got older, I naturally took on more responsibilities at home. I help manage appointments, errands, transportation, and caregiving responsibilities while balancing school, work, and my own health. None of those things feel exceptional to me because when you love people, helping them becomes instinctive. Perseverance has shaped every part of my life as well. Managing a chronic illness while maintaining strong academics has required discipline and adaptability. There were days I attended class after infusions, studied while exhausted, or worked through physical pain because responsibilities did not stop simply because I was struggling. Those experiences taught me reliability and emotional endurance. They also taught me how to recognize silent struggles in other people. That perspective influences how I interact with classmates, coworkers, and friends. I try to be dependable, patient, and supportive because I understand how meaningful small acts of kindness can become during difficult periods of life. Whether it is helping someone study, listening when someone feels overwhelmed, or stepping in when another person needs support, I believe compassion matters most when it is consistent. I currently study Criminal Justice with a minor in Psychology because I want to continue helping vulnerable populations through advocacy and systemic reform. My long-term goal is to work in criminal psychology and fight for people who are ignored, misjudged, or harmed by larger institutions. To me, selflessness is not about perfection or heroism. It is about remaining compassionate, useful, and dependable even when life becomes difficult. That is the example I was raised around, and it is the example I try to give back to others every day.

I grew up in a single-parent household, but I was never raised by only one person. I was raised by an entire community of people who refused to let my mother and me struggle alone. My mom worked night shifts at Grady Hospital while battling cancer and recovering from a medical injury she got while working in healthcare. Even then, she continued pushing forward because she had no choice. Some of my earliest memories are of staying with my grandma and grandpa while my mom worked overnight. I remember one winter when it snowed heavily in Georgia. I made a tiny snowman outside and put it in the freezer so it would not melt before my mom came home. I wanted to show her before I left for school because I knew she had missed it while she was working through the night. At the time, I did not fully understand exhaustion, sacrifice, or survival. I only knew that my mother was always tired and somehow still kept going. My grandmother retired as a surgical technician partly because she wanted to help raise me and support my mom. When medical bills became overwhelming, my grandparents opened their home to us without hesitation. They gave up space, privacy, comfort, and financial stability so we would have somewhere safe to stay while trying to survive mounting healthcare costs. Looking back now, I understand how significant that sacrifice truly was. Being raised in that environment taught me that family is not only about who lives in your house. It is about who shows up consistently when life becomes difficult. Even though I did not grow up with my father in the home, I never lacked positive role models. My grandfather, my uncles, my mom’s friends, church members, and extended family all contributed to raising me. If we needed help paying for my infusions or treatments, people stepped in. If my mom needed someone to drive me to appointments, people helped. I learned early that strong communities are built through ordinary acts of care repeated over time. When I was eight years old, I had my first major surgery. I still remember waking up afterward and realizing my entire immediate family had been there waiting for me: my grandparents, my uncles, everyone. When I came home, our house filled with gifts, flowers, cards, and support from church members and family friends. One person gave me an orchid plant that I still keep today. It reminds me that people never allowed me to feel isolated during the hardest parts of my childhood. Those experiences shaped my educational journey because they taught me resilience without turning me cynical. They also taught me responsibility. I understood very young that education represented stability, opportunity, and independence not only for me, but for the people who sacrificed to help raise me. I currently study Criminal Justice with a minor in Psychology because I want to advocate for people who are often overlooked by larger systems, especially those dealing with illness, financial hardship, trauma, or institutional bias. In the future, I hope to give back to my community in the same way others gave to mine practically, consistently, and without judgment. I want to work in advocacy and criminal psychology while continuing community outreach connected to healthcare inequities and underserved populations. The people who helped raise me showed me that changing someone’s life does not always require grand gestures. Sometimes it is a ride to the hospital, a place to stay, flowers after surgery, or simply refusing to let someone face hardship alone.

I did not plan for college because, for most of my childhood, I did not expect to live long enough to need one. I was diagnosed with Juvenile Dermatomyositis, a rare autoimmune disease, after months of doctors dismissing my symptoms. By the time I finally received treatment, my lungs had already been damaged. My life became a cycle of infusions, scans, medications, and appointments while still trying to function like a normal teenager. Most people around me were planning dorm rooms, careers, and futures. I was learning how to survive in a body that often felt unreliable. What gives me an advantage is not that my life has been harder than everyone else’s. It is that I learned how to function under pressure without allowing it to derail my future. I learned how to plan long-term while dealing with circumstances that constantly changed around me. Hospital visits, financial stress, uncertainty about my health, work, school none of those things paused the expectations placed on my life, so I adapted instead. I became disciplined very early because I had to. I learned how to manage responsibilities even when things were unstable, and that ability followed me into every area of my life. I do not wait for perfect conditions to start building something. I build anyway. Today, I am pursuing a degree in Criminal Justice with a minor in Psychology because I want to work within the justice system as a criminal psychologist and advocate for people failed by institutions that were supposed to protect them. I am especially interested in wrongful convictions, false confessions, interrogation psychology, and prison reform. My experiences with medical bias changed the way I view systems entirely. I understand what it feels like to be dismissed by professionals, to know something is wrong while nobody listens, and to realize that authority alone does not equal fairness or accuracy. That perspective directly shapes the work I want to do. I also know how to execute a plan. I maintain strong academics while balancing work, health responsibilities, research interests, and caregiving responsibilities at home. I made the President’s List multiple times and currently hold over a 4.0 GPA. I do not say that to impress people. I say it because I earned it under circumstances that could have easily become excuses. Outside of school, I think long-term about financial stability and independence. My grandparents created a savings account for me because they believed in my future before I fully did. Instead of treating that support casually, I used it as motivation to become financially disciplined myself. I save the money I earn from working, including tip-based income, and I allow it to build interest rather than spending impulsively. Through one of my jobs, I also earn private stock benefits, which introduced me to investing and long-term asset building early. I resell items for additional income because I believe financial security is built through consistency, adaptability, and initiative rather than waiting for perfect opportunities to appear. That mindset has followed me into every part of my life. When traditional work experience was not enough, I built more. I helped run a catering business. I pursued certifications. I completed research training. I sought out opportunities connected to psychology, victim advocacy, and behavioral research because I understand that competitive careers require more than classroom performance. They require proof of initiative. I think that is the difference between ambition and fantasy. Fantasy waits for permission. Ambition creates structure. There is also a misconception that resilience always looks emotional or inspirational. In reality, resilience is often logistical. It looks like learning how to schedule your life around infusions and exams. It looks like teaching yourself financial literacy because you know instability can return at any time. It looks like continuing to perform well academically while managing realities most people never see. It looks like understanding that discipline matters even on days motivation disappears. I do not believe I deserve this scholarship because my life has been difficult. I believe I deserve it because I have consistently turned difficulty into momentum. I have already demonstrated the work ethic, planning, adaptability, and self-awareness necessary to succeed long-term. I know who I am, I know what I am building toward, and I know how much work it will take to get there. This scholarship would help relieve part of the financial pressure that comes with higher education, but more importantly, it would be an investment in someone who already has a direction. I am not searching for a path. I am already walking it.

My long-term goal is to become a criminal psychologist and work within the justice system to advocate for people who are often misunderstood, overlooked, or harmed by systemic failures. I want to study the connection between psychology, criminal behavior, false confessions, wrongful convictions, and prison reform. Eventually, I want my work to help improve how the legal system understands mental health, interrogation practices, trauma, and rehabilitation. My plan begins with my education. I am currently pursuing a degree in Criminal Justice with a minor in Psychology. I chose this path because it gives me both the legal foundation and the behavioral understanding I need for my future career. I am intentional about the classes I take, the research topics I choose, and the experience I pursue. For example, I am interested in studying how sleep deprivation affects decision making and increases a person’s susceptibility to false confessions during police interrogations. That kind of research matters because real people lose years of their lives when the justice system ignores psychology. After completing my undergraduate degree, I plan to pursue graduate education in forensic psychology, criminal psychology, or a related field. I know this path will require time, money, discipline, and experience, so I am already planning ahead. I want to gain experience through internships, research assistant positions, victim advocacy work, legal office experience, and criminal justice related jobs. Each opportunity helps me understand the system from a different angle: the victim’s side, the accused person’s side, the legal process, and the psychological factors behind behavior. Financially, I have also tried to be practical. My grandparents love and support me, and they created a savings account for me, which has helped me think seriously about long term planning. I also save money from my jobs, including tips I earned, and I allow that money to grow through interest instead of spending it immediately. Through work, I have also earned private stock benefits, which has taught me the value of investing and building resources over time. In addition, I resell items when I can, because I believe in using every legal and realistic opportunity available to support my education. My goal is to graduate with as little debt as possible while still gaining meaningful experience. Timing is a major part of my plan. During my undergraduate years, I want to focus on maintaining strong grades, building my resume, applying for scholarships, and gaining direct experience. After graduation, I plan to enter graduate school or work in a related field while continuing to build toward my career. I understand that there may be more than one path to success, so I am open to research, advocacy, legal support roles, forensic psychology programs, and policy-related work. The common thread is that every path must move me closer to justice reform and psychological understanding. I have learned that dreams without plans stay imaginary. My plan is detailed because my goal matters. I want to use education, research, financial discipline, and lived experience to build a career that helps people who have been silenced, misjudged, or trapped by systems that failed them. This scholarship would help me continue that work with less financial pressure and more room to focus on the future I am building.

Being part of the disabled community changed the way I understand people, systems, and survival. It forced me to notice things most people are allowed to ignore. I grew up with Juvenile Dermatomyositis, a disease that slowly turned my body against itself while doctors insisted nothing was wrong. Because I am Black, my symptoms did not present the way medical textbooks expected them to. The rashes were harder to identify on darker skin, so my pain was minimized and my symptoms were overlooked until my lungs were already damaged. Growing up with a visible and invisible illness at the same time changed the way I see the world. Some days people could clearly see I was sick. Other days I looked “fine” while struggling to breathe, walk long distances, or think clearly through brain fog and exhaustion. I learned very early that people are often only willing to believe suffering when they can physically see it. That experience changed the way I understand strength. Most of the time strength is not dramatic or inspirational. It looks like showing up to class after an infusion. It looks like learning how to advocate for yourself before you are old enough to fully understand what advocacy even means. It looks like continuing to build a future while your body constantly interrupts it. Living with a chronic illness also affected me emotionally and physically in ways people rarely talk about. Long-term steroid use changed my appearance and damaged my confidence during important years of my life. Hair loss, swelling, chronic pain, fatigue, and scarring made me hyperaware of my body from a very young age. Dermatologists became a major part of my life because skin was never “just cosmetic” for me. My skin was evidence of whether my disease was active, whether treatments were working, and whether doctors would finally take me seriously. At the same time, I watched how quickly visible symptoms affected the way people treated me. Disability taught me how deeply appearance shapes the amount of empathy people are willing to give others. The disabled community also taught me how invisible suffering can be. I have met people balancing feeding tubes, oxygen tanks, autoimmune diseases, and impossible medical bills while still trying to work, go to school, and hold their lives together. That changes the way you look at people. It makes you slower to judge and more aware of how little you actually know about what someone else is carrying. Those experiences directly shaped the future I want. I am pursuing criminal justice and psychology because I understand what happens when systems stop seeing people as human beings. My experiences made me deeply interested in trauma, behavior, wrongful convictions, and institutional bias. During my internship with the District Attorney’s Office in the Homicide and Gangs Unit as a victim advocate, I noticed the same pattern everywhere: the people most ignored by systems are usually the people with the least power to fight back. I want to use both my education and my experiences to advocate for people who are overlooked, dismissed, or failed by institutions. I know what it feels like to be unheard. I also know how much it matters when somebody finally listens.

I never planned to go to college. Honestly I never planned for anything after highschool. For most of my childhood I was told I probably would not live long enough to need to. I was diagnosed with Juvenile Dermatomyositis after years of being dismissed by doctors who missed my symptoms because my skin was too dark to show the classic signs. By the time anyone believed me my lungs were already damaged to the point I qualified for a transplant. I spent years going to infusions, chemo, scans, and appointments while trying to function like a normal student at the same time. It never really worked. You cannot separate a body that is attacking itself from the person inside it trying to learn. School was always harder than it looked from the outside. I would finish an exam and go straight to an infusion appointment that wiped me out for days. There were mornings I could barely walk across campus because everything hurt. Brain fog, chronic fatigue, and medication side effects do not care about deadlines. Neither does the financial pressure of managing a chronic illness while trying to pay for school. Before Medicaid covered my infusions each one cost close to six thousand dollars. My mom and I had to move in with my grandparents just to keep things from falling apart. I worked overnight shifts at Waffle House making six dollars and fifty cents a shift plus tips and still came up short most months. None of that stopped me. I made President’s List multiple times and carry a 4.02 GPA. Not because things were easy but because I felt like I had already lost too much time to my illness to waste what was left of it. My disability also pointed me directly toward the work I want to do. Spending years watching systems overlook people changed how I see everything. I know what it feels like when an institution decides your pain does not meet the criteria for urgency. That experience pushed me toward criminal justice and psychology. During months of medical isolation I became obsessed with understanding human behavior, wrongful convictions, trauma, and how power shapes outcomes for vulnerable people. I interned with the District Attorney’s Office in the Homicide and Gangs unit as a victims advocate and that work confirmed everything I already suspected. The people who get forgotten by systems are almost always the same people. I want to spend my career in that gap between what institutions promise and what they actually deliver. Additional funding would change things in a practical and real way. It would cover transportation to medical appointments that I currently have to choose between attending and attending class. It would cover the cost of materials, programs, and resources that I put off buying because other things are more urgent. More than anything it would give me breathing room. Right now I am doing this on the tightest possible margins. Every unexpected expense is a crisis. Stability is not something I take for granted and it is not something I currently have enough of to focus on school the way I know I am capable of. I was told I would not make it to adulthood. I did. I was told my body would not hold up. It has. The only thing I need now is the financial space to keep going without having to fight for basic survival at the same time I am trying to build a future. I have already proven I can do this. I just need a little less in the way.

I did not fully understand what cancer meant when my mother was first diagnosed. I was young enough that the word did not carry the weight it carries now. She still made my appointments. She still answered when I called. She still cracked jokes in waiting rooms and made sure I never missed an infusion even before Medicaid covered them. She wore wigs and silk wraps and painted her face every morning and looked, to me, like my mother. So I told myself everything was fine. But I knew it was not. Children understand more than adults think they do. Not always the details. Not always the medical language or the prognosis or what it means when a doctor speaks in a certain tone. But they feel the shift in a room. They notice when a parent is tired in a way that sleep cannot fix. I noticed. I just did not have the words for what I was afraid of so I carried it quietly and watched her closely and hoped that as long as she kept showing up everything would stay okay. What scared me most was not the cancer itself. It was the thought of losing her. She was everything. She was the person who slept on a cot beside my hospital bed when my own body was failing. She was the person who fought doctors on my behalf when they dismissed my symptoms. She was the person who held our entire world together while her own body was fighting against her. Losing her was not just an emotional fear. It was an existential one. I did not know who I would be or how anything would work without her in it. She has died on the operating table twice and come back. She has survived breast cancer, ovarian cancer, congestive heart failure, and permanent nerve damage. She is still here. And now that I am older I see what I could not fully see as a child. I see how much she was carrying. I see the weight behind the jokes and the effort behind the normalcy she created for me. I see her sick in ways that are harder to ignore now that I understand what I am looking at. What cancer taught me is that love is not a feeling. It is a decision made over and over again under impossible circumstances. My mother decided every single day to show up for me even when her body was giving her every reason not to. She never made me feel like a burden. She never let me see her fall apart. She just kept going and in doing so she showed me what it actually looks like to love someone through something hard. That lesson lives in everything I do. I sit with grieving families as a victims advocate at the District Attorney’s Office and I stay present through conversations that most people would walk away from. I stay on the phone with mothers who are sobbing at 9am. I learned how to do that from watching a woman who never left even when leaving would have been easier. Cancer tried to take my mother from me. It has not succeeded. But it gave me something I did not expect. It showed me what people are capable of when they love someone enough to keep choosing them. I choose people that way now because of her.

The most important thing anyone ever taught me was not a lesson. It was a feeling. The feeling of knowing that no matter how bad things got, someone was going to show up. My mother taught me that. She was fighting her own battle the entire time I was fighting mine. Cancer. Congestive heart failure. Permanent nerve damage. She has died on the operating table twice and come back like it was something she simply had to get through. She was sick in ways I did not fully understand as a child and she made sure I never felt the weight of that. When I was nine years old and my body was shutting down from a rare autoimmune disease that had already begun destroying my lungs, she cracked jokes in waiting rooms. She made appointments I did not know needed to be made. Before Medicaid covered my infusions she made sure I never missed a single one. I do not know how. I never asked. I just knew that whatever needed to happen would happen because she would make it happen. She hates dogs. Has always hated dogs. And when my mental health needed something she could not provide herself she bought me an emotional support dog anyway. That is who she is. Not a perfect person. Not someone who had everything figured out. Just someone who showed up completely and consistently no matter what it cost her. And without ever naming it she taught me the most important truth I know about human connection. Presence is the whole thing. I did not realize until much later how profoundly that shaped me. Not just emotionally but structurally. The way I move through the world, the way I build relationships, the way I show up for people is modeled almost entirely on what she demonstrated without ever saying a word about it. She never told me that showing up was the most powerful thing you could offer another person. She just proved it every single day until I had no choice but to believe it. That belief is the foundation of everything I do now. I intern with the District Attorney’s Office in the Homicide and Gangs unit as a victims advocate. I sit with families who are grieving in ways that language cannot hold. I stay on the phone with mothers who are sobbing at 9am over news they did not want to hear. I sit in rooms with people who have nothing left and I do not try to fix it. I just stay. I make sure they know someone sees them. I learned that from a woman who sat beside a hospital bed night after night and made sure her sick daughter never once felt alone in her own body. My mother taught me that connection is not built through grand gestures or perfect words. It is built through reliability. Through showing up when it is inconvenient and staying when it is uncomfortable. Through doing the quiet unglamorous necessary thing without waiting to be asked. That is why I do not connect well to shallow interactions. Not because I am closed off but because I was raised to understand that real relationships carry weight and responsibility. When I invest in someone I am fully there. When someone is in crisis I do not look away. I have sat with enough pain in my own life to know that the most devastating thing you can experience is not the crisis itself. It is going through it and feeling invisible. My mother made sure I never felt invisible. Now I try to do the same for everyone I work with and everyone I love. She still hates dogs. The dog sleeps in her bed now. That is not really about the dog. It is about what she has always been willing to do for the people she loves even when it costs her something. I am still learning how to love people that well. But I am trying every day.

I never wanted to be the loudest person in the room. I wanted to be the most useful one. Leadership for me has never looked like standing at the front of a crowd. It looks like being the person who notices when someone is about to fall apart before they do. The one who figures out how a broken system works so I can teach someone else how to navigate it. The one who stays on the phone with a grieving mother at 9am not because it is in the job description but because nobody else is doing it and it needs to be done. That is who I am. And that is how I lead. I’m a Criminal Justice major and Psychology minor at Georgia State University maintaining a 4.02 GPA while living with Juvenile Dermatomyositis, a rare autoimmune disease that has caused permanent lung damage since I was nine years old. I also care for my mother who has congestive heart failure and permanent nerve damage from multiple cancers. I work. I study. I show up. Not because my circumstances are easy but because I have never had the option of waiting for them to get easier. That reality shaped the kind of leader I became. I intern with the District Attorney’s Office in the Homicide and Gangs unit as a victims advocate. When I walk into that work I do not perform empathy. I bring precision. I know what grief looks like when it is trying to hold itself together. I know when a family needs information and when they need silence. I know how to move a room full of overwhelmed people toward the next step without making them feel managed. I connect people to resources, protect their rights, and make sure the most vulnerable people in the worst moments of their lives are not forgotten in the paperwork. When something needs to get done I make sure it gets done. I identify what is needed, clarify who is responsible, and I move. I do not wait for permission to be useful. Outside the DA office I have helped strangers prepare for Medicaid hearings by teaching them the language judges and lawyers recognize because I had to learn it alone first. I shared my story publicly about being a misdiagnosed Black child and a mother used what I described to get her daughter diagnosed early. I did not organize a formal program. I just refused to be quiet about something real and made sure the information reached someone who needed it. That is what leadership looks like when you come from circumstances like mine. It is not always visible. It is not always celebrated. It is just necessary and consistent and aimed at the people most likely to be overlooked. My disability taught me that the most dangerous thing a system can do is decide someone does not qualify for care or attention or protection. I have built my entire approach to leadership around making sure that happens to fewer people. I see what others miss. I move when others hesitate. I stay when others leave. Leadership is not a title. It is a decision you make every day about who you are going to show up for and how. I made that decision a long time ago.

I didn’t choose college. I chose life. For years doctors told me I would not make it past 14 without a lung transplant. So I did not plan for a future. I did not apply to schools or dream about careers. I wrote small things in a diary I wanted to do before I died and made peace with it. When you are nine years old and your lungs are failing and the adults around you are speaking in hushed tones, you stop thinking about what you want to be when you grow up you just focus on getting through the week. But then I didn’t die. And that was harder because I had absolutely no idea what to do next. I had spent so long preparing to leave that I never learned how to stay. I was a first generation student with no roadmap and no family member who had done this before me. I just knew I wanted to feel normal for once. I wanted to learn something. I wanted to do something that mattered in case I did not get much more time. That want is what I bring into every room I walk into now. I’m a Criminal Justice major and Psychology minor at Georgia State University maintaining a 4.02 GPA while managing a chronic autoimmune illness, caregiving for my mother, and interning with the District Attorney’s Office in the Homicide and Gangs unit as a victims advocate. I share my story publicly about being a Black child who was misdiagnosed for months because the system was not built to see me. I do research and show up because I know what it feels like to believe none of this was ever meant for you. That is exactly what I want other first generation students to understand. The world is not fair. That is not a pessimistic statement. It is just true. Some of us are handed impossible situations before we are old enough to understand them. Sick bodies. Unstable homes. Systems that were never designed with us in mind. Doctors who do not believe us. Schools that do not fund us. Roads that are longer and harder and lonelier than they should be simply because of who we are and where we come from. You can acknowledge all of that and still build something. You can be dealt the worst hand imaginable and still decide what you do with it. That is not toxic positivity. That is just what ever first generation students does without anyone calling it extraordinary. You don’t need a perfect plan.I started this journey because I survived something I was not supposed to and decided that surviving was not enough. I wanted to matter. I wanted to be remembered as someone who helped people and made a difference. That desire does not require a legacy behind you. It requires you to keep going toward the thing that makes you feel alive. First generation students carry something nobody talks about enough. We are not just earning degrees. We are building something from nothing in real time while everyone else already has a foundation. That is not a disadvantage. That is the most powerful kind of resilience there is. I want other first generation students to know that the unfairness is real and the road is hard and you are allowed to say that out loud. But you are also allowed to build something beautiful inside of all of it. Something that lasts. Something that is yours.

Some mornings I pick up the phone and a mother is already sobbing. She has just received an update on her son’s homicide case that she did not want to hear. There is nothing I can say to fix it. There is no language adequate for that kind of grief. So I stay on the line. I listen. I make sure she knows her son was not just a case number and that someone in that building still sees him as a person. That is what service looks like in practice. Not abstract. Not comfortable. Present. Sgt. Albert Dono Ware understood that. He did not serve from a distance. He gave everything, ultimately his life, for a community and a country that needed protection. His legacy taught me that real service is not passive compassion. It is active protection of people that systems have failed to protect themselves. I learned that lesson the hard way. At nine years old I was diagnosed with Juvenile Dermatomyositis, a rare autoimmune disease that had already destroyed significant lung tissue by the time doctors believed me. I was the only case in Georgia of my age at the time. A young Black boy with the same condition died the same year I was diagnosed. My skin was too dark, doctors said, to show the classic signs. So I became invisible in plain sight. My body was used essentially as a test subject to build a treatment standard for Black children in my state who came after me. That experience taught me something that no classroom could. Institutions do not fail Black people by accident. They fail us through indifference, through bias baked into systems, and through the consistent decision that our pain does not meet the criteria for urgency. That understanding is what brought me to Criminal Justice and Psychology at Georgia State University. It is what led me to intern with the District Attorney’s Office in the Homicide and Gangs unit as a victims advocate. Every day I sit with families navigating a system that was not built with them in mind. I review body camera footage of thirteen year old boys. I connect grieving mothers to resources while making sure their rights are not buried under procedure. I see firsthand how violence, poverty, and institutional neglect concentrate in Black communities not because of cultural failure but because of structural abandonment. This is the reality of the African diaspora in America. Our communities have always been asked to sacrifice. Through labor, through military service, through activism, through caregiving, through surviving systems designed to exclude us. That sacrifice deserves more than acknowledgment. It deserves reform. The most critical changes begin with trauma-informed community intervention. Too many Black communities only receive resources after violence has already occurred. We need grief counseling, violence interruption programs, youth mentorship, and mental health access built into communities before tragedy strikes not as a response to it. Alongside that, criminal justice reform must address sentencing disparities, racial bias in policing, rehabilitation over punishment, and restorative justice models that recognize humanity in every person regardless of what they have done. Healthcare equity must also be central to this conversation. Racial bias in medicine costs Black lives. I am proof of that. Delayed diagnoses, undertreated pain, and institutional mistrust are public health crises that intersect directly with every other system we are trying to reform. None of this happens without the right people in the room together. Reform requires educators, mental health professionals, legal advocates, healthcare providers, faith organizations, community leaders, policymakers, and most critically the people most impacted by these systems. Formerly incarcerated individuals, grieving families, survivors, and young people from underserved communities must have seats at every table where decisions about their lives are made. Sgt. Ware served a country that did not always serve people who looked like him. He showed up anyway. That is the definition of bravery I carry into my work. Not the absence of fear but the decision to act despite it. To stay on the phone with a sobbing mother. To sit with footage that could break you. To keep asking who we are forgetting even when the answer is uncomfortable. I intend to spend my career making sure the African diaspora is forgotten a little less.

I didn’t choose college. I chose life. For years doctors told me I wouldn’t make it past 14 without a lung transplant. So I didn’t plan for a future. I didn’t apply to schools or dream about careers. I wrote small things in a diary I wanted to do before I died and made peace with it. When you are nine years old and your lungs are failing and the adults around you are speaking in hushed tones, you stop thinking about what you want to be when you grow up. You just focus on getting through the week. But then I didn’t die and that was even harder. Not because surviving was bad but I had absolutely no plan. I had spent so long preparing to leave that I never learned how to stay. I was a first generation student with no roadmap, no blueprint, no family member who had done this before me. I just knew I wanted to feel normal for once, to learn something. I wanted to do something that mattered in case I did not get much more time. That want is what I bring into every room I walk into now. Currently I’m a Criminal Justice major and Psychology minor at Georgia State University maintaining a 4.02 GPA while managing a chronic autoimmune illness, caregiving for my mother, and interning with the District Attorney’s Office in the Homicide and Gangs unit as a victims advocate. I share my story publicly about being a Black child who was misdiagnosed for years because the system was not built to see me. I do research and show up because I know what it feels like to believe none of this was ever meant for you. That is exactly what I want other first generation students to understand. The world is not fair. That is not a pessimistic statement. It is just true. Some of us are handed impossible situations before we are old enough to understand them. Sick bodies. Unstable homes. Systems that were never designed with us in mind. Doctors who do not believe us. Schools that do not fund us. Roads that are longer and harder and lonelier than they should be simply because of who we are and where we come from. You can acknowledge all of that and still build something. You can be dealt the worst hand imaginable and still decide what you do with it. That is just what every first generation student does every single day without anyone calling it extraordinary. You don’t need a perfect plan. . I started this journey because I survived something I wasn’t supposed to survive and decided that surviving was not enough. I wanted to matter. I wanted to be remembered as someone who helped people and made a difference. That desire does not require a legacy behind you. It just requires you to keep going toward the thing that makes you feel alive. First generation students carry something nobody talks about enough. We aren’t just earning degrees. We are building something from nothing in real time while everyone else already has a foundation. That is not a disadvantage. That is the most powerful kind of resilience there is. I want other first generation students to know that the unfairness is real and the road is hard and you are allowed to say that out loud. But you are also allowed to build something beautiful inside of all of it. Something that lasts. Something that is yours.

Ive always been told I notice things and patterns most people miss. I always have. Growing up sick, invisible in doctors offices, misdiagnosed and dismissed, I learned early that surviving meant paying attention. Not just to what people said but to what they were not saying. The tension underneath the words. The way someone’s body goes still when they are scared but trying not to show it. The gap between what a system promises and what it actually delivers to people who look like me. Most people hear words. I track patterns. I have CPTSD, social anxiety, and ADHD. For a long time I thought those things devalued me as a person. I thought I was broken so I tried to fix myself. I spent years learning to mask, to manage, to function through the kind of internal noise most people cannot imagine. But somewhere along the way I realized my brain wasn’t broken. It was built for something specific. The same hypervigilance that made anxiety exhausting also made me extraordinarily good at reading people. The same metacognition that made me obsess over my own thought loops made me able to sit with someone in crisis and understand what they actually needed before they could name it themselves. That is my uniqueness. I see what people are carrying before they put it down. I leverage that every single day. In the classroom I maintain a 4.02 GPA not because school comes easy but because my brain is wired to find connections other people miss. I link psychology to legal systems, trauma to institutional behavior, racial bias to media representation, and I keep pulling the thread until the full picture makes sense. That kind of thinking does not just help me academically. It makes me useful to people. I intern with the District Attorney’s Office in the Homicide and Gangs unit as a victims advocate. I sit with families in the worst moments of their lives. I don’t just hand them resources and move on. I watch. I listen to what they cannot bring themselves to say directly. I notice when someone is about to break before they break. I stay. Most people in pain do not need someone to fix anything. They need someone to actually see them. That is something I know how to do because I spent years not being seen and studying every second of what that felt like. I shared my story publicly about being a Black child whose illness went undiagnosed for months because my skin was too dark to show the symptoms. A mother watched and recognized what I described in her own daughter. That little girl got diagnosed early. She got to live. Refusing to be quiet led to something real. Someone was watching who needed exactly that. Thats how I choose to move through the world. Not loudly. Not performing. Just present and paying attention and refusing to look away from the things that are uncomfortable to name. I spent so long feeling like the way my brain worked was something to survive. Now I understand it is something to use. For the families nobody calls back. For the kids who get labeled difficult before anyone asks why. For the girl in the waiting room who looks like she is fine and absolutely is not. I see her. I always have. That is the most different thing about me and it is the only thing I have ever needed to be.

I am Jennafer Knox, a Criminal Justice major and Psychology minor at Georgia State University. I am a first generation college student, a chronic illness survivor, a caregiver, and a victims advocate intern with the District Attorney’s Office in the Homicide and Gangs unit. On paper those things sound like obstacles. In practice they are exactly what shaped the person I am becoming and the work I plan to do. My plan for making a positive impact is simple. I want to be in rooms where decisions get made about people who look like me and make sure nobody forgets they are human. Through forensic psychology and criminal law I want to fight for Black youth, Black women, the wrongfully convicted, and everyone whose pain gets dismissed until it becomes a statistic. I already do this work. I sit with grieving families and make sure their loved ones are not reduced to case numbers. I have helped strangers navigate Medicaid hearings because nobody taught me how and I had to figure it out alone. I shared my story publicly about being a misdiagnosed Black child and helped another little girl get diagnosed early. She got to live. That is the impact I am chasing at every level. My heroes are the women who taught me what that impact actually looks like. Henrietta Lacks never consented to having her cells taken. She never knew her tissue would become one of the most important tools in medical history and she never got credit while she was alive. Her story is not just a medical ethics case. It is a story about whose body gets used, whose pain gets ignored, and whose contributions get erased. I read about her and recognized something I already knew personally. My mother has survived cancer twice, dying on the operating table both times. She has lived through domestic violence, congestive heart failure, and permanent nerve damage and still raised me through all of it. When I was nine years old and my own body was shutting down she slept on a cot beside my hospital bed every night. She painted her face every morning so I would not see how scared she was. She never left. Henrietta Lacks showed me what it looks like when systems extract from Black women without giving anything back. My mother showed me what it looks like to pour into people anyway even when you are running on empty. Together they are the reason I chose this path and the reason I refuse to leave it. This scholarship lets me walk that path with my full attention. It means I can focus on lab research in social and behavioral health of adolescents, pursue internships in behavioral health, and take care of my own health without financial survival competing with my academic goals. I cannot go back and fix what was taken from the women who made me. But I can make sure the next generation of Black women and girls has someone in the room fighting for them. That is my major. That is my mission.

I never expected to make it to college. For years doctors told me I would die before I turned 14 without a lung transplant. So I didn’t plan for a future. I wrote lists in a diary of small things I wanted to do before I died. Eat sushi. Ride a horse again. Go back to Toronto. I turned down Make-A-Wish because I didn’t want to be remembered as the sick girl. I just wanted to live like a regular kid for whatever time I had left. But then I didn’t die. Nobody prepares you for what comes after surviving. I finished high school. I got into college. And somewhere between the oxygen tubes and the lecture halls I realized that everything I lived through had been pointing me somewhere specific. Toward the people who get dismissed. Toward the families nobody calls back. Toward the communities that systems were never designed to protect. I grew up understanding that the gap between struggle and stability is usually just access. Access to information. Access to someone who believes you. I know this because I lived the other side of it. My skin was too dark, doctors said, to show the classic signs of the autoimmune disease destroying my lungs. I was dismissed for months while my body was shutting down. That experience did not just teach me about medicine. It taught me how institutions decide whose pain is worth taking seriously and whose gets buried in paperwork. That question drives everything I do now. I am studying Criminal Justice and Psychology at Georgia State University and I intern with the District Attorney’s Office in the Homicide and Gangs unit as a victims advocate. I sit with families in the worst moments of their lives. Some mornings a mother calls me sobbing over an update on her son’s homicide case she did not want to hear. Other times I am reviewing body camera footage of a thirteen year old boy while his family screams for him to get up in the background while the camera keeps rolling. Those are the moments that could break you. But they are also the moments that remind me exactly why I chose this path. My degree is how I take this further. I am building toward a career in forensic psychology and criminal law focused on the people these systems overlook most. Black youth. Black women. The wrongfully convicted. The ones whose trauma gets ignored until it becomes a headline. I want to look behind convictions and ask why. I want to be in rooms where policies are made and ask who we are forgetting. I want to understand behavior, bias, and the patterns that lead people to the places institutions punish them for reaching. I have already started. I helped strangers navigate Medicaid hearings and taught them how to speak the language judges and lawyers recognize because nobody taught me. I shared my story publicly about being a misdiagnosed Black child and a mother used what I described to get her daughter diagnosed early. That little girl got to skip the hospital stays. She got to live. Survival means nothing if you do not pass it forward. That is what my community taught me. And that is exactly what this degree lets me do at scale. One case, one family, one policy at a time. I am not the sick girl anymore. I am the person in the room asking the questions nobody else thought to ask. My community needs more of those people. I plan to be one of them for a long time.

“Breathe.” “Calm down.” “You’re overreacting. It won’t matter in a few hours.” I repeated it silently, trying to reason with my own mind while I slowly lost the ability to speak, move or react. I was always labeled as the good kid, the teacher’s pet, a perfectionist, the people pleaser, but in moments like that it felt less like kindness and more like fear. Fear that my emotions would cost me everything without me understanding why. For a long time, this was my normal. I learned to mask and move through school, work, and responsibilities with a smile, while managing thoughts and emotions that could spiral without warning. I looked functional on the inside, but on the inside it felt like my brain was deteriorating. Eventually, I chose to ask for help. Being diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder didn’t resolve that struggle, but it gave me language and clarity.The hardest part wasn’t the fact that it was considered rare and one of the hardest mental disorders to live with, it was realizing how unsure of my internal identity I was. I knew my external traits: I loved cooking, people described me as kind, I felt grounded when I studied psychology and criminal justice. Internally, though, I struggled to separate who I was from what I felt in the moment. Acknowledging that was unsettling, but it forced me to confront myself honestly. Overcoming this has been a daily practice and struggle. I’ve learned when emotions spike to pause and reframe instead of react. I challenge the story my brain is telling me even when it feels convincing. Sometimes that means stepping away. Sometimes that means distracting myself or sitting in discomfort longer than I wanted to. School became part of this. When my mind felt loud I would engage instead of withdraw and learned to show up even imperfectly. My internship at the District Attorneys office, where I work as Victim Advocate made this growth tangible. I working closely with families who are affected by gang related crimes, violence, and loss. I’ve held the hands of mothers that cried as they sat in court having to relive the worst day of their lives. I’ve laughed with family members as they tell me about all the quirks of someone they loved and lost. I help people find their voice and learn to voice concerns that they’re afraid to say out loud. I’ve connected families with counseling, community resources, financial assistance and I’ve seen how emotions are misunderstood or dismissed in institutional spaces. Many of them don’t want advice they just want someone who won’t rush, judge, or minimize their emotions. I know just how powerful it is to feel validated. I support others by offering what I needed; patience, clarity, and presence. My goal is not to fix people it’s to try to understand them. I’m still learning who I am, and I no longer see that as a flaw. As I continue my education, I plan to raise awareness by advocating for mental health within academic and justice systems. My mind still feels loud at times, but I have learned how to sit with myself and help others feel less alone in the process.

I didn’t plan to go to college because I didn’t plan to live long enough to need a future. Doctors had drilled into me that I would not survive past my early teens without a lung transplant and even then my odds were slim. So I accepted it. Instead of applications and career plans I wrote bucket lists of what I wanted to do before my body gave out. Survival was always the goal. Higher education was not. When I did survive, the obstacles didn’t disappear. I was diagnosed with Dermatomyositis and Interstitial Lung Disease after years of dismissal and misdiagnosis. Being a Black womanly with a rare illness meant I didn’t fit textbook definitions and that shaped every system I had to navigate. When I finally enrolled on college, I brought ongoing medical treatment, chronic pain, and responsibilities of caring for my mother, who lives with heart failure and cancer. Most days required constant adjustments. I learned to schedule classes around medical appointments, complete assignments in infusion centers, and wrote discussion posts from emergency rooms. I studied for exams through night shifts even when I was exhausted because failure was never an option for me. When my body didn’t cooperate, I broke down coursework so I could work in short bursts, and use psychological strategies to manage my fatigue and stress. Strategies like that has carried me to the President’s List for four consecutive semesters and a 3.9 GPA because there was no backup plan if I fell behind, so I learned how to keep moving. All of my experiences have shaped who I am and how I plan to give back. I’ve decided to study Criminal Justice and Psychology because I want to understand behavior at its root and challenge systems. During my internship at the District Attorney’s Office I’ve worked with families that have been affected by gang violence, grief, and incarceration. I’ve seen patterns of trauma and neglect that were rarely addressed before cases reach the courtroom. Seeing things like this has only deepened my desire to pursue criminal psychology and advocate for the balance of accountability and humanity. Outside of school, I use what I’ve learned to help others. I’ve assisted people with navigating healthcare systems, explaining paperwork that overwhelmed me, and shared knowledge so others don’t have to learn survival the hard way. I speak openly about misdiagnosis, chronic illness, my mental health struggles, and systemic neglect. I didn’t plan to survive. But now that I have I show up every day. My education is how I turn what I endured into protection for others, because survival without passing it on means nothing.

I was diagnosed at a young age with Juvenile Dermatomyositis, a rare autoimmune disease that affects muscle function and overall mobility, along with Interstitial Lung Disease, which permanently impacts my breathing and stamina. Because my symptoms did not match what doctors expected which were partly due to racial bias I went undiagnosed for years while my condition progressed. By the time I received proper care, irreversible damage had already occurred. Living with chronic illness has shaped every part of my education, from managing pain and fatigue to balancing frequent medical appointments alongside coursework. Disability is not only physical. Years of medical trauma and prolonged uncertainty shaped how my brain learned to cope. I became hyper-independent, constantly analytical, and always alert, traits that helped me survive, but often clashed with traditional academic environments. There were few clear accommodations for fluctuating health, cognitive fatigue, or trauma-related responses. I had to learn how to advocate for myself long before I had the language or institutional support to do so. College intensified these challenges. I arrived on campus not just with academic goals, but with medications, assistive routines, and caregiving responsibilities for my mother, who also lives with serious health conditions. Many institutions claim to support students with disabilities, yet accessing disability services often feels like another obstacle rather than a solution. Students are frequently required to repeatedly justify their needs or adapt silently to environments that were never designed for them. Instead of stepping away from higher education, I adapted. I learned how to break assignments into manageable tasks, work around cognitive and physical limitations, and advocate for myself in systems that were not always accessible. That advocacy eventually extended beyond myself. I began helping others navigate Medicaid, disability services, and healthcare systems that are often confusing and inaccessible. Today, I study Criminal Justice and Psychology, and I work as a victims’ advocate at the District Attorney’s Office. In this role, I support individuals and families navigating trauma, grief, and complex legal system many of whom are disabled, low-income, or otherwise underserved. My lived experience with disability allows me to approach this work with empathy, patience, and awareness. I understand how systems overlook people who do not fit expected narratives, and I make it a priority to ensure individuals feel seen, respected, and supported. My long-term goal is to use my education to advocate for systemic change particularly for disabled individuals impacted by inequities in healthcare, education, and the justice system. I want to help create environments where access and inclusion are not optional accommodations, but standard practice. Rather than seeing disability as a limitation, I see it as a perspective one that informs how I approach justice, access, and equity. As I continue my academic and professional journey, my goal is to help build systems that acknowledge disability not as an exception, but as part of the human experience. Inclusion should not require extraordinary resilience it should be the standard.

This opportunity is meaningful to me because it represents the belief that faith, perseverance, and service deserve support especially for students who keep moving forward despite hardship. The Jim Maxwell Memorial Scholarship honors a legacy of uplifting youth, strengthening faith, and serving others, values that have shaped my life from a young age. I was raised in a faith-centered household where church involvement emphasized responsibility, discipline, and compassion. Faith was never treated as something passive, but as something meant to be lived out daily through action and integrity. I was taught that belief comes with responsibility that faith without works is incomplete and that lesson has guided how I approach both challenges and achievements. My faith became especially important during difficult seasons in my family’s life. While I was navigating a rare autoimmune disease, my mother was battling cancer. Watching her endure treatments, pain, and uncertainty while remaining grounded in her faith even when it was tested changed my understanding of strength. Her faith did not remove her suffering, but it gave her endurance and peace in moments when fear could have taken over. It gave our family stability when everything else felt uncertain. Through her example, I learned that faith is not about avoiding hardship, but about standing firm through it. My church community also played a vital role during that time. Acts of support, prayer, and consistency reminded me that serving God often looks like showing up for others when life is hardest. I learned that community is faith in action people stepping in, carrying one another, and refusing to let hardship isolate anyone. That environment taught me accountability not just to myself, but to the people around me. As I grew older, my faith naturally turned into service. I became committed to helping others navigate difficult systems by offering support, guidance, and advocacy whenever possible. Today, I volunteer as a victims’ advocate with the District Attorney’s Office. I see this work as an extension of my faith serving my community as a way of honoring God. Whether I am assisting families, sharing resources, or simply listening when someone feels overwhelmed, I believe we are called to care for others with humility and compassion. Now, as a college student majoring in Criminal Justice and Psychology, my ambition is grounded in purpose. I am driven to advocate for people who feel unseen or misunderstood and to pursue work rooted in integrity and justice. My faith continues to serve as my moral compass, guiding my decisions with empathy, discipline, and accountability. I approach my education with the understanding that my skills are meant to be used for service and positive impact, not just personal success. Receiving this scholarship would provide essential financial support while affirming the values that guide my life: ambition shaped by faith, drive strengthened through perseverance, and service rooted in purpose. Looking ahead, I plan to continue using my faith as a guiding force remaining committed to serving my community, uplifting others, and building a future grounded in compassion and trust in God’s direction. By honoring Jim Maxwell’s legacy through this scholarship, I hope to continue that same mission: empowering others, leading through service, and showing faith not just through belief, but through action.

If​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​‌‍​‍‌ criminal courts argue that they are fair and just because of due process and fairness, why do their everyday practices consistently undermine those principles for people who have been marginalized historically? This is the question, we often fail to ask when talking about liberation from generational oppression. In my criminal courts class, courts are presented as organizations whose main task is to secure justice through neutrality, procedure, and the rule of law. However, we also learn that courts depend predominately on the discretion of judges, prosecutors, and juries. While this discretion is unavoidable, it is significantly affected by factors like race, class, gender, and trustworthiness. Freedom cannot occur if we refuse to reckon with the fact that these discretionary practices skew the concept of justice for oppressed communities. Criminal courts are not only the venues where laws are followed; they are also the places where stories are evaluated. Defendants are judged not only on evidence, but also on their behavior. Victims are believed or doubted, based on how convincingly their suffering is presented. Although jurors are told to be unbiased, studies demonstrate that societal prejudices influence the way testimonies are understood and the way the trustworthiness is delegated. Plea bargaining, pressure the individuals especially the ones who lack resources to opt for certainty instead of justice. Before guilt is even confirmed, bail systems separate the poor and make them suffer. These are not the wrongs of particular people; they are the structural issues in a system that still manages to maintain the facade of impartiality. My personal experiences shape my perception. Growing up as a black, chronically ill child, my suffering was overlooked because I was not what was seen in textbooks. I see that same logic at work in courtrooms: people whose trauma, mental health, or survival strategies are a deviation from mainstream norms are less likely to be believed, more likely to be punished, and less likely to be shown mercy. Courts seldom inquire how societal factors influence behavior. Instead, they separate behavior from its surroundings, thus deepening the problem of inequality while they themselves seem procedurally fair. Through my volunteer work at the District Attorney’s Office, I see how in most criminal cases especially for Black individuals with untreated mental illness and unresolved trauma intersect with criminal cases. Many people who first come into the court system due to lack of early intervention and then fail because of this. Despite that, courts are the ones often compelled to deal with social issues that they were not tailored for, and that, in turn, causes results that are in accordance with the procedure but not with justice. Freedom requires the strengthening not abandoning of the ideals courts claim to uphold. This means expanding the availability of diversion programs related to mental health, placing restrictions on the practice of plea bargaining, abolishing the use of the bail system, improving jury bias awareness through education, and introducing and normalizing the use of trauma-informed practices throughout the entire process. Most importantly the courts to address the problem of how their legitimacy is being weakened when the fairness is unbalanced. Freedom is not an endpoint that one can get to by tearing down the institutions overnight. Instead, it is a continuous reform practice that is deeply rooted in accountability. Suppose that courts were allowed to have a role in generational liberation; then, they would certainly be asking themselves if their procedures are genuinely conducive to justice or are they simply maintaining order. Progress starts whenever we expect that the courts adhere to the standards that they were built to ​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​‌‍​‍‌uphold.

Arnetha Venetta Austin Bishop believed that access to mental health care should not depend on privilege, proximity, or one’s ability to advocate loudly. That belief mirrors my own, shaped by growing up Black, chronically ill, and repeatedly dismissed by the very systems meant to protect me. My commitment to mental health advocacy is not theoretical; it is rooted in lived experience, anger transformed into action, and a refusal to accept silence as the price of survival. After years of medical neglect, I was diagnosed at nine with a rare autoimmune disease that had gone untreated because my skin was deemed “too dark” to display textbook symptoms. By the time doctors intervened, the disease had already caused serious damage. At the same time, my mother was battling cancer, navigating her own fear and pain while caring for me. Growing up in hospitals meant trauma was constant, yet my mental health was rarely acknowledged as something deserving care. Anxiety, depression, and obsessive-compulsive tendencies were treated as inconveniences things to endure quietly rather than address. I learned early that marginalized people are often expected to survive without support, while mental health care is reserved for those deemed “worthy” of it. I rejected that narrative. Instead of shrinking, I began speaking openly about how mental illness and chronic disease present differently in people of color and how silence enables harm. When my mother and I shared our story publicly, another parent recognized the signs in her own child and pushed for testing. That child was diagnosed early and treated in time. That moment fundamentally reshaped my understanding of advocacy. It taught me that visibility is not oversharing it is protection. Silence, especially around mental health, costs lives. Today, I am pursuing a degree in Criminal Justice with a minor in Psychology, with the goal of working in forensic psychology and mental health advocacy. I volunteer at the District Attorney’s Office, where I support victims and families navigating grief, trauma, and an overwhelming legal system. In this work, I see daily how untreated mental illness and unresolved trauma particularly within Black, disabled, and LGBTQIA+ communities intersect with incarceration and systemic harm. Many of the people I encounter were never offered adequate mental health support before crisis became criminalized. These outcomes are not the result of individual failure; they are the result of policy decisions and institutional neglect. My goal is to work at the intersection of mental health and systemic reform, advocating for trauma-informed, culturally competent services that recognize lived experience rather than dismiss it. I want to challenge institutions that equate silence with strength and replace them with systems that prioritize access, dignity, and accountability. Mental health care should be proactive, not punitive, and accessible long before someone reaches a breaking point. This scholarship is an investment in action. It would allow me to continue my education without the constant burden of financial survival and expand my advocacy beyond awareness into policy-driven change. Honoring Arnetha V. Bishop’s legacy means treating mental health access as non-negotiable. I am committed to doing the work necessary to ensure that marginalized communities are not only seen, but supported.

When I first started studying criminal justice, I thought I was drawn purely to the law aspect of it the courtroom, the reform, the pursuit of justice. But over time, I realized what I was actually drawn to were the people. The people behind the cases the survivors, the grieving families, and the ones left trying to make sense of the aftermath. That realization is what led me to minor in psychology. I wanted to understand not just what happened, but why it affects people the way it does, possibly why they committed a crime, and how they find the strength to keep living with it. My connection to mental health isn’t just by chance. I’ve struggled with my own challenges while balancing school, work, and multiple chronic illness. Some days, just functioning feels like a full-time job. But I’ve learned that resilience isn’t about pretending to be fine, it’s about finding tools and resources that help you stay grounded when everything feels heavy. That understanding has carried over into my work in victim advocacy, where mental health and justice collide daily. Today I intern with the DeKalb County District Attorney’s Office Victim Services Unit, I work directly with families who have lost loved ones to homicide, as well as witnesses and survivors who were physically or emotionally harmed during those crimes. My role often involves guiding them through the legal process, connecting them to counseling and resources, and simply being a steady presence when the system feels cold. These conversations are raw people are grieving, terrified, tired, frustrated and traumatized but they’ve taught me more about human psychology than any textbook could. They’ve shown me how trauma can reshape memory, emotion, and identity, and how mental health resources can mean the difference between despair and recovery. That work has solidified my long-term goal: to become a forensic psychologist specializing in trauma and criminal reform. I want to help develop systems that treat victims and defendants alike with empathy and understanding, especially when mental illness or trauma plays a role. I believe every courtroom should recognize that justice without mental health awareness isn’t justice at all it’s punishment without context. Mental health challenges don’t just shape the individual it’s affecting they shape families, communities, and institutions and everything surrounding it. Through my studies and my advocacy, I want to continue fighting the stigma and building a world where healing is seen as just as essential as justice

For most of my childhood, I did not plan to live. Doctors told me I wouldn’t make it past fourteen without a lung transplant, and even then, survival was unlikely. I believed them. I put into my head that I was going to die so there was no point in trying to live. I made no plans for high school, college, or adulthood. I wrote in a diary, not with bucket-list dreams, but with small wishes: eating sushi, baking something from scratch, riding a horse again. I turned down Make-A-Wish because I didn’t want to be remembered as “the sick girl.” I wanted to be remembered for more than my illness. So I spent most of my days in bed or in the house alone. But then, I didn’t die. Survival came with its own challenges. I live with Dermatomyositis, a rare autoimmune disease that nearly killed me when doctors ignored my symptoms because my skin was “too dark” to show what textbooks described. By the time I was diagnosed, my lungs were already failing. The disease forced me to grow up fast. I battled depression, anxiety, and OCD. I scratched my skin raw just to feel something sharper than fear. I disassociated, shut down, and convinced myself I was invisible. My mother got diagnosed with cancer and that only made my depression worse. What no one teaches you is how to live when you’ve only planned to die. That silence nearly destroyed me. But eventually, I began to speak. My mother and I went live on Facebook to educate others about JDM in children of color. That one act changed everything. A woman saw the video, pushed for testing for her daughter, and caught the disease early enough to save her life . For the first time, I realized my voice could be a lifeline. Speaking out about medical neglect, mental health, and the hidden realities of illness transformed my shame into purpose. My illness didn’t just affect my physical health; it deeply shaped my mental health. Years of isolation and invisibility left scars: intrusive thoughts, panic attacks, and a constant sense of fragility. Even now, I live with the lingering effects fatigue, migraines, anxiety, and the fear of being misunderstood or dismissed. But instead of burying these struggles, I’ve learned to manage them. I break assignments into micro-tasks, forgive myself when I fall short, and use strategies rooted in psychology to stay grounded . Resilience, I’ve learned, is not about pretending everything is fine it’s about showing up anyway. That same resilience fuels my educational goals. I am pursuing a degree in Criminal Justice with a minor in Psychology because I want to work in forensic psychology. I’ve seen how trauma and bias can shape lives, both in hospitals and in courtrooms. I want to be the person who asks, “Who are we forgetting? Whose pain is being overlooked?” I want to advocate for those misdiagnosed, misunderstood, and misjudge especially Black girls and marginalized communities who are too often erased by the systems meant to protect them . My recent internship with the District Attorney’s Office in the Homicide and Gangs unit has been an unexpected part of my recovery. Every day, I work alongside attorneys and paralegals as a victims’ advocate. I sit with grieving families, guide them through confusing systems, and remind them that their loved one mattered. Some days, it’s listening to a mother sob on the phone at 9 a.m. after receiving an update she didn’t want. Other days, it’s reviewing body camera footage of a child’s final moments, with his family’s screams echoing in the background . These moments could easily reopen my own wounds but instead, they ground me. They remind me why I chose this path. Advocacy is how I manage my recovery. Channeling my experiences into meaningful work helps me carry my pain differently. Instead of letting trauma silence me, I use it to connect, to comfort, and to fight for dignity in places where it is often stripped away. My plan for recovery isn’t a single destinationit’s an ongoing practice of balance, therapy, community, and purpose. I keep myself anchored by setting academic goals, leaning into routines, and surrounding myself with reminders that survival was not the end of my story it was the beginning of my purpose. I never expected survival to lead me here: a college student, a victims’ advocate, a future forensic psychologist. My disease changed me, but it also prepared me. It taught me how to endure, how to question, and how to turn lived pain into advocacy. I am committed to continuing my education, managing my recovery with honesty and discipline, and standing up for the people who, like me, once felt invisible just like me.

I never expected something as small as a stamp to change the way I saw my life, but it did. Growing up, I was diagnosed with Juvenile Dermatomyositis (JDM), a rare autoimmune disease that attacked my muscles and lungs. Doctors told me I might not live past fourteen without a lung transplant, and even then, survival was uncertain. At nine years old, that kind of news is not just terrifying it’s paralyzing. For a long time, I was embarrassed, silent, and unwilling to let people see me as “the sick girl.” But my grandma had another plan. When I lived in California and she lived in Georgia, we would send each other letters. Inside, she would tuck away colorful stamps for me to collect, each with a different state or country and animal. She told me each stamp was a reminder of where I could go once I got better. They became small promises folded into envelopes, proof that there was a bigger world waiting for me beyond my diagnosis. I was too shy and ashamed to ever apply for Make-A-Wish, but those stamps became my wish. They were a collection of hope when I couldn’t find it in myself. As my illness progressed, I was often treated like an experiment because doctors had little experience with cases like mine in children of color. But eventually, my mother and I spoke out. We went live on Facebook to show families what JDM looks like in children with darker skin. That single act of honesty helped another little girl get diagnosed early, sparing her from years of misdiagnosis and suffering. For the first time, I realized that my silence had never protected me, it had only hidden me. Speaking up, however, could protect someone else. That lesson still guides me. Today, I intern with the District Attorney’s Office in the Homicide and Gangs unit. I serve as a victims’ advocate, sitting with families at their lowest points and making sure they know their rights and their loved one’s life still matters. The work is raw and heavy, but it fuels me with the same purpose those stamps once did: to keep believing in possibility, even when hope feels far away. This scholarship would allow me to continue that mission without being crushed by financial burdens. With support, I can focus fully on my Criminal Justice and Psychology studies and move closer to becoming a forensic psychologist and attorney. That way, I can expand my advocacy beyond the courtroom and into systemic reform, ensuring justice reaches those who are too often overlooked, people like me, people like the families I serve. Stamp collecting might seem like a small hobby, but for me, it was the seed of resilience. It gave me a way to imagine life after illness and a reason to keep going when everything else felt impossible. Later, it even allowed me to donate some of my collection proceeds to CURE JDM, contributing to research for the very disease I battled. What began as scraps of paper between a granddaughter and her grandmother became a lifeline, a reminder that survival is not the end of the story, it’s the beginning of giving back.

I was told I wouldn’t live past 14. “You’ll die without a lung transplant,” the doctors said. And even if I got one, they warned, I might not survive the table. So, I prepared to die. I didn’t plan for college. I didn’t plan for adulthood. I wrote in my diary about all the things I wanted to do before not after. Because “after” wasn’t supposed to come. But somehow, it did. I survived. And suddenly, I was standing at a finish line I never thought I’d reach: high school graduation. While other students were busy imagining their futures, I had to start from zero. I realized I hadn’t planned to live and now I had no idea how to live. That was the first adversity I had to face: not the disease, but the aftermath. My illness Juvenile Dermatomyositis nearly took my life, but it also taught me everything about what it means to have one. I’d spent months in isolation because a common cold could kill me. I watched my skin grow weak, my lungs collapse, and my body betray me. But I also watched my will strengthen. I read obsessively. I took online classes from my hospital bed. I started researching the criminal justice system because it was the one thing, besides survival, that made me feel something other than fear. My mom and I would watch NCIS and Criminal Minds during infusions. Those stories made me curious. What makes people do what they do? How does trauma turn into violence or strength? I began to realize that surviving wasn’t the whole story. Understanding what to do with that survival was. I didn’t overcome my adversity by beating illness I overcame it by refusing to let it define the rest of my life. I started asking questions about justice, about systems, and about people who are also forgotten or written off just like I had been. That’s why I’m now studying criminal justice and psychology. Because I want to help others who were never expected to survive or never expected to matter. Being part of the disabled community made me see the world differently. I saw how bias, dismissal, and cruelty weren’t just things that happened in hospitals they happen in courtrooms, in prisons, and on the streets. I experienced firsthand what it means to be unheard, to be judged before you’re even seen. That changed me. It made me more aware, more vocal, and more determined. If someone asked me what advice I’d give to someone facing what I did, I’d say this: your pain is real, but it isn’t all you are. Don’t let survival be your only goal. Let it be your beginning. Let it push you into purpose. You are not broken because you struggled you are powerful because you kept going.

One of the most significant issues facing the criminal justice system today is how it continues to punish pain instead of asking why it exists. Mental health is still treated as an afterthought in courtrooms and prisons, especially for people of color, and especially for Black youth. The system moves too quickly to convict, to incarcerate, to punish without ever stopping to ask how trauma, environment, or untreated mental illness shaped a person’s choices. Instead of being centers for rehabilitation and reform, prisons have come to be viewed primarily as places for control, incapacitation, and punishment. My personal experience taught me early how bias shapes outcomes. I was nine when my body started attacking itself. My joints stopped working, my skin darkened with rashes, my lungs burned with every breath. For months, doctors dismissed me. They said it was eczema. Obesity. Anxiety. Hormones. Anything but what it really was: Juvenile Dermatomyositis, a rare autoimmune disease already attacking my lungs. Part of the delay? They said my skin was “too dark” to show the classic signs. That experience taught me what it’s like to scream without sound, to be overlooked by people with power because you don’t fit their expectations. That same bias plays out in courtrooms and prisons every day. Research shows that Black men have an increased likelihood of receiving jail time compared to white men and women who commit similar crimes. Minority defendants are less likely to receive bail, which becomes the first step toward long-term incarceration. Our jails are disproportionately filled with people of color not because they commit more crimes, but because the system was never built to treat them fairly. Juveniles, too, are caught in this cycle. Although progress has been made to remove minors from adult facilities, about 4,200 children are still held in adult jails every day. These aren’t always hardened criminals. Sometimes they’re runaways. Sometimes they’re truants. Sometimes they’re just kids who slipped through cracks no one bothered to fill. These children, disproportionately Black and brown, are thrown into environments that punish instead of rehabilitate. My own experiences made me painfully aware of how broken these systems are. I’ve lived mental illness: depression, anxiety, OCD. I’ve lived chronic illness: chemotherapy, prednisone, chest ports. I’ve lived poverty: overnight shifts at Waffle House to pay for medication, school, groceries. I’ve fought through Medicaid hearings where I had to rehearse how to sound palatable enough for a judge to approve basic care. I’ve watched my mother fight for her life with congestive heart failure, cancer, and permanent nerve damage, while systems treated us like cases, not people. Those experiences shaped my beliefs. I don’t believe in resilience as a virtue for those society fails. I believe in compassion, in advocacy, in questioning systems that erase people who don’t look, sound, or behave the way they’re expected to. That’s why I’m studying Criminal Justice and Psychology not because it was my childhood dream, but because my life showed me exactly where change is needed. My goal is to work in forensic psychology, to understand the “why” behind behavior and advocate for reforms in how mental health intersects with the law. I’m passionate about prison reform not just therapy programs, but improving the environments themselves. Overcrowding, lack of access to medical care, untreated trauma these conditions worsen mental health and make rehabilitation impossible. Prisons become warehouses for people society has decided are easier to forget than to help. Through my lived experience, I’ve already started this work. I’ve helped people navigate disability hearings, taught them how to speak in ways judges and lawyers recognize. I’ve found resources for people who didn’t know where to turn, answered messages from strangers saying, “I thought I was the only one.” These aren’t traditional internships, but they’ve prepared me to walk into this field with firsthand knowledge of how systems work and how they fail. Justice isn’t just about laws. It’s about visibility. It’s about making sure no one else has to survive what I did just to be heard. My experience taught me that pain doesn’t make you weak. It makes you more determined to fight for those who are still waiting to be seen. That’s why I’m here. Not just to study systems, but to change them.

I never liked telling my story. I spent years refusing to talk about my illness, my mental health, or how close I came to dying. I turned down opportunities like Make-A-Wish because I didn’t want to be remembered as “the sick girl.” I wrote lists in a diary of things I wanted to do before I died because I’d already accepted the doctors’ words: if I didn’t get a lung transplant, I wouldn’t live past fourteen. Even if I did, they said I’d probably die on the table. I had no plans for college, no plan to live at all. But then I didn’t die. I finished high school. I’m in college now. And somewhere along the way, I realized I couldn’t keep shrinking myself to survive. My mental health wasn’t just a footnote to my illness; it was a battle of its own. Depression, anxiety, OCD they weren’t symptoms; they were my reality. My brain told me I had to control everything to keep the people I loved alive. That if I wasn’t perfect, someone would die. Maybe me. Maybe my mom. I scratched my skin until it bled, not because it itched, but because pain felt better than fear. That shaped everything about how I see the world. It taught me that survival isn’t about pushing through silently it’s about unlearning the shame tied to vulnerability. My mental health struggles taught me how systems fail people like me: Black, female, disabled, poor. Systems don’t want to hear about grief or mental illness unless it fits into a neat recovery narrative. Mine didn’t. My recovery looked like ER visits and psych wards and late-night panic attacks where I couldn’t breathe even when I wasn’t on oxygen. It looked like surviving, even when I didn’t want to. These experiences shaped my beliefs. I don’t believe in resilience as a buzzword anymore. I believe in compassion. I believe that mental health isn’t just about coping it’s about having access to care, being heard, being seen. It’s about breaking the cycle of shame that tells people to hide their pain. My relationships changed too. I stopped pretending I was okay to make others comfortable. I stopped carrying everyone else’s expectations like they were oxygen tanks strapped to my back. I built connections based on honesty, not performance. And my career aspirations? They’re shaped by all of this. I’m studying Criminal Justice and Psychology not because it was my childhood dream, but because my life taught me how systems erase people who don’t look or sound the way they’re expected to. Especially Black girls. Especially the misunderstood, the misdiagnosed, the misjudged. I want to advocate for those forgotten by the system. I want to sit in rooms where policies are written and ask, “Who are you forgetting?” My experience with mental health taught me that justice isn’t just about laws it’s about compassion, visibility, and advocacy. It’s about changing systems so others don’t have to survive what I did just to be heard. My mental health isn’t a weakness I overcame. It’s the reason I understand why change is necessary. I didn’t plan to survive. But now that I’m here, I’m determined to make sure my survival becomes something bigger a voice for others who are still waiting to be seen

I’m studying Criminal Justice and Psychology because I want to fight for the misunderstood, the misdiagnosed, and the people who don’t fit textbook cases — especially Black youth, especially girls. My illness didn’t just change my body; it broke me open and taught me this: healing and justice are twins. Survival is sacred. I don’t give up. Not just for me, but for the girl I was, and the girl out there still waiting for answers. I was nine, half alive, propped up in a hospital bed with rough cotton blankets pooling at my knees. My lungs were shutting down, and the doctor’s words “Lung transplant” rang in my head. Oxygen tubes up my nose, wires wrapped around me, trembling swollen joints, and a body that didn’t feel like mine anymore. I used to scream and cry when the nurses brought out needles. Eventually, I stopped reacting. I’d put on my headphones, crank the volume high enough to drown out everything, let my body go stiff, and disappear. The pain hurt less if I wasn’t really there. No one saw the months before that. Months where my pain and symptoms were dismissed. I was told it was eczema. Arthritis. Obesity. Anxiety. Everything but the truth: Juvenile Dermatomyositis. A rare, aggressive autoimmune disease that had already begun destroying my lungs while adults in white coats said I was dramatic, hormonal. Part of it was ignorance. Part of it was bias. My skin was “too dark” to show the classic signs. And so, I became invisible. That stayed with me — not the diagnosis, not the needles, but the silence of people who didn’t believe me until I was dying. My mother didn’t look sick, but she was: cancer, fibromyalgia, heart failure. She died on the operating table twice, lost her hair, her strength, her memory. But she still showed up every day. I stopped praying somewhere between realizing I might die and being evaluated for a lung transplant. First, I begged God to fix me. Then I wondered what I’d done wrong. Finally, I gave up. Healing didn’t come next. Grief did. Grief for the girl who used to run barefoot across California fields, ride horses too fast, and thought the worst pain was a scraped knee. That girl was gone. I was smaller, quieter, angrier now. Every doctor visit left me with a bandage on my arm, new prescriptions, and a doctor’s note. Every step hurt. Eating hurt. Breathing hurt. Existing hurt. Recovery was slow. My body attacked itself. I picked at my skin until it bled not because it itched, but because pain felt better than fear. People called me brave. I smiled, but in the mirror, I called myself weak for wanting it to end. Somewhere in the aftermath, something shifted. I joined my mother in telling our story. Another little Black girl, still innocent, overlooked — her mother watched our Facebook Live. Her mother listened. That child was diagnosed early. She got to live. My illness changed my body, but it reshaped my purpose. Survival means nothing if you can’t pass it forward.

I used to pray every night, first for healing. When the healing never came, it turned into asking for answers. “Why me?” “What did I do wrong?” “Can I just have a different body?” When nothing answered, I stopped asking. I stopped speaking up. I stopped asking for help. Until something shifted.What saved me wasn’t faith. It was community. My uncle stepped in, sending money for my infusions. My grandparents moved all the furniture out of their dining room to build us a bedroom. My grandma, a nurse, took my vitals every few hours, made sure I ate, dragged me out of bed to walk, and prayed over me even when I didn’t want to hear it. My grandpa came to my infusions so I wouldn’t have to see my mother cry. My mom’s ex-husband offered to go with us to Toronto for my last trip, just to make sure we were safe. The brothers and sisters at our Kingdom Hall sent flowers, cards, and sometimes themselves even when I was too sick to care if anyone came. My aunts shipped medical masks across the country when COVID raged. My mom’s Facebook friends left comments under every picture, even when my face was puffed from prednisone, telling me I looked beautiful and brave and strong. That was my community. I made a promise to myself: If I survived, I would give back. I’d speak for the girl I used to be, the one who didn’t feel seen. I got involved in advocacy work, helped my mom run Facebook Lives teaching people how rare diseases show up on Black and Brown skin. One of her friends, another mother, recognized the signs in her daughter. That little girl was diagnosed early, treated in time, and got to keep living. That’s what community does: it passes survival forward. I didn’t tutor kids or lead a volunteer project. But I became a quiet lifeline to others online, sharing my story, reminding people they weren’t alone. I turned pain into language, isolation into visibility. That’s what community is. It’s refusing to look away. It’s the soft hands that hold you through the worst days and nights of your life. It’s the whisper of a prayer you stopped believing in but someone else keeps saying anyway. Today, I’m studying Criminal Justice and Psychology. I want to fight for the misdiagnosed, the unheard, the “too complicated” cases like mine. I want to be the person who listens. Because I know what it’s like to scream without sound. I know what it’s like to be seen too late. My illness changed my body. But it reshaped something deeper: my purpose. It taught me that justice isn’t just policy it’s compassion. It’s storytelling. It’s survival as resistance.

They told me I wouldn’t live past fourteen. Thats where the fight in me started. It’s one thing to grow up sick. It’s an entirely different thing to grow up sick, Black, and ignored by a system thats meant to protect you. I never asked to become an advocate. I never wanted to become an advocate and I don't consider myself an advocate, but survival doesn't leave you much of a choice. I remember in 5th grade I had an assignment. If you were a superhero what would your superpower be? I was never a shy kid but I liked to observe, maybe I could prank somebody or save the day and still be back in time for snack time so i chose invisibility. Between medical gaslighting, financial strain, and navigating a rare autoimmune disease most doctors have never heard of, I quickly learned how dangerous invisibility in this world can be. That’s why I chose criminal justice and psychology. I didn’t want to just understand people but to know how to protect the ones who keep slipping through the cracks. The people who are criminalized instead of given an option of counseling. Labeled as “dangerous” instead of listened to. I want to work in forensic psychology, profiling patterns that get ignored and helping restructure how the system responds to circumstances like neurodivergence and trauma especially in Black and unrepresented communities. Right now, I advocate in small but real ways. I’ve helped people navigate Medicaid and therapy when they didn’t even know where to start. I’ve helped people with their disability cases learning what to say and what not to say so they get the best chance. I use my story to educate others. I recently applied to a crisis text hotline and start training in a few weeks. Once every three months I go live with my mom to raise awareness and raise donations for Cure JM Foundation, which led to an early diagnosis for a child with autism who might’ve been dismissed like I was. I also do academic research about mental illness, race, and media representation because I know how powerful perception really is. Change isn’t always about protest it’s about persistence. After college, I plan on being the person in the courtroom or the psych ward or the juvenile facility who actually sees the human being the number and behind the file. I’ll be the one making sure nobody slips between the cracks and no one has to fight like I did just to be believed. I want to do work that actually saves lives.

“Breathe, baby. I’m right here.” That’s what my mother whispered one night, her voice just above the hum of the oxygen machine beside my hospital bed. I was nine, struggling to breathe, my joints too stiff to move, tubes lining my nose. My body felt like a stranger to me heavy, failing, unfamiliar. The nurses thought it was asthma. The doctors blamed eczema, anxiety, weight. But it wasn’t any of those things. It was Juvenile Dermatomyositis, a rare autoimmune disease that had already begun attacking my lungs by the time anyone named it. By then, I had already disappeared inside myself. I stopped reacting to the needles. I stopped crying. I’d put on my headphones and drift away, music turned up loud enough to drown out my fear and the tears I was too exhausted to shed. My mother never left my side. Even while fighting her own cancer, she covered her pain with concealer and a smile, sleeping upright in the hospital chair, waking every few hours to make sure I was still breathing. She held my hand through panic attacks, through blood draws, through everything. We didn’t talk about being brave. We just… survived. But survival didn’t just come from her. My grandparents turned their dining room into a bedroom for us when we couldn’t afford anything else. My grandmother, a retired nurse, made sure I ate, checked my vitals, and forced me to walk even when I didn’t want to. My grandfather sat with me through my infusions not saying much, just being there, steady. Friends, facebook strangers, and family sent flowers, masks, handwritten notes, meals and prayers. Even when I didn’t feel loved, I was being held up by dozens of invisible threads. Before that, I was just a girl in California riding horses, running track, staying out until sunset with grass stains on my pants. I didn’t think much about illness, or fragility, or mortality. I thought the worst thing that could happen was scraping my knee or being told I couldn’t go outside to play. But life shifted fast. After an abusive relationship and the crash of my health, I ended up in Georgia, scared, angry, and confused. I felt like I was losing everything my body, my spirit, my voice. For a while, I stopped speaking altogether. I scratched my skin until I bled just to feel something. I was later diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and PTSD. I cycled through medications and therapy. I was hospitalized for my mental health. It was dark. Unrelenting. And yet… somewhere in that silence, something small survived. It started with a Facebook Live. My mom and I shared what my illness looked like on Black skin. A mother watching recognized the signs in her daughter. She pushed for tests. Her daughter was diagnosed early and treated in time. That changed everything for me. If my story could make even one person feel less invisible then maybe it mattered. Maybe I did, too. So I kept talking. Kept writing. Kept showing up, even when it was hard. I didn’t start a nonprofit. I didn’t lead a campaign. But I stitched myself back together thread by thread and offered those threads to others. A message. A memory. A reminder: You’re not alone. That’s how I try to live now with intention. Quiet, but consistent. Because even the smallest acts showing up, listening, telling the truth can shape someone’s future. Just like they did mine.

“The first time I dissociated, I was nine years old.” I remember the hospital room more than my own bedroom that year cold air, the beep of machines, swollen joints, and an oxygen machine whirring beside my bed. I was diagnosed with Juvenile Dermatomyositis, a rare autoimmune disease that attacked my lungs and muscles before anyone took my pain seriously. By then, it wasn’t just my body that was deteriorating it was my mind, my soul, my faith. I used to scream when they brought out the needles. But eventually, I stopped. I learned it wouldn’t stop anything just prolonged the inevitable. I’d put my headphones in, turn up the volume, and disappear. It wasn’t about music it was about escape. One day I had enough. Of the pain, of the guilt, of the hurt, worry, my brain, the way my skin looked, the way I looked. I went to the bathroom and dragged a razor blade across my wrist. It was too dull to make a cut. I threw the blade across the room and cried on the cold bathroom tile because I didn’t look, feel, or sound like me anymore. That’s what no one tells you about trauma: it makes you vanish piece by piece. Psychologists later diagnosed me with Major Depressive Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and PTSD. And honestly? That list felt like confirmation of what I already knew something inside me had been unraveling for years. First it was therapy. Then medication. Then, when I couldn’t keep pretending I was okay, a stay in a psychiatric unit. I was surrounded by fluorescent lights and other kids who flinched at loud noises and carried invisible wounds. For once, I didn’t feel alone. Just broken in a way I could finally name. But mental illness doesn’t exist in a vacuum. My mother who was battling cancer while taking care of me slept in my hospital room just to make sure I was still breathing. My grandmother, a nurse, took my vitals every few hours at home. My grandfather sat with me during infusions so I wouldn’t have to see my mother cry. Family, community, even strangers online told me I was brave, even when I didn’t feel human. I didn’t just survive because of pills or therapy I survived because someone kept saying, “You matter,” until I believed it. Now, I’m studying Criminal Justice and Psychology. Because I’ve lived through what it feels like to be misdiagnosed, dismissed, and punished for being in pain. And I know firsthand how mental illness—especially in Black girls is too often labeled as “attitude,” “manipulative,” or “too much.” I want to change that. I want to fight for the kids who can’t articulate what hurts, and the ones who’ve been silenced by shame. My story isn’t polished. It’s messy. But it’s real. I didn’t heal in a straight line I stumbled through it, clinging to scraps of hope. Mental illness shaped me, but it didn’t end me. It made me an advocate, a survivor, and someone who understands that visibility is the first step to justice. And I’ll never let anyone feel invisible again.

“Breathe, baby. I’m right here.” My mother’s voice was soft but steady the kind of calm that cracks at the edges. I was nine, curled in a hospital bed with oxygen tubes in my nose and joints so swollen I could barely move. At first, I screamed and cried every time they brought out the needle. Eventually, I stopped reacting. I’d slip on headphones, crank the volume high enough to drown out the beeping monitors, and disappear somewhere quieter. She never left. Even while battling her own cancer, she slept in bed beside me, waking up to check that I was still breathing, while I slept. She always looked beautiful, normal, never sick just a little too quiet, a little too tired, with makeup hiding the dark circles under her eyes and her sunken cheeks. As a Jehovah’s Witness, I prayed constantly. At first, I prayed for healing. Then I begged for answers. “What did I do wrong? Why did God make me sick? Why couldn’t I have another body?” When all I got in return was silence, I stopped asking. What saved me wasn’t faith. It was community and it’s also the social issue I fight for now: the neglect and dismissal of illness in Black and Brown bodies. My autoimmune disease was misdiagnosed as eczema, arthritis, anxiety. It wasn’t until the damage was nearly permanent that someone looked deeper. That delay caused by bias nearly killed me. My grandparents moved furniture to make us a bedroom. My grandma took my vitals, fed me, prayed even when I didn’t want to hear it. My grandpa came to infusions so I wouldn’t see my mom cry. My uncle sent money for treatment. My mom’s Facebook friends told me I was beautiful even when my face was swollen from prednisone. That was my first experience of grassroots care: people becoming the system that failed me. Now, I use my story to address that failure. My mom and I went live on Facebook to educate others on what Juvenile Dermatomyositis looks like in kids of color. One mother watching quietly recognized her daughter’s symptoms. That girl was diagnosed early, got treatment, and lived. That’s what change looks like: survival passed forward. I’m studying Criminal Justice and Psychology to fight for BIPOC women and youth who are overlooked, misdiagnosed, or criminalized instead of treated. I want to advocate at the intersection of mental health, race, and justice. I want to be the voice in the room saying, “Here’s who you forgot.” Sharing my story helps others feel less alone. That’s how I fight this issue not just in courtrooms one day, but in living rooms and timelines right now. I know what it’s like to feel invisible. And I’m working every day to make sure no one else does.

I used to scratch my skin until it bled not because I itched, but because I wanted to feel something sharper than fear. That fear lived under everything: the panic that my mom would die if I left the room, the obsessive need for control, the constant pressure to make everything perfect or else. I wasn’t afraid of death because it felt inevitable. Illness ran through my family like wildfire. I expected it. Prepared for it. And when I was diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disease at nine, I met it face-to-face. But the physical illness wasn’t what broke me. It was the silence. The weight of pretending I was okay, of watching my mother fight cancer while caring for me when I couldn’t walk across a room without gasping for air. It was the belief that if I could just be perfect quiet, helpful, unbothered I wouldn’t make things worse. I didn’t realize I was unraveling. I just knew I couldn’t breathe, even when I wasn’t on oxygen. I began isolating. I stopped finding joy in anything (anhedonia, they called it). Crowds triggered full-body panic attacks. My thoughts were still logical, clean, goal-directed but inside, I was being crushed by anxiety, OCD rituals, and the exhausting hyper-vigilance of trying to keep everyone alive through force of will alone. I needed to know every outcome. I needed control. Because if I didn’t hold it all together, someone would die. Maybe me. Maybe her. Eventually, the weight became too heavy. I was hospitalized in a psychiatric unit. And it wasn’t soft. It was fluorescent lights, questions that made me cry, scratchy sheets, and group therapy with people who had scars like mine but in places you couldn’t always see. It was in that sterile, locked ward that I learned pain could be survived. It didn’t have to be hidden or perfect. It just had to be faced. That experience didn’t just change me. It built the foundation for who I am now and who I plan to be. I’m studying Criminal Justice and Psychology, with the goal of becoming a criminal defense attorney and forensic psychology professional, because I know how easy it is to be misunderstood. To be misdiagnosed. To be punished for pain that no one sees. I want to advocate for BIPOC women and youth who are criminalized instead of treated, ignored instead of heard. I want to sit in rooms where policies are written and say, “Here’s who you forgot.” My mental health journey has made me deeply empathetic but not in a soft, abstract way. I know how to sit with discomfort. I know what it’s like to feel unfixable. I’ve seen how systems treat pain like a threat when it comes from the wrong body. And I believe that advocacy is not just legal work it’s emotional labor, too. My relationships have changed because I no longer hide how I feel to make others comfortable. My beliefs have changed because I now understand healing as a rebellion in a world that tells you to suppress, to endure, to smile through the bleeding. And my career goals are laser-focused on change because if I can make even one girl like me feel less alone, less ashamed, and more seen, then all the pain I survived becomes something powerful. I’m still healing. But I’ve turned my pain into purpose and I’m not afraid to use it.

The first time I heard the words “lung transplant,” I was nine years old and already running out of time. My autoimmune disease had been misdiagnosed for months. Doctors told me I had eczema. Then arthritis. Then anxiety. Even obesity. What they didn’t consider was that I had Juvenile Dermatomyositis, a rare disease that shows up differently on Black skin. No one recognized the symptoms not because they weren’t there, but because medical systems aren’t trained to see them in girls who look like me. By the time I was properly diagnosed, the disease had begun attacking my lungs. I was told I had 3–5 years to live without a transplant. I was only nine. While I faced that reality, my mother fighting both breast and ovarian cancer was taking care of me, making dinner, managing appointments, and holding everything together. That experience didn’t just shape my childhood it shaped my understanding of how systems time and time again fail Black women. Studies show that Black women in the U.S. are nearly three times more likely to be misdiagnosed than white women, often with serious or life-threatening consequences. That statistic isn’t just numbers to me it’s personal. I lived it. And I’m not the only one. That’s why I’m pursuing a degree in Criminal Justice with a minor in Psychology to turn my lived experience into action. I plan to become a criminal defense attorney with a specialization in forensic psychology, using the legal system not just to defend but to dismantle the patterns that keep Black and Brown women trapped in cycles of neglect, punishment, and invisibility. Whether it’s in a courtroom or a clinic, I want to advocate for women who’ve been mislabeled, misunderstood, or silenced by the very systems that claim to protect them. But I’m not waiting for a law degree to start. My mother and I hosted a Facebook Live where we educated others on what JDM looks like in children of color. Because of that one video, a young Black girl my mom’s friend’s daughter was able to get diagnosed early. She got the treatment I never had the chance to get in time. That’s the moment I understood: my voice could save lives. And that community online and in real life became the foundation of my purpose. I plan to use my education to create community workshops on legal rights and mental health, specifically for BIPOC women and girls. I want to build programs that offer both advocacy and healing places where women can understand the systems they’re navigating and learn how to protect themselves within them. I will partner with public defenders, trauma-informed therapists, and grassroots organizers to push for policy changes that center compassion over punishment, particularly for women criminalized for surviving trauma. I stayed quiet for years because I was ashamed of what I went through. But I realize now that silence is what lets systems keep failing us. I refuse to be quiet anymore. I will speak for myself, and for every girl who was told she was “too sensitive,” “too complicated,” or “just anxious” when she was actually dying. Through law, psychology, and deep-rooted community engagement, I will fight for a future where BIPOC women are seen, heard, believed and finally, protected.

I never expected a Facebook Live to change someone’s life but it did. For years, I was silent. I didn’t talk about my disease, not because I didn’t care, but because I was embarrassed that I wasn’t “normal.” I didn’t want to be known as the sick girl, the one who couldn’t breathe right or who needed help walking across a room. But behind that silence was a diagnosis that nearly took my life and eventually helped save someone else’s. At nine years old, I was diagnosed with Juvenile Dermatomyositis (JDM), a rare autoimmune disease that attacks the muscles and organs. Because of my dark skin, the rash that signals the disease went unnoticed for months. By the time doctors figured it out, my lungs were failing. I was told I had 3 to 5 years to live without a lung transplant and would need to move to Texas just to qualify for one. While I was losing my strength, my mother was fighting breast and ovarian cancer and still somehow taking care of me while taking care of herself. What made it harder was knowing the doctors didn’t fully know what to do with me. My case was so rare and so advanced that I became, in many ways, a medical experiment. But I didn’t mind. If using my body and my treatment plan could help build a standard of care for kids in Georgia who looked like me, then I could live with the needles, the tests, and the fear. Still, I carried survivor’s guilt, especially after learning a young Black boy with the same condition died just months before my diagnosis. For a long time, I kept that pain to myself. But eventually, my mom and I decided to share our story. We went live on Facebook and taught people what JDM looks like in children of color how it presents differently, what to ask for, and how to advocate for proper testing. One of the people who saw it was my mom’s old college friend. Her daughter had similar symptoms, and because of our video, she knew exactly what to push for. Her daughter got diagnosed early and treated in time. That moment changed everything for me. It showed me that my voice could be a lifeline, that sharing what I once felt ashamed of could literally save lives. For the first time, I understood that being part of a community means giving what you’ve lived through so that someone else might suffer less. That one act of honesty one live video created a ripple effect of awareness, empathy, and access. Being part of that community gave me something I hadn’t felt in years: hope. Hope that kids who look like me will no longer go undiagnosed. Hope that being different doesn’t mean being invisible. Hope that speaking up can lead to real, lasting change. Now, as a Criminal Justice and Psychology major, I carry those lessons with me. I want to work in forensic psychology and law not just to fight legal battles, but to stand up for people who feel unseen, unheard, or misunderstood, just like I once did. I stayed silent for years because I was ashamed. Now I speak because I know that silence can cost lives and community can save them.

I was nine years old when the world stopped feeling safe. I remember sitting on the cold edge of an exam table, my mother beside me, while doctors tossed around terms no child should ever hear, ones I could barely understand “autoimmune,” “degeneration,” “lung failure.” My joints ached constantly, I felt weak, I had dropped half my body weight in two months. My muscles weakened. But what no one saw, or rather, what no one wanted to see was that my dark skin was hiding the rash that should have led to a diagnosis of Dermatomyositis months earlier. By the time someone finally looked past my skin tone, the disease had progressed. It had already started attacking my organs, especially my lungs. I was told I had 3–5 years to live without a lung transplant, or I’d be dependent on oxygen for the rest of my life. To even qualify for a transplant, I would have to uproot my life, leave behind my family and everything familiar, and move across the country to Texas. As a child, that reality broke something in me. My mom tried to shield me from the details, but I wanted to know everything. I needed something I could control. I studied the surgery, the risks, the odds of surviving. I knew my ribs would be broken open. I knew I could die on that table. But I also knew I couldn’t let fear be louder than the possibility of living. What made everything harder was that the doctors had no idea what to do with me. My case was so rare and so advanced that I became, in many ways, an experiment. I didn’t mind being the test case if it meant it could help another child one day but it haunted me that a young Black boy who had the disease before me didn’t survive. He looked like me. He had the same symptoms. And he died just months before my diagnosis. That survivor’s guilt hit me harder than the illness ever could. Why did I get to live when he didn’t? At the same time, my mother was quietly fighting her own war, battling breast and ovarian cancer. While she was sick and dying, she was also cooking for me, helping me shower, holding my oxygen tubes, making sure we slept in the same bed so she could make sure I hadn’t stopped breathing in my sleep, and sleeping next to me in hospital rooms. I was old enough to know what that meant, and I was old enough to feel the weight of it. I was old enough to know that she couldn’t work because she was sitting beside me while I cried over butterfly needles being pushed into my veins for chemotherapy. I felt like a burden watching her break her body just to keep mine barely functioning. I tried to be strong for her and for my grandparents. I helped around the house, cooked when I could, but no matter what I did, it felt like it was never enough. That’s when the depression set in. Then the anxiety. Then the silence. Eventually, I landed in a psychiatric ward. Not because I gave up but because I needed help surviving the part no one could see. I had to face what I’d been pushing down: the guilt, the anger, the confusion of growing up too fast in a world that expected me to smile through it. The weight was too heavy to carry alone. I spent weeks there, breaking open emotionally the way I had already been broken physically. I confronted guilt, fear, helplessness and came out of it more aware, more grounded, and more determined than to carry on my family legacy of being a survivor. Now, I’m in college studying Criminal Justice and Psychology, with the goal of becoming a criminal defense attorney and working in forensic psychology. I want to stand up for people who have been overlooked, mistreated, or misunderstood just like I was. Mental health shaped everything about how I see the world: it made me more patient, more analytical, and far more compassionate. I don’t just understand pain I recognize it in others, even when they can’t name it yet. I still have hard days where I pray for a different body for a different brain. But I’m here. I’m healing. I’m building a life that honors the version of me who almost didn’t make it and the kids like me who didn’t get the same chance.

Life with chronic illnesses such as dermatomyositis and interstitial lung disease has not only tested my physical strength but has also taken a profound toll on my mental health. Over the years, I have been diagnosed with major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder, both of which have deeply influenced my perspective and resilience. For much of my adolescence, the weight of navigating a rare and debilitating condition, coupled with the physical pain and emotional isolation it caused, left me feeling like I was fighting an invisible battle alone. At one point, the darkness felt insurmountable, and I found myself close to giving up. I had a rare disease that was misdiagnosed for years because of racial stigmas. The constant stream of medical appointments, treatments, and uncertainty about my future at one point doctors told me that I would only make it to 12 because of misdiagnosis. I felt discouraged and a burden to many family that had to deal with my medical bills. This led to a breaking point where thoughts of suicide seemed like the only escape from the pain. Yet, in that darkest moment, I was reminded of the love and support from my mother, who herself is a four-time cancer survivor. Her resilience inspired me to seek help and open up about my struggles. Through therapy and connecting with mental health professionals, I began to reframe my mindset. I learned the importance of acknowledging my feelings instead of bottling them up and discovered tools to manage my anxiety and depression. Writing became a therapeutic outlet for me—a way to process my emotions and find clarity amidst the chaos. I also leaned into my education, using my experiences to fuel my passion for criminal justice and advocating for others who feel unseen and unheard. Mental health challenges have taught me that it’s okay to not be okay and that asking for help is a sign of strength, not weakness. These lessons have profoundly shaped who I am today. They’ve given me a deep sense of empathy for others facing similar battles and have fueled my commitment to making a positive impact in the world. Whether through community outreach or my future work as an attorney, I aim to create spaces where people feel supported, understood, and empowered to overcome their struggles. My journey with mental health has been far from easy, but it has been transformative. It has strengthened my resolve to not only persevere but to ensure that others know they are never alone in their fight.

Life has taught me that resilience isn’t just about survival—it’s about finding purpose in adversity and using it to grow and make a difference and transforming those roadblocks into a foundation for purpose and change. Growing up with dermatomyositis, a rare autoimmune disease and Interstitial Lung disease both have challenged me not only physically but emotionally, I have navigated a life filled with uncertainty. At the same time starting at a very young age, I’ve witnessed my mother fight and overcome cancer four times, each battle showcasing her incredible strength and perseverance which has shaped me into the person I am today. These experiences have shaped me into someone who is not only determined but deeply empathetic, with a commitment to making a lasting impact on my community. Currently pursuing a degree in criminal justice with a minor in psychology at Georgia State University, I am driven by a passion to advocate for those who have been wronged or overlooked by the legal system. Watching crime shows and documentaries as a child sparked my interest in law and justice, but it was the real-life experiences of navigating healthcare and witnessing systemic inequities that cemented my desire to fight for fairness. My goal is to combine my education with my life experiences to become an attorney who ensures justice is accessible and fair to all, especially marginalized communities. My mother’s cancer journey and my own health challenges have taught me the value of compassion and advocacy. They have also instilled in me a sense of responsibility to give back. Whether through volunteer work or supporting others in need, I strive to embody the strength and resilience that have defined my family’s story. This scholarship would provide the financial stability needed to focus fully on my education while allowing me to dedicate more time to causes I care deeply about, like community reform and taking care of my health and family. I believe the Michelle Durant Scholarship would enable me to honor my mother’s legacy by continuing to fight for others, just as she has fought for me throughout my life. By helping me to achieve my dream of becoming an attorney, this opportunity would not only transform my future but also empower me to make a tangible difference in the lives of others. Together, we can create a ripple effect of hope, justice, and compassion that extends far beyond the courtroom.