I was born into a family where substance abuse wasn’t the exception—it was the norm. Addiction hung over our household like a heavy fog, clouding everything it touched. It seeped into every corner of our lives, distorting love, responsibility, and safety. I grew up surrounded by broken promises, unstable nights, and the kind of silence that screams louder than words. The atmosphere was one of constant unpredictability—never knowing what version of someone I’d come home to, never being sure if the bills would be paid or if the lights would be on. From an early age, I learned how to survive in chaos. I learned to read the room before I spoke, to make myself small in spaces full of pain, and to carry burdens far too heavy for a child. I became skilled at pretending things were okay—even when they weren’t. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was learning how to compartmentalize trauma, how to dissociate just enough to function, how to wear resilience like armor. By the time I reached high school, that chaos had consumed me. I was homeless—not because I made reckless choices, but because the world I was born into left me with few alternatives. I found myself couch surfing, sleeping in cars, and bouncing between temporary shelters while still trying to attend school. I tried to do my homework under dim lights in places that didn’t feel safe. I tried to act like everything was fine when inside, I was crumbling. I often didn’t know where my next meal would come from or if I’d make it through the week. But somehow, deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that refused to be silenced—a voice that whispered: This is not where your story ends. That voice became my compass. I had no safety net, no road map, and no real guidance. But I had determination. I had this unshakable belief that my life could be different, even if I didn’t know exactly how to make it happen. So when the opportunity came to move to Kansas and pursue school, I took it. Not because it was easy or comfortable, but because it was a door. And doors like that don’t always open for people like me. Leaving everything I had known—no matter how broken—was terrifying. But I knew that if I wanted a different outcome, I had to choose a different path. So I walked away from the chaos, not knowing what waited for me on the other side. In Kansas, I began to rebuild my life from the ground up. I enrolled in school and eventually earned dual bachelor’s degrees in Criminology and Psychology. These fields weren’t random choices—they were deeply personal. Criminology helped me understand the societal systems that had failed my family, while Psychology helped me understand the emotional scars I carried and the behaviors they created. My studies gave me language for what I had lived through and a lens through which I could begin to heal. Now, I’m pursuing a Master’s degree in Counseling Psychology, following the Licensed Master’s Level Psychologist (LMLP) track. My ultimate goal is to become a licensed counselor. But for me, this journey is about so much more than professional credentials. It’s about healing—not just for myself, but for the countless others who are navigating pain similar to mine. My heart is especially drawn to youth in the juvenile justice system. Too often, these young people are labeled as “troubled,” “delinquent,” or “bad,” when in reality, they are often just traumatized. Many come from homes like mine—where addiction overshadows affection, where instability replaces structure, and where survival becomes the only priority. They are not bad kids; they are kids in bad situations. And I understand them because I was them. I want to be the person I so desperately needed at that age: someone who sees beyond the anger, beyond the acting out, beyond the mistakes and the walls they’ve built to survive. I want to be someone who meets them with compassion instead of judgment. Someone who can sit in the darkness with them and say, “You are not your trauma. You are not your parents’ choices. You are not broken—you are becoming.” When I sit across from a young person in pain, I don’t see a case file or a statistic—I see echoes of the girl I used to be. I see the same hurt, confusion, and deep yearning to be seen and understood. I want to offer them what I never had growing up: hope. I want them to feel—maybe for the first time—that someone believes in them, that someone cares whether they make it out or not. That their life is worth fighting for. This work is not just a career path for me—it is a calling. It is rooted in lived experience and driven by empathy. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it has given me something invaluable: purpose. I don’t just want to fix a broken system. I want to change the narrative for the next generation. I want to build a world where children aren’t punished for surviving trauma but supported through it. A world where vulnerability is not a weakness but a doorway to connection. I also recognize the systemic nature of the issues I care about. It’s not just about individual trauma—it’s about poverty, racism, generational cycles, and institutional gaps that allow kids to fall through the cracks. My education has shown me how all of these forces intertwine. And my goal is to become a part of the solution—not just through one-on-one counseling, but through advocacy, education, and community work. The truth is, the apple can fall far from the tree. I am living proof of that. I am not my family’s addiction. I am not the homelessness I endured. I am not the pain I was born into. I am the person who chose to break the cycle, who chose healing over hiding, growth over grief. And now, I’m planting seeds so that others can grow far beyond where they came from, too.

I was born into a family where substance abuse wasn’t the exception—it was the norm. Addiction hung over our household like a heavy fog, clouding everything it touched. I grew up surrounded by broken promises, unstable nights, and the kind of silence that screams louder than words. From a young age, I learned how to survive in chaos, how to become invisible in rooms full of pain, and how to carry burdens far too heavy for a child. By high school, that chaos had pushed me out. I became homeless—not because I wanted to leave, but because staying wasn’t safe. I was left to fend for myself while still trying to go to class, finish homework, and act like everything was fine. It wasn’t. I often didn’t know where I’d sleep or where my next meal would come from. But deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that refused to be silenced—a voice that said: This is not where your story ends. I had no safety net, no clear path forward—but I had determination. When the chance came to move to Kansas and pursue school, I took it. It wasn’t easy or ideal, but it was a way out. I knew if I wanted a different life, I had to leave behind everything I had ever known. So I did. In Kansas, I began the slow work of rebuilding. I earned dual bachelor’s degrees in Criminology and Psychology—fields that helped me make sense of my past and understand the systems that fail so many families like mine. Now, I’m pursuing my Master’s in Counseling Psychology on the Licensed Master’s Level Psychologist (LMLP) track, with the ultimate goal of becoming a licensed counselor. But this path is about so much more than a career. It’s about healing—both for myself and for others who have walked through pain similar to mine. My heart is especially drawn to youth in the juvenile justice system. Too often, they are labeled as “troubled” or “delinquent,” when in reality, many are simply traumatized. Many come from homes like mine, where addiction overshadows love, and where they’ve had to grow up far too fast. I understand them because I was them. I want to be the person I needed at that age—someone who sees beyond the behavior to the pain beneath. Someone who can look a young person in the eye and say, “You are not your trauma. You are not your parents’ choices. You are not broken—you are becoming.” This work is personal. When I sit across from a young person in pain, I don’t see a case file—I see a story still unfolding. I want them to know they are not alone. That there is hope. That their life is worth fighting for. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it has given me purpose. I’m not just trying to “fix” a broken system—I want to change the narrative. I want to help build a world where kids aren’t punished for surviving trauma, but supported through it. A world where the cycle of pain ends with us. Because the truth is, the apple can fall far from the tree. I am proof of that. And now, I’m planting seeds so others can grow far beyond where they started, too.

I was born into a family where substance abuse wasn’t the exception—it was the norm. Addiction hung over our household like a heavy fog, clouding everything it touched. I grew up surrounded by broken promises, unstable nights, and the kind of silence that screams louder than words. From a young age, I learned how to survive in chaos, how to become invisible in rooms full of pain, and how to carry burdens far too heavy for a child. By high school, that chaos had pushed me out. I became homeless—not because I wanted to leave, but because staying wasn’t safe. I was left to fend for myself while still trying to go to class, finish homework, and act like everything was fine. It wasn’t. I often didn’t know where I’d sleep or where my next meal would come from. But deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that refused to be silenced—a voice that said: This is not where your story ends. I had no safety net, no clear path forward—but I had determination. When the chance came to move to Kansas and pursue school, I took it. It wasn’t easy or ideal, but it was a way out. I knew if I wanted a different life, I had to leave behind everything I had ever known. So I did. In Kansas, I began the slow work of rebuilding. I earned dual bachelor’s degrees in Criminology and Psychology—fields that helped me make sense of my past and understand the systems that fail so many families like mine. Now, I’m pursuing my Master’s in Counseling Psychology on the Licensed Master’s Level Psychologist (LMLP) track, with the ultimate goal of becoming a licensed counselor. But this path is about so much more than a career. It’s about healing—both for myself and for others who have walked through pain similar to mine. My heart is especially drawn to youth in the juvenile justice system. Too often, they are labeled as “troubled” or “delinquent,” when in reality, many are simply traumatized. Many come from homes like mine, where addiction overshadows love, and where they’ve had to grow up far too fast. I understand them because I was them. I want to be the person I needed at that age—someone who sees beyond the behavior to the pain beneath. Someone who can look a young person in the eye and say, “You are not your trauma. You are not your parents’ choices. You are not broken—you are becoming.” This work is personal. When I sit across from a young person in pain, I don’t see a case file—I see a story still unfolding. I want them to know they are not alone. That there is hope. That their life is worth fighting for. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it has given me purpose. I’m not just trying to “fix” a broken system—I want to change the narrative. I want to help build a world where kids aren’t punished for surviving trauma, but supported through it. A world where the cycle of pain ends with us. Because the truth is, the apple can fall far from the tree. I am proof of that. And now, I’m planting seeds so others can grow far beyond where they started, too.

I was born into a family where substance abuse wasn’t the exception—it was the norm. Addiction hung over our household like a heavy fog, clouding everything it touched. I grew up surrounded by broken promises, unstable nights, and the kind of silence that screams louder than words. From a young age, I learned how to survive in chaos, how to become invisible in rooms full of pain, and how to carry burdens far too heavy for a child. By high school, that chaos had pushed me out. I became homeless—not because I wanted to leave, but because staying wasn’t safe. I was left to fend for myself while still trying to go to class, finish homework, and act like everything was fine. It wasn’t. I often didn’t know where I’d sleep or where my next meal would come from. But deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that refused to be silenced—a voice that said: This is not where your story ends. I had no safety net, no clear path forward—but I had determination. When the chance came to move to Kansas and pursue school, I took it. It wasn’t easy or ideal, but it was a way out. I knew if I wanted a different life, I had to leave behind everything I had ever known. So I did. In Kansas, I began the slow work of rebuilding. I earned dual bachelor’s degrees in Criminology and Psychology—fields that helped me make sense of my past and understand the systems that fail so many families like mine. Now, I’m pursuing my Master’s in Counseling Psychology on the Licensed Master’s Level Psychologist (LMLP) track, with the ultimate goal of becoming a licensed counselor. But this path is about so much more than a career. It’s about healing—both for myself and for others who have walked through pain similar to mine. My heart is especially drawn to youth in the juvenile justice system. Too often, they are labeled as “troubled” or “delinquent,” when in reality, many are simply traumatized. Many come from homes like mine, where addiction overshadows love, and where they’ve had to grow up far too fast. I understand them because I was them. I want to be the person I needed at that age—someone who sees beyond the behavior to the pain beneath. Someone who can look a young person in the eye and say, “You are not your trauma. You are not your parents’ choices. You are not broken—you are becoming.” This work is personal. When I sit across from a young person in pain, I don’t see a case file—I see a story still unfolding. I want them to know they are not alone. That there is hope. That their life is worth fighting for. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it has given me purpose. I’m not just trying to “fix” a broken system—I want to change the narrative. I want to help build a world where kids aren’t punished for surviving trauma, but supported through it. A world where the cycle of pain ends with us. Because the truth is, the apple can fall far from the tree. I am proof of that. And now, I’m planting seeds so others can grow far beyond where they started, too.

I was born into a family where substance abuse wasn’t the exception—it was the norm. Addiction hung over our household like a heavy fog, clouding everything it touched. It seeped into every corner of our lives, distorting love, responsibility, and safety. I grew up surrounded by broken promises, unstable nights, and the kind of silence that screams louder than words. The atmosphere was one of constant unpredictability—never knowing what version of someone I’d come home to, never being sure if the bills would be paid or if the lights would be on. From an early age, I learned how to survive in chaos. I learned to read the room before I spoke, to make myself small in spaces full of pain, and to carry burdens far too heavy for a child. I became skilled at pretending things were okay—even when they weren’t. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was learning how to compartmentalize trauma, how to dissociate just enough to function, how to wear resilience like armor. By the time I reached high school, that chaos had consumed me. I was homeless—not because I made reckless choices, but because the world I was born into left me with few alternatives. I found myself couch surfing, sleeping in cars, and bouncing between temporary shelters while still trying to attend school. I tried to do my homework under dim lights in places that didn’t feel safe. I tried to act like everything was fine when inside, I was crumbling. I often didn’t know where my next meal would come from or if I’d make it through the week. But somehow, deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that refused to be silenced—a voice that whispered: This is not where your story ends. That voice became my compass. I had no safety net, no road map, and no real guidance. But I had determination. I had this unshakable belief that my life could be different, even if I didn’t know exactly how to make it happen. So when the opportunity came to move to Kansas and pursue school, I took it. Not because it was easy or comfortable, but because it was a door. And doors like that don’t always open for people like me. Leaving everything I had known—no matter how broken—was terrifying. I knew that if I wanted a different outcome, I had to choose a different path. So I walked away from the chaos, not knowing what waited for me on the other side. In Kansas, I began to rebuild my life from the ground up. I enrolled in school and eventually earned dual bachelor’s degrees in Criminology and Psychology. These fields weren’t random choices. Criminology helped me understand the societal systems that had failed my family, while Psychology helped me understand the emotional scars I carried and the behaviors they created. My studies gave me language for what I had lived through and a lens through which I could begin to heal. Now, I’m pursuing a Master’s degree in Counseling Psychology, following the Licensed Master’s Level Psychologist (LMLP) track. My ultimate goal is to become a licensed counselor. But for me, this journey is about so much more than professional credentials. It’s about healing—not just for myself, but for the countless others who are navigating pain similar to mine. My heart is especially drawn to youth in the juvenile justice system. Too often, these young people are labeled as “troubled,” “delinquent,” or “bad,” when in reality, they are often just traumatized. Many come from homes like mine—where addiction overshadows affection, where instability replaces structure, and where survival becomes the only priority. They are not bad kids; they are kids in bad situations. And I understand them because I was them. I want to be the person I so desperately needed at that age: someone who sees beyond the anger, beyond the acting out, beyond the mistakes and the walls they’ve built to survive. I want to be someone who meets them with compassion instead of judgment. Someone who can sit in the darkness with them and say, “You are not your trauma. You are not your parents’ choices. You are not broken—you are becoming.” When I sit across from a young person in pain, I don’t see a case file or a statistic—I see echoes of the girl I used to be. I see the same hurt, confusion, with a deep yearning to be seen and understood. I want to offer them what I never had growing up: hope. I want them to feel, maybe for the first time that someone believes in them, that someone cares whether they make it out or not. That their life is worth fighting for. This work is not just a career path for me—it is a calling. It is rooted in lived experience and driven by empathy. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it has given me something invaluable: purpose. I don’t just want to fix a broken system. I want to change the narrative for the next generation. I want to build a world where children aren’t punished for surviving trauma but supported through it. A world where vulnerability is not a weakness but a doorway to connection. I also recognize the systemic nature of the issues I care about. It’s not just about individual trauma—it’s about poverty, racism, generational cycles, and institutional gaps that allow kids to fall through the cracks. My education has shown me how all of these forces intertwine. My goal is to become a part of the solution. The truth is, the apple can fall far from the tree. I am living proof of that. I am not my family’s addiction. I am not the homelessness I endured. I am not the pain I was born into. I am the person who chose to break the cycle, who chose healing over hiding, growth over grief. And now, I’m planting seeds so that others can grow far beyond where they came from, too.

I was born into a family where substance abuse wasn’t the exception—it was the norm. Addiction hung over our household like a heavy fog, clouding everything it touched. I grew up surrounded by broken promises, unstable nights, and the kind of silence that screams louder than words. From a young age, I learned how to survive in chaos, how to become invisible in rooms full of pain, and how to carry burdens far too heavy for a child. By high school, that chaos had pushed me out. I became homeless—not because I wanted to leave, but because staying wasn’t safe. I was left to fend for myself while still trying to go to class, finish homework, and act like everything was fine. It wasn’t. I often didn’t know where I’d sleep or where my next meal would come from. But deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that refused to be silenced—a voice that said: This is not where your story ends. I had no safety net, no clear path forward—but I had determination. When the chance came to move to Kansas and pursue school, I took it. It wasn’t easy or ideal, but it was a way out. I knew if I wanted a different life, I had to leave behind everything I had ever known. So I did. In Kansas, I began the slow work of rebuilding. I earned dual bachelor’s degrees in Criminology and Psychology—fields that helped me make sense of my past and understand the systems that fail so many families like mine. Now, I’m pursuing my Master’s in Counseling Psychology on the Licensed Master’s Level Psychologist (LMLP) track, with the ultimate goal of becoming a licensed counselor. But this path is about so much more than a career. It’s about healing—both for myself and for others who have walked through pain similar to mine. My heart is especially drawn to youth in the juvenile justice system. Too often, they are labeled as “troubled” or “delinquent,” when in reality, many are simply traumatized. Many come from homes like mine, where addiction overshadows love, and where they’ve had to grow up far too fast. I understand them because I was them. I want to be the person I needed at that age—someone who sees beyond the behavior to the pain beneath. Someone who can look a young person in the eye and say, “You are not your trauma. You are not your parents’ choices. You are not broken—you are becoming.” This work is personal. When I sit across from a young person in pain, I don’t see a case file—I see a story still unfolding. I want them to know they are not alone. That there is hope. That their life is worth fighting for. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it has given me purpose. I’m not just trying to “fix” a broken system—I want to change the narrative. I want to help build a world where kids aren’t punished for surviving trauma, but supported through it. A world where the cycle of pain ends with us. Because the truth is, the apple can fall far from the tree. I am proof of that. And now, I’m planting seeds so others can grow far beyond where they started, too.

I was born into a family where substance abuse wasn’t the exception—it was the norm. Addiction hung over our household like a heavy fog, clouding everything it touched. It seeped into every corner of our lives, distorting love, responsibility, and safety. I grew up surrounded by broken promises, unstable nights, and the kind of silence that screams louder than words. The atmosphere was one of constant unpredictability—never knowing what version of someone I’d come home to, never being sure if the bills would be paid or if the lights would be on. From an early age, I learned how to survive in chaos. I learned to read the room before I spoke, to make myself small in spaces full of pain, and to carry burdens far too heavy for a child. I became skilled at pretending things were okay—even when they weren’t. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was learning how to compartmentalize trauma, how to dissociate just enough to function, how to wear resilience like armor. By the time I reached high school, that chaos had consumed me. I was homeless—not because I made reckless choices, but because the world I was born into left me with few alternatives. I found myself couch surfing, sleeping in cars, and bouncing between temporary shelters while still trying to attend school. I tried to do my homework under dim lights in places that didn’t feel safe. I tried to act like everything was fine when inside, I was crumbling. I often didn’t know where my next meal would come from or if I’d make it through the week. But somehow, deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that refused to be silenced—a voice that whispered: This is not where your story ends. That voice became my compass. I had no safety net, no road map, and no real guidance. But I had determination. I had this unshakable belief that my life could be different, even if I didn’t know exactly how to make it happen. So when the opportunity came to move to Kansas and pursue school, I took it. Not because it was easy or comfortable, but because it was a door. And doors like that don’t always open for people like me. Leaving everything I had known—no matter how broken—was terrifying. But I knew that if I wanted a different outcome, I had to choose a different path. So I walked away from the chaos, not knowing what waited for me on the other side. In Kansas, I began to rebuild my life from the ground up. I enrolled in school and eventually earned dual bachelor’s degrees in Criminology and Psychology. These fields weren’t random choices—they were deeply personal. Criminology helped me understand the societal systems that had failed my family, while Psychology helped me understand the emotional scars I carried and the behaviors they created. My studies gave me language for what I had lived through and a lens through which I could begin to heal. Now, I’m pursuing a Master’s degree in Counseling Psychology, following the Licensed Master’s Level Psychologist (LMLP) track. My ultimate goal is to become a licensed counselor. But for me, this journey is about so much more than professional credentials. It’s about healing—not just for myself, but for the countless others who are navigating pain similar to mine. My heart is especially drawn to youth in the juvenile justice system. Too often, these young people are labeled as “troubled,” “delinquent,” or “bad,” when in reality, they are often just traumatized. Many come from homes like mine—where addiction overshadows affection, where instability replaces structure, and where survival becomes the only priority. They are not bad kids; they are kids in bad situations. And I understand them because I was them. I want to be the person I so desperately needed at that age: someone who sees beyond the anger, beyond the acting out, beyond the mistakes and the walls they’ve built to survive. I want to be someone who meets them with compassion instead of judgment. Someone who can sit in the darkness with them and say, “You are not your trauma. You are not your parents’ choices. You are not broken—you are becoming.” When I sit across from a young person in pain, I don’t see a case file or a statistic—I see echoes of the girl I used to be. I see the same hurt, confusion, and deep yearning to be seen and understood. I want to offer them what I never had growing up: hope. I want them to feel—maybe for the first time—that someone believes in them, that someone cares whether they make it out or not. That their life is worth fighting for. This work is not just a career path for me—it is a calling. It is rooted in lived experience and driven by empathy. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it has given me something invaluable: purpose. I don’t just want to fix a broken system. I want to change the narrative for the next generation. I want to build a world where children aren’t punished for surviving trauma but supported through it. A world where vulnerability is not a weakness but a doorway to connection. I also recognize the systemic nature of the issues I care about. It’s not just about individual trauma—it’s about poverty, racism, generational cycles, and institutional gaps that allow kids to fall through the cracks. My education has shown me how all of these forces intertwine. And my goal is to become a part of the solution—not just through one-on-one counseling, but through advocacy, education, and community work. The truth is, the apple can fall far from the tree. I am living proof of that. I am not my family’s addiction. I am not the homelessness I endured. I am not the pain I was born into. I am the person who chose to break the cycle, who chose healing over hiding, growth over grief. And now, I’m planting seeds so that others can grow far beyond where they came from, too.

Growing up, my life was shaped by circumstances I had no control over. Substance abuse was a shadow that loomed over my family for as long as I can remember. My parents, despite their love for us, struggled deeply with addiction, and over time, it consumed our lives. What began with missed bills and unstable routines escalated into full-blown chaos. The effects of their substance use seeped into every aspect of our lives, creating an environment of instability, uncertainty, and emotional hardship. By the time I was in high school, we had lost our home. Homelessness wasn’t just an idea — it was our reality. We lived in our car, stayed with friends, or bounced between temporary shelters. I remember trying to keep up with school while hiding the fact that I didn’t know where I would sleep that night. There were nights I studied under parking lot lights or skipped meals so my younger siblings could eat. It was a time filled with fear and shame, but also quiet strength. I learned how to survive — and how to keep moving forward. Wrestling became my escape, therapy, and passion. On the mat, I wasn’t a homeless teenager with a broken family — I was an athlete, a leader, someone with value. The sport gave me a sense of discipline and control when everything else felt chaotic. I poured myself into training, using every match and every practice as fuel to prove that I was more than my circumstances. Eventually, my hard work paid off. I earned a small wrestling scholarship to a Catholic university — not a full ride, but a chance to start over. Attending college was a turning point. It was the first time I had consistent meals, a place to sleep, and the mental space to reflect on everything I had been through. Surrounded by values of compassion, justice, and service, I felt a calling to turn my pain into purpose. I chose to study criminology and psychology, driven by a desire to understand the systems that fail so many families and support those navigating the same battles I had fought. These fields helped me understand the root causes of addiction, poverty, and trauma, and how we can intervene in meaningful ways. Through volunteering with youth and families impacted by substance use, I found deeper purpose. I saw how one mentor, one advocate, or one safe space can make all the difference. It reinforced my commitment to becoming a mental health professional who works with underserved populations — particularly those facing homelessness, addiction, or systemic injustice. My goal is to not only support healing but also advocate for better resources and more compassionate policies. I carry my past with me — not as a burden, but as a foundation. Every challenge I’ve faced has taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of hope. I know what it feels like to be overlooked, counted out, and dismissed. That’s why I work to ensure others don’t feel the same. I want to be a light for those still trapped in the darkness I once knew. My journey from homelessness to higher education is not just a personal victory — it’s a testament to what’s possible when someone refuses to give up. I believe with the right support, anyone can rise above their circumstances. I am proof of that. And now, my mission is to be part of that support for others — to be the change I once needed, and to build a world where every person has a chance to rewrite their story.

Growing up, my life was shaped by circumstances I had no control over. Substance abuse was a shadow that loomed over my family for as long as I can remember. My parents, despite their love for us, struggled deeply with addiction, and over time, it consumed our lives. What began with missed bills and unstable routines escalated into full-blown chaos. The effects of their substance use seeped into every aspect of our lives, creating an environment of instability, uncertainty, and emotional hardship. By the time I was in high school, we had lost our home. Homelessness wasn’t just an idea — it was our reality. We lived in our car, stayed with friends, or bounced between temporary shelters. I remember trying to keep up with school while hiding the fact that I didn’t know where I would sleep that night. There were nights I studied under parking lot lights or skipped meals so my younger siblings could eat. It was a time filled with fear and shame, but also quiet strength. I learned how to survive — and how to keep moving forward. Wrestling became my escape, therapy, and passion. On the mat, I wasn’t a homeless teenager with a broken family — I was an athlete, a leader, someone with value. The sport gave me a sense of discipline and control when everything else felt chaotic. I poured myself into training, using every match and every practice as fuel to prove that I was more than my circumstances. Eventually, my hard work paid off. I earned a small wrestling scholarship to a Catholic university — not a full ride, but a chance to start over. Attending college was a turning point. It was the first time I had consistent meals, a place to sleep, and the mental space to reflect on everything I had been through. Surrounded by values of compassion, justice, and service, I felt a calling to turn my pain into purpose. I chose to study criminology and psychology, driven by a desire to understand the systems that fail so many families and support those navigating the same battles I had fought. These fields helped me understand the root causes of addiction, poverty, and trauma, and how we can intervene in meaningful ways. Through volunteering with youth and families impacted by substance use, I found deeper purpose. I saw how one mentor, one advocate, or one safe space can make all the difference. It reinforced my commitment to becoming a mental health professional who works with underserved populations — particularly those facing homelessness, addiction, or systemic injustice. My goal is to not only support healing but also advocate for better resources and more compassionate policies. I carry my past with me — not as a burden, but as a foundation. Every challenge I’ve faced has taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of hope. I know what it feels like to be overlooked, counted out, and dismissed. That’s why I work to ensure others don’t feel the same. I want to be a light for those still trapped in the darkness I once knew. My journey from homelessness to higher education is not just a personal victory — it’s a testament to what’s possible when someone refuses to give up. I believe with the right support, anyone can rise above their circumstances. I am proof of that. And now, my mission is to be part of that support for others — to be the change I once needed, and to build a world where every person has a chance to rewrite their story.

Growing up, my life was shaped by circumstances I had no control over. Substance abuse was a shadow that loomed over my family for as long as I can remember. My parents, despite their love for us, struggled deeply with addiction, and over time, it consumed our lives. What began with missed bills and unstable routines escalated into full-blown chaos. The effects of their substance use seeped into every aspect of our lives, creating an environment of instability, uncertainty, and emotional hardship. By the time I was in high school, we had lost our home. Homelessness wasn’t just an idea — it was our reality. We lived in our car, stayed with friends, or bounced between temporary shelters. I remember trying to keep up with school while hiding the fact that I didn’t know where I would sleep that night. There were nights I studied under parking lot lights or skipped meals so my younger siblings could eat. It was a time filled with fear and shame, but also quiet strength. I learned how to survive — and how to keep moving forward. Wrestling became my escape, therapy, and passion. On the mat, I wasn’t a homeless teenager with a broken family — I was an athlete, a leader, someone with value. The sport gave me a sense of discipline and control when everything else felt chaotic. I poured myself into training, using every match and every practice as fuel to prove that I was more than my circumstances. Eventually, my hard work paid off. I earned a small wrestling scholarship to a Catholic university — not a full ride, but a chance to start over. Attending college was a turning point. It was the first time I had consistent meals, a place to sleep, and the mental space to reflect on everything I had been through. Surrounded by values of compassion, justice, and service, I felt a calling to turn my pain into purpose. I chose to study criminology and psychology, driven by a desire to understand the systems that fail so many families and support those navigating the same battles I had fought. These fields helped me understand the root causes of addiction, poverty, and trauma, and how we can intervene in meaningful ways. Through volunteering with youth and families impacted by substance use, I found deeper purpose. I saw how one mentor, one advocate, or one safe space can make all the difference. It reinforced my commitment to becoming a mental health professional who works with underserved populations — particularly those facing homelessness, addiction, or systemic injustice. My goal is to not only support healing but also advocate for better resources and more compassionate policies. I carry my past with me — not as a burden, but as a foundation. Every challenge I’ve faced has taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of hope. I know what it feels like to be overlooked, counted out, and dismissed. That’s why I work to ensure others don’t feel the same. I want to be a light for those still trapped in the darkness I once knew. My journey from homelessness to higher education is not just a personal victory — it’s a testament to what’s possible when someone refuses to give up. I believe with the right support, anyone can rise above their circumstances. I am proof of that. And now, my mission is to be part of that support for others — to be the change I once needed, and to build a world where every person has a chance to rewrite their story.

Growing up, my life was shaped by circumstances I had no control over. Substance abuse was a shadow that loomed over my family for as long as I can remember. My parents, despite their love for us, struggled deeply with addiction, and over time, it consumed our lives. What began with missed bills and unstable routines escalated into full-blown chaos. The effects of their substance use seeped into every aspect of our lives, creating an environment of instability, uncertainty, and emotional hardship. By the time I was in high school, we had lost our home. Homelessness wasn’t just an idea — it was our reality. We lived in our car, stayed with friends, or bounced between temporary shelters. I remember trying to keep up with school while hiding the fact that I didn’t know where I would sleep that night. There were nights I studied under parking lot lights or skipped meals so my younger siblings could eat. It was a time filled with fear and shame, but also quiet strength. I learned how to survive — and how to keep moving forward. Wrestling became my escape, therapy, and passion. On the mat, I wasn’t a homeless teenager with a broken family — I was an athlete, a leader, someone with value. The sport gave me a sense of discipline and control when everything else felt chaotic. I poured myself into training, using every match and every practice as fuel to prove that I was more than my circumstances. Eventually, my hard work paid off. I earned a small wrestling scholarship to a Catholic university — not a full ride, but a chance to start over. Attending college was a turning point. It was the first time I had consistent meals, a place to sleep, and the mental space to reflect on everything I had been through. Surrounded by values of compassion, justice, and service, I felt a calling to turn my pain into purpose. I chose to study criminology and psychology, driven by a desire to understand the systems that fail so many families and support those navigating the same battles I had fought. These fields helped me understand the root causes of addiction, poverty, and trauma, and how we can intervene in meaningful ways. Through volunteering with youth and families impacted by substance use, I found deeper purpose. I saw how one mentor, one advocate, or one safe space can make all the difference. It reinforced my commitment to becoming a mental health professional who works with underserved populations — particularly those facing homelessness, addiction, or systemic injustice. My goal is to not only support healing but also advocate for better resources and more compassionate policies. I carry my past with me — not as a burden, but as a foundation. Every challenge I’ve faced has taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of hope. I know what it feels like to be overlooked, counted out, and dismissed. That’s why I work to ensure others don’t feel the same. I want to be a light for those still trapped in the darkness I once knew. My journey from homelessness to higher education is not just a personal victory — it’s a testament to what’s possible when someone refuses to give up. I believe with the right support, anyone can rise above their circumstances. I am proof of that. And now, my mission is to be part of that support for others — to be the change I once needed, and to build a world where every person has a chance to rewrite their story.

My childhood was marked by chaos, pain, and survival. Substance abuse ran through my family like a storm, leaving behind broken trust, instability, and fear. As my parents struggled with addiction, the foundation of our home crumbled. By the time I reached high school, we had lost everything. We became homeless—living in our car, sleeping on floors, bouncing between shelters and relatives’ houses. Despite everything, I held onto school and wrestling. Sports gave me structure, discipline, and hope when everything else felt out of control. On the mat, I had power. I could push myself, test my limits, and escape the chaos of my daily life. Wrestling became my lifeline and eventually opened a door to a new future. Through hard work and determination, I earned a small wrestling scholarship to a Catholic university. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. For the first time, I had a roof over my head and a quiet space to think. The university environment grounded me. Surrounded by values of service and justice, I began to reflect on everything I had been through and what I wanted to do with it. I chose to study criminology and psychology because I wanted to understand the systems that impacted families like mine. I wanted to know why addiction destroys so many lives and how we can break the cycles of poverty, trauma, and incarceration. Education gave me insight, but it also gave me purpose. I wasn’t just trying to escape my past—I wanted to change the future for others. Volunteering with youth and families in crisis showed me the power of support and second chances. I saw how even a small act of compassion could make a difference, and I committed myself to being part of that change. My goal is to become a mental health professional who advocates for those society often forgets—homeless youth, families struggling with addiction, and individuals trying to rebuild their lives. My story isn’t just about struggle; it’s about resilience, transformation, and hope. What I went through didn’t break me—it built me. And now, with a clearer sense of who I am and why I’m here, I am determined to be a source of healing and change in the world.

My story begins in a home overshadowed by substance abuse. From an early age, I learned how addiction can unravel a family—slowly, painfully, and almost without notice. My parents struggled with drug and alcohol use for most of my childhood. What started as small signs of instability—missed bills, arguments, unpredictable behavior—eventually led to full-blown chaos. The love in our home was real, but it was buried beneath the weight of addiction, and as I got older, the consequences of that reality became impossible to ignore. By the time I reached high school, the situation had worsened. My parents could no longer hold steady jobs, and we found ourselves moving constantly—sometimes living with relatives, other times staying in our car or in shelters. We were officially homeless. Trying to keep up with school while worrying about where I would sleep that night, or whether there would be food to eat, was overwhelming. I remember studying by flashlight in parking lots, or trying to finish homework while blocking out the noise of crowded shelters. Despite everything, I refused to give up. I leaned heavily on sports—specifically wrestling—as a way to cope. Wrestling gave me structure, a physical outlet for my emotions, and a sense of belonging. On the mat, I wasn’t a homeless kid with a broken family—I was an athlete, a fighter, someone who mattered. I found discipline, resilience, and confidence in a sport that demanded everything I had, and I gave it all. I practiced hard, stayed late, and earned the respect of my coaches and teammates. My dedication eventually paid off when I was offered a small wrestling scholarship to a Catholic university. It wasn’t a full ride, but it was enough to get me through the door—and for a kid like me, that door felt like the entrance to a new life. Leaving home and starting college was both exciting and terrifying. I carried my past with me, but I also carried a determination to break the cycle that had defined my family for generations. At the university, I chose to major in criminology and psychology. These fields weren’t just academic interests—they were personal missions. I wanted to understand how families like mine fall through the cracks, how addiction and poverty are connected, and how the criminal justice system interacts with mental health and substance abuse. My coursework opened my eyes to systemic problems, but it also helped me see that change is possible—through education, advocacy, and compassion. The Catholic values of service, community, and justice reinforced my commitment to helping others. I began volunteering in programs for at-risk youth and families in recovery. Every time I listened to someone’s story or helped connect them to resources, I felt like I was doing more than healing others—I was healing myself. Today, I continue to walk the path toward becoming a mental health professional. My goal is to support youth and families who are facing the same battles I once did. I want to be the adult that I needed when I was a scared teenager sleeping in a car and wondering what my future would hold. My journey from homelessness to higher education has shaped who I am in every way. It has made me resilient, empathetic, and deeply committed to being a force for positive change. I believe that our hardest struggles can lead us to our greatest purpose—and I am living proof of that truth.

I was born into a family where substance abuse wasn’t the exception—it was the norm. Addiction hung over our household like a heavy fog, clouding everything it touched. I grew up surrounded by broken promises, unstable nights, and the kind of silence that screams louder than words. From an early age, I learned how to survive in chaos, how to make myself small in rooms full of pain, and how to carry burdens far too heavy for a child. By high school, that chaos had pushed me out. I was homeless—left to fend for myself while still trying to go to class, finish homework, and pretend that everything was fine. It wasn’t. I often didn’t know where I would sleep or where my next meal would come from. But somehow, deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that whispered: This is not where your story ends. I had no safety net, no road map, and no real guidance. But I had determination. When the opportunity came to move to Kansas and pursue school, I went. Not because it was easy or ideal, but because it was my only option. I knew if I wanted a different life, I had to be willing to walk away from everything I had known. So I did. In Kansas, I started to rebuild. I earned dual bachelor’s degrees in Criminology and Psychology—fields that helped me understand both the systems that failed me and the reasons why people fall through the cracks. And now, I am working toward my Master’s in Counseling Psychology on the LMLP (Licensed Master’s Level Psychologist) track, with the ultimate goal of becoming a licensed counselor. But for me, this is about so much more than a degree or a job. It’s about healing—not just myself, but others like me. My heart is with the youth in the juvenile justice system. Too often, these young people are written off as “troubled” or “delinquent,” when in reality, many of them are simply traumatized. Many come from homes like mine, where love was overshadowed by addiction, and where they had to become their own protectors. I understand them because I was them. And I want them to know that their circumstances do not define them—that their story can change. I want to be the person I so desperately needed at that age: someone who sees beyond the anger, the mistakes, the walls they’ve built to survive. Someone who believes in their potential when they can’t see it for themselves. Someone who tells them, “You are not your trauma. You are not your parents’ choices. You are not broken—you are becoming.” This work is deeply personal for me. When I sit across from a young person in pain, I see echoes of the girl I used to be. And I want them to feel what I never got to feel growing up—that there is hope, that someone cares, and that their life is worth fighting for. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it’s given me a purpose that’s larger than myself. I’m not just trying to “fix” a system—I’m trying to change the narrative for the next generation. I want to build a world where children aren’t punished for surviving trauma, but supported through it. A world where the cycle of pain ends with us. Because the truth is, the apple can fall far from the tree. I am proof of that. And now, I’m planting seeds for others to grow far beyond where they came from too.

I was born into a family where substance abuse wasn’t the exception—it was the norm. Addiction hung over our household like a heavy fog, clouding everything it touched. I grew up surrounded by broken promises, unstable nights, and the kind of silence that screams louder than words. From an early age, I learned how to survive in chaos, how to make myself small in rooms full of pain, and how to carry burdens far too heavy for a child. By high school, that chaos had pushed me out. I was homeless—left to fend for myself while still trying to go to class, finish homework, and pretend that everything was fine. It wasn’t. I often didn’t know where I would sleep or where my next meal would come from. But somehow, deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that whispered: This is not where your story ends. I had no safety net, no road map, and no real guidance. But I had determination. When the opportunity came to move to Kansas and pursue school, I went. Not because it was easy or ideal, but because it was my only option. I knew if I wanted a different life, I had to be willing to walk away from everything I had known. So I did. In Kansas, I started to rebuild. I earned dual bachelor’s degrees in Criminology and Psychology—fields that helped me understand both the systems that failed me and the reasons why people fall through the cracks. And now, I am working toward my Master’s in Counseling Psychology on the LMLP (Licensed Master’s Level Psychologist) track, with the ultimate goal of becoming a licensed counselor. But for me, this is about so much more than a degree or a job. It’s about healing—not just myself, but others like me. My heart is with the youth in the juvenile justice system. Too often, these young people are written off as “troubled” or “delinquent,” when in reality, many of them are simply traumatized. Many come from homes like mine, where love was overshadowed by addiction, and where they had to become their own protectors. I understand them because I was them. And I want them to know that their circumstances do not define them—that their story can change. I want to be the person I so desperately needed at that age: someone who sees beyond the anger, the mistakes, the walls they’ve built to survive. Someone who believes in their potential when they can’t see it for themselves. Someone who tells them, “You are not your trauma. You are not your parents’ choices. You are not broken—you are becoming.” This work is deeply personal for me. When I sit across from a young person in pain, I see echoes of the girl I used to be. And I want them to feel what I never got to feel growing up—that there is hope, that someone cares, and that their life is worth fighting for. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it’s given me a purpose that’s larger than myself. I’m not just trying to “fix” a system—I’m trying to change the narrative for the next generation. I want to build a world where children aren’t punished for surviving trauma, but supported through it. A world where the cycle of pain ends with us. Because the truth is, the apple can fall far from the tree. I am proof of that. And now, I’m planting seeds for others to grow far beyond where they came from too.

I was born into a family where substance abuse wasn’t the exception—it was the norm. Addiction hung over our household like a heavy fog, clouding everything it touched. I grew up surrounded by broken promises, unstable nights, and the kind of silence that screams louder than words. From an early age, I learned how to survive in chaos, how to make myself small in rooms full of pain, and how to carry burdens far too heavy for a child. By high school, that chaos had pushed me out. I was homeless—left to fend for myself while still trying to go to class, finish homework, and pretend that everything was fine. It wasn’t. I often didn’t know where I would sleep or where my next meal would come from. But somehow, deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that whispered: This is not where your story ends. I had no safety net, no road map, and no real guidance. But I had determination. When the opportunity came to move to Kansas and pursue school, I went. Not because it was easy or ideal, but because it was my only option. I knew if I wanted a different life, I had to be willing to walk away from everything I had known. So I did. In Kansas, I started to rebuild. I earned dual bachelor’s degrees in Criminology and Psychology—fields that helped me understand both the systems that failed me and the reasons why people fall through the cracks. And now, I am working toward my Master’s in Counseling Psychology on the LMLP (Licensed Master’s Level Psychologist) track, with the ultimate goal of becoming a licensed counselor. But for me, this is about so much more than a degree or a job. It’s about healing—not just myself, but others like me. My heart is with the youth in the juvenile justice system. Too often, these young people are written off as “troubled” or “delinquent,” when in reality, many of them are simply traumatized. Many come from homes like mine, where love was overshadowed by addiction, and where they had to become their own protectors. I understand them because I was them. And I want them to know that their circumstances do not define them—that their story can change. I want to be the person I so desperately needed at that age: someone who sees beyond the anger, the mistakes, the walls they’ve built to survive. Someone who believes in their potential when they can’t see it for themselves. Someone who tells them, “You are not your trauma. You are not your parents’ choices. You are not broken—you are becoming.” This work is deeply personal for me. When I sit across from a young person in pain, I see echoes of the girl I used to be. And I want them to feel what I never got to feel growing up—that there is hope, that someone cares, and that their life is worth fighting for. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it’s given me a purpose that’s larger than myself. I’m not just trying to “fix” a system—I’m trying to change the narrative for the next generation. I want to build a world where children aren’t punished for surviving trauma, but supported through it. A world where the cycle of pain ends with us. Because the truth is, the apple can fall far from the tree. I am proof of that. And now, I’m planting seeds for others to grow far beyond where they came from too.

I was born into a family where substance abuse wasn’t the exception—it was the norm. Addiction hung over our household like a heavy fog, clouding everything it touched. I grew up surrounded by broken promises, unstable nights, and the kind of silence that screams louder than words. From an early age, I learned how to survive in chaos, how to make myself small in rooms full of pain, and how to carry burdens far too heavy for a child. By high school, that chaos had pushed me out. I was homeless—left to fend for myself while still trying to go to class, finish homework, and pretend that everything was fine. It wasn’t. I often didn’t know where I would sleep or where my next meal would come from. But somehow, deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that whispered: This is not where your story ends. I had no safety net, no road map, and no real guidance. But I had determination. When the opportunity came to move to Kansas and pursue school, I went. Not because it was easy or ideal, but because it was my only option. I knew if I wanted a different life, I had to be willing to walk away from everything I had known. So I did. In Kansas, I started to rebuild. I earned dual bachelor’s degrees in Criminology and Psychology—fields that helped me understand both the systems that failed me and the reasons why people fall through the cracks. And now, I am working toward my Master’s in Counseling Psychology on the LMLP (Licensed Master’s Level Psychologist) track, with the ultimate goal of becoming a licensed counselor. But for me, this is about so much more than a degree or a job. It’s about healing—not just myself, but others like me. My heart is with the youth in the juvenile justice system. Too often, these young people are written off as “troubled” or “delinquent,” when in reality, many of them are simply traumatized. Many come from homes like mine, where love was overshadowed by addiction, and where they had to become their own protectors. I understand them because I was them. And I want them to know that their circumstances do not define them—that their story can change. I want to be the person I so desperately needed at that age: someone who sees beyond the anger, the mistakes, the walls they’ve built to survive. Someone who believes in their potential when they can’t see it for themselves. Someone who tells them, “You are not your trauma. You are not your parents’ choices. You are not broken—you are becoming.” This work is deeply personal for me. When I sit across from a young person in pain, I see echoes of the girl I used to be. And I want them to feel what I never got to feel growing up—that there is hope, that someone cares, and that their life is worth fighting for. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it’s given me a purpose that’s larger than myself. I’m not just trying to “fix” a system—I’m trying to change the narrative for the next generation. I want to build a world where children aren’t punished for surviving trauma, but supported through it. A world where the cycle of pain ends with us. Because the truth is, the apple can fall far from the tree. I am proof of that. And now, I’m planting seeds for others to grow far beyond where they came from too.

I was born into a family where substance abuse wasn’t the exception—it was the norm. Addiction hung over our household like a heavy fog, clouding everything it touched. I grew up surrounded by broken promises, unstable nights, and the kind of silence that screams louder than words. From an early age, I learned how to survive in chaos, how to make myself small in rooms full of pain, and how to carry burdens far too heavy for a child. By high school, that chaos had pushed me out. I was homeless—left to fend for myself while still trying to go to class, finish homework, and pretend that everything was fine. It wasn’t. I often didn’t know where I would sleep or where my next meal would come from. But somehow, deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that whispered: This is not where your story ends. I had no safety net, no road map, and no real guidance. But I had determination. When the opportunity came to move to Kansas and pursue school, I went. Not because it was easy or ideal, but because it was my only option. I knew if I wanted a different life, I had to be willing to walk away from everything I had known. So I did. In Kansas, I started to rebuild. I earned dual bachelor’s degrees in Criminology and Psychology—fields that helped me understand both the systems that failed me and the reasons why people fall through the cracks. And now, I am working toward my Master’s in Counseling Psychology on the LMLP (Licensed Master’s Level Psychologist) track, with the ultimate goal of becoming a licensed counselor. But for me, this is about so much more than a degree or a job. It’s about healing—not just myself, but others like me. My heart is with the youth in the juvenile justice system. Too often, these young people are written off as “troubled” or “delinquent,” when in reality, many of them are simply traumatized. Many come from homes like mine, where love was overshadowed by addiction, and where they had to become their own protectors. I understand them because I was them. And I want them to know that their circumstances do not define them—that their story can change. I want to be the person I so desperately needed at that age: someone who sees beyond the anger, the mistakes, the walls they’ve built to survive. Someone who believes in their potential when they can’t see it for themselves. Someone who tells them, “You are not your trauma. You are not your parents’ choices. You are not broken—you are becoming.” This work is deeply personal for me. When I sit across from a young person in pain, I see echoes of the girl I used to be. And I want them to feel what I never got to feel growing up—that there is hope, that someone cares, and that their life is worth fighting for. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it’s given me a purpose that’s larger than myself. I’m not just trying to “fix” a system—I’m trying to change the narrative for the next generation. I want to build a world where children aren’t punished for surviving trauma, but supported through it. A world where the cycle of pain ends with us. Because the truth is, the apple can fall far from the tree. I am proof of that. And now, I’m planting seeds for others to grow far beyond where they came from too.

I was born into a family where substance abuse wasn’t the exception—it was the norm. Addiction hung over our household like a heavy fog, clouding everything it touched. I grew up surrounded by broken promises, unstable nights, and the kind of silence that screams louder than words. From an early age, I learned how to survive in chaos, how to make myself small in rooms full of pain, and how to carry burdens far too heavy for a child. By high school, that chaos had pushed me out. I was homeless—left to fend for myself while still trying to go to class, finish homework, and pretend that everything was fine. It wasn’t. I often didn’t know where I would sleep or where my next meal would come from. But somehow, deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that whispered: This is not where your story ends. I had no safety net, no road map, and no real guidance. But I had determination. When the opportunity came to move to Kansas and pursue school, I went. Not because it was easy or ideal, but because it was my only option. I knew if I wanted a different life, I had to be willing to walk away from everything I had known. So I did. In Kansas, I started to rebuild. I earned dual bachelor’s degrees in Criminology and Psychology—fields that helped me understand both the systems that failed me and the reasons why people fall through the cracks. And now, I am working toward my Master’s in Counseling Psychology on the LMLP (Licensed Master’s Level Psychologist) track, with the ultimate goal of becoming a licensed counselor. But for me, this is about so much more than a degree or a job. It’s about healing—not just myself, but others like me. My heart is with the youth in the juvenile justice system. Too often, these young people are written off as “troubled” or “delinquent,” when in reality, many of them are simply traumatized. Many come from homes like mine, where love was overshadowed by addiction, and where they had to become their own protectors. I understand them because I was them. And I want them to know that their circumstances do not define them—that their story can change. I want to be the person I so desperately needed at that age: someone who sees beyond the anger, the mistakes, the walls they’ve built to survive. Someone who believes in their potential when they can’t see it for themselves. Someone who tells them, “You are not your trauma. You are not your parents’ choices. You are not broken—you are becoming.” This work is deeply personal for me. When I sit across from a young person in pain, I see echoes of the girl I used to be. And I want them to feel what I never got to feel growing up—that there is hope, that someone cares, and that their life is worth fighting for. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it’s given me a purpose that’s larger than myself. I’m not just trying to “fix” a system—I’m trying to change the narrative for the next generation. I want to build a world where children aren’t punished for surviving trauma, but supported through it. A world where the cycle of pain ends with us. Because the truth is, the apple can fall far from the tree. I am proof of that. And now, I’m planting seeds for others to grow far beyond where they came from too.

I was born into a family where substance abuse wasn’t the exception—it was the norm. Addiction hung over our household like a heavy fog, clouding everything it touched. I grew up surrounded by broken promises, unstable nights, and the kind of silence that screams louder than words. From an early age, I learned how to survive in chaos, how to make myself small in rooms full of pain, and how to carry burdens far too heavy for a child. By high school, that chaos had pushed me out. I was homeless—left to fend for myself while still trying to go to class, finish homework, and pretend that everything was fine. It wasn’t. I often didn’t know where I would sleep or where my next meal would come from. But somehow, deep inside me, there was a quiet voice that whispered: This is not where your story ends. I had no safety net, no road map, and no real guidance. But I had determination. When the opportunity came to move to Kansas and pursue school, I went. Not because it was easy or ideal, but because it was my only option. I knew if I wanted a different life, I had to be willing to walk away from everything I had known. So I did. In Kansas, I started to rebuild. I earned dual bachelor’s degrees in Criminology and Psychology—fields that helped me understand both the systems that failed me and the reasons why people fall through the cracks. And now, I am working toward my Master’s in Counseling Psychology on the LMLP (Licensed Master’s Level Psychologist) track, with the ultimate goal of becoming a licensed counselor. But for me, this is about so much more than a degree or a job. It’s about healing—not just myself, but others like me. My heart is with the youth in the juvenile justice system. Too often, these young people are written off as “troubled” or “delinquent,” when in reality, many of them are simply traumatized. Many come from homes like mine, where love was overshadowed by addiction, and where they had to become their own protectors. I understand them because I was them. And I want them to know that their circumstances do not define them—that their story can change. I want to be the person I so desperately needed at that age: someone who sees beyond the anger, the mistakes, the walls they’ve built to survive. Someone who believes in their potential when they can’t see it for themselves. Someone who tells them, “You are not your trauma. You are not your parents’ choices. You are not broken—you are becoming.” This work is deeply personal for me. When I sit across from a young person in pain, I see echoes of the girl I used to be. And I want them to feel what I never got to feel growing up—that there is hope, that someone cares, and that their life is worth fighting for. My journey hasn’t been easy, but it’s given me a purpose that’s larger than myself. I’m not just trying to “fix” a system—I’m trying to change the narrative for the next generation. I want to build a world where children aren’t punished for surviving trauma, but supported through it. A world where the cycle of pain ends with us. Because the truth is, the apple can fall far from the tree. I am proof of that. And now, I’m planting seeds for others to grow far beyond where they came from too.

Caregiving has been a central part of my life for the past few years, as I have taken on the responsibility of supporting my father through a challenging health journey. My father, who once had a stable job and a routine life, lost everything after failing a drug test due to a miscommunication regarding his liver failure. What we initially thought to be a minor issue soon turned out to be cirrhosis of the liver, a chronic and life-threatening condition. He fell into homelessness after losing his job, and I had no choice but to step in. I made the decision to move him from Florida to Kansas, where I could better care for him. Since then, I have been his primary caregiver, taking on the roles of both emotional and physical support. Each week, I take him to the hospital where his abdomen is drained of the fluids that accumulate due to his liver failure. We are in a constant battle to manage his condition, and while we are unable to afford a liver transplant, we continue to pursue the necessary medical treatments to prolong his life. As a full-time student, balancing caregiving and my academic responsibilities has been incredibly difficult. But it has also shaped who I am in ways I never anticipated. My father’s struggle has deepened my sense of empathy, resilience, and determination. Through this experience, I have learned the importance of perseverance in the face of adversity. It has also fueled my desire to pursue a career in healthcare, as I have seen firsthand the impact that medical professionals can have on the lives of individuals and their families. I am driven to ensure that others who are facing similar challenges receive the support and care they need. Receiving this scholarship would mean the world to me, as it would provide much-needed financial relief in balancing my schoolwork and caregiving responsibilities. The cost of medical treatments for my father, including the weekly hospital visits, is overwhelming, and I often find myself struggling to cover my educational expenses on top of those costs. A scholarship would ease some of that financial burden, allowing me to focus more on my studies and less on worrying about how to make ends meet. Ultimately, it would allow me to continue pursuing my academic and professional goals, with the hope of eventually using my education to make a positive difference in the world, just as the healthcare providers have done for my father and me. In conclusion, caregiving has been both a challenging and transformative experience. It has deeply impacted my life, shaping my goals and aspirations while also teaching me invaluable life lessons. I hope that receiving this scholarship will not only help me further my education but also allow me to continue being there for my father in his time of need.

My Journey Many of my peers started to engage in criminal behaviors at a youthful age due to their family struggles and thinking that they could not be anything in life since their family was filled with criminals. As I was growing up in a place where crime was a common theme, there were many influences that pushed me to do better. My family was the biggest influence in my decision to leave them behind and pursue a better life for myself. My whole family would consume drugs and alcohol as a way of drowning themselves in their sorrows of mistakes or even crimes they committed. They chose to engage in criminal behaviors and had to deal with the consequences which led them to experience difficult life. When I was younger, my two older brothers were drinking and doing drugs before heading out to a party. As they were saying goodbye to me, I noticed that they were intoxicated. In the past, I had told my mother when I had noticed similar behavior, but on this occasion I did not. When they were on the way back from the party, the tire of their car popped causing the car to flip down a major highway. At the scene, one of them was pronounced dead but was put on life support, and the other was in the hospital for months fighting for his life. During this time, I prayed almost every hour to God begging for both to come home and be able to survive this tragic event. Ultimately, one passed away and the other had severe injuries to his spinal cord which caused him to have to relearn to walk while also grieving the loss of our brother. When he was finally able to come home, the first time I saw him I dropped to my knees crying because I knew that we were never going to see my other brother again. When I got older and was able to understand what they were doing, I vowed that I would never allow myself to make the same mistakes in life. This led me to be the first to graduate high school and put myself through college to accomplish my dreams of being a forensic psychologist. Even though my family put me in environments that were unsuitable for a child, I am grateful that it allowed me to be motivated to want a better life for myself. I came from a similar background as my peers, which allowed me to really understand the hardships they were facing as we had to choose between doing the wrong or right thing. This caused me to realize that I was always trying to convince them that they do not have to be like their family or background. In one case, my friend’s parents were both locked up facing life in prison, so he was living with his grandparents who did not necessarily give him the proper living situations. I took him under my wing and convinced him to stop consuming drugs and stealing using my brothers as an example of consequences. With many conversations and support from myself, he was able to see it from a different perspective. He started showing up to classes as well as turning in his assignments when they were due. His teachers saw the change in his mindset and allowed him to turn in late assignments he was missing previously. As a result, he was able to graduate and obtain a job in order to better himself without engaging in criminal behaviors. This is when I figured out that I wanted to make a difference in the world by understanding why individuals' rebel against the law. Typically, people act out when they are being stressed due to certain stimuli or triggers. If I can figure out an individual's traumas and understand why the person acts out then, I can prevent them from engaging in inappropriate behaviors by providing them the assistance they need to work through those traumas in a way suitable for society.

A resource that I use in order to manage my time in between school and extracurricular activities goes by the name of time tree. This app allows you to create a calendar that gives you notifications of everything you have scheduled before the time of the event. I would schedule all of my shifts at work, my class schedule, sport meetings, and my therapy appointments. These are all reoccurring in which the app allows you to select multiple dates to add it all at once. I believe this made it even more enjoyable sense it was easy and efficient. They also allow you to choose at single event in which I would add meetings with my professors or instructors at the university I attend. I usually set my timer for 30 minutes before each event in case I have forgotten about the event. This gives me about enough time to get ready and head out the door a little bit early so I’m on time. On this app, you can also create different calendars in case you want to separate the different curricular activities you are in. I have one specifically for flag football and another one for personal use. They give you the option to have access to a master calendar that combines all of your calendars into one so you can see everything you have to do for the day. This is one of my favorite parts and you can physically see how much you have to do. They even allow you to colorcode the events on the calendar two different curricular activities you may be a part of. This comes in handy when trying to differentiate the different activities you have to do.

As I was growing up in a place where crime was a common theme, there weren’t many influences that pushed me to do better. My family was the biggest influence in my decision to pursue a better life for myself. My family would consume drugs and alcohol as a way of drowning themselves in their sorrows of mistakes. This caused them consequences which led them to experience difficult life. When I was younger, my two older brothers were drinking and doing drugs before heading out to a party. As they were saying goodbye to me, I noticed that they were intoxicated. In the past, I would have told my mother when I had noticed similar behavior, but on this occasion I did not. They were on the way back from a party when tire a tire popped causing the car to flip down I-95. At the scene, one of them was pronounced dead but was put on life support, and the other was in the hospital for months fighting for his life. During this time, I prayed almost every hour to God begging for both to come home and be able to survive this tragic event. Ultimately, one passed away and the other had severe injuries to his spinal cord which caused him to have to relearn to walk while also grieving the loss of our brother. When he was finally able to come home, the first time I saw him I dropped to my knees crying because I knew that we were never going to see my other brother again. When I got older and was able to understand what they were doing, I vowed that I would never allow myself to make the same mistakes in life. This led me to be the first to graduate high school and put myself through college to accomplish my dreams of being a forensic psychologist. Even though my family put me in environments that were unsuitable for a child, I am grateful that it allowed me to be motivated to want a better life for myself. I came from a similar background as my peers, which allowed me to really understand the hardships they were facing as we had to choose between doing the wrong or right thing. This caused me to realize that I was always trying to convince them that they do not have to be like their family or background. In one case, my friend’s parents were both locked up facing life in prison, so he was living with his grandparents who did not necessarily give him the proper living situations. I took him under my wing and convinced him to stop consuming drugs and stealing using my brothers as an example of consequences. With many conversations and support from myself, he was able to see it from a different perspective. He started showing up to classes as well as turning in his assignments when they were due. His teachers saw the change in his mindset and allowed him to turn in late assignments he was missing previously. As a result, he was able to graduate and obtain a job in order to better himself without engaging in criminal behaviors. This is when I figured out that I wanted to make a difference in the world by understanding why individuals' rebel against the law. If I can figure out an individual's traumas and understand why the person acts out then, I can prevent them from engaging in inappropriate behaviors by providing them the assistance they need to work through those traumas in a way suitable for society.

Currently, I am studying for my criminology and psychology bachelors degree in which I am graduating a year early from my university. I plan to further my education on the masters degree level by studying counseling psychology. I believe this will give me hands on experience from practicum in order to understand people and their actions. I would like to get my phd in forensic psychology with aspirations of becoming a forensic psychologist. I would impact the world by understanding the criminal mind to prevent criminals from doing it again by showing signs to law enforcement and the world. I would also testify to mental illnesses on trial to allow the courts to have fair judgment on cases by having the facts. I really enjoy behavior anaylsis so even working in the behavior analysis unit for the FBI would be a dream come true.

My entire life my parents also assumed that I was having sexual intercourse with any guy whether he was a boyfriend or just a friend. For some reason they didn’t trust me at all and thought I was a hoe for having majority male friends. When I’m reality, I classify as asexual. I don’t not like having sexual intercourse at all because I believe in love that has a deeper connection through a partners brain. Their wisdom, journey, and goal are attractive to me. My parents never understood that but instead started to believe I was bisexual since I never really wanted to chill with females on the day to day basis. When personally, I grew up with older brothers babysitting me with their friends so I’m used to being one of the guys. This just bothers me since they cannot accept that I’m asexual and instead choose to assume. I am majoring in criminology and psychology at the bachelors degree level. I want to go to graduate school and received a masters degree in counseling psychology. After I reach this step I would love to have the opportunity to receive a phd in forensic psychology. This seems like a lot of schooling but it is necessary for someone like me who has dreams of working with behavior analysis. I have an interest in why criminals do the things they do. Criminals tend to carry patterns with them that can potentially lead us right to them. You do this by understanding the initial “why”. I want to further my education and learn more into this. I want the community to be more accepted in the world. I believe my spreading awareness is the best way to do it. It takes one person to imprint another which is why I will be verbally protesting and sharing that we all deserve to be accepted. Not everyone has the same journey on this world but we can support each other on their journeys.

When I became a college freshman, I was suffering from some mental illness in which depression was a major symptom. My roommate at the time was addicted to party drugs in which sparked my curiosity. We became apart of the party crew and basically were taking anything handed our way. This became our normal. One day everything caught up to myself as I found myself passing out at a party. My friends thankfully took very good care of me and took me home safely. It made my friends realize it became a problem instead of just trying something out. They became very hard on me, but I found happiness in the drugs. They helped me become sober off the party drugs. A year later I went three months clean on marijuana. I relapsed after finding out some terrible news about my parents health. I have now gone completely sober again since I felt disappointed in myself. I joined the Women's Flag Football team to keep my head away from substances as well as staying healthy. I don’t really like to talk about it that much since it is something that causes myself to be ashamed.

I have grown in many ways from the lessons sports have taught me. One situation that helped me grow as an individual was joining an all-male sport. Wrestling is a male-dominated sport that peaked my interest when I heard about tryouts on school announcements. I told my dad who is a former wrestler and he was ecstatic that his little girl would be throwing people across the mats. We went out on a mission to make sure I was prepared for tryouts. On the day of tryouts, I was so nervous walking into the gym. I went up to the coach to introduce myself, but he thought I was there to be a wrestling manager. I explained that I was there to be on the team, and he laughed, and then told me to get warmed up. When practice began, I noticed a lot of eyes on me, and chatter amongst the boys on the team which I didn’t fully understand until later. Coach yelled “PARTNER UP!”, so I went up to one boy who refused to be partners with a girl. After asking almost everyone who looked my weight and getting rejected by all of them, one finally agreed to drill with me. After practice, I overheard the boys gossiping about how girls can’t wrestle, and that they didn’t want me on the team. I ran to the girl's bathroom and started crying because I had never felt so rejected. Many wouldn’t have gone back, but I still wanted to be a wrestler. I went back every day and drilled with the only boy that had enough human decency to be my partner. If the boys weren’t going to respect me, I was going to make them learn how to respect me. I made this my goal. I started going to practices at different schools that my coach had set up for me, in which the boys were a little more accepting. On the weekends, I went to American Top Team and trained for hours. The chatter slowly died down, but I could still feel the tension from the boys. It was time to see who would be wrestling at this major tournament, which means wrestle-offs. This is where two people who are the same weight wrestle and whoever wins gets to compete in the tournament. I ended up winning my wrestle-off match which means I got to compete. This was one of the last tournaments of the season. I remember how fast my heart was pumping when they called me to mat. I was ready. My opponent and I shook hands and the match began. I was getting cremated out there, 6-0, when the boy did an illegal slam and my teammates weren’t too happy. They ran on the mat to see if I was okay as well as yelled at the ref and my opponent. During injury time, the boys were by my side as if I was their little sister. They were cheering when I got back up and walked onto the mat to finish my match. Within the first ten seconds back I threw my opponent to his back, pinning him, which won me the match. Not only did I win the match for my team, but I won their respect as a female wrestler. I learned that no matter how many people tell you that you can’t do something, you can if you put your mind to it. As in the words of Susana Martinez, “Success, they taught me, is built on the foundation of courage, hard work, and individual responsibility.”

Wrestling is a male-dominated sport that piqued my interest when I heard about tryouts on school announcements. I told my dad who is a former wrestler and he was ecstatic that his little girl would be throwing people across the mats. We went out on a mission to make sure I was prepared for tryouts. On the day of tryouts, I was so nervous walking into the gym. I went up to the coach to introduce myself, but he thought I was there to be a wrestling manager. I explained that I was there to be on the team, he laughed, and then told me to get warmed up. When practice began, I noticed a lot of eyes on me, and chatter amongst the boys on the team which I didn’t fully understand until later. Coach yelled “PARTNER UP!”, so I went up to one boy who refused to be partners with a girl. After asking almost everyone who looked at my weight and getting rejected by all of them, one finally agreed to drill with me. After practice, I overheard the boys gossiping about how girls can’t wrestle, and that they didn’t want me on the team. I ran to the girl's bathroom and started crying because I had never felt so rejected. Many wouldn’t have gone back, but I still wanted to be a wrestler. I went back every day and drilled with the only boy that had enough human decency to be my partner. If the boys weren’t going to respect me, I was going to make them learn how to respect me. I made this my goal. I started going to practices at different schools that my coach had set up for me, in which the boys were a little more accepting. On the weekends, I went to American Top Team and trained for hours. The chatter slowly died down, but I could still feel the tension from the boys. It was time to see who would be wrestling at this major tournament, which means wrestle-offs. This is where two people who are the same weight wrestle and whoever wins gets to compete at the tournament. I ended up winning my wrestle-off match which means I got to compete. This was one of the last tournaments of the season. I remember how fast my heart was pumping when they called me to mat. I was ready. My opponent and I shook hands and the match began. I was getting cremated out there, 6-0, when the boy did an illegal slam and my teammates weren’t too happy. They ran on the mat to see if I was okay as well as yelling at the ref and my opponent. During injury time, the boys were by my side as if I was their little sister. They were cheering when I got back up and walked on the mat to finish my match. Within the first ten seconds back I threw my opponent to his back, pinning him, which won me the match. That day was one for the books, not only did I win the match for my team, I won their respect as a female wrestler. I learned that no matter how many people tell you that you can’t do something, you can if you put your mind to it. As in the words of Susana Martinez, “Success, they taught me, is built on the foundation of courage, hard work, and individual responsibility.”

abandoned - Rod Wave betta- 2KBABY calling my phone- Lil Tjay& 6LACK pursuit of happiness- Kid Cudi dark clouds- Rod Wave

Von is my Emotional Support Animal, who I rescued from a humane society during my first year of college. He's been living the life traveling with me to and from college. On our last visit back home to Florida, I decided to take von to the beach to see what he thinks of it. The next thing I know, he's running in the sand from the tide because it caught him by surprise. He runs up right up to me of course and jumps into my arms. It was pure comedy if you witnessed it.

Since freshman year, I have grown in many ways from the lessons high school has taught me. One situation that helped me grow as an individual was joining an all-male sport. Wrestling is a male dominated sport that peaked my interest, when I heard about tryouts on school announcements. I told my dad who is a former wrestler and he was ecstatic that his little girl would be throwing people across the mats. We went out on a mission to make sure I was prepared for tryouts. On the day of tryouts, I was so nervous walking into the gym. I went up to the coach to introduce myself, but he thought I was there to be a wrestling manager. I explained that I was there to be on the team, he laughed, and then told me to get warmed up. When practice began, I noticed a lot of eyes on me, and chatter amongst the boys on the team which I didn’t fully understand until later. Coach yelled “PARTNER UP!”, so I went up to one boy who refused to be partners with a girl. After asking almost everyone who looked my weight and getting rejected by all of them, one finally agreed to drill with me. After practice, I overheard the boys gossiping about how girls can’t wrestle, and that they didn’t want me on the team. I ran to the girl's bathroom and started crying because I had never felt so rejected. Many wouldn’t have gone back, but I still wanted to be a wrestler. I went back every day and drilled with the only boy that had enough human decency to be my partner. If the boys weren’t going to respect me, I was going to make them learn how to respect me. I made this my goal. I started going to practices at different schools that my coach had set up for me, in which the boys were a little more accepting. On the weekends, I went to American Top Team and trained for hours. The chatter slowly died down, but I could still feel the tension from the boys. It was time to see who would be wrestling at this major tournament, which means wrestle-offs. This is where two people who are the same weight wrestle and whoever wins gets to compete at the tournament. I ended up winning my wrestle-off match which means I got to compete. This was one of the last tournaments of the season. I remember how fast my heart was pumping when they called me to mat. I was ready. My opponent and I shook hands and the match began. I was getting cremated out there, 6-0, when the boy did an illegal slam and my teammates weren’t too happy. They ran on the mat to see if I was okay as well as yelling at the ref and my opponent. During injury time, the boys were by my side as if I was their little sister. They were cheering when I got back up and walked on the mat to finish my match. Within the first ten seconds back I threw my opponent to his back, pinning him, which won me the match. That day was one for the books, not only did I win the match for my team, I won their respect as a female wrestler.

Wrestling is a male-dominated sport that piqued my interest when I heard about tryouts on school announcements. I told my dad who is a former wrestler and he was ecstatic that his little girl would be throwing people across the mats. We went out on a mission to make sure I was prepared for tryouts. On the day of tryouts, I was so nervous walking into the gym. I went up to the coach to introduce myself, but he thought I was there to be a wrestling manager. I explained that I was there to be on the team, he laughed, and then told me to get warmed up. When practice began, I noticed a lot of eyes on me, and chatter amongst the boys on the team which I didn’t fully understand until later. Coach yelled “PARTNER UP!”, so I went up to one boy who refused to be partners with a girl. After asking almost everyone who looked at my weight and getting rejected by all of them, one finally agreed to drill with me. After practice, I overheard the boys gossiping about how girls can’t wrestle, and that they didn’t want me on the team. I ran to the girl's bathroom and started crying because I had never felt so rejected. Many wouldn’t have gone back, but I still wanted to be a wrestler. I went back every day and drilled with the only boy that had enough human decency to be my partner. If the boys weren’t going to respect me, I was going to make them learn how to respect me. I made this my goal.

Since freshman year, I have grown in many ways from the lessons high school has taught me. One situation that helped me grow as an individual was joining an all-male sport. Wrestling is a male-dominated sport that piqued my interest when I heard about tryouts on school announcements. I told my dad who is a former wrestler and he was ecstatic that his little girl would be throwing people across the mats. We went out on a mission to make sure I was prepared for tryouts. On the day of tryouts, I was so nervous walking into the gym. I went up to the coach to introduce myself, but he thought I was there to be a wrestling manager. I explained that I was there to be on the team, he laughed, and then told me to get warmed up. When practice began, I noticed a lot of eyes on me, and chatter amongst the boys on the team which I didn’t fully understand until later. Coach yelled “PARTNER UP!”, so I went up to one boy who refused to be partners with a girl. After asking almost everyone who looked at my weight and getting rejected by all of them, one finally agreed to drill with me. After practice, I overheard the boys gossiping about how girls can’t wrestle, and that they didn’t want me on the team. I ran to the girl's bathroom and started crying because I had never felt so rejected. Many wouldn’t have gone back, but I still wanted to be a wrestler. I went back every day and drilled with the only boy that had enough human decency to be my partner. If the boys weren’t going to respect me, I was going to make them learn how to respect me. I made this my goal. I started going to practices at different schools that my coach had set up for me, in which the boys were a little more accepting. On the weekends, I went to American Top Team and trained for hours. The chatter slowly died down, but I could still feel the tension from the boys. It was time to see who would be wrestling at this major tournament, which means wrestle-offs. This is where two people who are the same weight wrestle and whoever wins gets to compete at the tournament. I ended up winning my wrestle-off match which means I got to compete. This was one of the last tournaments of the season. I remember how fast my heart was pumping when they called me to mat. I was ready. My opponent and I shook hands and the match began. I was getting cremated out there, 6-0, when the boy did an illegal slam and my teammates weren’t too happy. They ran on the mat to see if I was okay as well as yelling at the ref and my opponent. During injury time, the boys were by my side as if I was their little sister. They were cheering when I got back up and walked on the mat to finish my match. Within the first ten seconds back I threw my opponent to his back, pinning him, which won me the match. That day was one for the books, not only did I win the match for my team, I won their respect as a female wrestler. I learned that no matter how many people tell you that you can’t do something, you can if you put your mind to it.