As one of the few openly lesbian students in my school, I’ve faced discrimination throughout my life. From hushed slurs to blatant homophobia, it’s a familiar, though undeserved, part of my life. However, one of the most challenging moments of my journey through identity occurred in 7th grade. I had recently seen the musical “The Prom,” a show that resonated with me as a lesbian who has also confronted in-school discrimination. Inspired by the show, I wore a merchandise shirt I bought at the show that read “We’re All Lesbians” to school on September 25th, 2019. My excitement was cut short when, in second period, I was called to the office and issued a dress code violation. Initially, my shirt was deemed inappropriate, and the office cited the dress code’s clauses on hate speech and sexual innuendos. Devastated and entirely uncomfortable, I called my mother, who was in class at the time. I spent the next two periods in the office waiting for her. When she arrived, we spoke with the Principal and Guidance Counselors together. As soon as we pointed out that their violation was homophobic, they went back on their statement. Instead, they claimed I was dress-coded to protect me from potential harassment due to the word “lesbian” on my shirt. I was furious. I had been discriminated against and had my education disrupted only for them to defend it under the guise of protection. After being advised to attend a Board of Education meeting, my mother posted about the incident on Facebook. Before the meeting, we conducted an experiment: a friend of mine, also a lesbian, borrowed the shirt and wore it to the other middle school in our district. She not only received praise but wore it on a day that they had an assembly on LGBTQ+ rights presented by Garden State Equality. At the Board of Education meeting, the members condemned the dress code violation I received. As a result, students and I organized a protest at our middle school. With the help of several others, we created shirts and papers reading the same “We’re All Lesbians” message and wore them to school. On the day of the protest, the principal set up a lunchtime meeting where he acknowledged the mistake and promised to make decisions in the future to foster a more accepting environment. Multiple news outlets reached out to hear my story, but my main concern was always to show that no student should be silence by those in positions of power. Standing up against the dress code was my way of saying it wasn’t right. What struck me the most was when someone told me they found the courage to come out to their friends because of my story. It made me realize that by standing up for what I believe in, I could make a positive impact on the world. This challenge was tough, given the very public hatred I received directed at my identity, but knowing that I inspired others made it worthwhile. I hope to continue to inspire members of the LGBTQ+ community in my field of education as I further my studies, as teachers and board members who supported me helped me during my struggles.

I was six years old in kindergarten the first time I felt I was different from my classmates. During silent reading, while everyone quietly flipped the pages, my thoughts raced with everything except the pages in front of me; notably the latest episode of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. I needed to talk to someone about it, so I leaned over to my classmate and began asking her about it. Even when she begged me to “shhh,” my mouth kept moving faster than I could stop it. My teacher eventually told me to move my “card” to yellow for interrupting class and bothering students. I did as I was told. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. My throat ached from holding the tears inside, and when I told her that, she simply said, “Well maybe you shouldn't have been talking. That’s what happens when you don’t let yourself cry.” But even then, I still couldn’t cry. The pain just sat in my chest. That moment in kindergarten stayed with me for years because it was the first time I felt different. Throughout my years of school, I struggled with nearly everything due to my intellectual disabilities. Even so, teacher after teacher brushed it off. They assumed I was just distracted, lazy, or not trying hard enough. It took years before I finally received an IEP, and by then I had already spent so much time wondering why I couldn’t just be “normal.” I often wonder how different my life would have been if a single teacher had cared enough to look deeper. These types of experiences have remained one of my core reasons for wanting to become a teacher. I want to be the kind of teacher that my younger self needed. One who pays attention, one who listens, one who recognizes the quiet signs of struggle that young children can’t put into words. I know what it feels like to be that child who doesn’t know how to explain the buzzing in their head, or why reading is so hard, or why staying still feels impossible. Above all, making a child feel worthy and understood matters. I want every student who steps into my classroom to feel seen and supported, not shamed. The difference between those feelings can change a child’s entire relationship with learning, inspiring them to feel in charge of their education and to continue with it. I want to be the person who sees that child who can’t yet explain what they’re feeling—the child with the buzzing thoughts and the tears they don’t know how to let out. I want to build the kind of classroom where that child would never feel alone in the first place. Because I remember exactly what it felt like to sit at a desk with a yellow card, a buzzing mind, and a throat full of tears. And I never want another child to feel that kind of pain without someone there who understands.

I was six years old in kindergarten the first time I felt I was different from my classmates. During silent reading, while everyone quietly flipped the pages, my thoughts raced with everything except the pages in front of me; notably the latest episode of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. I needed to talk to someone about it, so I leaned over to my classmate and began asking her about it. Even when she begged me to “shhh,” my mouth kept moving faster than I could stop it. My teacher eventually told me to move my “card” to yellow for interrupting class and bothering students. I did as I was told. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. My throat ached from holding the tears inside, and when I told her that, she simply said, “Well maybe you shouldn't have been talking. That’s what happens when you don’t let yourself cry.” But even then, I still couldn’t cry. The pain just sat in my chest. That moment in kindergarten stayed with me for years because it was the first time I felt different. Throughout my years of school, I struggled with nearly everything due to my intellectual disabilities. Even so, teacher after teacher brushed it off. They assumed I was just distracted, lazy, or not trying hard enough. It took years before I finally received an IEP, and by then I had already spent so much time wondering why I couldn’t just be “normal.” I often wonder how different my life would have been if a single teacher had cared enough to look deeper. These types of experiences have remained one of my core reasons for wanting to become a teacher. I want to be the kind of teacher that my younger self needed. One who pays attention, one who listens, one who recognizes the quiet signs of struggle that young children can’t put into words. I know what it feels like to be that child who doesn’t know how to explain the buzzing in their head, or why reading is so hard, or why staying still feels impossible. Above all, making a child feel worthy and understood matters. I want every student who steps into my classroom to feel seen and supported, not shamed. The difference between those feelings can change a child’s entire relationship with learning, inspiring them to feel in charge of their education and to continue with it. I was lucky enough to meet a teacher that truly helped me in high school: Ms. Baker. My English teacher didn’t just teach me literature. When my grandfather died, she handed me a card signed by the entire class, and when I broke down crying, she cried with me. I spent almost every lunch period in her classroom for years—seeking help with assignments, yes, but also finding comfort in being understood. She never judged my questions or my pace. Her support didn’t just make me a better student; it made me believe in myself. I want to be the person who sees that child who can’t yet explain what they’re feeling—the child with the buzzing thoughts and the tears they don’t know how to let out. I want to build the kind of classroom where that child would never feel alone in the first place. Because I remember exactly what it felt like to sit at a desk with a yellow card, a buzzing mind, and a throat full of tears. And I never want another child to feel that kind of pain without someone there who understands.

Growing up in a low income family meant learning early that almost nothing comes easily. From a young age, I was taught that I was meant to support my family, getting my first job the moment I was old enough to get my working papers. Following my parents' divorce, my mother raised me and my siblings on her own, balancing the immense weight of providing for our house of four with determination. I saw firsthand the toll that raising three children alone while working full time took on her. Yet, as an educator, her passion never wavered. I will never forget the day she came home exhausted yet a huge smile on her face. She told me that one of her students had successfully read a book all by themself. Witnessing her tireless dedication taught me the true definition of resilience. It made me realize that despite our hardships, I possessed the strength, empathy, and capability to reach out and help my community just as she did. To me, serving my community is not just a checklist of volunteer hours; it is my civic duty to use my lived experiences to uplift and support others. True support comes from within the community; from people who understand firsthand what it feels like to face financial strain or the unique vulnerabilities of a single-parent home. Because I know how it feels to fear there won't be enough resources to last the week, I am driven to ensure the next generation feels seen and protected. My background does not define me, but it fuels my inspiration to support my community. This desire to serve my community is what has inspired me to major in elementary education and work in childcare. Everyday, I see children who are navigating similar realities that I dealt with. Serving my community through education means providing these young students with a safe, stable, and encouraging environment where their circumstances do not dictate their potential. I want to be the role model I needed when I was growing up—a figure who reminds them that they are intelligent, capable, and full of promise, regardless of what their family structure or bank account looks like. Beyond my professional aspirations, I always make time to volunteer in my community for local events or other nonprofit organizations. I deliberately channel my service toward relieving the specific burdens my family faced, whether I am packing meals for those experiencing food insecurity or assisting local nonprofits that support struggling families. Additionally, I mentor students at the local community college I attend, helping guide them through their own academic hurdles. I have even donated my art to school community events to help bring people together. Whether I am offering my time to local initiatives or working directly with youth, community service gives my life a sense of profound purpose. Ultimately, I serve my community because I love it. I believe in the power of the people within my community. My upbringing may have taught me how to work hard, but my heart taught me who to work hard for. By pursuing a career in education and continuing to show up as a volunteer, I am committed to breaking cycles of hardship and replacing them with cycles of hope. I want to leave my community better for the next generation, showing every child raised by a hardworking single parent that they, too, have the power to rise above their circumstances and change the world around them.

It's October 2020. I'm wearing my mask and I can see my breath fog up my glasses. I move the mask down to the bridge of my nose and watch as my glasses clear up. I try to focus on my now clearer view, because to be honest, I'm freaking out. My pediatrician just called two other people to make sure the reading of my heart rate she got was right. I feel tears run down my face as she exclaims, seemingly to herself, “That’s way too high.” She realizes she said that out loud, and looks at me to tell me to calm down. It doesn't make sense to me why she would say that, it only made my heart beat faster. I can’t calm down, because the moment she tells my mom I need to be brought to the emergency room, I start crying even harder. My glasses fog up again. I’m thankful that I didn't end that day in an ambulance. Despite my panic attack and extreme tachycardia, the doctors were able to calm me down and get my mother a list of cardiologists. Following my visit and two weeks of wearing a heart monitor, I was diagnosed with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), an autoimmune and orthostatic intolerance disorder that affects heart rate and blood volume when changing position. Prior to that, I had also been diagnosed with Patellofemoral Syndrome (PFS), which caused my knees and legs to be extremely weak. My diagnoses didn’t necessarily change my life. Instead, they gave a name to experiences I had been living with for years. Growing up physically disabled, especially undiagnosed, was extremely lonely. I had always felt left out as a neurodivergent student, but when my physical disabilities became more apparent, I felt even more isolated. If I expressed my disability, I was met with scowls or invasive questions. Even school administrators doubted me, asking how I could call myself disabled if I “didn’t look like it.” Even though my mobility issues required me to use a cane and a wheelchair often, I felt as though no one truly believed me and my struggles. While the hardships hurt, in my disability, I also found community and inspiration. The disabled community gave me a place to share my story and hear others. I found pride in identifying as disabled—not as lazy, weak, or incapable, but as someone navigating a world not designed for me. I saw that changes needed to be made. I spent a lot of my time researching the systemic barriers that many disabled people experience. Something that stood out to me was the discriminatory experiences many disabled students had in school especially. It was something I myself was very familiar with. Since I had been interested in education from a young age, considering my mother was a preschool teacher for most of my life, this perspective began to shape my future. I am currently majoring in Education, specifically looking into being an elementary school teacher with my New Jersey P-3 certificate. My own experiences in classrooms where I felt unseen fuel my determination to create a better environment for my future students. I want my classroom to be a place where students feel like they belong, not where they constantly need to explain themselves. Being a part of the disabled community has allowed me to become more passionate about my educational goals and how I will be able to teach future generations within the classroom. My goal is not only to help children grow academically, but also to foster acceptance, empathy, and self-confidence in every student.

I was six years old in kindergarten the first time I felt I was different from my classmates. During silent reading, while everyone quietly flipped the pages, my thoughts raced with everything except the pages in front of me; notably the latest episode of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. I needed to talk to someone about it, so I leaned over to my classmate and began asking her about it. Even when she begged me to “shhh,” my mouth kept moving faster than I could stop it. My teacher eventually told me to move my “card” to yellow for interrupting class and bothering students. I did as I was told. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. My throat ached from holding the tears inside, and when I told her that, she simply said, “Well maybe you shouldn't have been talking. That’s what happens when you don’t let yourself cry.” But even then, I still couldn’t let myself cry. The pain sat in my chest like a stone. That moment in kindergarten stayed with me for years because it was the first time I felt like my mind worked differently than everyone else’s. Throughout my years of school, I struggled with nearly everything due to my intellectual disabilities. Even so, teacher after teacher brushed it off. They assumed I was just distracted, lazy, or not trying hard enough. It took years before I finally received an IEP, and by then I had already spent so much time wondering why I couldn’t just be “normal.” I often wonder how different my life would have been if a single teacher had cared enough to look deeper. If a single adult had listened to my mother sooner. If someone had simply asked me what I needed instead of punishing me for not fitting the mold. These types of experiences have remained one of my core reasons for wanting to become a teacher. I want to be the kind of teacher that my younger self needed. One who pays attention, one who listens, one who recognizes the quiet signs of struggle that young children can’t put into words. I know what it feels like to be that child who doesn’t know how to explain the buzzing in their head, or why reading is so hard, or why staying still feels impossible. Above all, making a child feel worthy and understood matters. I want every student who steps into my classroom to feel seen and supported, not shamed. The difference between those feelings can change a child’s entire relationship with learning, inspiring them to feel in charge of their education and to continue with it. I can still remember begging my mother not to make me go to school, as early as kindergarten. No child should ever feel like school is a place of fear or humiliation. These types of experiences have remained one of my core reasons for wanting to become a teacher. I want to be the kind of teacher that my younger self needed. One who pays attention, one who listens, one who recognizes the quiet signs of struggle that young children can’t put into words. I know what it feels like to be that child who doesn’t know how to explain the buzzing in their head, or why reading is so hard, or why staying still feels impossible. Above all, making a child feel worthy and understood matters. I want every student who steps into my classroom to feel seen and supported, not shamed. The difference between those feelings can change a child’s entire relationship with learning, inspiring them to feel in charge of their education and to continue with it. I can still remember begging my mother not to make me go to school, as early as kindergarten. No child should ever feel like school is a place of fear or humiliation. As I got older, education shaped my goals more than I expected it to. Every challenge I faced pushed me toward wanting to create something better for others. My journey showed me exactly how powerful teachers can be, whether through harm or through support. The painful experiences made me want change, but the positive ones gave me direction. I was lucky enough to meet a teacher that truly helped me in high school. My English teacher didn’t just teach me literature; she taught me resilience. When my grandfather died, she handed me a card signed by the entire class, and when I broke down crying, she cried with me. I spent almost every lunch period in her classroom for years—seeking help with assignments, yes, but also finding comfort in being understood. She never judged my questions or my pace. Her support didn’t just make me a better student; it made me believe in myself. I want to be the person who sees that child who can’t yet explain what they’re feeling—the child with the buzzing thoughts and the tears they don’t know how to let out. I want to build the kind of classroom where that child would never feel alone in the first place. Because I remember exactly what it felt like to sit at a desk with a yellow card, a buzzing mind, and a throat full of tears. And I never want another child to feel that kind of pain without someone there who understands.

I was six years old in kindergarten the first time I felt I was different from my classmates. During silent reading, while everyone quietly flipped the pages, my thoughts raced with everything except the pages in front of me; notably the latest episode of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. I needed to talk to someone about it so I leaned over to my classmate and begun asking her about it. Even when she begged me to “shhh,” my mouth kept moving faster than I could stop it. My teacher eventually told me to move my “card” to yellow for interrupting class and bothering students. I did as I was told. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. My throat ached from holding the tears inside, and when I told her that, she simply said, “Well maybe you shouldn't have been talking. That's what happens when you don't let yourself cry” But even then, I still couldn’t let myself cry. The pain sat in my chest like a stone. That moment in kindergarten stayed with me for years because it was the first time I felt like my mind worked differently than everyone. Throughout my years of school, I struggled with nearly everything due to my intellectual disabilities. Even so, teacher after teacher brushed it off. It took years before I finally received an IEP. I often wonder how different my life would have been if a single teacher had cared enough to look deeper. These types of experiences have remained one of my core reasons for wanting to become a teacher. I want to be the kind of teacher that my younger self needed. Above all, making a child feel worthy and understood matters. I want every student who steps into my classroom to feel seen and supported, not shamed. The difference between those feelings can change a child’s entire relationship with learning, inspiring them to feel in charge of their education and to continue with it. I can still remember begging my mother to not make me go to school, as early as kindergarten. My current position in childcare has only strengthened my commitment to teaching. Although many people just see me as a “childcare worker,” I see myself as a teacher in every way. I encourage children to learn important skills, keep a comprehensive portfolio of their development, and build deep bonds with their family, showing I truly do care for their education and growth. My hope is to use these experiences to shape my teaching in elementary education when I receive my Bachelor's. I was lucky enough to meet a teacher that truly helped me in high school. My English teacher didn’t just teach me literature; she taught me resilience. When my grandfather died, she handed me a card signed by the entire class, and when I broke down crying, she cried with me. I spent almost every lunch period in her classroom for years—seeking help with assignments, yes, but also finding comfort in being understood. Her support didn’t just make me a better student; it made me believe in myself. I want to be the person who sees that child who can’t yet explain what they’re feeling—the child with the buzzing thoughts and the tears they don’t know how to let out. Although I have struggled greatly with financial challenges as a low-income student, I have remained steadfast in my ambition of furthering my education. This scholarship would help immensely in alleviating my financial burdens. Receiving the Dylan's Journey Memorial Scholarship would be an honor and help me greatly.

I was six years old in kindergarten the first time I felt I was different from my classmates. During silent reading, while everyone quietly flipped the pages, my thoughts raced with everything except the pages in front of me; notably the latest episode of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. I needed to talk to someone about it so I leaned over to my classmate and begun asking her about it. Even when she begged me to “shhh,” my mouth kept moving faster than I could stop it. My teacher eventually told me to move my “card” to yellow for interrupting class and bothering students. I did as I was told. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. My throat ached from holding the tears inside, and when I told her that, she simply said, “Well maybe you shouldn't have been talking. That's what happens when you don't let yourself cry” But even then, I still couldn’t let myself cry. The pain sat in my chest like a stone. That moment in kindergarten stayed with me for years because it was the first time I felt like my mind worked differently than everyone. Throughout my years of school, I struggled with nearly everything due to my intellectual disabilities. Even so, teacher after teacher brushed it off. It took years before I finally received an IEP. I often wonder how different my life would have been if a single teacher had cared enough to look deeper. These types of experiences have remained one of my core reasons for wanting to become a teacher, inspiring what college truly means to me. I want to be the kind of teacher that my younger self needed. One who pays attention, one who listens, one who recognizes the quiet signs of struggle that young children can’t put into words. Above all, making a child feel worthy and understood matters. I want every student who steps into my classroom to feel seen and supported, not shamed. The difference between those feelings can change a child’s entire relationship with learning, inspiring them to feel in charge of their education and to continue with it. I can still remember begging my mother to not make me go to school, as early as kindergarten. My current position in childcare has only strengthened my commitment to teaching. Although many people just see me as a “childcare worker,” I see myself as a teacher in every way. I encourage children to learn important skills, keep a comprehensive portfolio of their development, and build deep bonds with their family, showing I truly do care for their education and growth. My hope is to use these experiences to shape my teaching in elementary education when I receive my Bachelor's. I was lucky enough to meet a teacher that truly helped me in high school. My English teacher didn’t just teach me literature; she taught me resilience. When my grandfather died, she handed me a card signed by the entire class, and when I broke down crying, she cried with me. I spent almost every lunch period in her classroom for years—seeking help with assignments, yes, but also finding comfort in being understood. Her support didn’t just make me a better student; it made me believe in myself. I want to be the person who sees that child who can’t yet explain what they’re feeling—the child with the buzzing thoughts and the tears they don’t know how to let out. I want to build the kind of classroom where that child would never feel alone in the first place.

As one of the few openly lesbian students in my school, I’ve faced discrimination throughout my life. From hushed slurs to blatant homophobia, it’s a familiar, though undeserved, part of my life. However, one of the most challenging moments of my journey through identity occurred in 7th grade. I had recently seen the musical “The Prom,” a show that resonated with me as a lesbian who has also confronted in-school discrimination. Inspired by the show, I wore a merchandise shirt I bought at the show that read “We’re All Lesbians” to school on September 25th, 2019. My excitement was cut short when, in second period, I was called to the office and issued a dress code violation. Initially, my shirt was deemed inappropriate, and the office cited the dress code’s clauses on hate speech and sexual innuendos. Devastated and entirely uncomfortable, I called my mother, who was in class at the time. I spent the next two periods in the office waiting for her. When she arrived, we spoke with the Principal and Guidance Counselors together. As soon as we pointed out that their violation was homophobic, they went back on their statement. Instead, they claimed I was dress-coded to protect me from potential harassment due to the word “lesbian” on my shirt. I was furious. I had been discriminated against and had my education disrupted only for them to defend it under the guise of protection. After being advised to attend a Board of Education meeting, my mother posted about the incident on Facebook. Before the meeting, we conducted an experiment: a friend of mine, also a lesbian, borrowed the shirt and wore it to the other middle school in our district. She not only received praise but wore it on a day that they had an assembly on LGBTQ+ rights presented by Garden State Equality. At the Board of Education meeting, the members condemned the dress code violation I received. As a result, students and I organized a protest at our middle school. With the help of several others, we created shirts and papers reading the same “We’re All Lesbians” message and wore them to school. On the day of the protest, the principal set up a lunchtime meeting where he acknowledged the mistake and promised to make decisions in the future to foster a more accepting environment. Multiple news outlets reached out to hear my story, but my main concern was always to show that no student should be silence by those in positions of power. Standing up against the dress code was my way of saying it wasn’t right. What struck me the most was when someone told me they found the courage to come out to their friends because of my story. It made me realize that by standing up for what I believe in, I could make a positive impact on the world. This challenge was tough, given the very public hatred I received directed at my identity, but knowing that I inspired others made it worthwhile. I hope to continue to inspire members of the LGBTQ+ community in my field of education as I further my studies, as teachers and board members who supported me helped me during my struggles. Although I have struggled greatly with financial challenges as a low-income student and a child of divorce, being raised mostly by my mother until my stepfather and her married, I have remained steadfast in my ambition of furthering my education. This scholarship would help immensely in alleviating my financial burdens. Receiving the Rainbow Futures Scholarship would be an honor and help me greatly.

As one of the few openly lesbian students in my school, I’ve faced discrimination throughout my life. From hushed slurs to blatant homophobia, it’s a familiar, though undeserved, part of my life. However, one of the most challenging moments of my journey through identity occurred in 7th grade. I had recently seen the musical “The Prom,” a show that resonated with me as a lesbian who has also confronted in-school discrimination. Inspired by the show, I wore a merchandise shirt I bought at the show that read “We’re All Lesbians” to school on September 25th, 2019. My excitement was cut short when, in second period, I was called to the office and issued a dress code violation. Initially, my shirt was deemed inappropriate, and the office cited the dress code’s clauses on hate speech and sexual innuendos. Devastated and entirely uncomfortable, I called my mother, who was in class at the time. I spent the next two periods in the office waiting for her. When she arrived, we spoke with the Principal and Guidance Counselors together. As soon as we pointed out that their violation was homophobic, they went back on their statement. Instead, they claimed I was dress-coded to protect me from potential harassment due to the word “lesbian” on my shirt. I was furious. I had been discriminated against and had my education disrupted only for them to defend it under the guise of protection. After being advised to attend a Board of Education meeting, my mother posted about the incident on Facebook. Before the meeting, we conducted an experiment: a friend of mine, also a lesbian, borrowed the shirt and wore it to the other middle school in our district. She not only received praise but wore it on a day that they had an assembly on LGBTQ+ rights presented by Garden State Equality. At the Board of Education meeting, the members condemned the dress code violation I received. As a result, students and I organized a protest at our middle school. With the help of several others, we created shirts and papers reading the same “We’re All Lesbians” message and wore them to school. On the day of the protest, the principal set up a lunchtime meeting where he acknowledged the mistake and promised to make decisions in the future to foster a more accepting environment. Multiple news outlets reached out to hear my story, but my main concern was always to show that no student should be silence by those in positions of power. Standing up against the dress code was my way of saying it wasn’t right. What struck me the most was when someone told me they found the courage to come out to their friends because of my story. It made me realize that by standing up for what I believe in, I could make a positive impact on the world. This challenge was tough, given the very public hatred I received directed at my identity, but knowing that I inspired others made it worthwhile.

I was six years old in kindergarten the first time I felt I was different from my classmates. During silent reading, while everyone quietly flipped the pages, my thoughts raced with everything except the pages in front of me; notably the latest episode of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. I needed to talk to someone about it so I leaned over to my classmate and begun asking her about it. Even when she begged me to “shhh,” my mouth kept moving faster than I could stop it. My teacher eventually told me to move my “card” to yellow for interrupting class and bothering students. I did as I was told. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. My throat ached from holding the tears inside, and when I told her that, she simply said, “Well maybe you shouldn't have been talking. That's what happens when you don't let yourself cry” But even then, I still couldn’t let myself cry. The pain sat in my chest like a stone. That moment in kindergarten stayed with me for years because it was the first time I felt like my mind worked differently than everyone. Throughout my years of school, I struggled with nearly everything due to my intellectual disabilities. Even so, teacher after teacher brushed it off. It took years before I finally received an IEP. I often wonder how different my life would have been if a single teacher had cared enough to look deeper. These types of experiences have remained one of my core reasons for wanting to become a teacher. I want to be the kind of teacher that my younger self needed. One who pays attention, one who listens, one who recognizes the quiet signs of struggle that young children can’t put into words. Above all, making a child feel worthy and understood matters. I want every student who steps into my classroom to feel seen and supported, not shamed. The difference between those feelings can change a child’s entire relationship with learning, inspiring them to feel in charge of their education and to continue with it. I can still remember begging my mother to not make me go to school, as early as kindergarten. My current position in childcare has only strengthened my commitment to teaching. Although many people just see me as a “childcare worker,” I see myself as a teacher in every way. I encourage children to learn important skills, keep a comprehensive portfolio of their development, and build deep bonds with their family, showing I truly do care for their education and growth. My hope is to use these experiences to shape my teaching in elementary education when I receive my Bachelor's. I was lucky enough to meet a teacher that truly helped me in high school. My English teacher didn’t just teach me literature; she taught me resilience. When my grandfather died, she handed me a card signed by the entire class, and when I broke down crying, she cried with me. I spent almost every lunch period in her classroom for years—seeking help with assignments, yes, but also finding comfort in being understood. Her support didn’t just make me a better student; it made me believe in myself. I want to be the person who sees that child who can’t yet explain what they’re feeling—the child with the buzzing thoughts and the tears they don’t know how to let out. I want to build the kind of classroom where that child would never feel alone in the first place.

I was six years old in kindergarten the first time I felt I was different from my classmates. During silent reading, while everyone quietly flipped the pages, my thoughts raced with everything except the pages in front of me; notably the latest episode of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. I needed to talk to someone about it so I leaned over to my classmate and begun asking her about it. Even when she begged me to “shhh,” my mouth kept moving faster than I could stop it. My teacher eventually told me to move my “card” to yellow for interrupting class and bothering students. I did as I was told. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. My throat ached from holding the tears inside, and when I told her that, she simply said, “Well maybe you shouldn't have been talking. That's what happens when you don't let yourself cry” But even then, I still couldn’t let myself cry. The pain sat in my chest like a stone. That moment in kindergarten stayed with me for years because it was the first time I felt like my mind worked differently than everyone. Throughout my years of school, I struggled with nearly everything due to my intellectual disabilities. Even so, teacher after teacher brushed it off. It took years before I finally received an IEP. I often wonder how different my life would have been if a single teacher had cared enough to look deeper. These types of experiences have remained one of my core reasons for wanting to become a teacher. I want to be the kind of teacher that my younger self needed. One who pays attention, one who listens, one who recognizes the quiet signs of struggle that young children can’t put into words. Above all, making a child feel worthy and understood matters. I want every student who steps into my classroom to feel seen and supported, not shamed. The difference between those feelings can change a child’s entire relationship with learning, inspiring them to feel in charge of their education and to continue with it. I can still remember begging my mother to not make me go to school, as early as kindergarten. My current position in childcare has only strengthened my commitment to teaching. Although many people just see me as a “childcare worker,” I see myself as a teacher in every way. I encourage children to learn important skills, keep a comprehensive portfolio of their development, and build deep bonds with their family, showing I truly do care for their education and growth. My hope is to use these experiences to shape my teaching in elementary education when I receive my Bachelor's. I was lucky enough to meet a teacher that truly helped me in high school. My English teacher didn’t just teach me literature; she taught me resilience. When my grandfather died, she handed me a card signed by the entire class, and when I broke down crying, she cried with me. I spent almost every lunch period in her classroom for years—seeking help with assignments, yes, but also finding comfort in being understood. Her support didn’t just make me a better student; it made me believe in myself. I want to be the person who sees that child who can’t yet explain what they’re feeling—the child with the buzzing thoughts and the tears they don’t know how to let out. I want to build the kind of classroom where that child would never feel alone in the first place.

I was six years old in kindergarten the first time I felt I was different from my classmates. During silent reading, while everyone quietly flipped the pages, my thoughts raced with everything except the pages in front of me; notably the latest episode of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. I needed to talk to someone about it so I leaned over to my classmate and begun asking her about it. Even when she begged me to “shhh,” my mouth kept moving faster than I could stop it. My teacher eventually told me to move my “card” to yellow for interrupting class and bothering students. I did as I was told. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. My throat ached from holding the tears inside, and when I told her that, she simply said, “Well maybe you shouldn't have been talking. That's what happens when you don't let yourself cry” But even then, I still couldn’t let myself cry. The pain sat in my chest like a stone. That moment in kindergarten stayed with me for years because it was the first time I felt like my mind worked differently than everyone. Throughout my years of school, I struggled with nearly everything due to my intellectual disabilities. Even so, teacher after teacher brushed it off. It took years before I finally received an IEP. I often wonder how different my life would have been if a single teacher had cared enough to look deeper. These types of experiences have remained one of my core reasons for wanting to become a teacher. I want to be the kind of teacher that my younger self needed. One who pays attention, one who listens, one who recognizes the quiet signs of struggle that young children can’t put into words. Above all, making a child feel worthy and understood matters. I want every student who steps into my classroom to feel seen and supported, not shamed. The difference between those feelings can change a child’s entire relationship with learning, inspiring them to feel in charge of their education and to continue with it. I can still remember begging my mother to not make me go to school, as early as kindergarten. My current position in childcare has only strengthened my commitment to teaching. Although many people just see me as a “childcare worker,” I see myself as a teacher in every way. I encourage children to learn important skills, keep a comprehensive portfolio of their development, and build deep bonds with their family, showing I truly do care for their education and growth. My hope is to use these experiences to shape my teaching in elementary education when I receive my Bachelor's. I was lucky enough to meet a teacher that truly helped me in high school. My English teacher didn’t just teach me literature; she taught me resilience. When my grandfather died, she handed me a card signed by the entire class, and when I broke down crying, she cried with me. I spent almost every lunch period in her classroom for years—seeking help with assignments, yes, but also finding comfort in being understood. Her support didn’t just make me a better student; it made me believe in myself. I want to be the person who sees that child who can’t yet explain what they’re feeling—the child with the buzzing thoughts and the tears they don’t know how to let out. I want to build the kind of classroom where that child would never feel alone in the first place.

I was six years old in kindergarten the first time I felt I was different from my classmates. During silent reading, while everyone quietly flipped the pages, my thoughts raced with everything except the pages in front of me; notably the latest episode of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. I needed to talk to someone about it so I leaned over to my classmate and begun asking her about it. Even when she begged me to “shhh,” my mouth kept moving faster than I could stop it. My teacher eventually told me to move my “card” to yellow for interrupting class and bothering students. I did as I was told. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. My throat ached from holding the tears inside, and when I told her that, she simply said, “Well maybe you shouldn't have been talking. That's what happens when you don't let yourself cry” But even then, I still couldn’t let myself cry. The pain sat in my chest like a stone. That moment in kindergarten stayed with me for years because it was the first time I felt like my mind worked differently than everyone. Throughout my years of school, I struggled with nearly everything due to my intellectual disabilities. Even so, teacher after teacher brushed it off. It took years before I finally received an IEP. I often wonder how different my life would have been if a single teacher had cared enough to look deeper. These types of experiences have remained one of my core reasons for wanting to become a teacher. I want to be the kind of teacher that my younger self needed. One who pays attention, one who listens, one who recognizes the quiet signs of struggle that young children can’t put into words. Above all, making a child feel worthy and understood matters. I want every student who steps into my classroom to feel seen and supported, not shamed. The difference between those feelings can change a child’s entire relationship with learning, inspiring them to feel in charge of their education and to continue with it. I can still remember begging my mother to not make me go to school, as early as kindergarten. My current position in childcare has only strengthened my commitment to teaching. Although many people just see me as a “childcare worker,” I see myself as a teacher in every way. I encourage children to learn important skills, keep a comprehensive portfolio of their development, and build deep bonds with their family, showing I truly do care for their education and growth. My hope is to use these experiences to shape my teaching in elementary education when I receive my Bachelor's. I was lucky enough to meet a teacher that truly helped me in high school. My English teacher didn’t just teach me literature; she taught me resilience. When my grandfather died, she handed me a card signed by the entire class, and when I broke down crying, she cried with me. I spent almost every lunch period in her classroom for years—seeking help with assignments, yes, but also finding comfort in being understood. Her support didn’t just make me a better student; it made me believe in myself. I want to be the person who sees that child who can’t yet explain what they’re feeling—the child with the buzzing thoughts and the tears they don’t know how to let out. I want to build the kind of classroom where that child would never feel alone in the first place.

It's October 2020. I'm wearing my mask and I can see my breath fog up my glasses. I move the mask down to the bridge of my nose and watch as my glasses clear up. I try to focus on my now clearer view, because to be honest, I'm freaking out. My pediatrician just called two other people to make sure the reading of my heart rate she got was right. I feel tears run down my face as she exclaims, seemingly to herself, “That’s way too high.” She realizes she said that out loud, and looks at me to tell me to calm down. It doesn't make sense to me why she would say that, it only made my heart beat faster. I can’t calm down, because the moment she tells my mom I need to be brought to the emergency room, I start crying even harder. My glasses fog up again. I’m thankful that I didn't end that day in an ambulance. Despite my panic attack and extreme tachycardia, the doctors were able to calm me down and get my mother a list of cardiologists. Following my visit and two weeks of wearing a heart monitor, I was diagnosed with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), an autoimmune and orthostatic intolerance disorder that affects heart rate and blood volume when changing position. Prior to that, I had also been diagnosed with Patellofemoral Syndrome (PFS), which caused my knees and legs to be extremely weak. My diagnoses didn’t necessarily change my life. Instead, they gave a name to experiences I had been living with for years. Growing up physically disabled, especially undiagnosed, was extremely lonely. I had always felt left out as a neurodivergent student, but when my physical disabilities became more apparent, I felt even more isolated. If I expressed my disability, I was met with scowls or invasive questions. Even school administrators doubted me, asking how I could call myself disabled if I “didn’t look like it.” Even though my mobility issues required me to use a cane and a wheelchair often, I felt as though no one truly believed me and my struggles. While the hardships hurt, in my disability, I also found community and inspiration. The disabled community gave me a place to share my story and hear others. I found pride in identifying as disabled—not as lazy, weak, or incapable, but as someone navigating a world not designed for me. I saw that changes needed to be made. I spent a lot of my time researching the systemic barriers that many disabled people experience. Something that stood out to me was the discriminatory experiences many disabled students had in school especially. It was something I myself was very familiar with. Since I had been interested in education from a young age, considering my mother was a preschool teacher for most of my life, this perspective began to shape my future. I am currently majoring in Education, specifically looking into being an elementary school teacher with my New Jersey P-3 certificate. My own experiences in classrooms where I felt unseen fuel my determination to create a better environment for my future students. I want my classroom to be a place where students feel like they belong, not where they constantly need to explain themselves. Being a part of the disabled community has allowed me to become more passionate about my educational goals and how I will be able to teach future generations within the classroom. My goal is not only to help children grow academically, but also to foster acceptance, empathy, and self-confidence in every student.

I was diagnosed with ADHD, dyslexia, and a speech articulation disorder when I was very young, a diagnosis that seemed inevitable to my mother as she had noticed my struggles in school and outside. Peculiar behaviors like difficulty reading and an aversion to loud noises were just some that got my mother to find my psychiatric help. Unlike my brother and what most developmental milestones stated, I only started to speak and walk when I was 16 months. Despite my mother’s efforts to try to get me a 504 or an IEP as early as kindergarten, the school district consistently denied accommodations, citing my success in reading and my good grades, overlooking the concept of being twice gifted. Due to the lack of support, my struggles became evident during my transition to middle and high school. Extremely late nights doing work, procrastination, and difficulty understanding lessons became the norm for me. I especially had difficulties in English and Math, struggling with executive dysfunction, not reading assigned books due to disinterest, and struggling with understanding all of the numbers and equations for math. My grades had always been average, and I even was able to be on the honor roll all of 6th grade. However, as I grew, my grades declined and I transformed from a perceived gifted student into a struggling one, marked by almost always having B’s and C’s. Finally, in my junior year of high school, I attempted to get a 504 again, especially regarding my physical disability. Although I suspect my physical disability played more of a role than my neurological struggles, being approved felt like a breakthrough, providing the accommodations I needed for my entire educational career. Despite improved support, I continue to have trouble with social interactions, going out of my way to seek help, and navigating the experience of secondary education. Challenges including planning schedules, interacting with people, and handling accommodations independently as an adult have caused me to struggle with my upcoming college career. My struggles being neurodivergent have allowed me to learn to persevere even when I wasn't supported by school. Throughout my educational journey, being neurodivergent has compelled me to devise my accommodations and to struggle to find official accommodations. It has resulted in a continuing struggle with academic work and the demands of adulthood as well as my subsequent college education. This struggle along with my financial need and perseverance makes me a good candidate for this scholarship as I desperately require aid for my further education. I hope to get an Associate’s in Visual Arts and then move onto a four-year college. My aspiration in art is something that is deeply personal to me and allows me to express my struggles regarding my disabilities as well.

As one of the few openly lesbian students in my school, I’ve faced discrimination throughout my life. From hushed slurs to blatant homophobia, it’s a familiar, though undeserved, part of my life. However, one of the most challenging moments of my journey through identity occurred in 7th grade. I had recently seen the musical “The Prom,” a show that resonated with me as a lesbian who has also confronted in-school discrimination. Inspired by the show, I wore a merchandise shirt I bought at the show that read “We’re All Lesbians” to school on September 25th, 2019. My excitement was cut short when, in second period, I was called to the office and issued a dress code violation. Initially, my shirt was deemed inappropriate, and the office cited the dress code’s clauses on hate speech and sexual innuendos. Devastated and entirely uncomfortable, I called my mother, who was in class at the time. I spent the next two periods in the office waiting for her. When she arrived, we spoke with the Principal and Guidance Counselors together. As soon as we pointed out that their violation was homophobic, they went back on their statement. Instead, they claimed I was dress-coded to protect me from potential harassment due to the word “lesbian” on my shirt. I was furious. I had been discriminated against and had my education disrupted only for them to defend it under the guise of protection. After being advised to attend a Board of Education meeting, my mother posted about the incident on Facebook. Before the meeting, we conducted an experiment: a friend of mine, also a lesbian, borrowed the shirt and wore it to the other middle school in our district. She not only received praise but wore it on a day that they had an assembly on LGBTQ+ rights presented by Garden State Equality. At the Board of Education meeting, the members condemned the dress code violation I received. As a result, students and I organized a protest at our middle school. With the help of several others, we created shirts and papers reading the same “We’re All Lesbians” message and wore them to school. On the day of the protest, the principal set up a lunchtime meeting where he acknowledged the mistake and promised to make decisions in the future to foster a more accepting environment. Multiple news outlets reached out to hear my story, but my main concern was always to show that no student should be silence by those in positions of power. Standing up against the dress code was my way of saying it wasn’t right. What struck me the most was when someone told me they found the courage to come out to their friends because of my story. It made me realize that by standing up for what I believe in, I could make a positive impact on the world. This challenge was tough, given the very public hatred I received directed at my identity, but knowing that I inspired others made it worthwhile. I hope to become an illustrator in the future, as art has always been a passion of mine. Art has been an outlet, especially as a member of the LGBT community. I am hoping to obtain my Associate's in Fine Arts and eventually move on to getting my Bachelor's at an art school. Art is my way of giving back to my community and being able to make people smile when looking at my art.

As one of the few openly lesbian students in my school, I’ve faced discrimination throughout my life. From hushed slurs to blatant homophobia, it’s a familiar, though undeserved, part of my life. However, one of the most challenging moments of my journey through identity occurred in 7th grade. I had recently seen the musical “The Prom,” a show that resonated with me as a lesbian who has also confronted in-school discrimination. Inspired by the show, I wore a merchandise shirt I bought at the show that read “We’re All Lesbians” to school on September 25th, 2019. My excitement was cut short when, in second period, I was called to the office and issued a dress code violation. Initially, my shirt was deemed inappropriate, and the office cited the dress code’s clauses on hate speech and sexual innuendos. Devastated and entirely uncomfortable, I called my mother, who was in class at the time. I spent the next two periods in the office waiting for her. When she arrived, we spoke with the Principal and Guidance Counselors together. As soon as we pointed out that their violation was homophobic, they went back on their statement. Instead, they claimed I was dress-coded to protect me from potential harassment due to the word “lesbian” on my shirt. I was furious. I had been discriminated against and had my education disrupted only for them to defend it under the guise of protection. After being advised to attend a Board of Education meeting, my mother posted about the incident on Facebook. Before the meeting, we conducted an experiment: a friend of mine, also a lesbian, borrowed the shirt and wore it to the other middle school in our district. She not only received praise but wore it on a day that they had an assembly on LGBTQ+ rights presented by Garden State Equality. At the Board of Education meeting, the members condemned the dress code violation I received. As a result, students and I organized a protest at our middle school. With the help of several others, we created shirts and papers reading the same “We’re All Lesbians” message and wore them to school. On the day of the protest, the principal set up a lunchtime meeting where he acknowledged the mistake and promised to make decisions in the future to foster a more accepting environment. Multiple news outlets reached out to hear my story, but my main concern was always to show that no student should be silence by those in positions of power. Standing up against the dress code was my way of saying it wasn’t right. What struck me the most was when someone told me they found the courage to come out to their friends because of my story. It made me realize that by standing up for what I believe in, I could make a positive impact on the world. This challenge was tough, given the very public hatred I received directed at my identity, but knowing that I inspired others made it worthwhile.

I was diagnosed with ADHD, dyslexia, and a speech articulation disorder when I was very young, a diagnosis that seemed inevitable to my mother as she had noticed my struggles in school and outside. Peculiar behaviors like difficulty reading and an aversion to loud noises were just some that got my mother to find my psychiatric help. Unlike my brother and what most developmental milestones stated, I only started to speak and walk when I was 16 months. Despite my mother’s efforts to try to get me a 504 or an IEP as early as kindergarten, the school district consistently denied accommodations, citing my success in reading and my good grades, overlooking the concept of being twice gifted. Due to the lack of support, my struggles became evident during my transition to middle and high school. Extremely late nights doing work, procrastination, and difficulty understanding lessons became the norm for me. I especially had difficulties in English and Math, struggling with executive dysfunction, not reading assigned books due to disinterest, and struggling with understanding all of the numbers and equations for math. My grades had always been average, and I even was able to be on the honor roll all of 6th grade. However, as I grew, my grades declined and I transformed from a perceived gifted student into a struggling one, marked by almost always having B’s and C’s. Finally, in my junior year of high school, I attempted to get a 504 again, especially regarding my physical disability. Although I suspect my physical disability played more of a role than my neurological struggles, being approved felt like a breakthrough, providing the accommodations I needed for my entire educational career. Despite improved support, I continue to have trouble with social interactions, going out of my way to seek help, and navigating the experience of secondary education. Challenges including planning schedules, interacting with people, and handling accommodations independently as an adult have caused me to struggle with my upcoming college career. My struggles being neurodivergent have allowed me to learn to persevere even when I wasn't supported by school. Throughout my educational journey, being neurodivergent has compelled me to devise my accommodations and to struggle to find official accommodations. It has resulted in a continuing struggle with academic work and the demands of adulthood as well as my subsequent college education. This struggle along with my financial need and perseverance makes me a good candidate for this scholarship as I desperately require aid for my further education. I hope to get an Associate’s in Visual Arts and then move onto a four-year college. My aspiration in art is something that is deeply personal to me and allows me to express my struggles regarding my disabilities as well.

I was diagnosed with ADHD and an articulation disorder when I was very young, a diagnosis that seemed inevitable to my mother as she had noticed my struggles in school and outside. Unlike my brother and what most developmental milestones stated, I only started to speak and walk when I was 16 months. Despite my mother’s efforts to try to get me a 504 or an IEP as early as kindergarten, the school district denied accommodations, citing my success in reading and my good grades, overlooking the concept of being twice gifted. Due to the lack of support, my struggles became evident during my transition to high school. Procrastination and difficulty understanding lessons became the norm for me. I especially had difficulties in English and Math, struggling with executive dysfunction and struggling with understanding all of the numbers and equations for math. My grades had always been average, and I even was able to be on the honor roll. However, as I grew, my grades declined and I transformed from a perceived gifted student into a struggling one, marked by always having B’s and C’s. Finally, in my junior year of high school, I attempted to get a 504 again, especially regarding my physical disability. Although I suspect my physical disability played more of a role, being approved felt like a breakthrough, providing the accommodations I needed for my entire educational career. Despite improved support, I continue to have trouble with social interactions, going out of my way to seek help, and navigating the experience of secondary education. Challenges including planning schedules, interacting with people, and handling accommodations independently as an adult have caused me to struggle with my upcoming college career. My struggles being neurodivergent have allowed me to learn to persevere even when I wasn't supported by school.

I was diagnosed with ADHD, dyslexia, and a speech articulation disorder when I was very young, a diagnosis that seemed inevitable to my mother as she had noticed my struggles in school and outside. Peculiar behaviors like difficulty reading and an aversion to loud noises were just some that got my mother to find my psychiatric help. Unlike my brother and what most developmental milestones stated, I only started to speak and walk when I was 16 months. Despite my mother’s efforts to try to get me a 504 or an IEP as early as kindergarten, the school district consistently denied accommodations, citing my success in reading and my good grades, overlooking the concept of being twice gifted. Due to the lack of support, my struggles became evident during my transition to middle and high school. Extremely late nights doing work, procrastination, and difficulty understanding lessons became the norm for me. I especially had difficulties in English and Math, struggling with executive dysfunction, not reading assigned books due to disinterest, and struggling with understanding all of the numbers and equations for math. My grades had always been average, and I even was able to be on the honor roll all of 6th grade. However, as I grew, my grades declined and I transformed from a perceived gifted student into a struggling one, marked by almost always having B’s and C’s. Finally, in my junior year of high school, I attempted to get a 504 again, especially regarding my physical disability. Although I suspect my physical disability played more of a role than my neurological struggles, being approved felt like a breakthrough, providing the accommodations I needed for my entire educational career. Despite improved support, I continue to have trouble with social interactions, going out of my way to seek help, and navigating the experience of secondary education. Challenges including planning schedules, interacting with people, and handling accommodations independently as an adult have caused me to struggle with my upcoming college career. My struggles being neurodivergent have allowed me to learn to persevere even when I wasn't supported by school. Throughout my educational journey, being neurodivergent has compelled me to devise my accommodations and to struggle to find official accommodations. It has resulted in a continuing struggle with academic work and the demands of adulthood as well as my subsequent college education. This struggle along with my financial need and perseverance makes me a good candidate for this scholarship as I desperately require aid for my further education. I hope to get an Associate’s in Visual Arts and then move onto a four-year college. My aspiration in art is something that is deeply personal to me and allows me to express my struggles regarding my disabilities as well.

Since childhood, my aspiration has consistently revolved around an art-related career. I would spend hours drawing, researching art schools even as as in middle school, and watching videos of artists’ lives in school. Although I have struggled greatly with financial challenges as a low-income student and a child of divorce, being raised mostly by my mother until my stepfather and her married, I have remained steadfast in my ambition of becoming an artist. Although countless people have told me that this is a silly dream, one that isn’t worth it as I will only fail or be poor, I have not backed down. I am a honored member in my school’s National Art Honors Society as well as our Art Club. I’m a regional Gold Key award recipient from Scholastic Art and Writing Competition for my portfolio. As an artist, I would identify myself as someone who pushes boundaries. I would say my art is always very fluid. I don’t limit myself with posing but I also don’t stray away from geometric shapes to go with the roundness of your style. I find myself being very color focused and could never use the same sort of palette twice. My diverse color usage has brought me vibrant and stylistic art. Furthermore, I try many different things. Even if I don’t like a medium or find myself having difficulties in it, I always challenge myself. I’m very detail oriented when it matters as to our just an extra touch on my artwork. In general, an artist, I see myself as someone who is passionate about expressing emotions while still keeping in things that I enjoy. Whenever someone is to ask me what I want my art to do, I always tell them the same answer. “I want to make people feel things.” In many cases, I do try to express happiness and joy, but as I’ve grown, my art has become more complex. Currently I’m exploring abstract emotions within my art such as grief and alienation. I’ve also further been studying my anatomy to try to get a grasp on it and diversify my palette in a way. Art has been an immensely important aspect of my life since I can remember. Due to this, art has been my career path since I decided my ambition in my early life and I hope to refine my skills throughout my secondary education career.

As one of the few openly lesbian students in my school, I’ve faced discrimination throughout my life. From hushed slurs to blatant homophobia, it’s a familiar, though undeserved, part of my life. However, one of the most challenging moments of my journey through identity occurred in 7th grade. I had recently seen the musical “The Prom,” a show that resonated with me as a lesbian who has also confronted in-school discrimination. Inspired by the show, I wore a merchandise shirt I bought at the show that read “We’re All Lesbians” to school on September 25th, 2019. My excitement was cut short when, in second period, I was called to the office and issued a dress code violation. Initially, my shirt was deemed inappropriate, and the office cited the dress code’s clauses on hate speech and sexual innuendos. Devastated and entirely uncomfortable, I called my mother, who was in class at the time. I spent the next two periods in the office waiting for her. When she arrived, we spoke with the Principal and Guidance Counselors together. As soon as we pointed out that their violation was homophobic, they went back on their statement. Instead, they claimed I was dress-coded to protect me from potential harassment due to the word “lesbian” on my shirt. I was furious. I had been discriminated against and had my education disrupted only for them to defend it under the guise of protection. After being advised to attend a Board of Education meeting, my mother posted about the incident on Facebook. Before the meeting, we conducted an experiment: a friend of mine, also a lesbian, borrowed the shirt and wore it to the other middle school in our district. She not only received praise but wore it on a day that they had an assembly on LGBTQ+ rights presented by Garden State Equality. At the Board of Education meeting, the members condemned the dress code violation I received. As a result, students and I organized a protest at our middle school. With the help of several others, we created shirts and papers reading the same “We’re All Lesbians” message and wore them to school. On the day of the protest, the principal set up a lunchtime meeting where he acknowledged the mistake and promised to make decisions in the future to foster a more accepting environment. Multiple news outlets reached out to hear my story, but my main concern was always to show that no student should be silence by those in positions of power. Standing up against the dress code was my way of saying it wasn’t right. What struck me the most was when someone told me they found the courage to come out to their friends because of my story. It made me realize that by standing up for what I believe in, I could make a positive impact on the world. This challenge was tough, given the very public hatred I received directed at my identity, but knowing that I inspired others made it worthwhile. This scholarship will be used to help support me in college. As a low-income student, my secondary education journey has been difficult. I have been unable to support myself with application costs or almost anything else. In addition to my financial struggles, I am a physically disabled and autistic student which causes more difficulty in my ability in college. I require accommodations as well as struggle with challenges presented in adulthood. I will use this scholarship for my tuition and help with housing during my time. This will help me gain a start in supporting myself.

Since childhood, my aspiration has consistently revolved around an art-related career. I would spend hours drawing, researching art schools even as as in middle school, and watching videos of artists’ lives in school. Although I have struggled greatly with financial challenges as a low-income student and a child of divorce, being raised mostly by my mother until my stepfather and her married, I have remained steadfast in my ambition of becoming an artist. Although countless people have told me that this is a silly dream, one that isn’t worth it as I will only fail or be poor, I have not backed down. I am a honored member in my school’s National Art Honors Society as well as our Art Club. I’m a regional Gold Key award recipient from Scholastic Art and Writing Competition for my portfolio. As an artist, I would identify myself as someone who pushes boundaries. I would say my art is always very fluid. I don’t limit myself with posing but I also don’t stray away from geometric shapes to go with the roundness of your style. I find myself being very color focused and could never use the same sort of palette twice. My diverse color usage has brought me vibrant and stylistic art. Furthermore, I try many different things. Even if I don’t like a medium or find myself having difficulties in it, I always challenge myself. I’m very detail oriented when it matters as to our just an extra touch on my artwork. In general, an artist, I see myself as someone who is passionate about expressing emotions while still keeping in things that I enjoy. Whenever someone is to ask me what I want my art to do, I always tell them the same answer. “I want to make people feel things.” In many cases, I do try to express happiness and joy, but as I’ve grown, my art has become more complex. Currently I’m exploring abstract emotions within my art such as grief and alienation. I’ve also further been studying my anatomy to try to get a grasp on it and diversify my palette in a way. Art has been an immensely important aspect of my life since I can remember. Due to this, art has been my career path since I decided my ambition in my early life and I hope to refine my skills throughout my secondary education career.

As one of the few openly lesbian students in my school, I’ve faced discrimination throughout my life. From hushed slurs to blatant homophobia, it’s a familiar, though undeserved, part of my life. However, one of the most challenging moments of my journey through identity occurred in 7th grade. I had recently seen the musical “The Prom,” a show that resonated with me as a lesbian who has also confronted in-school discrimination. Inspired by the show, I wore a merchandise shirt I bought at the show that read “We’re All Lesbians” to school on September 25th, 2019. My excitement was cut short when, in second period, I was called to the office and issued a dress code violation. Initially, my shirt was deemed inappropriate, and the office cited the dress code’s clauses on hate speech and sexual innuendos. Devastated and entirely uncomfortable, I called my mother, who was in class at the time. I spent the next two periods in the office waiting for her. When she arrived, we spoke with the Principal and Guidance Counselors together. As soon as we pointed out that their violation was homophobic, they went back on their statement. Instead, they claimed I was dress-coded to protect me from potential harassment due to the word “lesbian” on my shirt. I was furious. I had been discriminated against and had my education disrupted only for them to defend it under the guise of protection. After being advised to attend a Board of Education meeting, my mother posted about the incident on Facebook. Before the meeting, we conducted an experiment: a friend of mine, also a lesbian, borrowed the shirt and wore it to the other middle school in our district. She not only received praise but wore it on a day that they had an assembly on LGBTQ+ rights presented by Garden State Equality. At the Board of Education meeting, the members condemned the dress code violation I received. As a result, students and I organized a protest at our middle school. With the help of several others, we created shirts and papers reading the same “We’re All Lesbians” message and wore them to school. On the day of the protest, the principal set up a lunchtime meeting where he acknowledged the mistake and promised to make decisions in the future to foster a more accepting environment. Multiple news outlets reached out to hear my story, but my main concern was always to show that no student should be silence by those in positions of power. Standing up against the dress code was my way of saying it wasn’t right. What struck me the most was when someone told me they found the courage to come out to their friends because of my story. It made me realize that by standing up for what I believe in, I could make a positive impact on the world. This challenge was tough, given the very public hatred I received directed at my identity, but knowing that I inspired others made it worthwhile. This scholarship will be used to help support me in college. As a low-income student, my secondary education journey has been difficult. I have been unable to support myself with application costs or almost anything else. In addition to my financial struggles, I am a physically disabled and autistic student which causes more difficulty in my ability in college. I require accommodations as well as struggle with challenges presented in adulthood. I will use this scholarship for my tuition and help with housing during my time. This will help me gain a start in supporting myself.

It’s 2020. I’m wearing my mask and I can see my breath fog up my glasses. I move the mask up just a little bit more over the bridge of my nose so I can see clearly. My heart’s racing and my pediatrician just called for two nurses to make sure the reading she got was right. I feel tears run down my face as she exclaims, seemingly to herself, “That’s way too high.” She looks at me and tells me to calm down, it’s just making my heart beat faster. I can’t calm down though, because the moment she tells my mom I need to be brought to the emergency room I start crying even harder. My glasses fog up again. I’m thankful that for whatever reason, I was not forced into an ambulance that day. That despite my panic attack and entirely too high heart rate, the nurses and doctors were able to calm me down and get my mother a list of cardiologists. Eventually, my mother took me to a cardiologist and we did all sorts of tests. I had to sit down, then stand up, then sit down, then lay down, then stand up again. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but they were testing my heart rate. By the end of our visit, I was told I either have POTS or a heart disease. They promised neither were serious, gave me a heart monitor to wear for two weeks, and sent me on my way. Following my weeks on a heart monitor, they officially diagnosed me with POTS. Also known as Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, POTS is an autoimmune and orthostatic intolerance disorder that affects heart rate and blood volume when changing position. Prior to my diagnosis, I was also diagnosed with PFS (Patellofemoral syndrome), causing my knees and legs to be extremely weak. My diagnoses didn’t change my life. Instead, it only really gave me a name to my experiences for years. Being disabled feels like constantly explaining yourself. While I have always felt left out, especially being neurodivergent, when my disabilities began to present themselves, I felt even more isolated. In school, I felt as though I was constantly judged. If I were to express my disability, I would be met with scowls and questioning that felt completely inappropriate. It hurt the most when even school administration questioned my disabilities. Even with a doctor’s note, countless teachers and admins have questioned me, asking me how I identify as disabled if I don’t look the part. While I struggled, I also found a sense of belonging in the disabled community. Even with people who had different disabilities than me, I felt as though I was able to express myself and my struggles while finding pride in my identity. I was not lazy, I was a disabled person living in a world that was unfortunately not built for me. As an artist for my entire life, my diagnoses allowed me to reevaluate my place. I noticed a lack of disabled voices in mainstream art. I strived to express my struggles and my joy through my art. While my artwork draws from personal experiences, I aspire to convey struggles and triumphs of individuals similar to me. I aim for my pieces to serve as a way of understanding disabled individuals, enabling able-bodied viewers to recognize that although our ailments may be an important part of us, we are not solely defined by them. Through our creativity, we can produce impactful works of art that can transcend the boundaries imposed by our disabilities.

Since childhood, my aspiration has consistently revolved around an art-related career. I would spend hours drawing, researching art schools even as as in middle school, and watching videos of artists’ lives in school. Although I have struggled greatly with financial challenges as a low-income student and a child of divorce, being raised mostly by my mother until my stepfather and her married, I have remained steadfast in my ambition of becoming an artist. Although countless people have told me that this is a silly dream, one that isn’t worth it as I will only fail or be poor, I have not backed down. I am a honored member in my school’s National Art Honors Society as well as our Art Club. I’m a regional Gold Key award recipient from Scholastic Art and Writing Competition for my portfolio. As an artist, I would identify myself as someone who pushes boundaries. I would say my art is always very fluid. I don’t limit myself with posing but I also don’t stray away from geometric shapes to go with the roundness of your style. I find myself being very color focused and could never use the same sort of palette twice. My diverse color usage has brought me vibrant and stylistic art. Furthermore, I try many different things. Even if I don’t like a medium or find myself having difficulties in it, I always challenge myself. I’m very detail oriented when it matters as to our just an extra touch on my artwork. In general, an artist, I see myself as someone who is passionate about expressing emotions while still keeping in things that I enjoy. Whenever someone is to ask me what I want my art to do, I always tell them the same answer. “I want to make people feel things.” In many cases, I do try to express happiness and joy, but as I’ve grown, my art has become more complex. Currently I’m exploring abstract emotions within my art such as grief and alienation. I’ve also further been studying my anatomy to try to get a grasp on it and diversify my palette in a way. Art has been an immensely important aspect of my life since I can remember. Due to this, art has been my career path since I decided my ambition in my early life and I hope to refine my skills throughout my secondary education career.

It’s 2020. I’m wearing my mask and I can see my breath fog up my glasses. I move the mask up just a little bit more over the bridge of my nose so I can see clearly. My heart’s racing and my pediatrician just called for two nurses to make sure the reading she got was right. I feel tears run down my face as she exclaims, seemingly to herself, “That’s way too high.” She looks at me and tells me to calm down, it’s just making my heart beat faster. I can’t calm down though, because the moment she tells my mom I need to be brought to the emergency room I start crying even harder. My glasses fog up again. I’m thankful that for whatever reason, I was not forced into an ambulance that day. That despite my panic attack and entirely too high heart rate, the nurses and doctors were able to calm me down and get my mother a list of cardiologists. Eventually, my mother took me to a cardiologist and we did all sorts of tests. I had to sit down, then stand up, then sit down, then lay down, then stand up again. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but they were testing my heart rate. By the end of our visit, I was told I either have POTS or a heart disease. They promised neither were serious, gave me a heart monitor to wear for two weeks, and sent me on my way. Following my weeks on a heart monitor, they officially diagnosed me with POTS. Also known as Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, POTS is an autoimmune and orthostatic intolerance disorder that affects heart rate and blood volume when changing position. Prior to my diagnosis, I was also diagnosed with PFS (Patellofemoral syndrome), causing my knees and legs to be extremely weak. My diagnoses didn’t change my life. Instead, it only really gave me a name to my experiences for years. Being disabled feels like constantly explaining yourself. While I have always felt left out, especially being neurodivergent, when my disabilities began to present themselves, I felt even more isolated. In school, I felt as though I was constantly judged. If I were to express my disability, I would be met with scowls and questioning that felt completely inappropriate. It hurt the most when even school administration questioned my disabilities. Even with a doctor’s note, countless teachers and admins have questioned me, asking me how I identify as disabled if I don’t look the part. While I struggled, I also found a sense of belonging in the disabled community. Even with people who had different disabilities than me, I felt as though I was able to express myself and my struggles while finding pride in my identity. I was not lazy, I was a disabled person living in a world that was unfortunately not built for me. As an artist for my entire life, my diagnoses allowed me to reevaluate my place. I noticed a lack of disabled voices in mainstream art. I strived to express my struggles and my joy through my art. While my artwork draws from personal experiences, I aspire to convey struggles and triumphs of individuals similar to me. I aim for my pieces to serve as a way of understanding disabled individuals, enabling able-bodied viewers to recognize that although our ailments may be an important part of us, we are not solely defined by them. Through our creativity, we can produce impactful works of art that can transcend the boundaries imposed by our disabilities.

It’s 2020. I’m wearing my mask and I can see my breath fog up my glasses. I move the mask up just a little bit more over the bridge of my nose so I can see clearly. My heart’s racing and my pediatrician just called for two nurses to make sure the reading she got was right. I feel tears run down my face as she exclaims, seemingly to herself, “That’s way too high.” She looks at me and tells me to calm down, it’s just making my heart beat faster. I can’t calm down though, because the moment she tells my mom I need to be brought to the emergency room I start crying even harder. My glasses fog up again. I’m thankful that for whatever reason, I was not forced into an ambulance that day. That despite my panic attack and entirely too high heart rate, the nurses and doctors were able to calm me down and get my mother a list of cardiologists. Eventually, my mother took me to a cardiologist and we did all sorts of tests. I had to sit down, then stand up, then sit down, then lay down, then stand up again. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but they were testing my heart rate. By the end of our visit, I was told I either have POTS or a heart disease. They promised neither were serious, gave me a heart monitor to wear for two weeks, and sent me on my way. Following my weeks on a heart monitor, they officially diagnosed me with POTS. Also known as Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, POTS is an autoimmune and orthostatic intolerance disorder that affects heart rate and blood volume when changing position. Prior to my diagnosis, I was also diagnosed with PFS (Patellofemoral syndrome), causing my knees and legs to be extremely weak. My diagnoses didn’t change my life. Instead, it only really gave me a name to my experiences for years. Being disabled feels like constantly explaining yourself. While I have always felt left out, especially being neurodivergent, when my disabilities began to present themselves, I felt even more isolated. In school, I felt as though I was constantly judged. If I were to express my disability, I would be met with scowls and questioning that felt completely inappropriate. It hurt the most when even school administration questioned my disabilities. Even with a doctor’s note, countless teachers and admins have questioned me, asking me how I identify as disabled if I don’t look the part. While I struggled, I also found a sense of belonging in the disabled community. Even with people who had different disabilities than me, I felt as though I was able to express myself and my struggles while finding pride in my identity. I was not lazy, I was a disabled person living in a world that was unfortunately not built for me. As an artist for my entire life, my diagnoses allowed me to reevaluate my place. I noticed a lack of disabled voices in mainstream art. I strived to express my struggles and my joy through my art. While my artwork draws from personal experiences, I aspire to convey struggles and triumphs of individuals similar to me. I aim for my pieces to serve as a way of understanding disabled individuals, enabling able-bodied viewers to recognize that although our ailments may be an important part of us, we are not solely defined by them. Through our creativity, we can produce impactful works of art that can transcend the boundaries imposed by our disabilities.

I was diagnosed with ADHD, dyslexia, and a speech articulation disorder when I was very young, a diagnosis that seemed inevitable to my mother as she had noticed my struggles in school and outside. Peculiar behaviors like difficulty reading and an aversion to loud noises were just some that got my mother to find my psychiatric help. Unlike my brother and what most developmental milestones stated, I only started to speak and walk when I was 16 months. Despite my mother’s efforts to try to get me a 504 or an IEP as early as kindergarten, the school district consistently denied accommodations, citing my success in reading and my good grades, overlooking the concept of being twice gifted. Due to the lack of support, my struggles became evident during my transition to middle and high school. Extremely late nights doing work, procrastination, and difficulty understanding lessons became the norm for me. I especially had difficulties in English and Math, struggling with executive dysfunction, not reading assigned books due to disinterest, and struggling with understanding all of the numbers and equations for math. My grades had always been average, and I even was able to be on the honor roll all of 6th grade. However, as I grew, my grades declined and I transformed from a perceived gifted student into a struggling one, marked by almost always having B’s and C’s. Finally, in my junior year of high school, I attempted to get a 504 again, especially regarding my physical disability. Although I suspect my physical disability played more of a role than my neurological struggles, being approved felt like a breakthrough, providing the accommodations I needed for my entire educational career. Despite improved support, I continue to have trouble with social interactions, going out of my way to seek help, and navigating the experience of secondary education. Challenges including planning schedules, interacting with people, and handling accommodations independently as an adult have caused me to struggle with my upcoming college career. My struggles being neurodivergent have allowed me to learn to persevere even when I wasn't supported by school. Throughout my educational journey, being neurodivergent has compelled me to devise my accommodations and to struggle to find official accommodations. It has resulted in a continuing struggle with academic work and the demands of adulthood as well as my subsequent college education. This struggle along with my financial need and perseverance makes me a good candidate for this scholarship as I desperately require aid for my further education. I hope to get an Associate’s in Visual Arts and then move onto a four-year college. My aspiration in art is something that is deeply personal to me and allows me to express my struggles regarding my disabilities as well.

It’s 2020. I’m wearing my mask and I can see my breath fog up my glasses. I move the mask up just a little bit more over the bridge of my nose so I can see clearly. My heart’s racing and my pediatrician just called for two nurses to make sure the reading she got was right. I feel tears run down my face as she exclaims, seemingly to herself, “That’s way too high.” She looks at me and tells me to calm down, it’s just making my heart beat faster. I can’t calm down though, because the moment she tells my mom I need to be brought to the emergency room I start crying even harder. My glasses fog up again. I’m thankful that for whatever reason, I was not forced into an ambulance that day. That despite my panic attack and entirely too high heart rate, the nurses and doctors were able to calm me down and get my mother a list of cardiologists. Eventually, my mother took me to a cardiologist and we did all sorts of tests. I had to sit down, then stand up, then sit down, then lay down, then stand up again. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but they were testing my heart rate. By the end of our visit, I was told I either have POTS or a heart disease. They promised neither were serious, gave me a heart monitor to wear for two weeks, and sent me on my way. Following my weeks on a heart monitor, they officially diagnosed me with POTS. Also known as Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, POTS is an autoimmune and orthostatic intolerance disorder that affects heart rate and blood volume when changing position. Prior to my diagnosis, I was also diagnosed with PFS (Patellofemoral syndrome), causing my knees and legs to be extremely weak. My diagnoses didn’t change my life like many people describe theirs to have. Instead, it only really gave me a name to my experiences for years. Being disabled feels like a constant battle of explaining yourself. While I have always felt left out, especially being neurodivergent, when my disabilities began to present themselves, I felt even more isolated. I would have to literally and figuratively slow people down so I could keep up with them. Even in school, I felt as though I was constantly judged. If I were to express my disability, I would be met with scowls and questioning that felt completely inappropriate. It hurt the most when even school administration questioned my disabilities, telling me there was no way for them to confirm that I was disabled without getting a different doctor’s note every year, forcing me to spend more money than needed. Even with a doctor’s note, countless teachers and admins have questioned me, asking me how I identify as disabled if I don’t look the part. While I struggled, I also found a sense of belonging in the disabled community. Even with people who had different disabilities than me, I felt as though I was able to express myself and my struggles while finding pride in my identity. I was not lazy, I was a disabled person living in a world that was not built for me. As an artist for my entire life, my diagnoses allowed me to reevaluate my place in the art community. I noticed a lack of disabled voices, particularly physically disabled ones. As someone who is neurodivergent and physically disabled, I strived to express my struggles and my joy through my art. While my artwork draws from my personal experiences, I aspire to convey the boarder struggles and triumphs of individuals similar to me. I aim for my pieces to serve as a way of understanding disabled individuals, enabling neurotypical and able-bodied viewers to recognize that although our ailments may be an important part of us, we are not solely defined by them. Through our creativity, we can produce beautiful and impactful works of art that can transcend the boundaries imposed by our disabilities.

As one of the few openly lesbian students in my school, I’ve faced discrimination throughout my life. From hushed slurs to blatant homophobia, it’s a familiar, though undeserved, part of my life. However, one of the most challenging moments of my journey through identity occurred in 7th grade. I had recently seen the musical “The Prom,” a show that resonated with me as a lesbian who has also confronted in-school discrimination. Inspired by the show, I wore a merchandise shirt I bought at the show that read “We’re All Lesbians” to school on September 25th, 2019. My excitement was cut short when, in second period, I was called to the office and issued a dress code violation. Initially, my shirt was deemed inappropriate, and the office cited the dress code’s clauses on hate speech and sexual innuendos. Devastated and entirely uncomfortable, I called my mother, who was in class at the time. I spent the next two periods in the office waiting for her. When she arrived, we spoke with the Principal and Guidance Counselors together. As soon as we pointed out that their violation was homophobic, they went back on their statement. Instead, they claimed I was dress-coded to protect me from potential harassment due to the word “lesbian” on my shirt. I was furious. I had been discriminated against and had my education disrupted only for them to defend it under the guise of protection. After being advised to attend a Board of Education meeting, my mother posted about the incident on Facebook. Before the meeting, we conducted an experiment: a friend of mine, also a lesbian, borrowed the shirt and wore it to the other middle school in our district. She not only received praise but wore it on a day that they had an assembly on LGBTQ+ rights presented by Garden State Equality. At the Board of Education meeting, the members condemned the dress code violation I received. As a result, students and I organized a protest at our middle school. With the help of several others, we created shirts and papers reading the same “We’re All Lesbians” message and wore them to school. On the day of the protest, the principal set up a lunchtime meeting where he acknowledged the mistake and promised to make decisions in the future to foster a more accepting environment. Multiple news outlets reached out to hear my story, but my main concern was always to show that no student should be silence by those in positions of power. Standing up against the dress code was my way of saying it wasn’t right. What struck me the most was when someone told me they found the courage to come out to their friends because of my story. It made me realize that by standing up for what I believe in, I could make a positive impact on the world. This challenge was tough, given the very public hatred I received directed at my identity, but knowing that I inspired others made it worthwhile.

Since childhood, my aspiration has consistently revolved around an art-related career. I would spend hours drawing, researching art schools even as as in middle school, and watching videos of artists’ lives in school. Although I have struggled greatly with financial challenges as a low-income student and a child of divorce, being raised mostly by my mother until my stepfather and her married, I have remained steadfast in my ambition of becoming an artist. Although countless people have told me that this is a silly dream, one that isn’t worth it as I will only fail or be poor, I have not backed down. I am a honored member in my school’s National Art Honors Society as well as our Art Club. I’m a regional Gold Key award recipient from Scholastic Art and Writing Competition for my portfolio. As an artist, I would identify myself as someone who pushes boundaries. I would say my art is always very fluid. I don’t limit myself with posing but I also don’t stray away from geometric shapes to go with the roundness of your style. I find myself being very color focused and could never use the same sort of palette twice. My diverse color usage has brought me vibrant and stylistic art. Furthermore, I try many different things. Even if I don’t like a medium or find myself having difficulties in it, I always challenge myself. I’m very detail oriented when it matters as to our just an extra touch on my artwork. In general, an artist, I see myself as someone who is passionate about expressing emotions while still keeping in things that I enjoy. Whenever someone is to ask me what I want my art to do, I always tell them the same answer. “I want to make people feel things.” In many cases, I do try to express happiness and joy, but as I’ve grown, my art has become more complex. Currently I’m exploring abstract emotions within my art such as grief and alienation. I’ve also further been studying my anatomy to try to get a grasp on it and diversify my palette in a way. Art has been an immensely important aspect of my life since I can remember. Due to this, art has been my career path since I decided my ambition in my early life and I hope to refine my skills throughout my secondary education career.

I was diagnosed with ADHD, dyslexia, and a speech articulation disorder when I was very young, a diagnosis that seemed inevitable to my mother as she had noticed my struggles in school and outside. Peculiar behaviors like difficulty reading and an aversion to loud noises were just some that got my mother to find my psychiatric help. Unlike my brother and what most developmental milestones stated, I only started to speak and walk when I was 16 months. Despite my mother’s efforts to try to get me a 504 or an IEP as early as kindergarten, the school district consistently denied accommodations, citing my success in reading and my good grades, overlooking the concept of being twice gifted. Due to the lack of support, my struggles became evident during my transition to middle and high school. Extremely late nights doing work, procrastination, and difficulty understanding lessons became the norm for me. I especially had difficulties in English and Math, struggling with executive dysfunction, not reading assigned books due to disinterest, and struggling with understanding all of the numbers and equations for math. My grades had always been average, and I even was able to be on the honor roll all of 6th grade. However, as I grew, my grades declined and I transformed from a perceived gifted student into a struggling one, marked by almost always having B’s and C’s. Finally, in my junior year of high school, I attempted to get a 504 again, especially regarding my physical disability. Although I suspect my physical disability played more of a role than my neurological struggles, being approved felt like a breakthrough, providing the accommodations I needed for my entire educational career. Despite improved support, I continue to have trouble with social interactions, going out of my way to seek help, and navigating the experience of secondary education. Challenges including planning schedules, interacting with people, and handling accommodations independently as an adult have caused me to struggle with my upcoming college career. My struggles being neurodivergent have allowed me to learn to persevere even when I wasn't supported by school. Throughout my educational journey, being neurodivergent has compelled me to devise my accommodations and to struggle to find official accommodations. It has resulted in a continuing struggle with academic work and the demands of adulthood as well as my subsequent college education. This struggle along with my financial need and perseverance makes me a good candidate for this scholarship as I desperately require aid for my further education. I hope to get an Associate’s in Visual Arts and then move onto a four-year college. My aspiration in art is something that is deeply personal to me and allows me to express my struggles regarding my disabilities as well.

I was diagnosed with ADHD, dyslexia, and a speech articulation disorder when I was very young, a diagnosis that seemed inevitable to my mother as she had noticed my struggles in school and outside. Peculiar behaviors like difficulty reading and an aversion to loud noises were just some that got my mother to find my psychiatric help. Unlike my brother and what most developmental milestones stated, I only started to speak and walk when I was 16 months. Despite my mother’s efforts to try to get me a 504 or an IEP as early as kindergarten, the school district consistently denied accommodations, citing my success in reading and my good grades, overlooking the concept of being twice gifted. Due to the lack of support, my struggles became evident during my transition to middle and high school. Extremely late nights doing work, procrastination, and difficulty understanding lessons became the norm for me. I especially had difficulties in English and Math, struggling with executive dysfunction, not reading assigned books due to disinterest, and struggling with understanding all of the numbers and equations for math. My grades had always been average, and I even was able to be on the honor roll all of 6th grade. However, as I grew, my grades declined and I transformed from a perceived gifted student into a struggling one, marked by almost always having B’s and C’s. Finally, in my junior year of high school, I attempted to get a 504 again, especially regarding my physical disability. Although I suspect my physical disability played more of a role than my neurological struggles, being approved felt like a breakthrough, providing the accommodations I needed for my entire educational career. Despite improved support, I continue to have trouble with social interactions, going out of my way to seek help, and navigating the experience of secondary education. Challenges including planning schedules, interacting with people, and handling accommodations independently as an adult have caused me to struggle with my upcoming college career. My struggles being neurodivergent have allowed me to learn to persevere even when I wasn't supported by school. Throughout my educational journey, being neurodivergent has compelled me to devise my accommodations and to struggle to find official accommodations. It has resulted in a continuing struggle with academic work and the demands of adulthood as well as my subsequent college education. This struggle along with my financial need and perseverance makes me a good candidate for this scholarship as I desperately require aid for my further education. I hope to get an Associate’s in Visual Arts and then move onto a four-year college. My aspiration in art is something that is deeply personal to me and allows me to express my struggles regarding my disabilities as well.

The everyday world around me is a continuous source of inspiration to my artistic expression. Particularly, my unique experience and interaction with the world as a physically disabled and autistic nonbinary lesbian has always helped me to create artwork that is personal in the same way that it is relatable. I have always intended to create art that is clearly inspired by my own life but can be understood and interpreted by others who may not share similar experiences. As an artist, even outside of my own experiences, I tend to notice things that those who aren’t artists tend to overlook about our world. From the interplay with light and dark in the sunlight beaming through the trees to the intricacies in the expression of human emotion. Nature has always been a source of inspiration for my art as well, especially the natural relationships between animals and plants. I have always been fascinated by the metaphorical nature of certain types of relationships in the world. My identity and personal journey add depth to my artwork, allowing me to explore different themes of diversity, identity, and the human experience. I aspire to amplify the voices of those who are marginalized and disprivileged such as myself through my artwork. I see art as a powerful tool to nurture empathy and understanding. My main hope with my art is that everyone, no matter their background, may feel something when they look at it. Each day I am alive I am surrounded by new layers of inspiration from the world around me. I attempt to translate my discoveries onto paper in a way that not only represents my own perspective but also reflects the broader human experience.

It’s 2020. I’m wearing my mask and I can see my breath fog up my glasses. I move the mask up just a little bit more over the bridge of my nose so I can see clearly. My heart’s racing and my pediatrician just called for two nurses to make sure the reading she got was right. I feel tears run down my face as she exclaims, seemingly to herself, “That’s way too high.” She looks at me and tells me to calm down, it’s just making my heart beat faster. I can’t calm down though, because the moment she tells my mom I need to be brought to the emergency room I start crying even harder. My glasses fog up again. I’m thankful that for whatever reason, I was not forced into an ambulance that day. That despite my panic attack and entirely too high heart rate, the nurses and doctors were able to calm me down and get my mother a list of cardiologists. Eventually, my mother took me to a cardiologist and we did all sorts of tests. I had to sit down, then stand up, then sit down, then lay down, then stand up again. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but they were testing my heart rate. By the end of our visit, I was told I either have POTS or a heart disease. They promised neither were serious, gave me a heart monitor to wear for two weeks, and sent me on my way. Following my weeks on a heart monitor, they officially diagnosed me with POTS. Also known as Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, POTS is an autoimmune and orthostatic intolerance disorder that affects heart rate and blood volume when changing position. Prior to my diagnosis, I was also diagnosed with PFS (Patellofemoral syndrome), causing my knees and legs to be extremely weak. My diagnoses didn’t change my life. Instead, it only really gave me a name to my experiences for years. Being disabled feels like constantly explaining yourself. While I have always felt left out, especially being neurodivergent, when my disabilities began to present themselves, I felt even more isolated. In school, I felt as though I was constantly judged. If I were to express my disability, I would be met with scowls and questioning that felt completely inappropriate. It hurt the most when even school administration questioned my disabilities. Even with a doctor’s note, countless teachers and admins have questioned me, asking me how I identify as disabled if I don’t look the part. While I struggled, I also found a sense of belonging in the disabled community. Even with people who had different disabilities than me, I felt as though I was able to express myself and my struggles while finding pride in my identity. I was not lazy, I was a disabled person living in a world that was unfortunately not built for me. As an artist for my entire life, my diagnoses allowed me to reevaluate my place. I noticed a lack of disabled voices in mainstream art. I strived to express my struggles and my joy through my art. While my artwork draws from personal experiences, I aspire to convey struggles and triumphs of individuals similar to me. I aim for my pieces to serve as a way of understanding disabled individuals, enabling able-bodied viewers to recognize that although our ailments may be an important part of us, we are not solely defined by them. Through our creativity, we can produce impactful works of art that can transcend the boundaries imposed by our disabilities.

It’s 2020. I’m wearing my mask and I can see my breath fog up my glasses. I move the mask up just a little bit more over the bridge of my nose so I can see clearly. My heart’s racing and my pediatrician just called for two nurses to make sure the reading she got was right. I feel tears run down my face as she exclaims, seemingly to herself, “That’s way too high.” She looks at me and tells me to calm down, it’s just making my heart beat faster. I can’t calm down though, because the moment she tells my mom I need to be brought to the emergency room I start crying even harder. My glasses fog up again. I’m thankful that for whatever reason, I was not forced into an ambulance that day. That despite my panic attack and entirely too high heart rate, the nurses and doctors were able to calm me down and get my mother a list of cardiologists. Eventually, my mother took me to a cardiologist and we did all sorts of tests. I had to sit down, then stand up, then sit down, then lay down, then stand up again. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but they were testing my heart rate. By the end of our visit, I was told I either have POTS or a heart disease. They promised neither were serious, gave me a heart monitor to wear for two weeks, and sent me on my way. Following my weeks on a heart monitor, they officially diagnosed me with POTS. Also known as Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, POTS is an autoimmune and orthostatic intolerance disorder that affects heart rate and blood volume when changing position. Prior to my diagnosis, I was also diagnosed with PFS (Patellofemoral syndrome), causing my knees and legs to be extremely weak. My diagnoses didn’t change my life. Instead, it only really gave me a name to my experiences for years. Being disabled feels like constantly explaining yourself. While I have always felt left out, especially being neurodivergent, when my disabilities began to present themselves, I felt even more isolated. In school, I felt as though I was constantly judged. If I were to express my disability, I would be met with scowls and questioning that felt completely inappropriate. It hurt the most when even school administration questioned my disabilities. Even with a doctor’s note, countless teachers and admins have questioned me, asking me how I identify as disabled if I don’t look the part. While I struggled, I also found a sense of belonging in the disabled community. Even with people who had different disabilities than me, I felt as though I was able to express myself and my struggles while finding pride in my identity. I was not lazy, I was a disabled person living in a world that was unfortunately not built for me. As an artist for my entire life, my diagnoses allowed me to reevaluate my place. I noticed a lack of disabled voices in mainstream art. I strived to express my struggles and my joy through my art. While my artwork draws from personal experiences, I aspire to convey struggles and triumphs of individuals similar to me. I aim for my pieces to serve as a way of understanding disabled individuals, enabling able-bodied viewers to recognize that although our ailments may be an important part of us, we are not solely defined by them. Through our creativity, we can produce impactful works of art that can transcend the boundaries imposed by our disabilities.

Since childhood, my aspiration has consistently revolved around an art-related career. I would spend hours drawing, researching art schools even as as in middle school, and watching videos of artists’ lives in school. Although I have struggled greatly with financial challenges as a low-income student and a child of divorce, being raised mostly by my mother until my stepfather and her married, I have remained steadfast in my ambition of becoming an artist. Although countless people have told me that this is a silly dream, one that isn’t worth it as I will only fail or be poor, I have not backed down; because to me, this is a realistic dream as it is a huge part of my existence. I am a honored member in my school’s National Art Honors Society as well as our Art Club. Furthermore, I am a member of my school’s National Honors Society and a board member of the ASL Club. I was a finalist for a poster contest and have even won an honorable mention in my regional awards for Scholastic Art and Writing. As an artist, I would identify myself as someone who pushes boundaries. I would say my art is always very fluid in a way. I don’t limit myself with posing but I also don’t stray away from geometric shapes to go with the roundness of your style. I find myself being very color focused and could probably never use the same sort of palette twice. My diverse color usage has brought me vibrant and very stylistic art. Furthermore, I try many different things. Even if I don’t like a medium or find myself having difficulties in it, I always challenge myself. I’m very detail oriented when it matters as to our just an extra touch on my artwork. In general, an artist, I see myself as someone who is passionate about expressing emotions while still keeping in things that I enjoy. Whenever someone is to ask me what I want my art to do, I always tell them the same answer. “I want to make people feel things.” In many cases, I do try to express happiness and joy, but as I’ve grown, my art has become more complex. Currently I’m exploring abstract emotions within my art such as grief and alienation. I’ve also further been studying my anatomy and realism to try to get a grasp on it and diversify my palette in a way. Art has been an immensely important aspect of my life since I can remember. Due to this, art has been my career path since I decided my ambition in my early life and I hope to refine my skills throughout my secondary education career.

As one of the few openly lesbian students in my school, I’ve faced discrimination throughout my life. From hushed slurs to blatant homophobia, it’s a familiar, though undeserved, part of my life. However, one of the most challenging moments of my journey through identity occurred in 7th grade. I had recently seen the musical “The Prom,” a show that resonated with me as a lesbian who has also confronted in-school discrimination. Inspired by the show, I wore a merchandise shirt I bought at the show that read “We’re All Lesbians” to school on September 25th, 2019. My excitement was cut short when, in second period, I was called to the office and issued a dress code violation. Initially, my shirt was deemed inappropriate, and the office cited the dress code’s clauses on hate speech and sexual innuendos. Devastated and entirely uncomfortable, I called my mother, who was in class at the time. I spent the next two periods in the office waiting for her. When she arrived, we spoke with the Principal and Guidance Counselors together. As soon as we pointed out that their violation was homophobic, they went back on their statement. Instead, they claimed I was dress-coded to protect me from potential harassment due to the word “lesbian” on my shirt. I was furious. I had been discriminated against and had my education disrupted only for them to defend it under the guise of protection. After being advised to attend a Board of Education meeting, my mother posted about the incident on Facebook. Before the meeting, we conducted an experiment: a friend of mine, also a lesbian, borrowed the shirt and wore it to the other middle school in our district. She not only received praise but wore it on a day that they had an assembly on LGBTQ+ rights presented by Garden State Equality. At the Board of Education meeting, the members condemned the dress code violation I received. As a result, students and I organized a protest at our middle school. With the help of several others, we created shirts and papers reading the same “We’re All Lesbians” message and wore them to school. On the day of the protest, the principal set up a lunchtime meeting where he acknowledged the mistake and promised to make decisions in the future to foster a more accepting environment. Multiple news outlets reached out to hear my story, but my main concern was always to show that no student should be silence by those in positions of power. Standing up against the dress code was my way of saying it wasn’t right. What struck me the most was when someone told me they found the courage to come out to their friends because of my story. It made me realize that by standing up for what I believe in, I could make a positive impact on the world. This challenge was tough, given the very public hatred I received directed at my identity, but knowing that I inspired others made it worthwhile. This scholarship will be used to help support me in college. As a low-income student, my secondary education journey has been difficult. I have been unable to support myself with application costs or almost anything else. In addition to my financial struggles, I am a physically disabled and autistic student which causes more difficulty in my ability in college. I require accommodations as well as struggle with challenges presented in adulthood. I will use this scholarship for my tuition and help with housing during my time. This will help me gain a start in supporting myself.

I was diagnosed with ADHD and an articulation disorder when I was very young, a diagnosis that seemed inevitable to my mother as she had noticed my struggles in school and outside. Unlike my brother and what most developmental milestones stated, I only started to speak and walk when I was 16 months. Despite my mother’s efforts to try to get me a 504 or an IEP as early as kindergarten, the school district denied accommodations, citing my success in reading and my good grades, overlooking the concept of being twice gifted. Due to the lack of support, my struggles became evident during my transition to high school. Procrastination and difficulty understanding lessons became the norm for me. I especially had difficulties in English and Math, struggling with executive dysfunction and struggling with understanding all of the numbers and equations for math. My grades had always been average, and I even was able to be on the honor roll. However, as I grew, my grades declined and I transformed from a perceived gifted student into a struggling one, marked by always having B’s and C’s. Finally, in my junior year of high school, I attempted to get a 504 again, especially regarding my physical disability. Although I suspect my physical disability played more of a role, being approved felt like a breakthrough, providing the accommodations I needed for my entire educational career. Despite improved support, I continue to have trouble with social interactions, going out of my way to seek help, and navigating the experience of secondary education. Challenges including planning schedules, interacting with people, and handling accommodations independently as an adult have caused me to struggle with my upcoming college career. My struggles being neurodivergent have allowed me to learn to persevere even when I wasn't supported by school.

Since childhood, my aspiration has consistently revolved around an art-related career. I would spend hours drawing, researching art schools even as as in middle school, and watching videos of artists’ lives in school. Although I have strujggled greatly with financial challenges as a low-income student and a child of divorce, being raised mostly by my mother until my stepfather and her married, I have remained steadfast in my ambition of becoming an artist. Although countless people have told me that this is a silly dream, one that isn’t worth it as I will only fail or be poor, I have not backed down; because to me, this is a realistic dream as it is a huge part of my existence. I am a honored member in my school’s National Art Honors Society as well as our Art Club. Furthermore, I am a member of my school’s National Honors Society and a board member of the ASL Club. I was a finalist for a poster contest and have even won an honorable mention in my regional awards for Scholastic Art and Writing. As an artist, I would identify myself as someone who pushes boundaries. I would say my art is always very fluid in a way. I don’t limit myself with posing but I also don’t stray away from geometric shapes to go with the roundness of your style. I find myself being very color focused and could probably never use the same sort of palette twice. My diverse color usage has brought me vibrant and very stylistic art. Furthermore, I try many different things. Even if I don’t like a medium or find myself having difficulties in it, I always challenge myself. I’m very detail oriented when it matters as to our just an extra touch on my artwork. In general, an artist, I see myself as someone who is passionate about expressing emotions while still keeping in things that I enjoy. Whenever someone is to ask me what I want my art to do, I always tell them the same answer. “I want to make people feel things.” In many cases, I do try to express happiness and joy, but as I’ve grown, my art has become more complex. Currently I’m exploring abstract emotions within my art such as grief and alienation. I’ve also further been studying my anatomy and realism to try to get a grasp on it and diversify my palette in a way. Art has been an immensely important aspect of my life since I can remember. Due to this, art has been my career path since I decided my ambition in my early life and I hope to refine my skills throughout my secondary education career. This scholarship will be used to help support me in college. As a low-income student, my secondary education journey has been difficult. I have been unable to support myself with application costs or almost anything else. In addition to my financial struggles, I am a physically disabled and autistic student which causes more difficulty in my ability in college. I require accommodations as well as struggle with challenges presented in adulthood. I will use this scholarship for my tuition or help with housing during my time in college. This will help me gain a headstart on supporting myself.

Since childhood, my aspiration has consistently revolved around an art-related career. I would spend hours drawing, researching art schools even as as in middle school, and watching videos of artists’ lives in school. Although I have struggled greatly with financial challenges as a low-income student and a child of divorce, being raised mostly by my mother until my stepfather and her married, I have remained steadfast in my ambition of becoming an artist. Although countless people have told me that this is a silly dream, one that isn’t worth it as I will only fail or be poor, I have not backed down; because to me, this is a realistic dream as it is a huge part of my existence. I am a honored member in my school’s National Art Honors Society as well as our Art Club. Furthermore, I am a member of my school’s National Honors Society and a board member of the ASL Club. I was a finalist for a poster contest and have even won an honorable mention in my regional awards for Scholastic Art and Writing. As an artist, I would identify myself as someone who pushes boundaries. I would say my art is always very fluid in a way. I don’t limit myself with posing but I also don’t stray away from geometric shapes to go with the roundness of your style. I find myself being very color focused and could probably never use the same sort of palette twice. My diverse color usage has brought me vibrant and very stylistic art. Furthermore, I try many different things. Even if I don’t like a medium or find myself having difficulties in it, I always challenge myself. I’m very detail oriented when it matters as to our just an extra touch on my artwork. In general, an artist, I see myself as someone who is passionate about expressing emotions while still keeping in things that I enjoy. Whenever someone is to ask me what I want my art to do, I always tell them the same answer. “I want to make people feel things.” In many cases, I do try to express happiness and joy, but as I’ve grown, my art has become more complex. Currently I’m exploring abstract emotions within my art such as grief and alienation. I have always tried to incorporate my personal experiences into my art, especially those regarding being physically disabled and neurodivergent. All faucets of my identity can be viewed visually throughout my artistic expression. I’ve also further been studying my anatomy and realism to try to get a grasp on it and diversify my palette in a way. Art has been an immensely important aspect of my life since I can remember. Due to this, art has been my career path since I decided my ambition in my early life and I hope to refine my skills throughout my further educational career.

Since childhood, my aspiration has consistently revolved around an art-related career. I would spend hours drawing, researching art schools even as as in middle school, and watching videos of artists’ lives in school. Although I have struggled greatly with financial challenges as a low-income student and a child of divorce, being raised mostly by my mother until my stepfather and her married, I have remained steadfast in my ambition of becoming an artist. Although countless people have told me that this is a silly dream, one that isn’t worth it as I will only fail or be poor, I have not backed down; because to me, this is a realistic dream as it is a huge part of my existence. I am a honored member in my school’s National Art Honors Society as well as our Art Club. Furthermore, I am a member of my school’s National Honors Society and a board member of the ASL Club. I was a finalist for a poster contest and have even won an honorable mention in my regional awards for Scholastic Art and Writing. As an artist, I would identify myself as someone who pushes boundaries. I would say my art is always very fluid in a way. I don’t limit myself with posing but I also don’t stray away from geometric shapes to go with the roundness of your style. I find myself being very color focused and could probably never use the same sort of palette twice. My diverse color usage has brought me vibrant and very stylistic art. Furthermore, I try many different things. Even if I don’t like a medium or find myself having difficulties in it, I always challenge myself. I’m very detail oriented when it matters as to our just an extra touch on my artwork. In general, an artist, I see myself as someone who is passionate about expressing emotions while still keeping in things that I enjoy. Whenever someone is to ask me what I want my art to do, I always tell them the same answer. “I want to make people feel things.” In many cases, I do try to express happiness and joy, but as I’ve grown, my art has become more complex. Currently I’m exploring abstract emotions within my art such as grief and alienation. I have always tried to incorporate my personal experiences into my art, especially those regarding being physically disabled and neurodivergent. All faucets of my identity can be viewed visually throughout my artistic expression. I’ve also further been studying my anatomy and realism to try to get a grasp on it and diversify my palette in a way. Art has been an immensely important aspect of my life since I can remember. Due to this, art has been my career path since I decided my ambition in my early life and I hope to refine my skills throughout my secondary education career.

I was diagnosed with ADHD, dyslexia, and a speech articulation disorder when I was very young, a diagnosis that seemed inevitable to my mother as she had noticed my struggles in school and outside. Peculiar behaviors like difficulty reading and an aversion to loud noises were just some that got my mother to find my psychiatric help. Unlike my brother and what most developmental milestones stated, I only started to speak and walk when I was 16 months. Despite my mother’s efforts to try to get me a 504 or an IEP as early as kindergarten, the school district consistently denied accommodations, citing my success in reading and my good grades, overlooking the concept of being twice gifted. Due to the lack of support, my struggles became evident during my transition to middle and high school. Extremely late nights doing work, procrastination, and difficulty understanding lessons became the norm for me. I especially had difficulties in English and Math, struggling with executive dysfunction, not reading assigned books due to disinterest, and struggling with understanding all of the numbers and equations for math. My grades had always been average, and I even was able to be on the honor roll all of 6th grade. However, as I grew, my grades declined and I transformed from a perceived gifted student into a struggling one, marked by almost always having B’s and C’s. Finally, in my junior year of high school, I attempted to get a 504 again, especially regarding my physical disability. Although I suspect my physical disability played more of a role than my neurological struggles, being approved felt like a breakthrough, providing the accommodations I needed for my entire educational career. Despite improved support, I continue to have trouble with social interactions, going out of my way to seek help, and navigating the experience of secondary education. Challenges including planning schedules, interacting with people, and handling accommodations independently as an adult have caused me to struggle with my upcoming college career. My struggles being neurodivergent have allowed me to learn to persevere even when I wasn't supported by school. Throughout my educational journey, being neurodivergent has compelled me to devise my accommodations and to struggle to find official accommodations. It has resulted in a continuing struggle with academic work and the demands of adulthood as well as my subsequent college education. This struggle along with my financial need and perseverance makes me a good candidate for this scholarship as I desperately require aid for my further education. I hope to get an Associate’s in Visual Arts and then move onto a four-year college. My aspiration in art is something that is deeply personal to me and allows me to express my struggles regarding my disabilities as well.

My favorite piece I’ve created thus far is titled “fleeting”, made on an 8x8 canvas with acrylic paint. The process for this piece was grueling, requiring constant attention to detail on each square piece. With a total of 1024 separate squares painted with all different colors, I took time with this piece to represent what I hoped to show. This piece was inspired by my recently passed grandfather. This piece is a way of expressing complex emotions, acknowledging how my grandfather wasn’t one way or another; he was my superhero along with a flawed individual who hurt others. My grief is a mix of joyful times and aching for the fractured relationships that are still left unresolved. The relationship seemed to just be getting better after his near-death scare in February the same year he died. My feelings feel mosaic, as represented by the pixels in my piece, encapsulating the essence of someone who left both an incredible mark on my life yet remains a painful one for a multitude of reasons. I miss him deeply, even as I grapple with the emotional turmoil his memory brings. This piece is an indicator of the way grief affects a person’s memory of the one they have lost. While my loving memories with my grandfather still exist, they feel foreign and unfamiliar. Through the pixel painting of him holding me as a child, I was able to represent this feeling visually.

Since childhood, my aspiration has consistently revolved around an art-related career. I would spend hours drawing, researching art schools even as as in middle school, and watching videos of artists’ lives in school. Although I have struggled greatly with financial challenges as a low-income student and a child of divorce, being raised mostly by my mother until my stepfather and her married, I have remained steadfast in my ambition of becoming an artist. Although countless people have told me that this is a silly dream, one that isn’t worth it as I will only fail or be poor, I have not backed down; because to me, this is a realistic dream as it is a huge part of my existence. I am a honored member in my school’s National Art Honors Society as well as our Art Club. Furthermore, I am a member of my school’s National Honors Society and a board member of the ASL Club. I was a finalist for a poster contest and have even won an honorable mention in my regional awards for Scholastic Art and Writing. As an artist, I would identify myself as someone who pushes boundaries. I would say my art is always very fluid in a way. I don’t limit myself with posing but I also don’t stray away from geometric shapes to go with the roundness of your style. I find myself being very color focused and could probably never use the same sort of palette twice. My diverse color usage has brought me vibrant and very stylistic art. Furthermore, I try many different things. Even if I don’t like a medium or find myself having difficulties in it, I always challenge myself. I’m very detail oriented when it matters as to our just an extra touch on my artwork. In general, an artist, I see myself as someone who is passionate about expressing emotions while still keeping in things that I enjoy. Whenever someone is to ask me what I want my art to do, I always tell them the same answer. “I want to make people feel things.” In many cases, I do try to express happiness and joy, but as I’ve grown, my art has become more complex. Currently I’m exploring abstract emotions within my art such as grief and alienation. I’ve also further been studying my anatomy and realism to try to get a grasp on it and diversify my palette in a way. Art has been an immensely important aspect of my life since I can remember. Due to this, art has been my career path since I decided my ambition in my early life and I hope to refine my skills throughout my secondary education career.

Since childhood, my aspiration has consistently revolved around an art-related career. I would spend hours drawing, researching art schools even as as in middle school, and watching videos of artists’ lives in school. Although I have struggled greatly with financial challenges as a low-income student and a child of divorce, being raised mostly by my mother until my stepfather and her married, I have remained steadfast in my ambition of becoming an artist. Although countless people have told me that this is a silly dream, one that isn’t worth it as I will only fail or be poor, I have not backed down; because to me, this is a realistic dream as it is a huge part of my existence. I am a honored member in my school’s National Art Honors Society as well as our Art Club. Furthermore, I am a member of my school’s National Honors Society and a board member of the ASL Club. I was a finalist for a poster contest and have even won an honorable mention in my regional awards for Scholastic Art and Writing. As an artist, I would identify myself as someone who pushes boundaries. I would say my art is always very fluid in a way. I don’t limit myself with posing but I also don’t stray away from geometric shapes to go with the roundness of your style. I find myself being very color focused and could probably never use the same sort of palette twice. My diverse color usage has brought me vibrant and very stylistic art. Furthermore, I try many different things. Even if I don’t like a medium or find myself having difficulties in it, I always challenge myself. I’m very detail oriented when it matters as to our just an extra touch on my artwork. In general, an artist, I see myself as someone who is passionate about expressing emotions while still keeping in things that I enjoy. Whenever someone is to ask me what I want my art to do, I always tell them the same answer. “I want to make people feel things.” In many cases, I do try to express happiness and joy, but as I’ve grown, my art has become more complex. Currently I’m exploring abstract emotions within my art such as grief and alienation. I’ve also further been studying my anatomy and realism to try to get a grasp on it and diversify my palette in a way. Art has been an immensely important aspect of my life since I can remember. Due to this, art has been my career path since I decided my ambition in my early life and I hope to refine my skills throughout my secondary education career.

As someone who is autistic and physically disabled, I have noticed a notable lack of representation within mainstream artistic circles for people similar to myself. Experiences of those with similar backgrounds were rarely acknowledged or celebrated compared to the attention given to neurotypical and able-bodied artists. In response to this lack of representation and the importance of my disabilities within my identity, I have curated my current portfolio around my own personal journey, incorporating my perspective as a disabled and autistic artist. My work focuses on the impact that these attributes of myself have on my relationship with others, media, and my own self-perception. Each piece seeks to encapsulate the hardships and the positive aspects of my experiences. For instance, in my piece, "overload," I aimed to portray a sensory overload that often leads to an autistic meltdown. The deliberate use of diverse materials creates a chaotic composition that helps mirror the overwhelming experience of a sensory overload. My intentions were to create something that may even hurt to look at and to invoke a response that allowed viewers to glimpse into the intense sensory challenges that many autistic individuals, including myself, face. Contrasting this, my piece "recollection (sister)," sheds light on one of the positives of my experiences; the strong bond I share with my younger sister. I explored our deep connection with a drawing of us using stippling and then painting with watercolor over it to show how, despite my disabilities, I found a bond with my sister that I could not be more happy with. While my peers distanced themselves from my "childish" interests and attitude, I found solace in the unique connection I maintained with my sister due to her being younger. Throughout my portfolio and art in general, I deliberately reference personal photographs and include self-portraits to underscore the personal nature of my artistic expression. My creative process involved experimenting with various materials to convey the emotions I wished to express. Ultimately, my goal with this portfolio i to amplify the voices of the underrepresented disabled community in the art world. While my artwork draws from my personal experiences, I aspire to convey the boarder struggles and triumphs of individuals similar to me. I aim for my pieces to serve as a way of understanding disabled individuals, enabling neurotypical and able-bodied viewers to recognize that although our ailments may be an important part of us, we are not solely defined by them. Through our creativity, we can produce beautiful and impactful works of art that can transcend the boundaries imposed by our disabilities.

My piece is entitled “fleeting”, made on an 8x8 canvas with acrylic paint. The process for this piece was grueling, requiring constant attention to detail on each square piece. With a total of 1024 separate squares painted with all different colors, I took time with this piece to represent what I hoped to show. This piece was inspired by my recently passed grandfather. In February of 2022, a few months after being diagnosed with prostate cancer, he had congenital heart failure and was hospitalized while on a work trip in Florida. Almost immediately, my family decided to drive from New Jersey to Florida to be with him. While we took care of him and even supported him through his dialysis treatment, he unfortunately passed suddenly in April. What hurt the most was the fact that it seemed like he was getting better. His dialysis was over and he was just on medicine at the point when he suffered a fatal heart attack doing what he loved, selling his antiques. Thinking about my grandfather feels like sifting through a rollercoaster of emotions, a blend of happy recollections and a pang of sadness. He was my sibling’s and my “Batman”. He said he wanted us to call him that because he always wanted to be a superhero. Ironically, his favorite superhero was Superman. Batman would visit every dance recital of mine, come to every birthday party, and house my siblings and me almost every summer. He would take us on trips every year that now exist as only memories playing in my head. After his passing, I was forced to reflect, unraveling my grandfather’s complexity. In the backdrop of my childhood happiness, my mother carries scars from a father who struggled with addiction, spent much of her childhood in rehab, and who, when she sought support during her divorce from her abusive husband, declined. The contradictions within him become apparent, and as I wrack with his absence since that April in 2022, I find myself grappling with a world of complex emotions. Nostalgic moments of his hugs are juxtaposed with my mother’s tears, as she recounts a past where he fell short as a father and a present where he refused support. Even now, I look back and notice flaws in his treatment of my siblings and me. Growing older brought clarity as is the case with all humans as none of us can be perfect. This piece is a way of expressing these complexities, acknowledging how Batman wasn’t one way or another; he was my superhero along with a flawed individual who hurt others. My grief is a mix of joyful times and aching for the fractured relationships that are still left unresolved. The relationship seemed to just be getting better after his near-death scare in February the same year he died. My feelings feel mosaic, as represented by the pixels in my piece, encapsulating the essence of someone who left both an incredible mark on my life yet remains a painful one for a multitude of reasons. I miss him deeply, even as I grapple with the emotional turmoil his memory brings. This piece is an indicator of the way grief affects a person’s memory of the one they have lost. While my loving memories with my grandfather still exist, they feel foreign and unfamiliar. Through the pixel painting of Batman holding me as a child, I was able to represent this feeling visually.

In 2016, BlockBerry Creative, a subsidiary of Polaris Entertainment, launched a unique predebut concept for their new girl group, LOONA. Dubbed “Who’s Next Girl,” BBC unveiled a new member every month over 18 months, taking breaks from new members due to subunit activities. This approach allowed for the ability of each member to shine and share their skills individually before coming together as a group. By the time of their debut on August 19th, 2018, LOONA had 12 members. LOONA quickly made waves in the realm of K-Pop culture. Their impact went far from Korea, gaining widespread recognition and admiration from different countries. With countless awards and even being named as the Ambassadors of Korean Culture Abroad during their time as LOONA, they have had an incredible impact on the world. Amidst their rise to stardom, however, the group faced challenges that eventually ended their journey. After years of abuse and mistreatment allegations, Chuu was kicked out under BBC’s claims of misconduct. It soon became evident that Chuu was not a perpetrator but a victim. In a show of solidarity, the fandom, known as Orbits, launched a boycott against BBC to highlight accountability in the entertainment industry. In the end, the unfair termination of Chuu led to the remaining members of LOONA pursuing legal action to get out of their contracts, marking the end of an era. Members would move on to join groups or embark on solo journeys. I discovered LOONA in 2018. The first song I ever heard from LOONA was actually “Heart Attack,” Chuu’s solo song. My first impression was absolute joy. I felt so seen with the representation within their song-based universe, Loonaverse. Chuu’s solo along with member Yves’ represented sapphic women in a way I hadn’t seen K-Pop do before. They even represented the voice of disabled women, as shown in their brilliant music videos for “Butterfly” and “Luminous.” The lore and concepts of the Loonaverse is one of the most intriguing multimedia projects I’ve seen in a while. It brought the entire fandom together. Furthermore, I have never seen a fandom that cares as much about their idols as LOONA. The boycott following Chuu’s expulsion was extremely successful, eventually led to the ability for the girls to get out of the abusive situation. LOONA’s music is entirely unique as well. They represent all different cultures and styles. In 2022, I attended their first worldwide tour in Reading, Pennsylvania. I was able to get VIP tickets and meet them. Even with just a short time and despite Chuu’s absence, I felt so overjoyed to meet them. Their warmth, humor, and genuine connection with fans left an unforgettable impression, reaffirming their status not just as idols but as inspirations. I still feel entirely connected to current projects. I seem to always find myself anticipating their new releases. With gratitude, I reflect on the impact of LOONA on myself and others. Although I knew of K-Pop before, they were my true introduction. They had made a perfect first impression on the culture to me. LOONA’s long journey, one that has now expanded to ARTMS and Loossemble, has not only left a mark on my own personal journey but has also reshaped K-Pop as a whole. From their inclusive and diverse narratives as well as music to their unwavering support to their fan base, LOONA embodies the power that K-Pop groups have to use music as a means to inspire, connect, and empower. With each beat and lyric, LOONA continues to inspire hearts in their new projects, leaving a trail of inspiration for generations to come.

Growing up with undiagnosed autism has presented numerous challenges even from my early years. When my mother noticed my peculiar behaviors, like arranging toys by color in the dentist’s office or reacting strongly to any loud sounds, she took me to the doctor. Unfortunately, I was only diagnosed with Attention Deficit-Hyperactive Disorder (ADHD) and a speech impediment. While my ADHD diagnosis explained some of my behaviors, I always sensed, even with it, that I was missing something my peers had: ease in making friends, social interactions, and resilience to changes in schedule and loud noises. Despite my mother’s efforts to try to get me a 504 or an IEP as early as kindergarten, the school district consistently denied accommodations, citing my success in reading and my good grades, overlooking the concept of being twice gifted. Due to the lack of support, my struggles became evident during my transition to middle and high school. Extremely late nights doing work, procrastination, and difficulty understanding lessons became the norm for me. I especially had difficulties in English and Math, struggling with executive dysfunction, not reading assigned books due to disinterest, and struggling with understanding all of the numbers and equations for math. My grades had always been average, and I even was able to be on the honor roll all of 6th grade. However, as I grew, my grades declined and I transformed from a perceived gifted student into a struggling one, marked by almost always having B’s and C’s. It was during this decline that I started to suspect that more than just ADHD, a speech impediment, and dyslexia, were at play. Learning from my mother’s initial intuition that I had autism as a kid, I realized she might have been correct, and that I had that in addition to my diagnosed ADHD. Finally, in my junior year of high school, I attempted to get a 504 again, especially regarding my physical disability. Although I suspect my physical disability played more of a role than my neurological struggles, being approved felt like a breakthrough, providing the accommodations I needed for my entire educational career. Despite improved support, I continue to have trouble with social interactions, going out of my way to seek help, and navigating the experience of secondary education. Challenges including planning schedules, interacting with people, and handling accommodations independently as an adult have caused me to struggle with my upcoming college career. Throughout my educational journey, my autism spectrum disorder (ASD) has compelled me to devise my accommodations and to struggle to find official accommodations. It has resulted in a continuing struggle with academic work and the demands of adulthood as well as my subsequent college education.

As one of the few openly lesbian students in my school, I’ve faced discrimination throughout my life. From hushed slurs to blatant homophobia, it’s a familiar, though undeserved, part of my life. However, one of the most challenging moments of my journey through identity occurred in 7th grade. I had recently seen the musical “The Prom,” a show that resonated with me as a lesbian who has also confronted in-school discrimination. Inspired by the show, I wore a merchandise shirt I bought at the show that read “We’re All Lesbians” to school on September 25th, 2019. My excitement was cut short when, in second period, I was called to the office and issued a dress code violation. Initially, my shirt was deemed inappropriate, and the office cited the dress code’s clauses on hate speech and sexual innuendos. Devastated and entirely uncomfortable, I called my mother, who was in class at the time. I spent the next two periods in the office waiting for her. When she arrived, we spoke with the Principal and Guidance Counselors together. As soon as we pointed out that their violation was homophobic, they went back on their statement. Instead, they claimed I was dress-coded to protect me from potential harassment due to the word “lesbian” on my shirt. I was furious. I had been discriminated against and had my education disrupted only for them to defend it under the guise of protection. After being advised to attend a Board of Education meeting, my mother posted about the incident on Facebook. Before the meeting, we conducted an experiment: a friend of mine, also a lesbian, borrowed the shirt and wore it to the other middle school in our district. She not only received praise but wore it on a day that they had an assembly on LGBTQ+ rights presented by Garden State Equality. At the Board of Education meeting, the members condemned the dress code violation I received. As a result, students and I organized a protest at our middle school. With the help of several others, we created shirts and papers reading the same “We’re All Lesbians” message and wore them to school. On the day of the protest, the principal set up a lunchtime meeting where he acknowledged the mistake and promised to make decisions in the future to foster a more accepting environment. Multiple news outlets reached out to hear my story, but my main concern was always to show that no student should be silence by those in positions of power. Standing up against the dress code was my way of saying it wasn’t right. What struck me the most was when someone told me they found the courage to come out to their friends because of my story. It made me realize that by standing up for what I believe in, I could make a positive impact on the world. This challenge was tough, given the very public hatred I received directed at my identity, but knowing that I inspired others made it worthwhile.

since I was very young, my passion has been for art. I have been writing “artist” and later on “freelance illustrator and game developer” on every paper asking me what I wish to be when I grow up. Although countless people have told me that this is a silly dream, one that isn’t worth it as I will only fail or be poor, I have not backed down; because to me, this is a realistic dream as it is a huge part of my existence. I am a honored member in my school’s National Art Honors Society as well as our Art Club. Furthermore, I am a member of my school’s National Honors Society and a board member of the ASL Club. I was a finalist for a poster contest and have even won an honorable mention in my regional awards for Scholastic Art and Writing! As an artist, I would identify myself as someone who pushes boundaries. I would say my art is always very fluid in a way. I don’t limit myself with posing but I also don’t stray away from geometric shapes to go with the roundness of your style. I find myself being very color focused and could probably never use the same sort of palette twice. My diverse color usage has brought me vibrant and very stylistic art. Furthermore, I try many different things. Even if I don’t like a medium or find myself having difficulties in it, I always challenge myself. I’m very detail oriented when it matters as to our just an extra touch on my artwork. In general, an artist, I see myself as someone who is passionate about expressing emotions while still keeping in things that I enjoy. Whenever someone is to ask me what I want my art to do, I always tell them the same answer. “I want to make people feel things.” In many cases, I do try to express happiness and joy, but as I’ve grown, my art has become more complex. Currently I’m exploring abstract emotions within my art such as grief and alienation. I’ve also further been studying my anatomy and realism to try to get a grasp on it and diversify my palette in a way. In three years, I see myself as an art college student. I hope that I will be currently working on my studies as well as that I have some game or comic uploaded or in progress at the time. My current game that I am working on should by that time be public. I also hope that I will have freelance illustration work at that time. I am honestly so excited to get into a college and get anxious just thinking about where I could be in three years! When it comes to ten years from now, I hope to be a part of a game development or animation company as a character designer and writer possibly. I want to be able to present my work in different ways. I also hope that I will be an alumni from whatever college I had graduated from and be able to help other aspiring art students to show them that success is possible. My identity as an artist is something I’ve been curating since childhood and I am so excited to develop myself and my art career more.

My name is Justice Cillo-Smith and since I was very young, my passion has been for art. I have been writing “artist” and later on “freelance illustrator and game developer” on every paper asking me what I wish to be when I grow up. Although countless people have told me that this is a silly dream, one that isn’t worth it as I will only fail or be poor, I have not backed down; because to me, this is a realistic dream as it is a huge part of my existence. I am a honored member in my school’s National Art Honors Society as well as our Art Club. Furthermore, I am a member of my school’s National Honors Society and a board member of the ASL Club. I was a finalist for a poster contest and have even won an honorable mention in my regional awards for Scholastic Art and Writing! On a full ride scholarship, I attended Moore College of Art and Design’s Summer Art and Design Institute (SADI) in 2023. As an artist, I would identify myself as someone who pushes boundaries. I would say my art is always very fluid in a way. I don’t limit myself with posing but I also don’t stray away from geometric shapes to go with the roundness of your style. I find myself being very color focused and could probably never use the same sort of palette twice. My diverse color usage has brought me vibrant and very stylistic art. Furthermore, I try many different things. Even if I don’t like a medium or find myself having difficulties in it, I always challenge myself. I’m very detail oriented when it matters as to our just an extra touch on my artwork. In general, an artist, I see myself as someone who is passionate about expressing emotions while still keeping in things that I enjoy. Whenever someone is to ask me what I want my art to do, I always tell them the same answer. “I want to make people feel things.” In many cases, I do try to express happiness and joy, but as I’ve grown, my art has become more complex. Currently I’m exploring abstract emotions within my art such as grief and alienation. I’ve also further been studying my anatomy and realism to try to get a grasp on it and diversify my palette in a way. In three years from now, I see myself as an art college student. I hope that I will be currently working on my studies as well as that I have some game or comic uploaded or in progress at the time. My current game that I am working on should by that time be public. I also hope that I will have freelance illustration work at that time. I am honestly so excited to get into a college and get anxious just thinking about where I could be in three years! When it comes to ten years from now, I hope to be a part of a game development or animation company as a character designer and writer possibly. I want to be able to present my work in different ways. I also hope that I will be an alumni from whatever college I had graduated from and be able to help other aspiring art students to show them that success is possible. My identity as an artist is something I’ve been curating since childhood and I am so excited to develop myself and my art career more.

As one of the few openly lesbian students in my school, I’ve faced discrimination throughout my life. From hushed slurs to blatant homophobia, it’s a familiar, though undeserved, part of my life. However, one of the most challenging moments of my journey through identity occurred in 7th grade. I had recently seen the musical “The Prom,” a show that resonated with me as a lesbian who has also confronted in-school discrimination. Inspired by the show, I wore a merchandise shirt I bought at the show that read “We’re All Lesbians” to school on September 25th, 2019. My excitement was cut short when, in second period, I was called to the office and issued a dress code violation. Initially, my shirt was deemed inappropriate, and the office cited the dress code’s clauses on hate speech and sexual innuendos. Devastated and entirely uncomfortable, I called my mother, who was in class at the time. I spent the next two periods in the office waiting for her. When she arrived, we spoke with the Principal and Guidance Counselors together. As soon as we pointed out that their violation was homophobic, they went back on their statement. Instead, they claimed I was dress-coded to protect me from potential harassment due to the word “lesbian” on my shirt. I was furious. I had been discriminated against and had my education disrupted only for them to defend it under the guise of protection. After being advised to attend a Board of Education meeting, my mother posted about the incident on Facebook. Before the meeting, we conducted an experiment: a friend of mine, also a lesbian, borrowed the shirt and wore it to the other middle school in our district. She not only received praise but wore it on a day that they had an assembly on LGBTQ+ rights presented by Garden State Equality. At the Board of Education meeting, the members condemned the dress code violation I received. As a result, students and I organized a protest at our middle school. With the help of several others, we created shirts and papers reading the same “We’re All Lesbians” message and wore them to school. On the day of the protest, the principal set up a lunchtime meeting where he acknowledged the mistake and promised to make decisions in the future to foster a more accepting environment. Multiple news outlets reached out to hear my story, but my main concern was always to show that no student should be silence by those in positions of power. Standing up against the dress code was my way of saying it wasn’t right. What struck me the most was when someone told me they found the courage to come out to their friends because of my story. It made me realize that by standing up for what I believe in, I could make a positive impact on the world. This challenge was tough, given the very public hatred I received directed at my identity, but knowing that I inspired others made it worthwhile.

Throughout my life, I have been forced to constantly navigate the obstacles that my disabilities (POTs and PFS) have presented. Whether it be navigating the realities of ableism within the education system or having to deal with chronic pain that leaves it nearly impossible to continue my schoolwork, I have become accustomed to the way the world is not created for disabled people. Despite certain narratives pushing for disabled people to be inspirational, I feel I fell short in this stereotype. I am not inspirational to able-bodied people. Instead, I want to be inspirational to the disabled community. Through my art, I have always hoped to express my struggles through creativity. Although it may not be a story of navigating the world the same as an able-bodied person would, I have felt as though I create beauty from my experiences. In the realm of disability, I envision a movement where more individuals seize the opportunity to tell their stories through art. It's not just about creating stunning pieces; it's about breaking barriers and empowering a community to embrace the beauty within their narratives. I hope to be a voice of a group that is underrepresented within the artistic community.

As one of the few openly lesbian students in my school, I’ve faced discrimination throughout my life. From hushed slurs to blatant homophobia, it’s a familiar, though undeserved, part of my life. However, one of the most challenging moments of my journey through identity occurred in 7th grade. I had recently seen the musical “The Prom,” a show that resonated with me as a lesbian who has also confronted in-school discrimination. Inspired by the show, I wore a merchandise shirt I bought at the show that read “We’re All Lesbians” to school on September 25th, 2019. My excitement was cut short when, in second period, I was called to the office and issued a dress code violation. Initially, my shirt was deemed inappropriate, and the office cited the dress code’s clauses on hate speech and sexual innuendos. Devastated and entirely uncomfortable, I called my mother, who was in class at the time. I spent the next two periods in the office waiting for her. When she arrived, we spoke with the Principal and Guidance Counselors together. As soon as we pointed out that their violation was homophobic, they went back on their statement. Instead, they claimed I was dress-coded to protect me from potential harassment due to the word “lesbian” on my shirt. I was furious. I had been discriminated against and had my education disrupted only for them to defend it under the guise of protection. After being advised to attend a Board of Education meeting, my mother posted about the incident on Facebook. Before the meeting, we conducted an experiment: a friend of mine, also a lesbian, borrowed the shirt and wore it to the other middle school in our district. She not only received praise but wore it on a day that they had an assembly on LGBTQ+ rights presented by Garden State Equality. At the Board of Education meeting, the members condemned the dress code violation I received. As a result, students and I organized a protest at our middle school. With the help of several others, we created shirts and papers reading the same “We’re All Lesbians” message and wore them to school. On the day of the protest, the principal set up a lunchtime meeting where he acknowledged the mistake and promised to make decisions in the future to foster a more accepting environment. Multiple news outlets reached out to hear my story, but my main concern was always to show that no student should be silence by those in positions of power. Standing up against the dress code was my way of saying it wasn’t right. What struck me the most was when someone told me they found the courage to come out to their friends because of my story. It made me realize that by standing up for what I believe in, I could make a positive impact on the world. This challenge was tough, given the very public hatred I received directed at my identity, but knowing that I inspired others made it worthwhile.

The everyday world around me is a continuous source of inspiration to my artistic expression. Particularly, my unique experience and interaction with the world as a physically disabled and autistic nonbinary lesbian has always helped me to create artwork that is personal in the same way that it is relatable. I have always intended to create art that is clearly inspired by my own life but can be understood and interpreted by others who may not share similar experiences. As an artist, even outside of my own experiences, I tend to notice things that those who aren’t artists tend to overlook about our world. From the interplay with light and dark in the sunlight beaming through the trees to the intricacies in the expression of human emotion. Nature has always been a source of inspiration for my art as well, especially the natural relationships between animals and plants. I have always been fascinated by the metaphorical nature of certain types of relationships in the world. My identity and personal journey add depth to my artwork, allowing me to explore different themes of diversity, identity, and the human experience. I aspire to amplify the voices of those who are marginalized and disprivileged such as myself through my artwork. I see art as a powerful tool to nurture empathy and understanding. My main hope with my art is that everyone, no matter their background, may feel something when they look at it. Each day I am alive I am surrounded by new layers of inspiration from the world around me. I attempt to translate my discoveries onto paper in a way that not only represents my own perspective but also reflects the broader human experience.

usahunis