When my mother passed away, something inside me went quiet. My voice, once full of melody and confidence, disappeared. My mom always wanted me to be a singer. It was all I did when she was alive. I sang around the house, at family gatherings, and even in public without fear. It was our thing, a bond that connected us in a way nothing else could. But when I lost her, I also lost the passion we shared. Music felt like a reminder of everything I no longer had. So, I stopped singing. I stopped dreaming of stages and stopped looking forward to anything at all. The silence that followed her death wasn’t just external. It lived in me. In the months after her passing, I felt lost and emotionally numb. Grief became a heavy part of my everyday life, affecting how I moved through the world and how I interacted with others. I struggled to focus, to connect, and even to smile. I didn’t know where to put all the pain I carried. That’s when I found track and field. At first, it wasn’t something I loved. I joined more out of obligation than interest, thinking it might give me something to do, maybe something to distract me. I didn’t enjoy the practices. I hated waking up early, the soreness in my legs, and the pressure to perform. But slowly, without realizing it, I began to depend on those runs. There was something oddly comforting about running in circles. Even though it seemed repetitive, it gave me a sense of control and release. As my legs moved, my mind cleared. Running gave me space to feel my pain without being judged. It became my therapy, my outlet, and eventually, my new passion. Track didn’t just help me grieve. It helped me rebuild. I became more disciplined, more focused, and more confident. I started showing up not just for the sport, but for myself. It taught me how to channel my emotions into movement, how to push through when things felt too heavy, and how to trust myself again. Track showed me that I could find strength even when I felt broken. I began to realize that maybe my purpose had shifted. Maybe I wasn’t meant to sing in front of crowds anymore, but to carry my story in a different way. Though I no longer sing like I used to, I carry my mom with me in everything I do. She’s with me at the starting line. She’s with me in every breath I take on the track. My grief is still there, but it no longer controls me. It drives me. I plan to pay it forward by using my story to inspire others. Whether it’s mentoring younger athletes, speaking to kids who have lost a parent, or just being a shoulder to lean on, I want to show people that pain can lead to purpose. What started as tragedy became a turning point. I may have lost my original voice, but in running, I found a new rhythm, a new reason, and a new way to keep moving forward.

If money were not an issue, I would create a global network of accessible mental health and creative expression centers tailored to youth from underrepresented communities. Picture this: therapy sessions where teens can unload their drama and then head to a graphic design workshop to turn that drama into digital masterpieces. These centers would provide free counseling, mentoring programs, and workshops in graphic design, and other creative outlets; proving that art and mental health go hand in hand like like fries dipped in milkshakes—unexpected but oddly perfect. The first focus of these centers would be mental health support, an essential yet often overlooked aspect of many communities. Many young people lack access to counseling, leaving them to navigate life’s challenges alone. By providing free therapy sessions and emotional support, these centers would give them a safe space to heal and grow. Coupled with mentorship programs, they would create resilience and confidence in youth, preparing them to tackle future challenges with clarity, determination, and hope. Another critical element would be the creative workshops, such as graphic design, and other forms of artistic expression. These programs would serve as a platform for self-discovery and skill-building, helping young people find their passions while exploring potential career paths. State-of-the-art technology labs equipped with tools for graphic design would open doors to careers in visual arts and advertising. This aspect aligns with my own passion for creativity and my career goal of becoming an entrepreneur in advertising. Representation in the arts is another area these centers would address. BIPOC youth often face systemic barriers that hinder their access to creative opportunities. By combining mental health advocacy with artistic development, my initiative would work to dismantle these barriers. Think of it as breaking down walls but with the added bonus of colorful murals and inspired digital designs as the outcome. Winning this scholarship would give me the chance to dive deeper into my love for the arts and continue my education in a way that I’m passionate about. It would allow me to grow in ways I’ve always dreamed of. If I had to describe myself with a book title, it would definitely be Becoming by Michelle Obama. This book speaks to me because it’s all about embracing what makes you unique and finding joy in the process of becoming who you’re meant to be, rather than waiting for everything to be perfect. With the support of the Chellez Brand, I want to encourage others to dream big, work hard, and remember to enjoy the journey. After all, if we’re not having fun along the way, what’s the point?

What I loved most about my mom was her drive and ambition. She was one of the hardest-working people I’ve ever known, and it inspired me every day. I have so many memories of going with her to community meetings where she worked to make a difference, helping her organize singing lessons for kids, and tagging along as she guided families through open houses in her job as a realtor. She always seemed to have so much energy and passion for what she was doing. She gave everything her all, and her work was always about helping others. To be honest, as a kid, I didn’t always appreciate it. Sometimes, I would find myself thinking, “Do we really have to go to another meeting?” or silently complaining about being dragged along to her endless activities. I’d sit in the backseat dreaming about getting home to watch TV or hang out with my friends. But looking back now, I’m so grateful for those experiences. She wasn’t just showing me what hard work looked like—she was giving me a front-row seat to how much one person could do to make a difference. Even when she got sick with cancer, my mom never gave up. Her battle was short, but in those moments, she still stayed positive and strong. She never let the illness take away her hope or her love for life. I remember how she kept smiling and encouraging me, even when she was the one who needed support. Her strength during that time showed me what true courage looks like, and I carry that with me to this day. Losing her has been the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through. It’s something that has changed me in ways I’m still learning to understand. But one thing I know for sure is that her example continues to guide me. Her drive and positivity taught me how to keep going, no matter what challenges I face. Her loss has also made me realize how important it is to make the most of the time we have and to give your best effort in everything you do. I want to live my life in a way that would make her proud. Whether it’s in school, work, or relationships, I try to show the same strength and care for others that she did. My mom’s life may have been cut short, but the lessons she taught me will stay with me forever. She showed me how to work hard, stay positive, and face challenges with courage. Even though she’s gone, her love and strength continue to inspire me every day.