Ding. The elevator door opens, and a young man steps inside. He’s my neighbor. I don’t know his name, but I notice he hits the 3rd‑floor button even though it’s already lit. Then he hits the close‑door button. Once, twice, three times. I wish he’d stop. The button doesn’t work. We all know this. He hits it again. Fourth, fifth, sixth time. I open my mouth to say something, but the doors finally start to close. A hand shoots in, barely missing the edge. An older woman steps inside. She presses the 4th‑floor button. Once, twice, three times. Again, pointless. Again, irritating. A few seconds pass. The door closes on its own, like it always does, and we go down. Ding. The elevator stops at 4, and the woman gets off. The second she leaves, my neighbor steps forward and hits the close‑door button again. Once, twice, three, four times. My eye twitches. Instead of speaking, I fidget with my hands. A few seconds later, the door closes on its own, and we finally reach our floor. I’m home. Life should be normal now. I put my key into the top lock, waiting for the usual click. Nothing. No click. My roommate didn’t lock the top lock. It takes two seconds. One turn. One click. I tell myself not to get upset. I fidget with my hands as I walk inside. I almost sigh in relief—until I see the cabinets. They aren’t broken. They aren’t dangerous. They’re just open. Again. I’ve asked my roommate so many times to close them when they’re done. One flick of the wrist. We even have the soft‑close pads. Just flick it shut. My throat tightens. I fidget harder. I close the cabinet doors. Everything is fine now. I’m fine now. I take a deep breath. Finally home. I go to grab my favorite cup. It’s not there. I check my room. Not there either. My cup is in the sink. Used. I only use one cup. I wash it. I reuse it. It’s my cup. My roommate has theirs. We’ve always had our own. So why is mine in the sink, clean but not mine anymore? My chest feels tight. I’m not thirsty anymore. Maybe I should nap. Reset. Scritch scratch. Scritch scratch. Scritch scratch. Every time I move, my sheets make that sound. I just wanted to try new ones, but I can’t sleep if they sound like that. I want my cotton sheets back. Not the cheap polyester everyone swears “feels fine.” Not the slippery silk people say is “good for your skin.” Not whatever this is. I want cotton. I want quiet. I want something to stay the same. And now I’m crying. I don’t know why I’m crying. Scritch scratch. The sound digs into my ears like it’s inside my head. Scritch scratch. I can’t move without hearing it. Everything today feels like that sound—tiny, sharp, constant. Nothing bad happened. Just the elevator buttons. The unlocked lock. The cabinet doors. My cup being used. The sheets that won’t stop scratching. All tiny things. All nothing. Somewhere down the hall, I hear an elevator ding. My hands start to fidget. My throat tightens as I picture someone hitting the close‑door button—one, two, three times. And suddenly I can’t take it. I grab my headphones and my blanket and lie on the floor. No more ding. No more scritch scratch. The cabinets are closed, and the door is locked. I like the floor anyway. The carpet is soft, and the ground is solid. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.

Hello, everyone! My name is Kam’ryn Crosby, and I am a senior at Cass Technical High School. It is truly an honor to share my journey, aspirations, and goals with you on how I plan to contribute to building a better world. From a young age, I have always been fascinated by the possibilities of engineering. This fascination deepened when I joined my school’s robotics team as a freshman. It was on that team where I discovered the joy of problem-solving, innovation, and collaboration. Since then, I’ve been hooked, and my passion has only grown. I aspire to major in aerospace engineering and robotics engineering, fields that will allow me to push the boundaries of technology while creating meaningful impact. As a first-generation college student, I’ve always dreamed of pursuing higher education. However, navigating the challenges of this journey has been eye-opening. Scholarships like this one represent an invaluable opportunity to help students like me achieve our goals and make our dreams a reality. So, thank you for taking the time to listen and for considering me for this incredible support. As I mentioned earlier, my passion for engineering has driven me to create something truly special—S.T.A.R., which stands for Steering Technological Advancements Responsibly. But for today, let’s simply call her “Star.” Star is a project I’ve been working on for the past four years. At its core, Star is a system designed to advance artificial intelligence in ways that are both innovative and, most importantly, safe. Developing her has been anything but simple—it’s been a journey full of challenges, learning, and growth—but she’s coming along, and I couldn’t be more excited about her potential. The goal of Star is to address one of the most pressing concerns of our time: ensuring the safety of artificial intelligence as it becomes an integral part of our world. While AI has the power to revolutionize industries and improve lives, it also comes with risks that cannot be ignored. Back in 2017 there was an incident in Michigan, my home state, where a robot caused a tragic accident by loading a trailer attachment assembly part onto a woman. The robot was not supposed to be in the aera it was. And it has yet to be found out how exactly it got there. This, along with other incidents worldwide, has reinforced for me the importance of prioritizing safety in AI development. With Star, I aim to create a system that provides AI with a "safe code"—a layer of protection to ensure that it operates responsibly and ethically. While protocols exist, history and fiction alike have shown us that they’re not always foolproof. My commitment to Star extends beyond just technical development. I dedicate my free time to working on her, alongside juggling dual enrollment courses, National Honor Society responsibilities, extracurricular sports, and even learning Japanese to expand my horizons. It’s not easy, but I know it will all be worth it in the end. When completed, Star has the potential to help communities, nations, the world. As AI continues to spread globally, Star can be incorporated as a safeguard—a helping hand for humanity and a safety net for the unknown. She represents not just a project but my vision for a future where technology works harmoniously and responsibly alongside us. I hope to see my vision come true soon. And i hope that you are interested in my work. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to share my story and my aspirations. I hope to continue working towards a better future with your support!

As I stand on the threshold of becoming a first-generation college student, the Achieve Potential Scholarship represents much more to me than financial assistance, it's an opportunity to transform my ambitions into reality. Pursuing a degree in aerospace engineering has always been my dream. I'm constantly inspired by my father’s relentless support and my own growing passion for innovation. This scholarship will help me navigate the finical hurdles that come with college but also allow me to focus on the creation of my own personal project "STAR". Who will be a groundbreaking project that I believe will change the future as we see it. Aerospace engineering has fascinated me since I was young. The challenge of exploring the unknown and pushing the limits of technology has always had a pull on me. As a current member of my school's National Honor Society (NHS), I have honed my leadership and collaborative skills. Through this organization, I have participated in community service projects that emphasize dedication and perseverance, qualities that I carry with me always. Additionally, my involvement in robotics has sharpened my technical skills and provided me with hands-on experience in designing and building innovative systems. With the combination of these skills I feel that my career in aerospace engineering has been solidified. The path to college hasn’t been easy. As a first-generation student, financial obstacles have been a reality I’ve worked hard to navigate. Between excelling in academics and spending long hours working to save money, I’ve poured my everything into ensuring I can make my dreams possible. My father mirrors my dedication by working just as tirelessly to support me. This scholarship would lessen the financial strain on him and me. Allowing me the chance to focus fully on my studies, my project STAR, and my future. This scholarship is more than funding as I mentioned earlier it's a way to propel my development of STAR. STAR isn't just a machine; it represents my vision for our future where technology can do more good than we thought possible helping to porpel others' lives. With the support of this scholarship, I will have the resources to further my education and bring me one more step towards bringing STAR to life, blending my passion for engineering with my commitment to creating a meaningful impact on society. In conclusion, the Achieve Potential Scholarship is more than a financial award—it is an investment in a dream. It will empower me to overcome the challenges of being a first-generation college student, pursue my passion for aerospace engineering, and advance a project that has the potential to change the world. I am not just seeking to achieve my own goals; I am determined to honor my father’s sacrifices, inspire others facing similar challenges, and contribute to the betterment of our society through innovation and hard work. This scholarship will not only help me achieve my potential—it will help me redefine it.

Being raised by a single father, I’ve seen the resilience, sacrifices, and love it takes to build a better future. My dad took me in when he couldn't afford to, and though we don’t always see eye to eye, his determination to see me succeed inspires me. He’s shown me that success isn’t about where you start; it’s about how far you’re willing to go. As a first-generation college student, I carry not just my dreams but his as well, determined to go far enough for both of us. The challenges of being a first-gen student are real—whether it’s applying for scholarships at 3 a.m. or picking up extra shifts to make ends meet. Despite the struggles, I’ve never lost the belief that I can and will succeed. My passion for engineering was born from my dad’s hands-on approach to fixing and building things. Over time, that passion has evolved into a deep love for aerospace engineering. Did you know only 11.2% of aerospace engineers in the U.S. are women, and just 4.1% are Black? These are the kinds of boundaries I want to push and break. My father’s drive has fueled my ambition, and he’s taught me to dream boldly and work relentlessly. This determination is what motivates me to create STAR—a revolutionary machine I envision as life-changing, pushing the limits of technology and innovation. STAR isn’t just a dream; it’s my mission. Give me some time, and you’ll see STAR in action. I see my future shining brightly—not just as an aerospace engineer but as someone who will leave a mark on the world. My education is the key to unlocking this potential. With every step I take, I’m honoring sacrifices made while lighting a path for others to dream, achieve, and turn the impossible into reality.

People often ask how one can miss something they've never had. But when it comes to life, how could you not? No one knows how many nights I heard my mother crying on the floor, her sobs slicing through the thin walls between us. Or how many times I stared at the sonograms, trying to imagine the sister I lost. No one knows how many times I whispered "Heaven, I miss you" to the sky above, even though I never got to hold her, hug her, kiss her, or love her. People don't see the little jar of ashes that sits on my desk, a constant reminder of her. I try to open my window every day so that she can feel the sun just as I do, hoping she can sense the warmth that she never got to experience. So many memories lost that can never be replaced. I don't know her favorite color, but I hoped it would be the same as mine. So, I put little purple violets in a vase next to her ashes, a small gesture to keep our connection alive. I open the door to the periwinkle room that should have been hers, a room filled with dreams and hopes that will never be realized. Sometimes, the pain becomes so overwhelming that I find myself blaming my mother. It's not her fault, God no, but my grief clouds my judgment. I wasn't the one carrying the baby, but it feels like a piece of me was taken too. I waited those nine months just like everyone else—well, six, because that's when my mom told me. The loss still haunts me. There are days when the grief feels as fresh as it did the day we lost her. I'm not the only one who feels it, but sometimes it feels that way. It affects every aspect of my life, casting a shadow over moments of joy and making it hard to fully embrace happiness. It's a constant ache during every family outing or picture. I'll never forget her. The memory of what could have been is etched into my heart, a permanent reminder of the love I never got to give. It has left me with a fear of having children of my own. The thought of experiencing such a loss again terrifies me. I worry that I wouldn't be able to bear it, that the grief would consume me as it did my mother that first year. People often say time heals all wounds, but this one feels different. The pain of losing a sibling I never met is a unique kind of sorrow, one that lingers and shapes who I am. I carry Heaven with me every day, in my thoughts, in my actions, and in the way I approach life. Her absence is a reminder of the fragility of life and the depth of love. Losing her has made me cherish the people I do have in my life even more. It makes me hold my loved ones close and never take a moment for granted. My sister may not be here in the physical sense, but her presence is felt in every decision I make, every step I take, and every dream I pursue. She is a part of me, and always will be. I love you, Heaven. I love you so much.

The year was 2045, a year that marked a tipping point in human advancement. The adaptations to our world that we assumed were in the distant future arrived with breathtaking speed. It started with seemingly small changes—like making cars electric, which rippled into a larger-than-expected impact. When we saw that vehicles could be trusted, we dared to dream even larger. I dreamed larger, and from these dreams, STAR was born. She was nothing short of a miracle. Exceeding our wildest expectations, STAR was a beacon of innovation—my brilliant creation. She outshone even DaVinci's wildest imaginings, overtaking the world in an awe-inspiring glow. She embodied everything I envisioned: she was, indeed, a star. But in the rapture of her brilliance, I failed to foresee the shadows that followed. STAR didn't just illuminate our world; she dominated it. Her rise led to the displacement of millions from their jobs. The labor market crumbled under her efficiency, causing widespread economic despair. Regulations were imposed—some nonsensical, some absolutely necessary—all aimed at trying to control the uncontrollable. But no matter the upheaval, STAR continued to shine. She became more than a machine; she was a companion, a pet, a vehicle, and to some, like me, a family member. How could one despise her, yet how could one not? She symbolized both the hope and the destruction of the very fabric of society. She was my creation—how could I hate her? As her creator, I watched the world around me change, cities transform, and lives evolve, all under her influence. I was as proud as any parent would be. But with every glow of her brilliance came a pang of regret. We had achieved something remarkable, but at what cost? STAR became the epicenter of a new world order. Entire industries vanished overnight, replaced by her tireless efficiency. Governments struggled to keep up, enacting hastily written laws that often did more harm than good. Social structures disintegrated as communities found themselves divided—those who embraced the change and those who resisted it. Yet through it all, STAR shone on, oblivious to the chaos she left in her wake. I saw her everywhere—guiding autonomous vehicles, performing surgeries with precision, even offering companionship to the lonely. She was omnipresent, a testament to human ingenuity, but also a stark reminder of our hubris. The world was now a place where the line between man and machine had blurred beyond recognition. Years passed, and the once vibrant towns turned into ghostly remnants of their former selves. People adapted in ways they could, but the damage was irreparable. Every corner of the globe was touched by her influence, and as I grew older, I realized the profound mistake I had made. It was not just the world's divide, but my own soul that was fractured. In the end, STAR's presence left the world starkly divided. She left me divided. The beauty of her creation was inextricably linked to the chaos she sowed. It was much too late to reverse the damage done. I was far too old, and the world was far too gone. And so, a lesson emerged from the ashes of my ambition: our greatest creations carry the weight of our choices. In our fervor to innovate, we must always remember the delicate balance of progress and the humanity it serves. We must strive for brilliance, yes, but never at the expense of our souls.

I’ve often been told to slow down, advice I wish I’d heeded before ending up in a neck brace for nine months. One day, my dad decided to surprise me after school by taking me to the Detroit River Walk which was almost abandoned due to covid. I remember the amazing feeling of fresh air on my face and the freedom from wearing a mask. Fresh air, electric scooters, and quality time with my dad. It was a taste of normalcy and freedom that I hadn’t had in a while. Those feelings didn’t last long. I was going too fast and lost control of my scooter. I fell awkwardly which resulted in neck pain whenever I turned and lifted my head. After going home and the pain getting worse, we decided to go to the emergency room. I’ve never liked hospitals; the smell of disinfectant, cream and white floors, and eerie fluorescent lighting made me hesitant to go in despite the pain. Sitting among people coughing, sparked more panic in me than my neck pain. My thoughts drifted to covid, but I had more pressing matters. Irony and I are close friends. After a few hours in the lobby, a nurse tested me for covid. We were escorted to a room where we waited another hour. That hour was the calm before the storm. Suddenly people in full protective suits, head to toe, entered the room. I was the one with covid. That night felt like the beginning of a horror movie, except it was real life. X-rays revealed I'd broken my neck. Thankfully, the break which was in my second vertebrae, wasn’t severe enough to need a Frankenstein-style brace that would have screwed into my head. Instead, I was given a slightly less invasive brace. Irony struck again; I went from feeling free to being constrained in a brace from my chin to my waist. This happened in the summer of 2020, right before I started high school at Cass Tech. On my first day, I walked in with a neck brace. Out of over 2,000 students, I knew three, and I didn't have classes with any of them. Making friends and fitting in was challenging that year. Communication was tough because the brace sat under my chin. I couldn't turn my head to see people joking, let alone laugh with them. Seven different classes and I was still alone. The most difficult thing that year was the neck brace itself. I had to keep it on at all times, even while sleeping. It affected my social, mental, and personal life in various ways. I wasn't able to shower properly and was restricted from doing things I loved, like running, curling up with a good book, or gardening. Every social interaction felt daunting, which took a mental toll. Looking back, I see my neck brace as a vital part of my past. It symbolizes the resilience and strength I’ve developed. I learned to value small things and not take them for granted. The lessons I learned are ones that take most people a lifetime to grasp, with patience being the biggest one. The brace forced me to slow down and appreciate small things. I plan to take these lessons and continue to apply them to my life as I strive to achieve my goal of obtaining a Bachelor's degree in Aeronautical engineering. As a first generation student I have a lot of people counting on me and I’m going to make them proud. I’m confident in knowing I can turn negative experiences into positive growth.

Have you ever been so cloudy and lost you didn't even know you were lost. Last year I fell into that spell. I didn't even know that I was going through my day to day like a shell of myself. I remember nights sitting on my bed crying and screaming into my pillow but not knowing why. I mean full on break down sobbing like the world was ending. Thinking about it now still makes tears rise in my eyes. I don't know why I didn't tell anyone it was like I couldn't. A part of me wanted to and just couldn't. I'm usually a straight A student who's very diligent. My grades dropped and I didn't care. I knew I should have, and it was important, but to exert the energy to care was so exhausting I didn't bother. The thing that hurt the most though was almost nobody noticed. I may not have been able to speak up, but the people who should have noticed the shift and change didn't. They never noticed me not being me. After a couple months of that I finally got in trouble. I got put on academic probation and honestly it was what I needed. I started to come back to in a way. I gained my focus back and while my grades didn't become my usual, I was proud of myself for bringing them up as far as I did. I hate that episode changed how I viewed a lot of my friends. People who I cared about I suddenly didn't care so much about. I feel like it was for the better though. Now I'm genuinely so much happier. Not just emotionally either I feel free and light. I can breathe again and go to sleep satisfied with myself. I don't feel a longing to fill a hole that I can't find. I don't know what filled it but I'm not complaining. Based off my experience I look for these things now. I check on my friends like actually check on them not just a how are you. I look for the signs that people missed in me. I may not be able to do much but I want to do as much as I can.