One of the most pressing issues in my community is homelessness, which is especially severe here in Memphis. Every day, I see people and families without any housing sitting at intersections, sleeping on benches, or depending on shelters that are already overwhelmed. Seeing this reality made it impossible for me to ignore the need around me, and I felt responsible to take action rather than remain a bystander. My motivation to address homelessness comes from empathy and awareness. I know what it feels like to not have stability and to worry about basic needs, even if my experiences are different. Seeing people in my community with no access to food or hygiene products made me realize how easily dignity can be taken away when basic necessities aren't available. I wanted to help in a way that was practical, immediate, and respectful. I started volunteering by unboxing and sorting food for people that were homeless and donating hygiene products like soap, toothbrushes, deodorant, and female stuff as well. These items might seem small, but they can make a significant difference in someone's day. Hygiene products are often overlooked, yet they are very essential for health, confidence, and self-respect. Through this work, I learned that service doesn't always need large-scale solutions--sometimes it begins with meeting people where they are. So far, my efforts have helped give nourishment and basic care to people who are usually invisible to society. More importantly, volunteering has changed me. It has strengthened my sense of compassion, humbled me, and reinforced my desire to continue helping underserved communities. I don't see homelessness as an abstract issue anymore, but as a human one that needs empathy and action. In the future, I hope to expand my efforts by organizing larger donation drives, partnering with local shelters, and involving other students in service initiatives. Addressing homelessness in Memphis will take more commitment, but I'm determined to remain part of the solution and to use my voice, time, and leadership to make a difference.

Some teachers tech lessons from books. Others teach lessons that actually shape who you become. For me, that person was Mr. Weddle, my high school art teacher for three years. He did more than just teach me how to the color wheel or the elements of design--he changed how I looked at myself and the way I choose to move through life. When I first had Mr. Weddle, I wasn't the best version of myself. I got into lots of trouble, whether it was me fighting, arguing, or doing small things that led up to big consequences. I had a lot of anger and frustration, and school felt more like a war than a place of growth. Every time something happened, Mr. Weddle seemed to know. I would tell him myself or hear that he had already knew about it, and he would always tell me the same thing: "Kamya, you're better than that." Sometimes he would add an old lesson or simple advice that I ignored while laughing. At that time, I didn't take his words seriously. I thought he was just saying what teachers are supposed to say. But deep down, I knew he was right. He never yelled at me or judged me. Instead, he saw potential in me when I struggled to see it in myself. His belief in me stayed in the back of my mind, even when I acted like it didn't matter. During my junior year, something changed. I started to calm down. I was more quieter, more focused, and more serious about my education and my future. I started choosing peace over conflict and growth over distractions. At the same time, I noticed that Mr. Weddle was getting more sick. He had sickle cell disease, and as the time went by, it was so hard to ignore how much it was affecting him. His eyes turned yellow, his movements slowed, and even his voice showed how exhausted he was. Still, he showed up. Still, he cared. In February 2025, Mr. Weddle passed away. Finding out broke me in a way I didn't really expect. The realization hit hard that I had finally became the person he always told me I could be--but he wasn't there to see it. I wish he could see how far I've come: staying out of trouble, focusing more on my goals, and getting accepted to many colleges. I wish I could tell him that his words mattered more than I ever admitted. Mr. Weddle changed how I approach life. He taught me that growth sometimes comes quietly, after the lessons have already been planted. He taught me that being "better than that" is a choice I get to make every day. Although he isn't here anymore, his voice still guides me--and it always will.

For a long time, using my voice wasn't easy. I learned how to stay quiet, how to observe, and how to survive situations by shrinking myself. But one time when I was a camp counselor at Germantown Athletic Club changed that, teaching me that silence can sometimes be just as harmful as cruelty--and that speaking up, even when my voice shakes, can change someone's world. For the past two summers, I've worked as a camp counselor, responsible for safety and emotional well-being of kids who trusted me. In the summer of 2024, there was a group of girls who had grown up together. They shared history, inside jokes, and friendships that went way back. From the outside, they looked like they were inseparable. But within that group was one girl who was treated differently--excluded from games, ignored during activities, and even pushed to the side. When she did get attention from them, it was mostly negative. They called her names, laughed at her, and made it clear she didn't belong. At first, I struggled with whether it was my place to say something since I didn't know the situation. I worried about backlash, about being told I need to "mind my business," or about disrupting the group dynamic. But when each day went by, I saw her shoulders sink a little lower. I saw how she tried to laugh things off, how she stood by herself while the others laughed together. And I saw myself in her. I knew that feeling--the ache of wanting to belong, the quiet hurt of being mistreated, and the loneliness that comes when nobody steps in. That recognition made it impossible to stay silent. One day, when their comments crossed a line, I said something. I addressed the group directly and made it clear that what was happening was not okay. I explained that exclusion and name-calling cause actual harm, even when disguised as jokes. My voice wasn't loud, but it was firm. I stood beside the girl, not just physically, but emotionally. In that moment, my heart was racing. I was nervous--but I was also certain. After that, the girl didn't say much, but she didn't have to. The way she stayed closer to me, the way her posture changed, told me everything. I realized then and there that using your voice isn't about having all the right words; it's about choosing empathy over comfort. That experience shaped how I look at communication and confidence. I learned that confidence doesn't mean being fearless-it means acting regardless of fear. I learned that authority doesn't come from power, but from passion. And most importantly, I learned that my voice can actually protect others, especially those who feel overlooked. In the future, I will continue to use my voice to advocate for those who are unheard, mistreated, or struggling in silence. Whether if it's in healthcare, leadership, or community spaces, I want to be someone who notices, who speaks up, and who stand beside people when it matters the most. Because sometimes, one voice is enough to remind somebody that they aren't alone.

My experiences with menta health has shaped every part of who I am becoming--my goals, the way I connect with people, and how I understand the world. For a while, I believed strength meant being silent. I carried my struggles quietly, convinced that if I held everything in and stayed busy, the weight I felt would eventually go away. Instead, it grew heavier. On February 6, 2025, I reached a breaking point and tried to take my own life. That day didn't come out of nowhere. It was the result of years of emotional exhaustion, feeling overwhelmed by expectations, pressure, and the belief that I was falling behind everybody else. I felt like I was constantly giving all I got but never feeling like it was enough. I struggled with self-worth, isolation, and the fear that my pain was a burden to everyone around me. In my head, I felt invisible and replaceable, as if the work would keep moving the same if I wasn't here. Surviving that moment changed me in ways I'm still discovering. It forced me to confront the reality that mental health is just as important as physical health, even though you can't see it. I learned that pain doesn't always look dramatic from the outside, and that someone can be smiling, achieving, but hurting so badly inside. This realization reshaped my understanding of the world. I now see how many people are walking around carrying silent battles, and it's made me more compassionate, patient, and aware. My goals have also been deeply influenced by my mental health journey. I don't measure success just by grades, titles, or accomplishments anymore. Success now means purpose. It means choosing a future where I can help others during their weakest moments, the same way I once needed help myself. My interest in medicine, specifically to be a radiologist, comes from wanting to be a part of a system that heals people--physically and emotionally. I understand what it's like to be scared for your health, to wait for answers, and to feel powerless. Cause of that, I'm motivated to be someone who brings clarity, care, and hope into situations that feel overwhelming. My relationships have changed as well. After February 6, I learned the importance of honesty and connection. I realized that asking for help isn't being weak--it's survival. I'm now open with the people I trust and more intentional about checking in on other people. I listen differently now. I notice when someone's tone changes, when their silent, and their body language. I value empathy over judgment, and presence over perfection. Mental health taught me that showing up for someone can be as simple as listening without trying to fix every single thing. Most importantly, my experience taught me that my life does have value--even on days when I don't feel strong. Healing isn't easy, and some days are still hard to this day, but now I actually understand that my story doesn't end at my lowest point. It continues forwards, shaped by resilience, growth, and a deeper sense of purpose. My mental health journey has given me a clearer understanding of the world--not as a place that has to be perfect, but as a place where compassion, support, and perseverance matters.

My personal experience with finances and financial education have been shaped by necessity, observation, and leaning through real-life responsibility and not formal instruction. Growing up, I quickly realized that having a lot of money isn't guaranteed and that money decisions can definitely impact opportunities. I was raised primarily by my mom, whose worked so hard to provide for me regardless if we had limited resources. Watching her manage bills, prioritize needs over wants, and make sacrifices for my education taught me at an early age that financial responsibility isn't just about money--it's about planning, discipline, and survival. Even when I observed financial responsibility at home, I didn't always have access to structured financial education. Stuff like credit, budgeting, savings, and long-term financial planning weren't really taught in school, so I had to look up information by myself. When I turned 18 and started learning about credit cards, interest rates, and financial independence, I realized how easy it is for us young people to make mistakes with no guidance. This lack of early financial education motivated me to become more intentional about learning how money works so I can avoid making those mistakes and have a stable future. One of the most important lessons I've learned about finances is that education is one of the most powerful investments a person can make. Since my family doesn't have a lot of financial resources, paying for college is a major thing. This reality has pushed me to apply for a lot of scholarships, take challenging courses like dual enrollment classes, and carefully plan for my future. These experiences have taught me how to manage my time, weight costs versus benefits, and understand the long-term value of smart financial decisions. As I pursue a biology pre-medicine major with the goal of being a radiologist, I plan to use financial education to make my future better in a lot of ways. First, I'm going to manage student loans responsibly by understanding interest rates, repayment plans, and how to budget after college. Then, I want to build strong credit early so I can have financial freedom and stability as an adult. Financial literacy will let me focus on my career and service and not be overwhelmed by debt or bad financial choices. In the long term, I want to use what I learn to help other people too. Coming from a background where financial knowledge was limited, I know how intimidating finances can be. I really hope to educate myself enough to people younger than me, especially those from overlooked communities, by sharing resources, advice, and encouragement. Financial education makes opportunities, and I want to be somebody who helps open door and not watch them close cause of lack of knowledge. Ultimately, my experiences with finances have taught me responsibility, resilience, and how important it is to be prepared. By continuing to educate myself financially, I'm building a better future with stability, independence, and being able to give back.

Jack Terry's story inspires me because it shows how being strong and educated can change even the most painful beginnings into a life dedicated to helping other people. Regardless of losing his whole family in the Holocaust, surviving that horrible trauma, and ending up in the United States with a limited education and not even knowing how to speak English, Terry chose to keep going. He didn't allow adversity to stop him. Instead, he used education as a tool to restart his life and ended up devoting himself to sharing knowledge and hope. His journey reminds me that hardships don't disqualify you from being successful--it can prepare us for purpose. In my own life, I have faced adversity through financial instability and uncertainty about my future. I'm a Black woman raised primarily by my mom, who's my main source of financial support, as my father can't really help. Seeing my mom work hard to provide for me while still making sure I get my education taught me at a young age that being successful requires sacrifice, discipline, and determination. Because of limited resources, I've had had to be on top of every opportunity I want, knowing that education isn't just a goal for me but a way for stability for my family. Academically, I also faced challenges in finding confidence in myself. When I had first took the ACT, I got a 22, which left me feeling bad about myself and questioning whether or not I was really prepared for college-level work. However, instead of giving up, I leaned into the discomfort. I enrolled in dual enrollment math and English for my senior year--classes that was challenging but transforming. Balancing college coursework with high school responsibilities taught me time management, resilience, and believing in myself. Like Jack Terry, I learned that growth often starts when we step into spaces that intimidate us. Through these experiences, I've learned that adversity can make you feel purposed. I'm going to major in biology pre-med with the goal of becoming a radiologist. I'm drawn to this career because it allows me to mix compassion with advanced technology to help people during some of the hardest moments of their lives. I understand what it feels like to be concerned about your health, mentally and physically, and I want to be someone who provides clarity, care, and reassurance through medicine. Beyond academic, I want to give back through leadership and service. I'm a member of the ACT Club, National Honor Society, and Treasurer of the National Art Honor Society. I've also volunteered at places by helping give food to people who are homeless. These roles have taught me responsibility, empathy, and the importance of helping people--things that show Jack Terry's lifelong commitment to service and education. With my studies, I want to give back by serving overlooked communities, mentoring students from backgrounds like mine, and using my voice to encourage perseverance through adversity. This scholarship wouldn't only support my education but also empower me to continue the legacy of resilience, hope, and service that Jack Terry represents.

Growing up in a single-parent household has shaped really every part of who I am today. When I was little, I learned that life doesn't always follow a perfect plan. My mom has been my primary provider, protector, and role model, raising me and my sisters while balancing financial stress, emotional challenges, and the everyday responsibilities of being a parent. Even though she works hard and earns a decent income, supporting three kids has never been easy, and I grew up understanding that was something to be managed responsibly and not freely spent. My dad wasn't consistently present in my life because of circumstances that were beyond my control. When my mom was pregnant with me, my dad was in jail, and him not being there became a defining part of my upbringing. While he eventually got out of jail, his ability to contribute financially was limited. So, my mom carried the weight of raising me and eventually my sisters on her own. Watching her continue to keep going for us through exhaustion, stress, and uncertainty taught me resilience before I even had a word for it. For a long time, I didn't really understand how growing up in a single-parent household had affected me. I thought that being independent and emotionally guarded was simply part of my personality. I barely asked for help, even though I needed it, because I didn't want to add to my mom's stress. I felt like I had to mature quickly, to be strong, and to succeed and not depend on anybody else. It wasn't until I started getting ready for college that I had the realization that changed how I looked at myself. As I started researching scholarships and financial aid, I started being overwhelmed by how difficult the process was. I found myself feeling frustrated, anxious, and sometimes discouraged. In that moment, I realized that my independence had grown out of necessity, not just choice. I understood that my strength came from getting used to my circumstances, but also I recognized that it was okay to know that I needed and could ask for help. This realization helped me get a new understanding of myself--not just as somebody who survives challenges, but as someone who's allowed to seek opportunities and accept help when I need it. Growing up in that type of household has made me resourceful, empathetic, and driven. It has also made me deeply appreciated for education and the opportunities it gives. I want to succeed not just for me, but for my mom whose sacrificed so much to give me a chance at a better future. My upbringing taught me responsibility and perseverance, but my realization taught me balance--understanding that strength includes vulnerability. Today, I carry all these lessons with me as I get higher education. I'm proud of where I came from and the person I've become. My story isn't defined by absence or hardship, but by growth, self-discovery, and the determination to make a future that shows everything I've learned along the way.