How fast we went from you have cancer to I am sorry, there is nothing more we can do! This was my life for a year and a half when my mother, Marilyn, was diagnosed with Pancreatic cancer. After losing my dad at 25 to a failed transplant at 27, I learned my mom had cancer, and she passed away a year later. Not to say she didn't fight because she fought harder than anyone I know to survive to make it to the next graduation, the next day, week after week, for our family. But somehow it still wasn't enough. We went from a two-parent household to a one-parent household, and with that one income to no income because cancer is evil. What I learned from all of this is that life is short and every day is a gift, so we should treat it as such because one day here is another day gone. I have learned to celebrate myself for every small win and to celebrate and cherish every person in my life, no matter how small, for everything they offer and everything they bring to the table, because I want them to celebrate me the same way. I have also learned that I have to stop waiting for the perfect moment to do things. There is no perfect moment for school, for marriage, for kids; things may be hard for a time for certain things. But they are so worth it in the end. The ones we love and have lost would want nothing more than to see us continue to be happy and keep reaching for our dreams, so why should I not live my life as such? My mom even when she was at her lowest, still showed up for everyone and every event like nothing had changed. She showed up so much that now her presence is felt even in her absence because she made herself known in every space and always taught me to make space for others but always make space for myself as well. So now in her remembrance, I want to open up a ministry for special needs individuals to make space for them the way my mom made space for every person in her life. I want to open a school and teach basic skills so that people have jobs skills in case school does not work out the same way my mother did.

My name is Karla Fletcher, and I am living with a rare, incurable brain disease called Moya Moya Disease. Moya Moya Disease is 1 in 100,000 people; less than 1 percent of people living in the United States are diagnosed with this disease. Moya Moya Disease is an ongoing battle. Between TIA's, actual strokes, and epilepsy/ seizures. I have had to put my education on hold a few times just because, cognitively, I could not finish during an episode. But still I keep trying to push through and finish because I know I have a higher calling telling me that people will need what I am trying to provide to this world. I am trying to establish a ministry where all those with disabilities are seen, loved, and heard. Where all are welcome, no matter what obstacles they face. But to do this, I have to first finish by keeping believing in myself. Studying even when I feel I can not keep going, and seeking out services to help me overcome how I feel in the moment. Schools and churches need more teachers and mentors who are coming to help but understand how those with a disability feel when they are not fully accepted in a room. I have attempted to finish my degree three different times and have never let anything stop me from going after my dreams, even with many stops and starts. I know the sky is the limit and I have not reached the stars yet, so I must keep going. As I stated, I have had many stops and starts to school because of my illness, and while I will not allow that to crash my dreams. I have quickly almost run out of funds for my degree, which is about 70 percent finished. Receiving this scholarship would be a blessing because it would allow me to achieve my dreams of finishing school despite my disabilities and short comings it did not beat me like many said it would. I can prove to myself that I can truly overcome whatever is set in front of me. I want to finish school and return and go to grad school so I can show others it can 100 percent be done as long as we set our minds to it, nothing can stand in our way. I know it doesn't seem like much, but for me, it would mean the world to finish school

As someone who already struggled with a learning disability and epilepsy, I was not prepared to have to deal with a physical disability on top of it all. But after tearing my bicep muscle in my left arm at work. I was never the same. I went from being an early childhood educator to being a stay-at-home aunt. For the past two years, I have struggled to get basic things like laundry, food shopping, and even washing up or getting dressed alone. Some days, I have wanted to quit and just throw the towel in because it was too hard to ask for help from others. I was even looked down upon by others with whom I used to be friends. I learned firsthand how truly cruel this world can be. always believed that there was good in the world, that people much like me were all kind-hearted and would give their last or offer to help someone else in need. How wrong I was. I did find a small community where I fit in and have made some great friends, which has given me hope for the world that good does still exist. Before being a part of the community, I thought that much like my own small community for those with epilepsy, others were willing to build and support. But as I learn about different disabilities, we are faced with different attitudes and views. I am learning that, for me at least, this does not matter. I want to build a community that accepts all and welcomes all. One that provides services so that people do not have to feel like they are doing everything on their own, or that they do not deserve basic human rights and basic needs to be taken care of. Even though my experience may not have been positive, I want to change that for the next person. I want to find a way to mainstream what is needed and find ways to get it into their hands. Because I want people to understand that no disability, no sickness, nothing in life has to stand in your way if you do not allow it to do so. Keep going no matter what it costs to do so. Keep smiling, keep laughing, better days are coming as long as we keep our heads up and keep offering to help others when they need it because we never know when we ourselves may need that same kind of help

My name is Karla Fletcher I am 35 years old and heading back to college after a few set backs. I have never had an easy life between multiple health issues and my divorce I have always gotten the short end of the stick so to speak. Life has tried to beat me down but I have always gotten back up again and again. Because I know someone out there needs someone like me. But if I was awarded this scholarship I would use it to give back to my community. As someone with a disability I understand how it feels to be left out and how it feels to feel like you don't fit in no matter where you are. I want to change this by opening up a church for those who have special or additional needs. I want every one to know the love of Jesus like I know the love of Jesus and to do this they need a space to be theiraelves and to be able to worship without judgement. I want to help young moms and children find jobs and educate them on how to advocate for their selves when their needs are not being met. I want to provide a space for aftercare and after school activities where kids can just be their selves and not be afraid childhood is such a beautiful thing but many do not get a childhood because of bullying. This place would change that it would promote love above all and wins all. It would promote others to make space for people who are different and even try to make friends with them because everyone in life is just that different and that is never a bad thing. If I was awarded this scholarship I would use it to finish school so I can show others that disabilities only stop you when you allow them to. I would use this scholarship to help me learn how to keep providing to others on may levels. This scholarship isn't just money it goes far beyond that. This scholarship is a voice it's an advocate it's a friend and it's freedom. Won't you help me make these dreams of mine and the future come true? Won't you help me build something so much bigger than just you or I. Help me give these voice less children and people a voice again.

One of my favorite lines from my favorite gospel song. States where you go I'll go and where you lead, I shall follow. This is what I want to make come to life. A place where people can lead, follow and belong without judgement. I plan to make a positive impact on the world by living transparently, serving intentionally, and building spaces where people feel seen, heard, and valued. My life has not followed a straight or easy path. I have faced adversity, loss, and moments where giving up felt easier than pressing forward. Those experiences did not break me; they refined me. Because I know what it feels like to struggle in silence, I am committed to being a voice for people who feel overlooked. Whether through mentorship, community involvement, or simply showing up consistently for others, I want my presence to communicate one message clearly: you matter. Faith is central to how I approach impact. I believe in leading with compassion, integrity, and accountability. Positive change is not created through grand gestures alone; it is built through daily discipline, honest conversations, and courageous decisions. I strive to model resilience and personal growth so that others can see what is possible when you refuse to let your circumstances define your future. Education and empowerment are also pillars of my mission. I plan to continue investing in my own development so that I can pour into others from a place of strength and knowledge. Whether advocating for individuals with learning differences, supporting those overcoming addiction, or encouraging women and families to pursue healthier lifestyles, I want to translate my lived experience into practical guidance and hope. On a broader scale, I aim to build initiatives that combine advocacy, wellness, and faith-based encouragement. Impact, to me, is not about recognition; it is about replication. If one person finds the courage to seek help, pursue education, repair a relationship, or deepen their faith because they saw me do it first, that ripple effect extends far beyond anything I could accomplish alone. Ultimately, I plan to make a positive impact by being consistent. By choosing growth over bitterness, service over self-interest, and faith over fear, I contribute to a culture of resilience. The world changes when individuals decide to change themselves and then use that transformation to uplift others. That is the work I am committed to doing—every day, in every space I enter.

Something I want to build is a life and ministry that creates safe spaces for people who feel unseen, overlooked, or written off because of their past, their diagnosis, or their mistakes. I do not want to simply build a career. I want to build a foundation—spiritually, emotionally, and professionally—that allows me to serve others from a place of lived experience and integrity. My future is centered on completing my degree in Christian ministries and equipping myself with both theological depth and practical skills. Education, for me, is not just a credential; it is preparation. I want to build competence alongside compassion. Having faced learning challenges and a later-in-life medical diagnosis, I understand what it feels like to question your capacity. Building my education is part of rewriting that narrative—not only for myself but for others who struggle with self-doubt. Beyond academics, I want to build a mentorship network for women navigating grief, addiction recovery, health challenges, and faith transitions. Too often, people suffer in isolation. I envision structured small groups, community outreach initiatives, and online spaces where vulnerability is met with wisdom rather than judgment. I want to build environments where people can wrestle with hard questions about God, loss, and identity without fear of being dismissed. On a personal level, I am also building emotional resilience and spiritual discipline. That means daily habits—prayer, study, accountability, and continued healing. A future built on unaddressed pain eventually fractures. I am committed to building mine intentionally, brick by brick, so that I lead from wholeness rather than unresolved wounds. The impact of this kind of future extends beyond me. When someone who has survived hardship chooses to build rather than become bitter, it shifts the atmosphere of a community. I want to model perseverance that is honest about struggle but anchored in hope. I want young women, especially those from unstable or painful backgrounds, to see that adversity does not disqualify them from purpose. If I build this well, the ripple effect will be generational. Stronger families. Healthier faith communities. Individuals who understand that their story is not something to hide but something that can serve others. My goal is not platform or recognition. It is legacy—building something that outlives me and strengthens the people God places in my path

At twenty-five, I watched my father battle diabetes, kidney disease, and the gradual loss of his eyesight. I saw a strong man slowly become dependent on others. The day he passed, I did not just lose my dad—I lost the sense of security that comes from knowing a parent is still in the world. Three years later, at twenty-eight, I lost my mother to pancreatic cancer. Losing one parent was devastating. Losing both before I turned thirty reshaped the foundation of my life. Grief is not a single emotion; it is layered. With my father, I grieved the long decline. I grieved watching his body betray him. I grieved conversations we would never have. With my mother, the grief felt abrupt and cruel. Pancreatic cancer moved quickly. There was very little time to prepare emotionally for the finality of it. When she passed, I felt untethered. Suddenly, I was navigating adulthood without the two people who had known me since birth. Their deaths forced me to mature in ways I was not prepared for. There is something sobering about realizing you are now part of the older generation in your family. It shifts your perspective. I began to understand that life is fragile and time is not guaranteed. Losing my parents has deeply influenced my goals. I no longer pursue things that look impressive but lack meaning. Instead, I am intentional about building a life rooted in faith, service, and purpose. Their illnesses also gave me compassion for those who are caregiving or walking through medical crises. I know what it feels like to sit in hospital rooms, to wait for test results, to brace yourself for bad news. Because of that, I feel called to be present for others in their hardest moments. I do not offer shallow encouragement; I offer understanding. This loss also reshaped my outlook on faith. Watching both of my parents suffer tested what I believed about God. There were moments when I questioned why healing did not come. But over time, my faith matured. I learned that faith is not about controlling outcomes; it is about trusting God’s presence even when outcomes are painful. That shift has grounded me. I no longer measure God’s goodness by whether life is easy. I measure it by His sustaining grace in the middle of hardship. On a practical level, I live differently because of this loss. I say “I love you” more often. I do not postpone reconciliation. I try to be fully present in conversations. I understand now that ordinary days are not ordinary at all—they are limited. Grief has made me more intentional and more empathetic. It has softened me in some ways and strengthened me in others. That realization fuels my determination in pursuing my education, my calling, and my personal growth. Their lives—and even their suffering—have become part of my motivation. I want to live in a way that honors the sacrifices they made and the love they gave me. Significant loss has a way of redefining a person. It has taught me that strength is often quiet, that faith can coexist with sorrow, and that purpose is often born from pain. I am not who I was before my parents died. I carry more depth, more awareness, and a clearer understanding of what truly matters. While I would never have chosen this loss, it has shaped me into someone more compassionate, more intentional, and more anchored in faith than I ever would have been otherwise

One of the hardest seasons of my life was the period when I felt forgotten, unseen, and spiritually exhausted. I often share about perseverance, faith, loss, and overcoming adversity, but there was a time when those posts were not encouragement for others—they were survival for me. My faith was not something decorative or performative. It was the only thing holding me together. I grew up in circumstances that could have easily defined my future. I faced instability, emotional neglect, and the quiet pain of struggling with a learning disability that often made me feel less than everyone else. I learned early how to smile in public while feeling invisible at home. As I got older, life did not slow down. I experienced deep personal loss—watching my father battle illness until his body could not fight anymore, and later losing my mother to cancer. Grief layered itself on top of childhood wounds. There was a specific night I remember vividly. I was sitting alone, overwhelmed by grief, health concerns, financial stress, and the fear that maybe I was simply not strong enough for the life I had been given. I questioned everything—my calling, my purpose, even my worth. It was not a dramatic moment with lightning and thunder. It was quiet. And in that quiet, I had a decision to make: collapse under the weight of it all, or cling to the faith I had been proclaiming for years. Faith, for me, has never meant pretending everything is fine. It has meant bringing my brokenness directly to God. That night, I prayed honestly—not polished, not poetic. I told Him I was tired. I told Him I did not understand why loss seemed to follow me. I told Him I was afraid of what my diagnosis meant for my future. And in that vulnerable surrender, something shifted. My circumstances did not change overnight. The grief did not disappear. My health did not instantly improve. But my perspective began to transform. I started to rely on scripture not as inspirational quotes, but as daily sustenance. I reminded myself that endurance produces character, and character produces hope. I leaned into community instead of isolating. I began to share my struggles openly, not for sympathy, but to testify that faith is not the absence of hardship—it is persistence through it. The same platform where I once shared victories became a place where I shared healing in progress. My faith taught me discipline in the midst of chaos. When anxiety tried to consume me, I responded with prayer. When self-doubt whispered that my learning disability made me incapable, I reminded myself that God equips those He calls. When grief resurfaced, I allowed myself to mourn but refused to let sorrow define my identity. I began to see that every obstacle I faced was shaping resilience in me. Faith helped me rebuild that belief. It reframed my narrative from “Why is this happening to me?” to “How can this be used for purpose?” That shift was transformative. Today, when I post about faith, perseverance, or trusting God in hard seasons, it comes from lived experience. I know what it feels like to sit in uncertainty. I know what it feels like to grieve deeply. I know what it feels like to question your own strength. And I also know what it feels like to stand back up because your faith refuses to let you stay down. Relying on my faith did not remove the obstacle. It strengthened me to walk through it. And that, more than anything, is what continues to sustain me.

I was born already fighting a battle I did not choose. From the very beginning, my life statistics were not in my favor. Doctors were unsure what long-term effects I might face. Developmentally, I struggled. Academically, I fell behind. Emotionally, I learned early what instability feels like. Growing up, my learning disability shaped much of my childhood experience. While other children were praised for reading aloud or finishing assignments quickly, I was the one asked to “try harder.” I processed information differently. It took me longer to grasp concepts, longer to organize my thoughts, and longer to find confidence in my voice. Instead of support, I often felt overlooked. At home, the message was subtle but clear: I was difficult. I was too slow. Too distracted. Too much. Because of my learning disability, I was frequently ignored rather than understood. No one advocated for evaluations, accommodations, or resources. I learned to survive by staying quiet. I internalized the belief that something was wrong with me. But even in those early years, I made a decision—though I didn’t have the words for it yet. I refused to let my beginning define my ending. School became both my battleground and my proving ground. I struggled, yes—but I persisted. I sought out teachers who would explain things twice. I rewrote notes. I stayed up later than I should have. I learned resilience before I learned algebra. I developed empathy before I mastered grammar. Every small academic victory felt monumental because I knew how hard I had worked for it. At 34 years old, just when I thought I finally understood my story, I received another life-altering diagnosis: Neurofibromatosis Type 1 (NF1). Hearing the words “genetic disorder” shifted everything. Suddenly, pieces of my life made sense—the medical symptoms, the physical signs, the neurological struggles. The learning challenges I had battled for years were not moral failures or laziness. They were connected to something real. The diagnosis was both devastating and liberating. Devastating because NF1 carries uncertainty—medical monitoring, potential complications, lifelong management. Liberating because it validated my experience. I was not broken. I was navigating a condition that had gone unrecognized for decades. Receiving my NF1 diagnosis in adulthood did not discourage me from pursuing higher education; it strengthened my resolve. I now understand that education is not just a personal goal—it is an act of defiance against every statistic stacked against me. I am pursuing higher education because I believe in transforming pain into purpose. I want to use my lived experience to advocate for others with learning disabilities, chronic illnesses, and invisible conditions who feel unseen. My background has shaped me into a resilient, empathetic, and determined candidate. I know what it feels like to be underestimated. I know what it means to fight for accommodations and to navigate systems that were not built with people like me in mind. I do not take opportunity lightly because I know how fragile it can be. This scholarship would not simply fund my education; it would invest in someone who understands perseverance on a cellular level. From prenatal drug exposure to academic struggles to an adult NF1 diagnosis, I am still here. Still striving. Still believing that my story has purpose. I am not defined by addiction, by a learning disability, or by NF1. I am defined by resilience, growth, and an unwavering commitment to rise beyond my circumstances. Higher education is not just my dream—it is my declaration that cycles can be broken, limitations can be challenged, and even the most fragile beginnings can lead to powerful futures.

I lost my father when I was 25 years old, but in many ways, I began grieving him long before he passed. I watched diabetes slowly take pieces of him — his strength, his independence, his vision. Kidney disease weakened his body, and near blindness dimmed the world around him. It is a painful thing to watch someone you love fight a battle they cannot win. I learned early what chronic illness does not only to a body, but to a family. I saw courage in hospital rooms. I saw frustration in limitations. I saw how dignity matters when health is fading. Losing him forced me to confront mortality at an age when most people still feel invincible. Just three years later, at 28, I lost my mother to pancreatic cancer. Her diagnosis felt sudden, aggressive, and merciless. Pancreatic cancer does not give you much time to prepare your heart. It moves quickly. Watching her decline was a different kind of heartbreak — one filled with urgency, helplessness, and prayers whispered through tears. Losing both of my parents before 30 changed the trajectory of my adulthood. There is a loneliness in becoming an orphan while you are still young enough to need guidance. Holidays shift. Milestones feel heavier. The safety net you assumed would always exist is suddenly gone. Those losses reshaped me. They forced me to grow up emotionally and spiritually in ways I might not have otherwise. Grief stripped away superficial concerns and clarified what truly matters — faith, family, purpose, and legacy. I became more aware of time. I stopped assuming I had endless tomorrows. I started asking deeper questions about what I wanted my life to stand for. Now, I sit beside my last living grandparent — my grandmother — a woman who embodies faith in its purest form. She is my living example of a God-fearing, steadfast, praying woman. Watching her on hospice, knowing the call could come at any time, feels like standing on the edge of another goodbye. Anticipatory grief is its own kind of ache. You find yourself memorizing small details — her voice, her hands, the way she prays — because you know they are sacred and finite. Yet even in this season, I see how loss has strengthened me rather than destroyed me. Losing my parents deepened my empathy. It strengthened my faith because I had to decide whether I would turn away from God in anger or cling to Him in confusion. I chose to cling. Their suffering taught me compassion for families navigating illness. It shaped my desire to serve others who feel overwhelmed by hospital visits, medical jargon, and impending loss. It also made me more intentional about honoring legacy — about living in a way that would make them proud. Grief has been a harsh teacher, but it has also been refining. It taught me resilience. It taught me that faith is not proven when life is easy; it is proven when you are waiting for the phone to ring and still choosing to trust God anyway. It taught me that love does not end when a life does. Losing my father and mother far too soon changed me forever. Sitting with my grandmother in her final chapter is changing me again. But through every goodbye, I carry forward what they gave me — strength, endurance, and faith. And that inheritance can never be taken away.

My journey with faith and sobriety has not been abstract or symbolic. It has been necessary for survival. There was a time when alcohol blurred the pain, but it also blurred my calling. After experiencing a grand mal seizure, I could no longer ignore the reality that my life required stewardship. That moment forced me to confront the direction I was heading and decide whether I would continue coping in destructive ways or step fully into healing. I chose healing. My faith became the foundation of that decision. I realized that transformation is not simply about behavior modification; it is about heart change. Sobriety required discipline, but faith gave that discipline meaning. I had to learn to surrender control, to trust God with my fears about my health, and to believe that my past mistakes did not disqualify me from a purposeful future. Change, for me, began with repentance, honesty, and accountability. It meant removing environments and relationships that enabled unhealthy patterns. It meant seeking support instead of isolating. It meant choosing prayer over impulse and long-term peace over temporary escape. The steps I have taken thus far have been intentional and consistent. I committed to sobriety not just privately but openly, allowing others to hold me accountable. I invested in my spiritual growth through studying Scripture, participating in faith-based community, and pursuing education in Christian ministries. I began to use my testimony instead of hiding it. Speaking about overcoming addiction and managing chronic illness has allowed me to reclaim my narrative. Rather than being defined by my lowest moments, I now use them as evidence of resilience and grace. In practical terms, I have worked to align my daily habits with the future I envision. That includes prioritizing my health, maintaining medical compliance for my neurological condition, building structured routines, and engaging in service opportunities that reflect my calling. Teaching ESL strengthened my sense of responsibility and reminded me that leadership requires stability. Sobriety has sharpened my focus. Faith has clarified my direction. Together, they have restored my confidence that my life has purpose beyond my past. Financial barriers often slow progress for individuals who are already rebuilding. By reducing that burden, this scholarship would allow me to concentrate more fully on my education, ministry preparation, and community initiatives. It would provide space to deepen my theological training and expand outreach efforts without the constant pressure of financial insecurity. More importantly, it would affirm that transformation is worthy of investment—that redemption stories deserve support. Paying it forward is not optional for me; it is essential. Sobriety taught me that no one heals alone. Faith taught me that blessings carry responsibility. I plan to mentor individuals who are navigating addiction recovery, particularly within minority communities where stigma often silences struggle. I want to create safe spaces within churches where conversations about substance abuse, mental health, and chronic illness are not avoided but addressed with compassion and truth. I also intend to support others pursuing education who may feel disqualified by their past. Whether through tutoring, ministry, or community programming, I will invest in people who need someone to believe in them. Making a change in my life was not about image; it was about obedience and survival. Faith gave me hope. Sobriety gave me clarity. Together, they gave me a future. This scholarship would help strengthen that future, and I am committed to ensuring that the opportunities I receive multiply into opportunities for others.

I’m a fan of Wicked because it challenges the way we define good and evil, strength and weakness, acceptance and rejection. It is more than a musical; it is a reexamination of identity, power, and the cost of standing firm in your convictions. At its core, Wicked tells the story of someone who is labeled before she is understood. That alone makes it deeply compelling. Elphaba’s journey resonates because she represents anyone who has ever been misunderstood, judged for being different, or pushed to the margins. From the beginning, she is treated as “other.” Her green skin becomes a symbol of exclusion, prejudice, and societal discomfort with what does not conform. Yet what makes her powerful is not that she overcomes by changing who she is, but that she refuses to. She grows into her strength without surrendering her integrity. That kind of moral courage is rare and inspiring. What makes Wicked especially meaningful is how it exposes systemic manipulation. The Wizard is not a cartoon villain; he represents authority figures and institutions that distort truth to maintain control. Fear becomes a political tool. Narratives are crafted to protect power rather than serve justice. Elphaba’s resistance is not rebellion for rebellion’s sake—it is a refusal to participate in injustice. That theme feels timeless and relevant. It reminds audiences that sometimes doing what is right requires standing alone, even when it costs you everything. The relationship between Elphaba and Glinda adds emotional depth to the story. Their friendship is not simplistic. It is layered, complex, and honest. They begin as opposites—one misunderstood and intense, the other polished and socially admired. Yet they grow to see and respect each other beyond surface differences. Their bond illustrates how two people can genuinely love one another and still choose different paths. That tension makes the story human. It acknowledges that growth sometimes leads people in separate directions, but that does not diminish the impact they have on each other. The music elevates these themes in a powerful way. “Defying Gravity” is more than a dramatic moment; it is an anthem of self-definition. It captures that turning point when someone decides they will no longer live under imposed limitations. The lyrics speak to autonomy, courage, and the refusal to be defined by others’ expectations. It is the sound of someone stepping fully into their calling, regardless of the consequences. Then there is “For Good,” which reflects on how relationships permanently shape us. It is a reminder that even when seasons end, the influence of meaningful connections remains. Ultimately, Wicked endures because it speaks to identity and integrity. It asks difficult questions about who gets to decide what is “wicked” and what is “good.” It invites viewers to reconsider their assumptions and examine how easily society labels those who challenge the status quo. The story affirms that strength does not always look conventional and that sometimes the bravest choice is to remain true to yourself when acceptance would require compromise. That is why I am a fan of Wicked. It is bold, thought-provoking, and emotionally honest. It celebrates resilience in the face of rejection and integrity in the presence of power. It reminds us that being misunderstood does not mean being wrong—and that sometimes, the ones called “wicked” are simply the ones brave enough to defy gravity.

The legacy of Sgt. Albert Dono Ware is one rooted in service beyond self, sacrifice in the face of adversity, and unwavering bravery when circumstances demand courage. Those values are not abstract ideals to me; they are principles that have shaped my personal journey in profound and practical ways. Living with Moya Moya disease has forced me to confront fragility, uncertainty, and the limits of my own strength. Yet, it has also refined my sense of purpose. In many ways, my health journey has been a battlefield of its own—one that has required service to others even while navigating my own vulnerability, sacrifice of comfort, and bravery in the face of daily risk. Moya Moya is not simply a diagnosis; it is a chronic neurological condition that narrows the arteries in the brain, increasing the risk of strokes and seizures. Every headache carries weight. Every episode of dizziness is not easily dismissed. The experience of having a grand mal seizure shifts your understanding of time, independence, and control. Living with this disease requires vigilance, discipline, and faith. It requires bravery to plan for the future when the future can feel medically uncertain. It requires sacrifice to adjust expectations, career pacing, and even social rhythms to preserve health. Yet through this hardship, I have developed a deeper empathy for others who live with invisible disabilities—those who must advocate for themselves in systems not designed with them in mind. Service, for me, is no longer theoretical. It is embodied. It is choosing to mentor, to teach, and to speak even when fatigue sets in. It is advocating for minorities and individuals with disabilities who are often underrepresented in educational, faith-based, and policy-making spaces. I understand how access to education changes trajectories. I also understand how systemic barriers disproportionately impact the African diaspora in the United States—especially when layered with disability, chronic illness, or socioeconomic disadvantage. The African diaspora in the U.S. continues to face persistent inequities in healthcare access, educational opportunity, economic mobility, and community investment. For individuals living with rare conditions like Moya Moya, disparities in diagnostic timing, specialist availability, and culturally competent care can be life-altering. These realities demand not only awareness but structural reform. My vision is not limited to individual success; it is community-centered. I plan to build a community hub that integrates three foundational institutions: a school, a church, and a resource center specifically designed to uplift minorities and individuals with disabilities. The school component would prioritize inclusive education. This means specialized support services, trauma-informed teaching practices, culturally responsive curricula, and adaptive learning plans for students with neurological or physical disabilities. Too often, minority students with medical complexities are mislabeled as behavioral problems or academically deficient when, in reality, they lack adequate accommodation. An inclusive school would employ trained special education professionals, mental health counselors, and healthcare liaisons to bridge communication between families and providers. It would foster excellence without ignoring individual limitations. The church component would serve as both a spiritual anchor and a community advocacy platform. Faith communities have historically been central organizing spaces. However, churches must evolve to address modern challenges—mental health stigma, chronic illness support, disability accessibility, and social justice advocacy. A church rooted in service and bravery, caregiver support groups, and advocate for policy reform. It would preach hope while also mobilizing action. The broader community center would function as a resource and empowerment hub. It would offer tutoring programs, health literacy workshops, mentorship for youth, and entrepreneurship training. It would host forums where policymakers, healthcare providers, and educators engage directly with community members. It would create space for those who often feel invisible to be heard. In terms of policy reform, several areas are critical. First, healthcare equity must be prioritized. This includes increased funding for rare disease research, expanded Medicaid coverage, and mandates for culturally competent care training among providers. Early screening initiatives in underserved communities could dramatically improve outcomes for neurological conditions. Second, educational reform must ensure robust funding for special education services in minority-dense districts. The Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) requires stronger enforcement and adequate federal funding to prevent states from shifting financial burdens onto families. Schools should receive incentives to implement inclusive curriculum models that celebrate African history while accommodating diverse learning needs. Third, community investment policies should support faith-based and grassroots organizations that provide direct services. Public-private partnerships could fund community centers that integrate education, health advocacy, and vocational training. Tax incentives for businesses that hire individuals with disabilities would also address employment disparities. Driving this change requires collaboration among key stakeholders. Policymakers at local, state, and federal levels must commit to sustained funding and accountability. Healthcare institutions must partner with community organizations to conduct outreach and education. School boards and educational administrators must prioritize inclusive hiring and training practices. Faith leaders must be willing to expand their mission beyond traditional programming to include advocacy and accessibility. Additionally, individuals living with disabilities must be centered in decision-making processes—not merely consulted, but empowered as leaders. Bravery, as exemplified by Sgt. Ware, is not limited to combat zones. It is found in hospital rooms, in classrooms, and in community meetings where difficult truths are spoken. Sacrifice is seen in long nights of study, in balancing health management with service commitments, and in choosing to build institutions that may not yield immediate financial return but create generational impact. Service is reflected in mentoring a child who struggles, in advocating for policy reform, and in refusing to allow chronic illness to silence one’s calling. Living with Moya Moya has taught me that life is both fragile and purposeful. It has clarified that voices matter especially the voices of minorities and individuals with disabilities who navigate layered marginalization. My journey is not defined by limitation but by intentional resilience. I seek to institutionalize the values of service, sacrifice, and bravery into structures that outlast me. Individuals with disabilities deserve dignity, accessibility, and opportunity. Communities deserve leaders who understand adversity not as a deterrent but as preparation.

Recovery, to me, means surrender, strength, and surrender again. It is not simply the absence of alcohol; it is the daily decision to choose life after it almost slipped away. After experiencing a grand mal seizure, everything changed. A seizure strips you of control in a matter of seconds. It exposes the fragility of the body and the seriousness of the path you are on. For me, that moment was a wake-up call I could not ignore. Recovery became more than quitting drinking. It became rebuilding. It meant facing the reasons I drank in the first place—stress, hurt, avoidance—and replacing them with faith, accountability, and discipline. It meant understanding that alcohol was not a coping mechanism but a slow destruction. A grand mal seizure was not just a medical event; it was a warning. My body was telling me what my spirit had been whispering for years: this is not the life you are meant to live. In the spirit of verses like 2 Timothy 1:7, which reminds us that we are given power, love, and a sound mind, recovery is reclaiming clarity. It is choosing obedience over impulse. It is accepting grace while also taking responsibility. Recovery is not linear. Some days are heavy. Some memories are humbling. But every sober day is proof of transformation. Recovery means freedom—freedom to think clearly, worship wholeheartedly, and live purposefully. It is the testimony that what once tried to destroy me is now the very thing that strengthened my faith.

Life has never followed a predictable or effortless path for me. I was born prematurely, entering the world with fragile odds and very little expectation of survival. From the very beginning, my life has been a testimony to resilience, perseverance, and purpose. That early struggle did not weaken me—it shaped me. It instilled within me a deep conviction that every life, no matter how small or uncertain it may seem, carries immeasurable value. From my first day of school through my graduation from high school, I embraced a personal mission: to be a voice for those who felt unheard. I advocated for classmates who struggled to express themselves, ensuring their opinions were acknowledged and their presence respected within the school community. I understood—even at a young age—that inclusion is not a privilege; it is a right. As an adult, that calling matured into a profession. I have worked extensively in special education classrooms and as an early childhood educator, serving children who were often labeled “difficult,” “too much,” or even “a waste of space.” Many of my students were nonverbal or faced significant developmental challenges. Where others saw limitations, I saw potential. Where others considered giving up, I leaned in with patience, structure, and belief. Because of consistent support and individualized attention, many of these children achieved milestones others once thought impossible. Students learned to communicate, to feed themselves independently, and to become potty trained—victories that may seem small to some but represent life-changing breakthroughs for families. These moments reaffirmed what I have always believed: every child deserves someone who refuses to give up on them. My long-term vision is to establish a school and church specifically designed to serve individuals with special needs—a safe and nurturing environment where they are not merely accommodated but celebrated. I want to create a community where they feel welcomed, valued, and empowered in ways that are often absent in traditional settings. Every child deserves the opportunity to dream, to grow, and to contribute meaningfully. With the right support system—adults who genuinely care and model compassion—children can discover their voice and use it to make a positive impact. Ultimately, I hope to build a sustainable, family-centered community where these same individuals can one day serve and mentor others, creating a cycle of empowerment, dignity, and belonging for generations to come. Dreaming big and planning for something bigger for all future students who are told no.

Currently, as I am home-bound I am looking into any and every way to give back to the youth. I am a youth mentor for two high school groups helping those who have an incarcerated parent, come from a single-parent home, or those who are in a minority group for those who would otherwise not go to college. I help these people pick classes and give them advice on furthering their education or other options to make ends meet. I believe students who have a positive role model in their lives will become adults who will do the same for someone else. When I finish school I want to open up a church for those who have special needs and give mentoring services there as well. In my own neighborhood, I have seen firsthand that many places do not offer a space for individuals who have special needs, and as someone who believes Christ is for everyone I want to change this. I want everyone to feel like they have a place to belong and a place to feel like they have a say and that they are safe. I believe that the world has changed in many ways. Some people are still stuck in their ways and their beliefs that people with a disability do not make a difference and that they take up space. I want to make space for those people. As someone with a disability themselves who was always told they would never amount to much I want others not to feel the same way. I want others to feel they can do whatever they set their minds to. I want the future to look bright for every individual not just those who are academically successful or play sports. The work looks different for everyone so the help should also look different for each person. I feel that if I can finish school I can do just that and start programs in my community in schools and churches that do just that. I hope that what I start can then become a model for other places to do the same and start those programs as well. Just like those individuals I just need a chance and for someone to listen and believe in what I want to accomplish. This impact could be amazingly huge and support many generations to come. Let's build a brighter future for all.

Something that I have always been passionate about is helping individuals with learning disabilities or special needs feel seen, valued, and accepted for who they are. This passion has grown over time through what I have observed in my own life and in my community. I have noticed that many of these individuals often have very few places where they can truly be themselves without feeling judged, misunderstood, or left out. Whether it is in churches, schools, or social settings, there can be unspoken barriers that make it difficult for them to feel fully included. These experiences have deeply shaped my desire to make a difference. Many environments are designed with a general population in mind, and while they may not intend to exclude anyone, they sometimes fail to create a space where people with different learning styles, behaviors, or needs can feel comfortable. As a result, individuals with special needs may feel like they have to hide parts of who they are just to fit in. This can lead to isolation, low confidence, and the feeling that they do not belong. Seeing this has opened my eyes to how important it is to create safe and welcoming spaces where people are free to express themselves without fear. I believe that everyone deserves a place where they can laugh, learn, worship, and socialize while being accepted just as they are. No one should feel like they have to change who they are to be included. This belief has inspired me to work toward becoming someone who can help open doors for others. I want to help create environments, especially in churches and social groups, where individuals with learning disabilities and special needs are not only welcomed but celebrated. My goal is to help build communities that are patient, understanding, and supportive. This means encouraging people to learn more about inclusion, creating programs that meet different needs, and making sure that everyone has a chance to participate. Even small changes can make a big difference in helping someone feel comfortable and valued. In the future, I hope to play a role in opening and shaping spaces where individuals with special needs can truly be themselves. I want them to know they are important, capable, and worthy of belonging. Helping create these opportunities is not just something I care about—it is something I feel called to do. This is my God given gift.

A time that truly challenged me and led to personal growth was when I had to continue moving forward during a season in my life that felt uncertain and overwhelming. I found myself carrying responsibilities while also dealing with stress that seemed constant and draining. There were moments when I felt stuck, tired, and unsure of how I was going to keep up with everything in front of me. At first, I handled it by pushing through and ignoring how heavy it all felt. Over time, though, I realized that simply surviving each day wasn’t helping me grow. I had to learn how to slow down, prioritize what truly mattered, and give myself permission to ask for help. That was difficult for me because I was used to handling things on my own. Letting go of the idea that I had to be strong all the time was one of the hardest parts of the experience. Through that challenge, I learned patience and resilience. I began to understand that growth doesn’t always happen in big, obvious moments. Sometimes it happens quietly, in the way you keep going when things feel heavy, or in the way you learn. Looking back, I can see that the difficult season changed me for the better. It taught me that strength isn’t about never struggling; it’s about learning how to keep going, how to adapt, and how to grow from what you face. That experience helped me become more confident, more understanding of others, and more grounded in who I am. As time went on, I started to see small changes in myself that I might not have noticed before. I became more mindful of how I responded to difficult situations. I also learned how important it is to focus on progress instead of perfection. Some days, success simply meant getting through the day and trying again tomorrow. Learning to celebrate small wins helped me stay motivated and reminded me that growth happens step by step. The challenge also strengthened my sense of gratitude. In the middle of stress, it’s easy to focus on everything that feels wrong or overwhelming. But I began to notice the small moments that brought comfort — a kind word from someone, a quiet moment to breathe, or the simple feeling of making it through another day. These moments reminded me that even during hard times, there is still good to hold onto. Through it all, I became more resilient than I realized I could be. I learned that I am capable of adapting, learning, and continuing forward even when things feel uncertain. I discovered strength in staying consistent, even when progress felt slow. That experience helped shape the way I approach challenges now. Instead of fearing them, I see them as opportunities to learn more about myself and what I am capable of handling. Today, when I look back on that period of my life, I no longer see it only as a difficult time. I see it as a turning point. It taught me how to be stronger, more patient, and more understanding, not just with others but with myself. It showed me that growth often comes from the moments that test us the most. In the end, that challenge changed the way I view obstacles. I learned that hard times don’t last forever, but the lessons they teach can stay with you for a lifetime. Because of that experience, I now face the future with more confidence, knowing that no matter what comes my way, I have already proven to myself that I can grow through it.

Going back to school was not a decision that happened overnight. It emerged from a series of small moments, reflections, and quiet realizations that accumulated over time. When I look back at my posts and the things I choose to share, a clear pattern emerges — growth, faith, perseverance, and the desire to become better than I was the day before. Those themes became the foundation for finding the courage to take that step. For a long time, life was about taking care of responsibilities, showing up for others, and simply getting through each day. But somewhere along the way, I started to feel a pull toward something more. My posts often reflect gratitude, reflection, and the importance of not staying stuck. I realized that the same encouragement I shared with others was something I needed to apply to myself as well. If I truly believed in growth, then I had to be willing to grow too. Faith played a large role in giving me the courage to go back. Many of my posts speak about trusting the process and believing that there is purpose in every season. That mindset helped me see school not as something intimidating, but as a new chapter. Instead of focusing on fear or doubt, I focused on the idea that it is never too late to start again and that every step forward matters. Another source of courage came from wanting to set an example. My posts often center around positivity, resilience, and pushing through challenges. I wanted my actions to match the words I shared. Going back to school became a way to show that growth does not stop at a certain age and that it is okay to chase something better for yourself. More than anything, the courage came from a quiet determination. It was the understanding that staying the same would be more uncomfortable than trying something new. I realized I was capable of more, and that realization was powerful. Each post, each reflection, and each moment of gratitude helped build the confidence I needed to take that step. In the end, the courage to go back to school came from within, strengthened by faith, growth, and the belief that becoming better is always worth the effort. Nothing can stop my determination. I am setting out to make a difference in this world for every little girl with a dream and a pen.