College has always felt like a distant promise—something meant for people who spoke the right language, came from the right background, or had parents who’d done it before. I grew up in a low-income household with little understanding of higher education beyond the generic message of “go to college.” There was no map for how to get there, no advice on what to study, and certainly no plan for how to afford it. As a first-generation college student, just getting to this point has meant building a new blueprint from scratch. Layered on top of that is a lifelong struggle with undiagnosed ADHD. I didn’t receive a formal diagnosis until adulthood, after years of silently battling executive dysfunction, sensory overwhelm, and mental exhaustion. For a long time, I blamed myself for not being able to keep up, not realizing I was trying to navigate a system never designed for neurodivergent learners. But with diagnosis came clarity—and now, with support and strategies in place, I’m learning how to work with my brain instead of against it. My ADHD gives me a uniquely interconnected way of thinking and a deep, driving curiosity that fuels everything I do. Today, I’m pursuing a degree in Environmental Science because I believe access—to clean energy, healthy ecosystems, and reliable infrastructure—shouldn’t be a luxury. My long-term goal is to help underserved and rural communities transition to sustainable systems through planning, policy, and community-led design. I want to write grant proposals, coordinate local retrofits, and advocate for environmental equity that meets people where they are. But before I can help build solutions at that level, I need the education and training to match my vision. I’ve chosen American Public University as a practical starting point because it offers the flexibility, affordability, and remote access I need as a stay-at-home mom reentering the academic world. Still, even with careful budgeting and part-time income, funding my degree is a challenge. This scholarship would help me move forward without the constant weight of financial strain. Every dollar brings me closer to completing a class, covering books, or saving for a laptop that can handle GIS and environmental modeling software. It’s not just about reducing debt—it’s about being able to focus on learning, growing, and giving back. In my daily life, I already model environmental responsibility: I compost food waste, maintain a pollinator garden, reduce plastic use, and advocate for sustainability in my community. I’ve donated hundreds of books to Little Free Libraries, stocked local pantry boxes with discounted groceries, and encouraged neighbors to reuse and donate intentionally. I do this not because it’s flashy, but because small acts of care, repeated often, can shift culture. My hope is to turn this grassroots ethic into a formal career. I want to combine my personal experience, systems thinking, and deep care for both people and planet into a vocation that helps others not just survive, but thrive. This scholarship would be a step toward that future—and proof that even without a roadmap, it’s possible to find your way.

Selflessness isn’t always loud. It’s often found in small, consistent actions—the kind done without recognition, but with deep purpose. For me, it looks like using what little I have to make someone else’s day a little easier. I’m a stay-at-home mom turned environmental science student, and our family has always lived on a tight budget. But I believe strongly in doing the most good I can with the resources I have. That mindset has shaped how I care for my community. I regularly shop local thrift stores with one goal in mind: to find quality children’s books to restock the local Little Free Libraries, which are often empty. I seek out BOGO deals and coupon specials to purchase items for the free-use pantries in our area, knowing that food, hygiene items, and even pet supplies can make a meaningful difference in someone’s day. It’s not a big budget—but it is a big priority. These small acts are an extension of the values I live every day. I advocate for ethical donation, sustainable reuse, and circular economies—values that are directly tied to my long-term educational goals. I’m preparing to pursue my degree in Environmental Science at American Public University this fall. My dream is to help underserved communities transition to renewable energy and build resilience against climate instability. I don’t just want to study environmental systems—I want to make them work better for people who are often left out of the conversation. After losing my own mom in 2020, I began thinking more deeply about legacy. What will I leave behind—not in material things, but in impact? How will my children learn what it means to care for others, to live in alignment with their values? That reflection has fueled my decision to return to school, to advocate for sustainability, and to embody service, not just in words, but in daily action. I’ve applied to over two dozen scholarships this month alone—not because I feel entitled, but because I’m committed. I want to show that people like me—first-generation students, caregivers, neurodivergent thinkers—deserve a seat at the table. I believe in community, in showing up for one another, and in building a future where compassion and science go hand in hand. This scholarship would ease the financial strain of my first semester and honor a life lived in service to others. I didn’t know Michael Rudometkin, but from what I’ve read, I think we’d agree: a good life is one rooted in joy, service, and doing the next right thing—even when no one’s watching.

Growing up, I never imagined I’d become the kind of person who talks about soil health at social gatherings — and means it. But over the last few years, my relationship with the environment has shifted from quiet concern to active commitment. After becoming a mother in 2018 and losing my own mom in 2020, I began to reflect deeply on legacy, resilience, and what it means to be a steward of the future. What started as a seed of curiosity has grown into a deep sense of responsibility. This fall, I’ll begin my Environmental Science degree at American Public University, with the long-term goal of helping communities — especially underserved and rural ones — transition to renewable energy and more resilient ecosystems. The urgency of climate degradation demands more than awareness. It calls for action grounded in science, compassion, and long-term planning. I believe one of the most powerful tools we have is access — to education, resources, infrastructure, and opportunity. Sustainability cannot be a luxury. It must become foundational to how communities function, supported by schools, local governments, and integrated planning. I want to help build and support that foundation. My approach to environmental change is rooted in systems thinking. I want to identify where outdated, extractive systems — like energy, food, or transportation — can be redesigned through community partnerships, grant funding, and ecological data. My future career will likely sit at the intersection of planning and policy, where I can coordinate retrofits, write grants, and support long-term implementation of equitable, sustainable infrastructure. This commitment has already taken shape at home and in my neighborhood. I maintain a pollinator garden, compost food waste, reuse greywater, and monitor local wildlife. I’ve created space for native plants, installed bee and bird habitats, and participated in digital reforestation and ocean cleanup initiatives through platforms like Treecard and Ecosia. I model these values for my children and share practical ideas with neighbors. I’ve also joined local freecycle groups to reduce landfill waste, support circular economies, and build community through shared resources. Last October, my community was hit by Hurricane Helene. It was terrifying — not just because of the storm itself, but because it made climate change feel immediate and personal. We lost power, roads were blocked, and supply chains broke down. It became painfully clear how unprepared many in our area were, especially our most vulnerable neighbors. A few months later, a rare winter storm was forecast, and I reached out to a colleague who supports the unsheltered population. She told me they were desperate — handing out coats and blankets as fast as they could get them. I posted in a local group, gathered and washed what we could spare, and within 24 hours, we delivered over 50 items. These back-to-back events made one thing abundantly clear: climate instability isn’t theoretical. It’s happening now, and it hits hardest where support systems are already thin. As I begin my formal education, I hope to deepen my understanding of how environmental science informs public systems — and how grassroots initiatives can scale into meaningful regional solutions. I’m especially interested in how policy, grants, and community coordination can unlock change where it’s needed most. This scholarship would allow me to pursue that mission more fully — not just for my own development, but for the people, ecosystems, and future generations I hope to serve. I’m not just looking to build a career. I’m working to build a future.

I didn’t plan to become a caregiver in my twenties, but life has a way of reshaping even our most carefully drawn maps. My caregiving journey began in subtle ways. I became a mother in 2018, and like many stay-at-home parents, I assumed the full emotional and physical labor of caring for my children. Then, in 2020, my own mother died unexpectedly. She had been my anchor in many ways, and losing her fractured my understanding of support. I grieved while caring for a toddler and a newborn, unable to pause or process fully. There were no sick days, no buffer — just me, holding it all. In the years that followed, caregiving took on deeper meaning. I began supporting a family member through severe mental health challenges, while also navigating my own diagnosis of ADHD and processing the emotional weight of estranged relationships. Simultaneously, I became the point person for medical appointments, therapy schedules, educational advocacy, and emotional regulation strategies — not only for my kids, but for members of my extended family who lacked the capacity or bandwidth to manage these things alone. I’ve missed weddings, job interviews, and personal milestones because I was needed elsewhere. And yet, through all the sacrifice, caregiving has taught me what matters most. It’s taught me how to advocate — in hospital waiting rooms, IEP meetings, and phone calls with specialists. It’s taught me to listen deeply, to organize chaos, to find dignity in the small wins. Most of all, it’s shaped my understanding of resilience, both my own and others’. This experience has completely transformed my goals. I’m now pursuing a degree in Environmental Sustainability, with hopes to work in systems-level change that prioritizes equity, access, and resilience in under-resourced communities. I want to help build frameworks where families like mine — those stretched thin and showing up anyway — have what they need to thrive. I believe that caregiving is a form of leadership, and I want to bring that perspective into my field. Caregiving has also shaped my identity in profound ways. I’m more patient than I used to be. More grounded. I’ve learned to be both fierce and flexible, to show up imperfectly but consistently. I understand now that caregiving isn’t just a detour from “real life” — it is life. It’s where empathy is forged. Where values are lived out. Where change begins, one act of care at a time. Pursuing higher education while caregiving is incredibly challenging — emotionally, financially, and logistically. But I believe the insight and discipline I’ve gained through this journey make me uniquely equipped to turn my education into something impactful. This scholarship would not only help lighten the financial load; it would also affirm the unseen, unpaid labor of students like me, who are shaping the future while holding the weight of others’ present.

My mental health has been both a quiet undercurrent and a loud chorus throughout my adult life. I didn’t always have the language for it — for the executive dysfunction, overstimulation, burnout cycles, or the way my brain would fixate on imagined failures long before I even tried. It wasn’t until I was in my thirties, raising two kids and reflecting on the patterns I kept crashing into, I was evaluated and diagnosed with ADHD and the invisible emotional load that came with it. Returning to school at this stage in my life is not a decision I made lightly. I’ve spent the last six years as a stay-at-home mom, living far from family, navigating grief after my mother’s sudden passing, and doing the invisible labor that so many women carry. During that time, I began to unravel the complicated mix of anxiety, high-functioning masking, and perfectionism that had followed me for years. I started naming things. Then I started healing. Now that I’ve returned to academics, I’ve built a structure that actively supports my mental wellness instead of sabotaging it. I don’t run on burnout anymore — I plan rest, implement tools for executive functioning, and give myself grace when I fall short. I set boundaries that allow me to protect my focus and peace. I track my mental load, keep visual planners, and use AI tools and accessibility features to help translate my scattered thoughts into focused work. I’ve also redefined what “success” looks like for me. It’s not a 4.0 GPA at the cost of my health — it’s building momentum and consistency. It’s showing my children that growth isn’t linear, but it’s possible at any age. I prioritize routines that support my body and nervous system: movement, hydration, breaks outdoors, and time to process emotions. I’ve learned that my mental health is not a side project — it’s the foundation that holds everything else. Academically, I’ve found that when I support my mind, my performance reflects it. My curiosity and love of learning have room to thrive when I’m not constantly in survival mode. I’m able to explore environmental science, sustainability, and systems-level change with clarity and focus. And because I know the cost of pushing through in silence, I speak up when things feel overwhelming — for myself and for others who haven’t found their voice yet. Mental wellness is activism in a world that rewards exhaustion. It’s also a form of resistance — against perfectionism, toxic productivity, and the cultural belief that women should carry everything without complaint. This scholarship would help me continue building a future that includes both academic excellence and emotional sustainability. I’m not just here to get a degree — I’m here to model what it looks like to do hard things well. To move forward with honesty, empathy, and self-awareness. Mental health doesn’t make me less capable. It has made me more deliberate, more intuitive, and more resilient. I don’t ignore it anymore — I lead with it.

When I first started untangling my own mental health story, I didn’t have the language for what I was experiencing. I only knew I was overwhelmed, burned out, and constantly trying to keep pace with a world that didn’t seem built for my brain. Years later, a diagnosis of ADHD gave me clarity, not just for myself—but for how I could support others. I now speak openly about my neurodivergence, especially in spaces where mental health is still misunderstood or minimized. Whether I’m advocating for accommodations, discussing executive dysfunction with other parents, or helping a friend navigate the medical system, I approach these conversations with empathy and honesty. Vulnerability has become one of my most powerful tools. I’ve learned that when one person shares openly, it creates permission for others to be honest about their struggles too. One of the ways I support my community is by translating complex or stigmatized mental health topics into approachable, compassionate conversations. I help others find patterns in their thinking, normalize therapy and medication, and encourage self-advocacy—especially for women, parents, and those navigating invisible challenges. My future work in environmental sustainability may not seem like a traditional “healthcare” path, but mental health and environmental health are deeply connected. I want to build systems that support wellbeing at every level: clean air, access to green spaces, emergency response readiness, and policies that don’t leave the most vulnerable behind. I also want to help shape local networks that connect people to emotional resources during times of climate-related crisis or displacement. My goal is to be a community advocate who doesn’t just understand climate data, but understands people. Mental health advocacy isn’t just something I’ve done—it’s part of how I see the world and lead within it. This scholarship would support my continued education while affirming that emotional wellness belongs in every conversation, including those about policy, sustainability, and the future we’re building.

There was a time when I didn’t have the language to describe how my brain worked differently. I just knew I felt everything deeply, missed social cues, and processed thoughts much faster than I could speak or write. I was often labeled “too sensitive,” “too much,” or “difficult.” It took years before I began to understand that what made me feel out of step with the world wasn’t a flaw — it was neurodivergence. Receiving an adult autism diagnosis changed everything. Suddenly, the struggles I’d carried for so long had context. My sensory sensitivities, executive dysfunction, and emotional intensity weren’t personal shortcomings — they were parts of how I move through the world. That awareness didn’t limit me. It helped me begin the process of unmasking and growing with self-compassion instead of shame. In school, I struggled. I barely graduated high school and carried that failure with me for years. I thought it meant I wasn’t smart or capable. Now I know I simply needed different tools — time, flexibility, and support. Once I began learning in a way that worked with my brain, I flourished. I read over 200 books a year. I absorb systems. I notice patterns. I dive deeply into topics that matter. And I care — immensely. In recent years, I’ve become a mother, a community volunteer, and a quiet force for change. I’ve researched environmental science, advocated for sustainability, coordinated donation drives, planted pollinator gardens, and educated others about microactivism. My neurodivergence fuels my curiosity, my focus, and my ability to see what others overlook. This fall, I’ll return to school as a first-generation college student to study environmental sustainability. My goal is to help underserved communities transition toward renewable energy and build climate resilience. But I’m also doing this to model something important for my children: that growth doesn’t have a deadline, and your path doesn’t have to look traditional to be meaningful. Autism isn’t a barrier — it’s a different lens. And when it’s respected and supported, it can be a strength that reshapes not just how I learn, but how I lead.

Why Mental Health Matters to Me — and What I’m Doing About It For a long time, I thought mental health challenges were something to be hidden, “fixed,” or fought through silently. I thought exhaustion was a badge of honor and that burnout was just part of adulthood. I didn’t yet understand how deeply our emotional and mental well-being shape everything — from how we show up in relationships to whether we believe we’re worthy of pursuing a future. In 2018, I became a mother. In 2020, I lost my own mom. Between those two defining moments, something shifted. I was grieving, isolated, and trying to hold a family together while feeling completely untethered myself. That grief eventually gave way to clarity. I began to recognize how much I had been suppressing — including the ways my neurodivergence and undiagnosed learning differences had impacted my sense of self for years. I realized that much of what I’d labeled as laziness or failure were actually signs of unaddressed mental health needs. Instead of hiding that truth, I started to work with it. I began reading about trauma, generational patterns, executive dysfunction, and resilience. I started using tools — like journaling, self-advocacy, and yes, even AI — to organize my swirling thoughts into action. I unlearned shame and relearned self-compassion. I taught my kids how to name their feelings and apologize with accountability. I created systems around my sensory sensitivities, built micro-habits to support emotional regulation, and leaned into curiosity over perfection. But more than anything, I began talking about it. I believe advocacy doesn’t have to look like a podium — it can look like answering a friend’s “How are you?” honestly. It can look like modeling emotional fluency for your children, writing essays about identity, or gently interrupting stigma in casual conversations. It can look like showing up, imperfect but authentic, to say: “You’re not the only one.” Now, I’m preparing to return to school to study environmental sustainability, with long-term goals of helping communities transition toward more just and resilient systems. But none of that would be possible without the emotional work that came first. Mental health is the foundation of everything I do and everything I hope to build. This scholarship would not just support my education; it would affirm the journey it took to get here and the strength it takes to move forward, not as the version of me that’s ‘healed,’ but as the one who keeps showing up, learning, and leading anyway.

I used to think STEM belonged to someone else—someone more confident, more mathematically gifted, more certain. I was a book-smart kid who always struggled with focus, missed key instructions, and quietly told herself, “I’m just not one of the smart ones.” It took years before I realized how wrong I was. In 2018, I became a mother. In 2020, I lost my own. That combination broke something open in me. I began thinking deeply about legacy, about the world I would leave behind for my children, and about how systems—environmental, educational, and social—are shaped by the people willing to do the hard work of change. I didn’t know it yet, but that was the beginning of my journey into environmental science. I started with small actions: composting, water conservation, learning about native plants and pollinator pathways. I became obsessed with systems thinking—how one solution could ripple across communities and generations. Over time, I taught myself the fundamentals of renewable energy, sustainability policy, and ecological restoration. What started as a hobby became a calling. I’m now preparing to study Environmental Sustainability through American Public University, with a focus on building a future where communities—especially underresourced and overlooked ones—can transition into greener, more resilient systems. I want to be at the intersection of environmental science, policy, and energy access, unlocking practical solutions through education, planning, and grant coordination. But none of this would be possible if I hadn’t allowed myself to believe I belonged in STEM. The defining moment came during a conversation with my daughter, who was curious about climate change. I explained carbon emissions, rising sea levels, and pollinator decline in kid-friendly language. She looked up and asked, “If it’s so bad, why isn’t anyone fixing it?” That question became my charge. It’s not just that I want to study science—I want to be the woman in the room asking better questions, proposing better solutions, and advocating for long-term change. I want my children to see that we don’t wait for someone else to fix things. We become the ones who do. As a neurodivergent, first-generation college student and mother, I bring lived experience into the field. I understand what it feels like to be underestimated—and I also know what it feels like to exceed expectations when someone finally believes in you. I’m building a future not just for myself, but for the people and places whose voices are rarely centered in environmental conversations. I’ve already begun the work. I’ve started a pollinator garden, advocated for native plants in our neighborhood, joined local buy-nothing groups to recycle gardening materials, and regularly speak with peers about clean energy and climate resilience. I’ve helped distribute warm clothes during winter storms and planted hope, quite literally, in the form of new seeds in struggling soil. Science and technology can solve problems—but only if those at the helm reflect the communities they serve. I want to be one of those voices. I may be late to the path, but I’m walking it with clarity and drive. STEM is no longer someone else’s field. It’s mine now, too.

I live just forty miles from Georgia’s coast, where tides and salt winds shape everything—our weather, ecosystems, and future. Living near the Atlantic has made the health of our oceans feel deeply personal. While I’ve always cared about sustainability, it was motherhood and loss that gave me clarity about what really matters. After losing my mom in 2020, I began thinking more intentionally about legacy—what we leave behind, and why it matters. Over the years, I’ve developed a passion for environmental science and a deep, sustained commitment to protecting our natural systems. I compost, use greywater for irrigation, plant pollinator habitats, and support biodiversity wherever I can—but ocean health holds a unique place in my heart. In 2016, I took my first international trip—solo—to Thailand. As part of that trip, I began a scuba certification and dove into the Andaman Sea. It was my first time seeing a coral reef in real life. That moment—suspended in warm water, surrounded by darting fish and branching coral—was almost spiritual. I understood, instinctively, how fragile and sacred these ecosystems are. That reef was small, but it sparked something huge in me: a lifelong fascination with coral systems, marine biodiversity, and the interconnectedness of aquatic and terrestrial life. Since then, I’ve supported conservation efforts like the Great Barrier Reef Foundation and ocean cleanups through platforms like TreeCard. I’ve made ethical food shifts to reduce my impact on marine ecosystems, chosen reef-safe products, educated my children about biodiversity, and tried to model ocean-conscious behavior at home. I’ve even shared sustainable alternatives and tips in online communities, hoping to make this knowledge approachable and actionable. The more I learn, the more I realize that ocean health is not a niche issue—it’s the foundation of global resilience. I’m now preparing to study Environmental Sustainability through American Public University, with a focus on helping communities—especially rural and underserved ones—transition to renewable systems and resilient ecological planning. Living near the coast, I see the impact of rising seas, extreme weather, and ecosystem loss every year. My long-term goal is to work in conservation policy, ocean education, or community resource planning, helping ensure that our oceans and coasts are protected not just in theory, but in practice. This scholarship would allow me to pursue my education more fully and contribute to oceanic health in a meaningful, long-term way. We are all connected to the sea—whether we live beside it or not. And protecting it is not just an act of preservation, but of hope.

Technology is reshaping the world, and I want to be part of reshaping it with intention. As a mother, a community advocate, and a woman returning to school to study Environmental Sustainability, I believe technology is more than a tool—it’s a bridge. A bridge between awareness and action, between policy and people, between the world we have and the world we deserve. My goal is to help communities, especially rural and underserved ones, transition toward renewable energy, ecological restoration, and resilient infrastructure. These are complex challenges that will require everything from advanced data collection to clean energy implementation, digital grant systems, and smart design. I want to help build and manage that work. What excites me most is the intersection between sustainability and innovation. Whether it’s GIS mapping to track land use changes, solar integration for schools and public facilities, or using AI to analyze gaps in local resource access, I want to be part of the forward momentum. I’m preparing to study at American Public University and earn certifications in Environmental Science and Environmental Policy & Development. I see these as a launchpad into system planning or environmental coordination—roles that rely on technology to create real, lasting change. Though I didn’t grow up seeing many women in tech or policy, I’ve learned to see myself there—not despite my differences, but because of them. I bring empathy, lived experience, and a systems-focused mindset shaped by both motherhood and activism. I’ve learned that technology doesn’t solve problems on its own. It’s people—people who design it, use it, and believe in its potential—who drive change. I want to be one of those people. Already, I’ve taken action in my own life. I compost, recycle greywater, maintain native plants and a pollinator garden, rescue materials from the waste stream, and share resources with my community. I’ve reduced my reliance on animal-based products and shifted toward more ethical, plant-forward food choices. I’ve taught my children how their habits shape the world. That, too, is technology in practice. The most powerful innovations won’t just improve lives—they’ll redefine what’s possible. I want my work to reflect that possibility and help others imagine new ways forward. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to step into this chapter with confidence and clarity. I’m ready to learn, contribute, and help lead the way.

In 2020, I lost my mother unexpectedly. That grief reshaped how I saw my life, my legacy, and the kind of world I want to help build for my children. I’ve always cared about the environment, but that moment sparked something deeper; a calling to protect what sustains us, for the sake of the generations to come. Over the past few years, I’ve immersed myself in learning about environmental science and sustainability. I began composting food scraps, switching to plant-based alternatives, and reclaiming greywater. I tracked local biodiversity in my yard, began planting for pollinators, and started educating my children about the ripple effects of our everyday choices. We’ve planted trees, recycled hundreds of gallons of water, and even funded coral reef recovery and ocean plastic removal through apps and microdonations. These small acts are tangible ways we participate in a larger mission. But I know that individual effort alone isn’t enough. That’s why I’m returning to school to study Environmental Sustainability through American Public University. I want to work at the intersection of policy, planning, and community access—helping neighborhoods transition to renewable energy and build local infrastructure that serves both people and the planet. Sustainability in my field is not just a buzzword—it’s the foundation of long-term resilience. Whether we’re talking about resource equity, clean energy, or preserving habitats in urban spaces, my work will center on aligning environmental goals with practical, scalable solutions. I’m especially interested in grant writing and access planning, because I believe that access is the greatest hurdle between good ideas and real-world implementation. By combining systems thinking with sustainability frameworks, I hope to help underserved and rural communities unlock the resources they need to build climate resilience—from solar energy installations to community gardens and wildlife restoration zones. I envision helping school districts integrate sustainability curriculum and infrastructure, bringing students into the fold as early change agents. To me, sustainability isn’t about “doing less harm.” It’s about actively designing systems that give more than they take—regenerating, reimagining, and repairing what’s been lost. As a woman returning to school in her 30s with two young children watching closely, I know the stakes are high. But I also know the potential for impact is greater than ever. Winning this scholarship would help me focus more fully on my studies and deepen my impact—both locally and in the communities I will serve professionally. I don’t just want to study sustainability. I want to live it, model it, and help others access it. Because the future is already taking shape, and I’m here to help shape it for the better.

The ocean doesn’t ask who you are before it welcomes you. As someone still discovering where I fit within the LGBTQIA+ community—possibly asexual, demisexual, or panromantic—that quiet kind of acceptance resonates deeply with me. I’ve learned that identity, like the ocean, can be fluid, powerful, and hard to define—but still worthy of protection. That’s why I’m pursuing a path in environmental sustainability: to protect fragile ecosystems, including our oceans, while amplifying underrepresented voices like mine. I live just west of the Georgia coast, where hurricanes and sea level rise aren’t abstract concerns—they’re part of our daily reality. Last October, Hurricane Helene swept through our area with terrifying force, reminding us that climate resilience isn’t just a future issue—it’s now. Watching the land recover, and the human and animal communities that depend on it, has deepened my resolve to be part of the solution. I’ve already begun making lifestyle changes rooted in ethics and sustainability: transitioning toward plant-based food choices, using platforms like Ecosia and Treecard that contribute to reforestation and ocean cleanup, and choosing products that reduce dependency on virgin plastic. But individual action is only the beginning. I’ve also taken steps to educate my community—especially my children—on the ripple effects of consumer habits and the importance of protecting our planet’s most vulnerable systems. I recently applied to American Public University to pursue Environmental Sustainability with a long-term focus on community-scale resilience. My dream is to work at the intersection of planning and policy—writing grants, supporting clean energy transitions, and helping underserved areas implement systems that protect natural habitats, especially coastal ones. The health of our oceans is interconnected with every environmental justice issue I care about: food systems, air quality, housing stability, biodiversity, and more. As someone who’s always been a little outside the box—whether in identity, worldview, or ambition—this work feels like a place I truly belong. I don’t want to simply study oceanic health; I want to actively protect it, rebuild it, and ensure future generations can inherit its beauty. I believe being bold isn’t just about what you say—it’s about what you do. I’ve spent years quietly preparing for this moment. Now, I’m ready to take up space, speak up, and make real, lasting change. Receiving this scholarship would help me do that with greater focus and confidence. But more than that, it would affirm that there’s a place in this movement for people like me—people still finding their language, but who already know their values.

Community has reshaped every part of my identity. I used to think of it as something you belonged to—a neighborhood, a church, a school. But as I grew older, became a mother, and lost my own mom, I realized community is something you build. It’s found in shared moments, common goals, and a willingness to show up, even when it’s hard. In the last few years, I’ve committed to building community not just socially, but environmentally and structurally. I live in a small Georgia town where sustainability isn’t yet the norm, but I believe deeply in creating a livable future for my children—and that change starts locally. I’ve volunteered with community groups, rescued items through Buy Nothing networks to keep them out of landfills, and repurposed supplies into tools for urban wildlife and pollinators. I’ve built a pollinator garden with native plants, started composting, educated neighbors about reducing plastic waste, and redistributed unused clothing and materials to families in need. These small actions might look individual, but they ripple outward. One moment I’ll never forget was when snow was in the forecast for our coastal Georgia community—something almost unheard of. I reached out to a colleague who works closely with unsheltered individuals and asked if she needed the extra coats we were clearing from our closets. She told me jackets and blankets were in desperate need and being distributed as quickly as she could get them. I immediately gathered everything we could spare and posted to my HOA community asking for help. Within 24 hours, I collected, washed, and delivered over 50 warm items to be distributed before the snow fell. It reminded me how quickly communities can mobilize when there’s trust, clarity, and shared care. Hope is not a vague feeling for me—it’s something I practice. It lives in my garden, where I plant seeds for bees and butterflies I may never see. It lives in how I teach my children to respect the earth, speak up, and look after others. And it lives in my choice to return to school to study Environmental Sustainability so I can help underserved communities transition into renewable energy and resilient ecosystems. The future I see isn’t built by individuals acting alone—it’s built by people who lift one another, share what they have, and dream together. If awarded this scholarship, I will continue to live out that mission—by studying, volunteering, and creating spaces where others feel seen, supported, and inspired to care for each other and our shared world.