Forget your typical TikTok scrolling or meme spamming—My Gen Z experience is a little different. I'm the playlist curator, the junk food connoisseur, the literature nerd who prefers the sanctuary of their own home over the chaos of the internet. I'm busy binge-watching my comfort shows, reading a book a day, and showing love to my people through The Perfect Spotify Playlist. If being Gen Z means navigating this chaotic world with authenticity, humor, and living vicariously through endless books, then yes. I am definitely the most Gen Z person alive. If there’s something that really screams Gen Z about me, it’s my obsession with making lists. I make so many of them that my bullet journal can’t handle it—outfits I want to try (because I can’t pick an aesthetic), college must-haves that multiply daily, a TBR, and of course, the random to-dos that pop into my brain at 3 am. They’re my personal chaos control system—that way, when life gets too overwhelming, something still makes sense. There’s nothing more gratifying than checking things off on your list. Maybe my experience isn’t the same as everyone else's, seeing as I tend to avoid social media, but that’s alright with me. Gen Z means being authentically you—and I am always doing just that.

In all my seventeen years of life, I cannot remember a time when someone in my family wasn’t struggling with their mental health. Losing loved ones, unhealthy family dynamics, constant arguing. I saw—and experienced—a lot at a young age. I don’t feel like the same person I was back then. Before I get into the depths of these changes, I’d like to provide a little inside on what events contributed to who I am now. Everyone has that one event they consider the turning point in their life; I have three. Losing my great grandma at eleven, being SA’d at twelve and thirteen, and being officially adopted at fifteen. All of these events led me to deal with some form of grief—for the woman who raised me, or a part of myself I could never get back. Grief does a lot of things to you. It works its way into your heart and turns you into a different person. My mother began to close herself off; I got sharper. Angrier. Words were my weapon against the bad people I couldn’t seem to get away from. Now, words are my solace. With them I can show others a more vulnerable side of me—for years, this side was hidden behind my depression and anxiety. Going through so much in so little time has cemented both good and bad beliefs into my brain. For example: blood is not always thicker than water. When I opened up to people about being assaulted, an entire half of my family shunned me. He was my biological fathers stepson; my stepmother was one of the many to ridicule me on the internet. I heard things no thirteen year old should ever hear. The hardest part? My father was the one who bailed him out of jail. This is where my real father—in the sense of love, not blood—comes in. He is the first man out of the three in my lifetime to actually step up. He treats my mother right, and protects me and my sisters from harm. For over two years we fought battles on the adoption and assault fronts. Both ended in our favor. I also began to believe in speaking up for myself. Communication is key, I am aware—but for a long time, it came in the form of yelling. No one listens when they’re yelling; it’s always possible to stand your ground without raising your voice. Relationships… we love them and we lose them, right? Not everything stays the same. The ups and downs of my mental health took a toll on my relationships with friends, family—even with myself. I quickly became my worst critic. They say your friends will come and go, but that never makes the latter any easier. At seventeen, I feel there are only a handful of people I can count on—my parents, and my aunt. Being around others can be particularly hard when you’re coming off of a spiral. They don’t see you the same anymore—sometimes there is simply too much baggage to carry. Even so, I can proudly say that I am healing. College will be an important step forward in learning to be independent and heal my broken bonds. Everyone says that it’s okay to not know what you want to do after high school. It’s a little hard to believe that when I’ve been striving toward college since I was a little kid. Harvard was the epitome of what I wanted to be; prestigious. It’s every overachiever's dream. In case it wasn’t obvious, I am very much a dreamer/ My career aspirations over the years have ranged from movie director to police officer to lawyer and back again. Two things have remained, however: my creativity and compassion. The struggles with my mental health only intensified this. Above all, I’d like to be an author. I want my stories to be what helps others return to themselves. Entering college, I’ll be studying sociology with a criminology focus. This speaks to the activist in me—the one that wants to help others through their struggles. To make sure no one else feels less than. So many people's stories go untold, and I want to change that. Writing this essay has given me a chance to reflect on the important parts of me and my identity. Mental health truly does matter— and by receiving this scholarship, I will be able to focus less on my finances and more on flourishing as my true self. Thank you for being part of this journey.

I don’t remember a time when I truly felt at peace within myself. Anxiety has always been present—when my great grandmother died, and I felt the need to grow up to help my mother grieve. When kids in school bullied me just for being myself. When I came out as genderfluid. When I told my mom I was sexually assaulted by my stepbrother. Speaking up about such a big thing brought me a lot of pain—my fathers side of the family ridiculed me for years. I’m sure they still do. Death threats and name calling, all directed at me. A twelve year old. Being bullied, accompanied by the depression and anxiety that plagued my life, led me to leave behind public school. I joined an online school—doing everything from the comfort of my home. Looking back at it, I believe it played a role in both my healing and my downfall. I grew isolated, never making friends. My grades plummeted. I genuinely believed all the horrible things people said about me for a long, long time. It’s no secret that everything takes time—especially when it involves something so intricate as justice. For two and a half years, I waited. I waited for my case to be on the docket, for it to become a priority in lives other than mine. When it finally did, his plea was obvious: not guilty. Until it wasn’t. That was two years ago. I’m six months shy of my eighteenth birthday now—a milestone that felt impossible back then. I’ve begun to find joy in the things I love, in writing and literature, in the people around me. My relationships with others are healing, as well. It makes me feel hopeful, to think that maybe I still have a place in this world. Anxiety hadn’t just made me panic, after all. It had taken away who I was. College is more than just a degree for me. It’s an opportunity to step out of the shadows and into the light. I want to study sociology, with a concentration in criminology. Advocacy is important to me—with my degree, I’ll be able to learn the ins and outs of why people do what they do. And maybe—just maybe—I'll be able to stop it before it happens. Writing will likely continue to be a big part of my life. My dream career, above all else, is to be a writer. To tell stories that help others get through the dark times like they helped me. I write when speaking feels impossible. Thank you for listening to a story I’ve always felt anxious to tell.

During my childhood, it was the little things that made me realize my family wasn't as well-off as they let me believe. The little red card the lunch lady gave me, saying my account was maxed out. The bags of food I'd get every other Friday from the principal. The big red paper taped to our front door said “EVICTION NOTICE”. I didn’t know what it all meant back then, but I knew it wasn’t good—especially when Mom hadn’t been to work in two weeks. These weren’t just isolated moments. They were puzzle pieces that slowly revealed the financial instability going on behind closed doors. One of the moments that really stuck with me happened on Christmas, when I was about five or six. My uncle had given me a $20 bill, and I was thrilled. Anything over a dollar was huge for a kid my age. Then my biological father reached for it and said, “Let me hold that for you. You might lose it.” Spoiler alert: I never saw that money again. That moment wasn’t just about twenty dollars—it taught me, in a very real way, that money could disappear fast, and not everyone had your best interests at heart. Now, at seventeen, my situation couldn’t be more different. I live in a stable, supportive home with a family that genuinely cares about my future. My adopted dad—who I honestly just call “dad” now—is amazing. He doesn’t just tell me to be smart with my money; he shows me how. Whether it’s breaking down the works of insurance or the importance of budgeting, he and my mom have made it a priority to teach me how to be financially stable going into adulthood. I haven’t had a job yet, but I’m being taught how to prepare so I don’t repeat the cycle I was born into. I don’t have it all figured out yet—does anyone, really? I do know, however, how I’m going to use my financial knowledge: I am going to break the cycle I grew up in. I am going to build a future that feels secure for me, and show my family that I can be trusted to handle life on my own. I want them to be proud of the person I’ve become. The things that I’m learning now are helping me get there. Little by little, I’m becoming a person who isn’t afraid of the future, but instead feels ready for it.

When you don’t have a steady father figure, the other members of your family become more influential. I was raised by three generations of women—my mom, my grandmother, and my great grandmother. My great grandma—who I called Granny Ree—was an angel of a woman. She taught me to bake, watched Wheel of Fortune with me, and loved to sit on the back porch, drinking coffee, and watch the hummingbirds fly by. My grandma loves to tell the story of the morning my granny met a hummingbird. We had numerous feeders hanging from the porch awning, and it was mating season at the time. They were out drinking coffee, watching the birds whiz by. Out of nowhere, a hummingbird flew towards my granny, stopping a few inches from her face. Both of them just froze. The hummingbirds neck pulsed—a mating signal for their species. It stayed that way for a good thirty seconds. Grandma says it was the hummingbird's way of thanking my granny for feeding them. I like to say that it noticed her kind, calm spirit. Who knows? Maybe the bird just wanted to communicate.

I’m going to be completely honest here: I didn’t expect to cry over two teenagers in Amsterdam. The Fault In Our Stars was just another book—wasn’t it? There was always a happy ending. I quickly learned that it was not, in fact, just another book. The story begins with Hazel Grace Lancaster, a seventeen year old girl with terminal cancer. To help her cope, her family suggests a cancer support group, where she meets the witty, charismatic, and very handsome Augustus Waters. Let me say this. I’m primarily a book reader, not a movie watcher. An extremely well-loved copy of The Fault In Our Stars sits on my bookshelf, filled with scribbled annotations and color coded highlights. I had high expectations for what the movie would be. Would the casting be right? Would any important scenes be cut? Some movies never live up to their expectations. This one did, and it went on to change my life. Seeing a book I practically had memorized on the big screen changed the way I saw Hazel and Gus’ story. No detail was left out; it brought the book's themes of love, loss, and our very existence to life in a way no other movie ever has. Hazel was no longer just a character. She was a representation of how love and loss sometimes go hand in hand. One specific scene that hit me the hardest was the reading of Augustus’ letter following his death. Adding together the voiceover done by Ansel Elgort, the soundtrack in the background, and the reactions of Hazel on screen made it into something more. I cried, just as I had done upon finishing the book for the first time. Never had a movie evoked such emotion in me. Never had it cut so deep. There was something so real, so pure about the way The Fault In Our Stars was adapted into a movie. The book is already so, so beautiful—and it helped me cherish the things I cared for. I began to think deeply, and search for meaning in things that most people deemed ‘average’. All in all, there’s a big difference between a movie you love and a movie that impacts you. How do you tell the difference? I figured it out when I began to look at the world differently—not everything has a happy ending, or even a happy beginning, but the happy moments that do come along will last forever. It’s just like Hazel says: she was grateful for their little infinity. Life may be finite, but love is forever, no matter what cards you’re dealt.

I’m standing in front of thirteen-year-old me. She has so many questions; how do I answer them? How do I tell her about everything she’s going to endure, when she’s been through so much already? It’s not going to be easy. “Who are you?” she asks. I take a deep breath and, with as much courage as I can muster, explain that I am her. I’m her, at seventeen. The disbelief is evident in her eyes—we didn’t expect to live this long. Why would we, when life was knocking us down constantly? I’m here to give you hope, I say. I’m here to tell you what life is like for us now. Her eyes widen. I’m not surprised by the first question out of her mouth— “Did we tell someone about what happened to us?” Such a vague sentence, but I know exactly what she means. Mere weeks before our thirteenth birthday, our stepbrother assaulted us. He drug us in, and we didn’t know how to get out. “We did,” I tell her. It seems to require more explanation. “We told Mom. She doesn’t hate us, like we thought she would. He went to prison.” I see the weight lifted from her shoulders, just as it was lifted from mine on that fateful day. It didn’t come easy, though—our father’s family shunned us. We were slandered on the internet; people wanted us dead. They still do. “Did Mom finally leave our stepdad?” Yes, she did. We have an adoptive father now, who loves us more than anything on this earth. He has rightfully earned the title of ‘Dad.’ It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, I caution. Things will get worse long before they get better. I wonder if she’ll ask me about our depression. About the days when getting out of bed isn’t an option, or the crushing feelings of guilt and hopelessness. And she does just that. “Are we still depressed?” Well… depression isn’t something that can be cured. It can be managed, however—and we’re managing. We go to therapy. We take our medicine. There are days when nothing feels possible, but we cope. We’re doing much better than before. “Do we still self-harm?” My heart sinks at this question. I know she’s in a terrible spot; she thinks she deserves it. I thought so, too, but I know better than that now. “No,” I say. “We’ve been free from self-harm for over two and a half years—a milestone that feels both empowering and life-changing.” I consider that a point of personal growth. Quitting was hard. The urges were ever-present, but we did it. We’ll continue to do it. I believe in us. As we work through our struggles, something else is growing, too: hope. Hope for what comes next. For the future we’re building, one step at a time. It’s time to think about the next chapter. Graduating, going to college, finding new ways to help others—this is where we’re headed now. “We’re going to college,” I begin. We don’t know where yet, but the Ivies are still the goal. It’s more than just a dream now; it’s obtainable. “The plan is to help people get justice, just like we did.” Whether it’s through social work, law enforcement, or another path, I want to use my experiences to help others who are going through similar struggles and fight for justice—just like I did when I was in need. We still write, too—it’s one of the things that saved us. One day, we’ll get published. I’m sure of it. Managing our mental health and pushing through the hardest days has made it possible for me to look ahead, beyond the struggles, and toward what’s next: college and a future where I can help others. Some things are still unknown, but one thing is obvious: college is the next step. Our future is tangible now. It’s not an if, but a when. Time is running out. Soon I’ll have to return to my own time. Nothing could prepare me for her final question: “Who are we now?” Is there an answer for that? I’m at a loss, but I’ll try my best: we’re a survivor. An advocate. We’re creative and intelligent. We love hard, and fight even harder. People care about us. We get up and go, every single day, even when it hurts. We’re a daughter. A sister. We’re who we’re meant to be.

I’m not here to tell you about some life changing epiphany or dramatic turning point. No sudden realization that put me on the perfect path. My journey is much slower—I’m just a person who’s trying to do better than I did yesterday. And honestly? I think that’s just as important. Over the years, depression and anxiety have turned me into someone I’m not proud of. I’ve yelled, argued, blamed others for things they took no part in. I’ve put a strain on the important relationships in my life. For a long time, I simply ignored it—it was just typical teenager stuff, right? It would pass. I didn’t need to do anything…until I realized that I did. Daydreaming about my future was a pastime in my darker days. It kept me going, in a sense, to see what could be. College was something to look forward to. Something that held promise, unlike the rest of my life. But when the abuse stopped, and a real father figure stepped in, I was able to view it with clear eyes. It was obtainable now—not just some escape. But these things don’t happen overnight—change takes time. I’ve taken steps in multiple aspects, for both my academic and emotional pursuits. I am set to graduate early, in December of this year. I have already picked out my college; family awaits me there. I go to therapy every week. I write out my emotions instead of yelling. I’m preparing myself for the difficulties I know may arise. When I finally take that big step into adult life, I want to be able to focus on myself. It is, after all, more than just college—it’s an opportunity to grow, heal, and discover who I’m meant to be. This scholarship will help me with that by easing my financial burdens. I come from a low-income family; I know the importance of financial stability. With it, I can hone in on everything that matters to me. I’ll be pursuing a sociology degree with a criminology emphasis. The objective is to understand, advocate, and prevent. My own experiences with the justice system motivate me to ensure no one else has to feel alone and afraid. Whether it’s through social work, law enforcement, or simply writing out my story for the world to hear, I aim to be a source of hope. I want to work with victims of crime to help them find closure, to bring justice and free them from those who hurt them. They are survivors, and I want to be there to remind them of their strength, as others have reminded me of mine. Change is going to be hard for me, and there will be setbacks along the way. Even so, just admitting that I don’t have it all together is progress in itself. This is my second chance—my opportunity to discover myself, heal, and find where I belong in the world.

Four. That's how many times I cried when I saw Wicked in theaters. It was moving in a way that no other movie has been before. I'm a theater nerd, and I enjoy musicals more than anything. I'd never seen Wicked, though. My parents took me and my sisters to see it for the first time, and I was appalled by the depth put into the cinematic aspects of the movie. Elphaba struggles with her identity, with being herself and being proud of it. She thinks her mothers death and her sister's injuries are her fault, and they're not. Glinda is the one to tell her that. Wicked explores so many different themes--- friendship, identity, true love, betrayal. It shows what it means to be human and how good people can be turned just because of the circumstances imposed on them. Elphaba deserved much better; she wasn't truly wicked. She mattered, just like anybody else did. I understand her struggles, which is one of the reasons why Wicked hit so hard for me. It's a beautiful story, with perfectly written songs and amazing cinematics. Everyone deserves a chance to fly, the poster says. And I believe that is what Wicked is all about.

My first encounter with Billie’s music was in 2019. She was gaining popularity, and I found her music interesting. It broke away from what was considered the “norm”—just as I did in middle school, a side effect of bullying. The first song I heard and enjoyed was “You Should See Me in a Crown.” It spoke of redemption, of getting back at your enemies. What 6th-grade outcast wouldn’t find solace in such a song? As the years have passed, Billie’s music—and her accomplishments—have grown exponentially. Her discography is full of songs that speak to different aspects of life, and there are many that resonate deeply with me. However, three songs have stayed with me the most: Listen Before I Go, I Love You, and the one I’d like to focus on specifically: Happier Than Ever. Happier Than Ever marked a total 180 for Billie’s music style and themes. She expressed herself in a new way, which I admired. Happier Than Ever (the song) evoked such strong emotions in me. Let me tell you why. My biological father and I never had a proper relationship. He was never really home, and when he was, he was abusive towards my mother and us kids. When I turned 7, my mom finally found the strength to kick him out, and I only saw him on some weekends. He’d found a new family, and we were no longer needed. As I grew older, our relationship became more strained. We fought more, and by the time I was 11 or 12, I had already been through too much to care about his opinion. I was too young to be in screaming matches with my father, but here I was. Shortly before my 13th birthday, I was hurt beyond repair; unable to speak up. I didn’t know what would happen if I told the truth—would they hate me? I was too scared to find out. Finally, after six long months, I found the courage to speak up. My mother protected me, but my biological father’s side of the family turned against me. I was shunned. I was rejected by the very people who were supposed to care for me. Billie’s lyrics in Happier Than Ever gave me a sense of validation. “Cause I’d never treat me this shitty / You made me hate this city.” These lines spoke to me. It was as if she was giving me permission to let go of the toxic people in my life and to stop caring about their opinions. I didn’t need to keep pretending for them. I had been manipulated and mistreated for too long. “You ruined everything good / Always said you were misunderstood.” I understood this line deeply. Growing up, my father often justified his actions, as if it would change them. As I got older, I realized that apologies don’t mean anything unless they’re backed up by change. People who truly care about you don’t hurt you and then claim to be the victim. In the end, Billie’s music reminded me that I have the right to stand up for myself, to take control of my narrative, and to stop giving power to people who don’t deserve it. Billie’s music has become a way for me to process and release the pain I’ve held onto for so long. It’s no longer just about the songs; it’s about what they’ve helped me realize about myself. I found the strength to let go of my past and look toward a future where I can build my own family—one made up of people who truly love me.

Let me set the scene for you. A courtroom bathed in light, a community waiting for justice, and me—a criminologist, unraveling the intricate layers of a case to reveal the truth. In another moment, I'm in my nook, pen to paper, crafting and weaving stories that resonate with readers everywhere. To me, success is more than just the material goals of life. It's about becoming the person who leaves a mark, someone who helps fix the broken pieces of our world. Success is intertwined with impact, growth, and the ability to be myself in this world. There are so many things I want to do, and not nearly enough time to do them. I aim to be both a criminologist and a writer, intertwining my fascination with the human mind with my passion for storytelling. I aspire to create change beyond just 'catching' the criminal— The why and how to prevent it are just as important. I want to write stories that leave others speechless, books that are cut so deeply that you can't stop thinking about them. Literature provides a realm of personal growth and potential for knowledge that nothing else can. To achieve the aspirations I hold dear, personal growth and knowledge are non-negotiables; they are the keys to unlocking my true potential. My journey has never been without challenges. Throughout my younger years, I often faced bullying, depression, and a life-altering experience that helped me realize where I stood in this world; where I was meant to be. These struggles don't go away, but they don't define me, either– they teach me perseverance, forgiveness, and the power self-advocacy can bring. Those are the things that define me as a person. I want to advocate for the people who can't advocate for themselves. My love for books began when I was three; my love for writing when I was a kindergartener. Through crayons, paper, and the encouragement of my grandmother, I wrote and illustrated my first book. It was placed in the classroom library and was read to the entire class by none other than me and one of my biggest cheerleaders. Ever since then, words have become my greatest ally. My home. As for criminology, it was my connection to the justice system that fueled my passion. I've seen its power to help people—and its flaws, too. My mission is to bridge those gaps and bring justice and closure to those who need it most. This scholarship represents much more than financial support. It's the chance to break free from limitations and explore opportunities I've only dreamed of. Coming from a family that has faced financial hardship, I learned very quickly the value of hard work and resilience, no matter the odds. With this scholarship, I can study in environments that spark inspiration. I can travel. I can give myself the option to just go. In the future, I see myself solving cases others deem unsolvable. I see myself giving a voice to those who have been silenced. I see myself achieving my lifelong dream of becoming a widely known author. You could be the next J.K Rowling, my mother once told me. Your words move people. I can only hope that this will continue to be true.

Adapting a beloved book into a movie is a daunting challenge. There's a lot to live up to-- each individual reader has their own imagination, their own outlook for what a movie should look like. The Fault in Our Stars is already a beautiful story; a tale of loss, love, and human connection. The film takes these elements and breathes new life into them, offering a visual and emotional experience that has me in tears every time I watch it. Seriously, I ugly cried the first time I watched it. One of the most remarkable aspects of this adaptation is how faithfully it mirrors the book. This isn't common in most adaptations! From the moment it begins, Shailene Woodley's portrayal of Hazel feels as though she has stepped directly out of the book itself, embodying her dry wit, quiet strength, and beautiful vulnerability. Ansel Elgort as Augustus Waters is equally mesmerizing, delivering the charm, confidence, and underlying fragility of a boy who loves deeply despite knowing his days are numbered. Their chemistry is undeniable from the moment they meet-- making it feel just as real as it does in the book. So many important moments are captured in this movie with phenomenal accuracy. The moment when Hazel and Gus visit the Anne Frank House, for instance, is just as impactful as it is in the book. The climb up the narrow stairs mirrors Hazel's internal struggle with her illness, and the kiss they share, despite Hazel's worries of 'being a grenade', is a declaration of life and love in the face of death. Similarly, the eulogy scene—where Gus attends his own pre-funeral—is heart-wrenching. Nat Wolff's performance as Isaac adds something not all love stories have: layers. However, the film doesn't just mimic the book; it adds depth. The soft lighting, the intimate framing… It captures Hazel and Gus's fragile world. The soundtrack features artists like Ed Sheeran and Birdy, and amplifies the emotional weight of their journey. It transforms the story into a living, breathing experience that resonates on a deeper level. The ending is where the film left me truly speechless. Augustus's letter to Hazel is a culmination of everything the story represents: love, pain, and the impact we have on each other's lives. Gus's words echo in Hazel's earlier reflection—"You don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world, but you do have some say in who hurts you"—brings the narrative full circle. His letter reveals the depth of his love for Hazel, framing her as the girl he loved; The person who gave his short life meaning. Watching Hazel read those words, hearing her thoughts in my head from the book, was devastatingly beautiful. The entire story—their love, their struggles, their fleeting moments of joy—comes rushing back to her. To us. In the end, it all comes back to Hazel. Gus's letter ensures that while his life was finite, his love for her was infinite. The film’s final scene, with Hazel lying on the grass, staring at the stars, is a perfect visual echo of this sentiment. Okay, she whispers, as if, somewhere, Augustus is listening. We bear witness to their story, a love that burned brightly enough to leave a lasting mark. The Fault in Our Stars' visual adaptation is more than I'd ever hoped for. It's not just a book or a movie to me; it's a journey showing us the beauty and pain of being alive. The film adaptation honors the book’s legacy while infusing it with new dimensions. It will always hold a special place in my heart.