At 43, I returned to college with two toddlers, a mortgage, and a head full of doubts. I had spent over a decade shaping a home, raising children, and sacrificing personal ambitions to support my family’s needs. While I wouldn’t trade those years for anything, I reached a point where I could no longer ignore the quiet pull toward something more. I wanted a life that felt meaningful outside of my household. I wanted my children to grow up watching their mother rise, not just for them, but for herself. Returning to school has been a transformative decision. I am currently pursuing a B.A. in Pre-Law Studies, with plans to focus on policy reform and advocacy work that uplifts women and families who have been overlooked or underserved. This path was shaped by my lived experiences. I know what it feels like to navigate systems that are not designed for working mothers. I know the emotional and financial strain of trying to access childcare, education, and basic rights with limited support. These experiences have sharpened my values and solidified my commitment to building better structures for those who come after me. I am proud to share that I was named to the Dean’s List at National University, a recognition that means even more to me as a returning student balancing motherhood and academic rigor. This achievement affirms that I belong here, and that I am not just surviving school, I am excelling. The challenges I have faced returning to school are real. I study during nap time and after bedtime. I juggle schoolwork between appointments, sports practices, and school pick-ups. I am not the same kind of student I was at 18. I’m better. I ask deeper questions. I listen more closely. I have a clear purpose behind every class I take and every paper I write. This purpose keeps me going when things get hard. It is not easy to reenter academic life at this age, but it is powerful. It has changed the way I see myself and the world around me. I want to use my education to help reform systems that continue to hold people back. I plan to work in community-based legal advocacy or public policy research with a focus on access to affordable childcare, maternal protections, and educational equity. My goal is not just to earn a degree. It is to open doors for other women who have been told that their window of opportunity has closed. I want to prove that it never does. This scholarship would have a direct impact on my ability to stay enrolled and focused. Like many adult learners, I am piecing together my education one class at a time while managing household bills, childcare, and limited income. Receiving this support would relieve financial pressure and help me invest more fully in my studies and future work. It would also be a reminder that others believe in the power of second chances. Debra S. Jackson’s story deeply resonates with me. Her decision to return to school later in life created ripples that touched not only her family, but her community and the causes she cared about. I hope to follow in that legacy. My education is not just for me. It is for my children, my community, and for the people I will serve in the years ahead. I am deeply honored to be considered for a scholarship that celebrates the courage to begin again.

My name is Keenan, and I am a college student, a mother of two young children, and a proud soccer coach for my daughter’s team. I didn’t grow up playing organized sports, but I have come to deeply appreciate the way youth athletics shape not just skill, but character. Coaching has opened my eyes to the powerful lessons that are passed on in the everyday moments of practice, games, and even those tough post-game conversations when things do not go as planned. I am now committed to using sports as a tool for connection, empowerment, and growth in my community. When I volunteered to coach my daughter’s team, I thought I was just filling a need. What I found instead was a calling. At every practice, I have the privilege of watching kids grow more confident, more compassionate, and more connected to one another. I get to see quiet players become leaders, energetic kids learn discipline, and shy ones come alive on the field. What began as a way to support my own daughter turned into something much bigger. It became a way to support the next generation of girls as they build confidence, resilience, and self-respect. My coaching philosophy is built on three pillars: effort, encouragement, and emotional awareness. I teach my players that winning is not the most important goal. Showing up, trying your best, learning to work as a team, and showing kindness even in competition matter far more. When one of my players misses a goal or has a hard day, I do not just correct the mistake. I teach them how to bounce back, how to believe in themselves, and how to support their teammates through struggle. Sports are a powerful equalizer. They allow children from different backgrounds, neighborhoods, and home lives to come together with a shared purpose. In my community, many families are juggling multiple jobs, responsibilities, and challenges. Organized sports can offer their children something stable, joyful, and affirming. As a coach, I consider it my responsibility to create a space where kids feel safe to grow, to lead, and to dream. Looking forward, I want to expand my impact. As I continue my education in Legal Studies, I plan to focus on advocacy for families and children. My long-term goal is to launch a nonprofit that combines legal guidance with youth mentorship, including free or low-cost sports programming. I believe that when we invest in children’s physical, emotional, and educational well-being, we change the trajectory of entire communities. This scholarship would allow me to continue balancing my studies, my family, and my volunteer coaching work without financial strain. More than that, it would validate that the time I spend on the soccer field, surrounded by laughter, lessons, and little cleats, is part of something bigger. Coaching has taught me that leadership isn’t always loud. Sometimes it sounds like a whistle at practice, a cheer from the sideline, or a quiet pep talk after a tough loss. It has taught me that small moments shape strong people. With continued support and education, I will keep building not just better players, but better people. That is the legacy I hope to leave, and the impact I hope to grow.

Being a first-generation college student is like building a bridge while walking across it. There is no roadmap waiting for me at home, no one I can call at midnight to explain how FAFSA works or how to talk to an academic advisor. I am the blueprint. I am the one learning how to speak a language my family has never spoken — the language of higher education, financial aid, college credits, and long-term goals. And though that journey has often felt overwhelming, it has never made me want to give up. I was raised by a single mother who worked long hours and still made time to teach me the value of education, even though she never had the opportunity to pursue it for herself. She showed me that books are more than assignments. They are keys. That mindset carried me through years of being the go-to person in my household. I translated bills, filled out forms, managed doctor’s appointments, and did my best to seem like I had it all together. But I didn’t. I was scared. I felt the pressure of being the first. And I felt the weight of knowing that if I failed, I wouldn’t just be disappointing myself. I would be setting the ceiling for everyone who came after me. That fear didn’t stop me. It fueled me. I went back to school after becoming a mother because I want my children to grow up knowing that it is never too late to invest in your dreams. I chose to study Legal Studies because I want to be a resource for families like mine who face legal systems they don’t understand. I dream of launching a nonprofit that offers free or low-cost legal education and advocacy to women and families in underserved communities. I want to create access where there was once only confusion. The road has not been smooth. I have studied through exhaustion, taken breaks to rock a crying toddler, and typed essays while standing in the kitchen. But I have never stopped moving forward. Every class I complete, every professor’s comment I learn from, and every scholarship I apply for is a brick in the foundation I am building. Not just for me, but for my children, and for everyone watching me do what no one in my family has done before. This scholarship would not just lighten the financial burden of school. It would affirm that the path I am carving matters. It would allow me to continue my education without sacrificing the stability I am trying to build at home. Most of all, it would help me keep a promise I made to myself the day I enrolled: that I would not just be the first in my family to go to college, but the first to walk across that graduation stage knowing I have changed the story for everyone who comes next.

My name is Keenan, and I am a first-generation college student, mother of two, and a lifelong advocate for women and families navigating systems that were never built for us. I currently reside in California and am pursuing my B.A. in Legal Studies with the goal of creating sustainable legal resources for underserved communities, especially Black and Brown women, mothers, and low-income families. My desire to give back has always been a guiding force in my life. As someone raised by a single mother in a working-class household, I learned early on what it means to sacrifice, stretch, and survive. We were often surrounded by love, but never by abundance. Despite that, I was taught to value service, integrity, and the power of speaking up for others. Before returning to school, I spent several years working in legal offices as a paralegal and legal clerk. Those roles gave me direct insight into how confusing, expensive, and emotionally draining legal systems can be, especially for those without resources or knowledge of their rights. I also volunteered with local nonprofits that provided legal aid, youth mentoring, and family advocacy services. These experiences confirmed that my long-term calling is not just to work in the legal field, but to transform access to it. My future goal is to launch a nonprofit legal support center that focuses on community outreach, free or low-cost legal guidance, and educational workshops. I want to bridge the gap between everyday people and the information they need to protect themselves, their families, and their futures. I believe that justice begins with understanding, and too many people are left out of that conversation. My nonprofit would also partner with local schools, shelters, and health organizations to provide culturally competent resources where they are needed most. Being a first-generation college student comes with pride, but also pressure. I carry not only my own dreams but the hopes of the women who raised me and the future I am building for my children. Returning to school after becoming a mother has meant adjusting every corner of my life, time, energy, finances, and even identity. It is not easy, but it is worth it. This scholarship would directly relieve the financial burden that makes it harder for people like me to stay the course. It would allow me to take on fewer side jobs, devote more focus to my studies, and invest time into community projects that move my mission forward. More than that, it would honor the kind of visionary woman Mireya was, someone who saw the potential in overlooked communities and worked to build real, lasting systems of support. Like Mireya, I believe in innovation as a tool for justice. I want to create systems that do not just work today but evolve with the needs of the people they serve. I want to approach the nonprofit world with both structure and soul, combining legal training with creativity, community insight, and empathy. Receiving this scholarship would not only help me reach my goals, it would align me with a legacy that mirrors my own purpose. I am not just pursuing a degree. I am building a foundation for impact, one that makes space for voices that have too often been left out of the conversation.

When I chose to return to college as a mother in her forties, I knew I would be juggling more than just coursework. What I did not fully anticipate was the mental and emotional weight that would come with chasing my career aspirations while also navigating grief, anxiety, and the quiet sacrifices that come with being the strong one for everyone else. I’m currently pursuing a B.A. in Legal Studies with the goal of advocating for women and families who are often overlooked or underserved by the legal system. My dream is to create a nonprofit legal resource center that focuses on accessible legal education, advocacy, and support for BIPOC women and mothers. But to build that dream, I had to face my own internal barriers first. Throughout my adult life, I have quietly battled depression and burnout. These experiences intensified when I left my career to become a full-time caregiver for my children while also caring for aging family members. Though I was proud to be there for my family, I often felt invisible and unsure of whether I could reclaim a part of myself that had long been buried under responsibility. When I made the decision to return to school, I was met with doubts from others and even louder ones from within. I had to learn how to silence the voice that told me I was too old, too far behind, or too emotionally tired to succeed. I began practicing small but powerful coping tools: daily journaling, mindful walks with my children, therapy sessions when I could afford them, and limiting my exposure to the noise of social media and comparison. Each quarter, I have chosen to face my fears instead of letting them define me. I have completed writing-intensive classes while my children napped in the next room. I have responded to professors’ feedback with humility and a willingness to improve. I have restructured my days around learning, parenting, and healing. Not because it was easy, but because it mattered too much to give up. The steps I have taken to move forward are not dramatic. They are steady. They include choosing self-compassion when I fall short, asking for help when I need it, and allowing my aspirations to evolve instead of shrink. I no longer expect perfection, but I do expect growth from myself. Adversity has taught me to be honest about my limits without giving up on my goals. I want to show my children that courage is not the absence of fear, but the decision to keep going anyway. I want them to see that their mother is not just someone who supports dreams, but someone who fights for her own. This scholarship would allow me to continue moving toward my degree without the weight of financial anxiety. More importantly, it would affirm that strength does not always roar. Sometimes, it looks like a mother opening a textbook after bedtime, or a woman choosing to return to herself after years of forgetting what she is capable of. Like Audra Dominguez, I have chosen bravery. Not because life has been easy, but because I refuse to let adversity be the final chapter. My story is still being written, and I plan to make it one worth remembering.

As a Black woman, mother, and returning college student, I understand how mental health challenges often go unseen, unsupported, and unaffordable, especially in BIPOC communities. I also know that healing should never be a luxury. My goal is to help change that by combining education, advocacy, and creative expression to make mental health care accessible to all. I am currently pursuing a B.A. in Legal Studies, and my long-term vision is to launch a nonprofit that blends culturally competent mental health resources with community-based support. I plan to partner with therapists, artists, and legal advocates to provide group therapy, trauma-informed workshops, and legal aid for navigating mental health systems. Services would be offered on a sliding scale or free of charge, depending on need. To reduce stigma, I also want to create a visual storytelling project that shares honest narratives about mental health from BIPOC voices. Art has the power to soften walls and open doors, and I believe it can bridge the emotional and cultural gap that often keeps people from seeking help. Access begins with trust, and trust is built when communities feel seen and respected. My contribution is to use my experience, education, and creativity to build safe spaces where mental wellness is treated not as a privilege, but as a right. I want to be part of a future where no one suffers in silence because of who they are or what they cannot afford.

Selected Paragraph from Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole: “Is it today that you are to appear before the grand inquisitor?” she asked Ignatius, looking up from the sink. “Oh, my God!” Ignatius bellowed, straining backward in his chair. “Do you think I would submit my being to the perversions of some modern psychologist? My psyche is not some bowling ball for some fool to stick his fingers into. The very idea!” “Well, I just thought maybe you might go talk to him.” “Never. I suspect that I am above his level of comprehension. In fact, I question the entire process. These incompetents who are sent out to diagnose the problems of people more profound than they. It is a divine comedy.” A Mind Out of Time: Close Reading Ignatius J. Reilly’s War on the Modern World John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces offers more than slapstick farce or Southern satire. At the center of this strange and brilliant novel is Ignatius J. Reilly, an eccentric, self-proclaimed intellectual battling the perceived degradation of modern society. He is both tragic and hilarious, a man desperately trying to preserve his medieval worldview in the face of contemporary culture. One paragraph in particular encapsulates his rebellion: Ignatius refuses to attend a meeting with a psychologist, declaring it an affront to his dignity. On the surface, this moment is comedic. But through close reading, the passage reveals deeper layers of social critique, character psychology, and existential resistance. The paragraph begins with Ignatius’s mother asking, “Is it today that you are to appear before the grand inquisitor?” Her choice of words is already loaded. By calling the psychologist the “grand inquisitor,” she frames the appointment as something ominous and authoritative. Whether she means to provoke Ignatius or simply parrot his language is unclear. What is certain is that this phrasing sets the tone for a conversation about power, identity, and resistance. Ignatius’s reaction is volcanic: “Oh, my God!” he bellows. His physical response, “straining backward in his chair,” adds visual drama to the emotional outburst. This moment is important not just for its comedy, but because it reinforces one of Ignatius’s core traits: his complete inability to engage with the world on its terms. Instead, he recoils, literally and figuratively, from anything that challenges his view of himself as a misunderstood genius. His metaphor for therapy is telling: “My psyche is not some bowling ball for some fool to stick his fingers into.” This grotesque imagery strips the psychologist of any professional respect and reduces him to a common fool violating something sacred. Ignatius frames his inner world as not only complex but inviolable. The image of fingers probing into a bowling ball, clumsy and invasive, implies violence to his carefully guarded sense of self. In his mind, psychology is not healing but desecration. When his mother gently suggests, “Well, I just thought maybe you might go talk to him,” Ignatius does not soften. His refusal, “Never. I suspect that I am above his level of comprehension,” elevates his disdain from emotional reaction to philosophical principle. This is where the passage becomes most revealing. Ignatius positions himself as a superior intellect, not simply resistant but categorically incompatible with modern psychological intervention. He does not merely reject therapy. He rejects the entire framework of understanding that psychology represents. This culminates in his most damning line: “In fact, I question the entire process. These incompetents who are sent out to diagnose the problems of people more profound than they. It is a divine comedy.” With these words, Ignatius casts himself in the role of a misunderstood savant. He is not merely above therapy; therapy itself is a cosmic joke. By invoking Dante’s Divine Comedy, Ignatius reimagines modern diagnosis as part of a farcical descent into a kind of contemporary Hell. In his view, the real disorder lies not within himself but within the society that dares to diagnose him. Taken in isolation, this paragraph showcases Toole’s unmatched gift for creating satire through voice. But when placed in the broader context of the novel, it reveals Ignatius as a deeply wounded figure. His rejection of therapy is not just comedic obstinance. It reflects a fear of vulnerability, a refusal to allow the modern world to define him. Ignatius clings to his medieval ideals, scholastic philosophy, theology, classical rhetoric, not because they are practical, but because they offer him an identity untouched by modern judgment. This close reading brings us face-to-face with Toole’s larger commentary: the alienation of the intellectual in a consumerist age. Ignatius is unemployed, obese, and living with his mother in New Orleans. He cannot adapt to the world around him, so he retreats into an imagined past. His tirades against pop culture, capitalism, and authority are not just pompous. They are desperate. The world no longer values the things Ignatius thinks matter most. Education has become instrumental rather than enlightening. Professional life is reduced to soulless labor. Therapy, in his eyes, is an extension of that mechanized world, a system that reduces people to diagnoses and treatments. By refusing therapy, Ignatius attempts to preserve his autonomy. He may be dysfunctional, but he is, in his mind, self-defined. His resistance is a last-ditch stand against a society that constantly tries to shrink people into categories, labels, and prescriptions. While his reasoning is flawed and his rhetoric exaggerated, there is a kind of tragic nobility in his refusal. He may be ridiculous, but he is not without principle. Toole’s novel forces us to ask: Is Ignatius mad, or is he reacting sanely to a world that no longer makes sense? That question resonates today. In an era of rampant mental health diagnosis, productivity culture, and digital surveillance, Ignatius’s resistance takes on new relevance. He is not advocating for ignorance. He is pleading for depth. He wants to be seen as more than a set of symptoms or a case file. He wants to be recognized as a full, complicated human being. This essay began with a single paragraph, but it reveals the heartbeat of the novel. Toole uses Ignatius’s voice to critique the flattening effects of modern life. Ignatius is an unreliable narrator of his own existence, but his resistance contains real insight. He reminds us that human dignity cannot be measured only by our ability to conform. Sometimes, resistance, no matter how absurd, is a form of self-preservation. To read this passage closely is to confront the contradictions of modernity. We believe in progress, but that progress often comes at the cost of individual nuance. We promote mental health, but too often ignore the social conditions that create mental distress. We celebrate education, but devalue deep, non-utilitarian thought. Ignatius, in all his chaotic glory, shines a light on these contradictions. He makes us laugh, but he also makes us look more closely at what we have come to accept as normal. In the end, A Confederacy of Dunces does not offer easy answers. It offers characters who challenge our assumptions, stories that stretch our understanding, and moments, like the one analyzed here, that blend absurdity with insight. Through Ignatius, Toole gives voice to the marginalized intellect, the eccentric observer, the person who refuses to play along. That voice, though often buried beneath satire, carries a profound question: What is sanity in a world that has lost its soul?

I want to build something that isn’t made of wood or steel. I want to build a bridge, one that connects everyday people, especially those from underrepresented communities to the legal knowledge and support they need but often cannot afford or access. With my degree in Legal Studies I am preparing to create space in a system that often feels closed off to the very people it was meant to protect. The justice system has always fascinated me, not because of its power, but because of its potential. Growing up, I saw people around me lose jobs, homes, and family stability because they didn’t understand their rights or have the resources to defend them. As I entered the legal field as a paralegal and legal records clerk, I began to see just how many barriers exist between the law and the people it serves. That experience gave me both a sense of purpose and a clear direction. I knew I wanted to be part of the solution. My goal is to build a nonprofit legal support center that focuses on legal education, advocacy, and low-cost resources for families, women, and individuals navigating the system without representation. I want to offer workshops on tenant rights, domestic legal protections, and family law basics. I want to build partnerships with law schools and legal professionals who are willing to volunteer their time and energy to guide others. More than anything, I want people to feel empowered and informed, not afraid or ashamed when facing legal challenges. This vision is rooted in my lived experience. I am a mother of two, returning to school in my 40s to complete a degree I once had to put on hold. I know what it feels like to start over, to feel behind, to worry about the cost of pursuing a dream. I also know what it feels like to grow stronger because of those struggles. My life has taught me resilience and empathy, and those qualities will guide every step of the work I hope to do in my community. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to move closer to that goal without carrying the weight of financial stress. It would support not just my education, but the foundation of something bigger: a service, a movement, and a legacy of support that I plan to leave behind. I am not just studying law. I am building a future where justice is no longer out of reach, but something people can see, understand, and use to protect themselves and their families. That’s the bridge I want to build.

I grew up watching a single Black mother turn survival into strength and struggle into stability. My mother wasn’t just a parent. She was the provider, the protector, the voice of reason, and the shoulder to cry on. She held down jobs she didn’t love, skipped meals when money was tight, and still made time to braid my hair and help with homework. Her resilience didn’t come with speeches or slogans. It came quietly, through action. That experience shaped me more than any classroom ever could. Our life was never picture-perfect. Rent was sometimes late, food was sometimes scarce, and holidays were sometimes lean. But my mother never let me feel less than. I didn't know we were struggling until I got older. She made life feel secure even when it wasn't. Watching her do it all alone taught me something foundational. Sacrifice and love often show up not in grand gestures but in the everyday grind of showing up, again and again, even when it’s hard. Growing up in that environment made me resourceful and observant. I learned to read the room, carry my weight, and anticipate needs without being asked. I learned how to make something out of nothing, and more importantly, how to make peace with things I couldn't control. That kind of upbringing gave me grit. It gave me a quiet confidence that I could face whatever life throws at me, because I’ve already seen what it looks like to keep going without a net. It also taught me empathy. My mother helped others when she had nothing to give. She listened without judgment. That stayed with me. Today, as a mother myself, I carry her lessons into how I raise my children, how I support my community, and how I approach the future I’m building. That future includes earning my B.A. in Legal Studies and working in a field where I can advocate for women and families, especially those facing the kinds of challenges I saw growing up. My lived experience makes me uniquely qualified to understand the struggles of others. I know what it means to be overlooked, under-supported, and underestimated. And I also know what it means to overcome all of that with grace. Being raised by a single mother gave me a deep respect for women who do it all, often without recognition. It shaped my values around independence, integrity, and compassion. And it fuels my drive to succeed, not just for myself, but for every girl who grew up like I did, wondering if she could ever break the cycle. This scholarship would be more than financial support. It would be an investment in a story that began with a single mother’s courage and continues with her daughter’s determination. I carry my mother’s legacy in every step I take toward my degree and every dream I chase for my own family. Her example is my foundation, and with the help of this scholarship, I plan to build something lasting on top of it.

One of the most pressing issues facing the criminal justice system today is the erosion of public trust, especially among marginalized communities. From racial disparities in policing to inconsistent sentencing outcomes, the justice system is often viewed not as a source of protection or fairness, but as something to be feared or mistrusted. This disconnect between the law and the people it serves undermines the very foundation of justice. If we hope to create a system that works for all, rebuilding that trust must be a top priority. My mission, both as a student and future legal professional, is to help restore that trust by advocating for transparency, accountability, and access. My journey into the criminal justice realm has been shaped by both personal values and hands-on experience. I’ve worked for several years as a paralegal and legal records clerk, primarily supporting defense attorneys. These roles gave me a front-row seat to the realities of the justice system - the good, the bad, and the deeply unjust. At a defense firm in San Diego, I assisted with trial preparation, reviewed case files, interviewed clients, and organized critical legal documentation. Often, I worked closely with individuals who felt like they were already guilty in the eyes of the system before they had the chance to be heard. This opened my eyes to the structural imbalances that disproportionately affect Black and Brown communities, as well as people without the financial resources to fight lengthy legal battles. These professional experiences taught me that legal work isn’t just paperwork. It is deeply human work. Every file represented a life, a family, and a story that deserved to be told fairly. They also showed me how vital it is to have compassionate and ethical professionals within the system who are willing to push for reforms, speak up for the unheard, and provide clarity to those navigating an overwhelming legal landscape. As I pursue my B.A. in Legal Studies at National University, I carry these lessons with me. My ultimate goal is to use my education and experience to become a legal advocate for families and individuals who feel ignored or mistreated by the system. Whether I end up working in defense, policy reform, or legal outreach, my approach will remain rooted in accessibility and community. I want to serve as a bridge between the law and the people, helping them understand their rights, navigate the system, and push for the changes we desperately need. To further that mission, I plan to support initiatives that demand greater transparency from law enforcement and the courts. This includes advocating for body cam access policies, pushing for independent oversight boards, and promoting alternative sentencing options that do not disproportionately impact low-income defendants. My time in defense taught me that many issues stem from lack of knowledge, rushed decisions, and unchecked authority. Bringing more sunlight into these processes can shift outcomes and perceptions alike. Looking ahead, I see my work experience as a solid foundation for a career that blends practical legal work with systemic reform. Having already worked within a legal firm, I understand the demands, the language, and the level of diligence the job requires. But more than that, I have seen where compassion and cultural understanding are often missing, and I am determined to bring those to the forefront. This scholarship would allow me to continue pursuing my education with more focus and less financial strain. It would also validate the journey I have taken so far, not just as a returning student and mother, but as someone who believes deeply in the power of a fair and functioning justice system. My work experience has given me insight. My education is giving me tools. And my future career will give me the platform to help restore what the system was always meant to provide: justice for all.

I am a 43-year-old mother of two and a proud returning college student pursuing my B.A. in Legal Studies. My journey here has been far from traditional, and that is what makes it meaningful. I am not just earning a degree. I am reclaiming my voice, rewriting my story, and paving a new path for my children and the communities I serve. I come from a family where college was not part of the conversation. As a child, I grew up in a home filled with instability, shaped by my father’s substance abuse and my mother’s verbal and physical abuse. I carried that trauma into adulthood, navigating life with anxiety, depression, and the constant feeling that higher education was something reserved for others. For a long time, I believed that survival was the best I could hope for. But I have always had a calling to serve, to advocate, and to speak up for those who are often unheard. I started working in the legal field as a file clerk and paralegal, where I saw firsthand how confusing and inaccessible the legal system can be for everyday people, especially those from marginalized communities. I knew I had more to give. I wanted to do more than support lawyers from behind a desk. I wanted to become one. Returning to college later in life, while raising children and managing the weight of past trauma, has been one of the hardest things I have ever done. But it has also been one of the most empowering. I am committed to using my education to build a career focused on public interest law and policy reform. I want to fight for families like mine, families who have been overlooked, underserved, and left behind by systems that were never designed with them in mind. I plan to use my legal training to address issues like housing insecurity, access to mental health resources, family law reform, and more equitable community support systems. My long-term goal is to create a nonprofit that provides legal education and advocacy for women and families dealing with trauma, poverty, and systemic injustice. I also want to continue raising awareness about mental health, especially in underserved communities where stigma still prevents people from seeking help. This scholarship would be more than financial assistance. It would be a bridge, allowing me to continue my education without placing further strain on my family. My husband is our sole provider while I attend school full-time and care for our children. Every dollar makes a difference in helping me stay focused and move forward without delay or interruption. More importantly, this scholarship would represent belief. Belief in the power of second chances. Belief in the potential of students who did not start their journey at 18. Belief in the idea that your past does not define your future, and that determination, when met with opportunity, can create real impact. My story is not typical, but it is powerful. And with your support, I will use it to create change, not only for myself and my family, but for the countless others who need someone to fight for their future too.

Books have always served as both a mirror and a map for me—a reflection of my lived experience and a guide toward the world I want to help create. One book that profoundly shaped my understanding of injustice and deepened my commitment to the legal field is The Color of Law by Richard Rothstein. This powerful work exposed the intentional policies that created and sustained racial segregation in the United States, not as the result of personal choices or market forces, but as the consequence of decades of deliberate government action. Reading Rothstein’s research illuminated the structural roots of inequality in a way that made me both angry and energized. I saw echoes of my own story in the pages. As a Black woman and mother who has faced housing instability, generational trauma, and limited access to legal protection, I realized just how many of the barriers in my life were not accidental. They were designed. And if they were designed, they can also be dismantled. That realization is what led me to return to college in my 40s to pursue a B.A. in Legal Studies. I’m not just seeking a degree. I’m seeking the tools to advocate for real change. I want to help build a legal system that centers equity, accountability, and healing. My experiences have shaped a vision for a more just society, and my education is the next step in making that vision a reality. Mental health has also been a major part of my journey. I grew up in a home marked by trauma. My father battled addiction and my mother was both verbally and physically abusive. I spent years managing anxiety and depression in silence, believing that strength meant endurance. Only later did I realize that true strength lies in healing, in asking for help, and in advocating for your own well-being. Returning to school while raising children and processing past trauma has not been easy. But it has made me deeply empathetic and resilient. I understand what it is like to fight internal battles while striving for a better life. This perspective informs how I connect with others, how I listen, and how I lead. I am passionate about destigmatizing mental health in the legal community and promoting trauma-informed practices in the justice system. I believe that the legal field must not only uphold laws but also support the people behind those laws. In my community, I have begun doing this work already. I have organized support circles for women to discuss mental health, housing rights, and access to resources. I served as chairperson of a local Parks and Recreation board to create safer public spaces for children and families. And in my own home, I am raising emotionally aware children who understand the value of fairness, compassion, and advocacy. This scholarship would ease the financial burden that comes with higher education and allow me to stay focused on what matters most: building a legal career rooted in service, equity, and transformation. I hope to work in public interest law or policy reform, helping families like mine find justice and stability, and working to undo the harm of discriminatory systems described in The Color of Law. I am not just studying the law to understand it. I am studying the law to change it.

Mental health is deeply important to me, not only as a student, but as a woman, a mother, and someone who has experienced the invisible weight that mental illness can carry. For many years, I didn’t have the words to describe what I was feeling. I grew up in a home marked by instability, where my father battled substance abuse and my mother was both verbally and physically abusive. There was no safe parent to turn to, no nurturing voice to help me make sense of the chaos. I learned early on to shrink myself to avoid conflict and internalized the belief that emotional pain was just a part of life. I didn’t understand that what I was carrying was chronic anxiety and unresolved trauma. I only knew that I felt unsafe, unseen, and constantly on edge. It wasn’t until adulthood that I began to understand the long-term effects of surviving that kind of environment. I spent years managing anxiety and depressive episodes in silence, believing that struggle was something to keep hidden, not something to seek help for. The stigma surrounding mental health, especially within the Black community, reinforced the idea that strength meant enduring instead of healing. As a returning college student in my 40s, pursuing a B.A. in Legal Studies, mental health has played a central role in my academic journey. Balancing schoolwork, parenting, marriage, and healing from childhood trauma is not easy. There are days I wrestle with self-doubt, emotional exhaustion, and the echoes of past wounds. But I’ve learned to honor my mental health as essential, not optional. Therapy, mindfulness, and a strong support system have helped me find stability. These tools have not only supported my academic success, but have made me a more intentional parent and a more compassionate advocate. My advocacy for mental health takes place in both private and public spaces. Within my home, I’m breaking generational cycles by raising emotionally aware children who are learning that it is safe to feel, express, and ask for help. In my community, I’ve created informal support circles for women, many of whom are mothers, to talk about mental health, share coping strategies, and simply be heard without judgment. These gatherings, whether over coffee or on a park bench, have become vital spaces of connection and healing. At school, I advocate through conversation, encouragement, and visibility. I speak openly about mental health, challenge stigma when I see it, and support classmates who may be silently struggling. By showing up authentically, I hope to make space for others to feel less alone in their own journeys. This scholarship is more than financial assistance. It is a recognition of the strength it takes to pursue healing while pursuing a degree. It affirms the courage it takes to keep going, even when carrying invisible scars. With this support, I will continue using my voice to normalize mental health conversations, uplift others, and change how we talk about emotional well-being. Mental health matters to me because I have lived through what happens when it is neglected, and I have experienced the freedom that comes when it is finally prioritized. I plan to continue advocating until others feel safe enough to heal too.

I didn’t always believe my story was one worth telling. For much of my life, I carried the weight of silence, the kind that comes from growing up in a home shaped by verbal and physical abuse. There was no instruction manual for how to navigate the emotional complexity of being a child in that environment. I learned to internalize pain, manage crisis, and survive with resilience. But survival is not the same as healing, and healing requires something I didn’t fully access until later in life: education, self-reflection, and purpose. Now, at 43 years old, I am pursuing my B.A. in Legal Studies with more determination and clarity than I have ever known. This path wasn’t linear. I left the workforce after working as a file clerk and paralegal to focus on raising my children and building a safe, loving home. Becoming a mother gave me new eyes. I began to see the cycles I was determined to break, for myself and for the two little people watching everything I do. I realized that going back to school was more than a personal ambition. It was an act of reclaiming my voice and choosing to lead by example. My life experiences have shaped every value I now hold dear. I believe in justice that is restorative, not punitive. I believe in compassion that reaches across barriers and systems that empower rather than oppress. And most importantly, I believe in the power of community. These values guide my career aspirations. I want to use the law as a tool for social change. I am especially committed to helping women and families who have experienced trauma, instability, or systemic neglect. Whether it’s navigating housing insecurity, domestic violence protection, or family law, I want to be a legal advocate who listens, uplifts, and stands in the gap for those who feel unseen. Community service isn’t a separate part of my life, it is woven into who I am. While living in my previous city, I served as the chairperson of the Parks and Recreation board, where I worked to create inclusive, accessible public spaces for families and youth. From leading board meetings to organizing community events, I gained experience in civic leadership and saw firsthand the impact of well-structured public programs. That experience strengthened my belief that positive change begins at the local level and deepened my commitment to service. Now, with formal legal education, I’ll be able to give back in ways that are informed, effective, and scalable. I envision starting a community-based legal resource program that bridges the gap between underserved families and the support systems they deserve. My education will give me the tools to make this vision real. This scholarship is more than financial support, it’s a vote of confidence. It represents belief in my potential and my mission. Receiving this assistance would ease the burden on my family and allow me to focus more fully on my studies and service. It would help me move one step closer to becoming the advocate I needed growing up, and the one I now strive to be for others. I may have come to higher education later in life, but I bring with me a lifetime of experience, empathy, and unwavering commitment. I am not starting over, I am building forward. And I am doing so not just for myself, but for my children, my community, and the many voices that still go unheard. My journey has not been easy, but it has been purposeful. And with this education and support, I plan to turn that purpose into impact.

I’m a 43-year-old mother of two young children, currently pursuing my B.A. in Legal Studies. Returning to school later in life was not part of the original plan, but it has become one of the most empowering decisions I’ve made. I stepped away from the workforce, where I previously worked as a file clerk and paralegal, to raise my children and focus on healing from a childhood shaped by my father’s substance abuse. Those early experiences, though painful, helped shape my voice, my empathy, and my understanding of how deeply legal and social systems impact families, especially women and children. As I continue my education, I carry with me a clear and personal mission: to use the law to serve women and families who are often overlooked, unheard, or unsupported. I’ve seen how difficult it is to navigate legal systems without proper representation or knowledge. I’ve also seen how generational trauma, economic hardship, and a lack of coordination between legal, medical, and social services can trap women in cycles that feel impossible to break. I want to be a bridge; not just between the law and the people it’s meant to protect, but also between the systems that too often work in isolation, leaving the most vulnerable behind. I believe the law can be a tool for justice, healing, and lasting change when it is used with compassion and lived experience. My goal is to advocate for legal solutions that reflect the real lives and needs of women, whether in family law, housing rights, protection from domestic violence, or support for mothers impacted by trauma and addiction. I want to help reform how services are delivered, ensuring they are coordinated, culturally sensitive, and truly accessible to those who need them most. In the long term, I hope to work in public interest law or legal policy, helping to shape a justice system that listens more carefully, responds more effectively, and works harder for the people it serves. I want my children to grow up knowing that their mother turned her pain into purpose. I want them to see that even when life takes unexpected turns, you can rise, rebuild, and create change, not just for yourself, but for others who are walking a similar path. I believe that meaningful change begins with one person choosing to care deeply enough to act, and I intend to be that person. Higher education is not just my personal goal. It is the foundation for the impact I intend to make in the world.

Growing up, my life was shaped by the invisible weight of my father’s substance abuse. While there were no bruises to prove the pain, the emotional impact of his addiction touched almost every part of my childhood. I learned early on how to shrink myself to avoid conflict, how to read the room for danger, and how to carry responsibilities that no child should have to bear. Substance abuse doesn’t just affect the person using, it pulls at the fabric of the entire family. And for Black women especially, these cycles of silence and survival often go unseen, unacknowledged, and unsupported. As a Black woman and mother now raising two children of my own, I’ve made it my mission to break these generational patterns. I returned to school in my 40s not just to earn a degree, but to reclaim my voice and use it in service of others. I’m currently pursuing a degree in Legal Studies because I believe that lasting change starts with policy, advocacy, and access. My personal experiences have given me insight into how disconnected our systems can be; legal, healthcare, education, social services and how that disconnect leaves too many women to fall through the cracks. My goal is to work at the intersection of policy and community care. I want to help design and implement policies that center the real, everyday needs of African American women impacted by substance abuse and domestic trauma. That includes improving the coordination between legal systems and community resources so that women are not just given a restraining order or a referral, but a full circle of support that includes housing, mental health care, childcare, and long-term stability. I want to help amplify the voices of women who are too often ignored in courtrooms, case files, and policy discussions. Higher education is not just a personal goal, it’s my tool for change. I want to use my legal training to advocate for more compassionate, culturally informed policies. I want to speak to women in ways I needed someone to speak to me when I was younger, not with judgment, but with understanding. And I want my children to see that healing is not only possible, it’s powerful. I didn’t choose the circumstances I was born into. But I am choosing what I do with them now. Through education, advocacy, and policy reform, I will fight to ensure that African American women no longer have to suffer in silence, and that future generations inherit something better than survival: they inherit hope, dignity, and a system that finally sees them.

My interest in legislative and policy-related work stems from a deep desire to help create more equitable systems, especially for families like mine who often struggle to navigate the complexities of education, childcare, and healthcare access. As a mother of two young children, a returning student, and someone with prior experience in the legal field, I’ve seen firsthand how decisions made by policymakers at every level of government can either alleviate or exacerbate the burdens carried by everyday people. I aspire to serve at the state level, where legislation has a direct and often immediate impact on communities. While federal policies provide broader frameworks, state governments control many aspects of daily life, such as school funding, healthcare programs, public safety, and social services. These policies affect people where they live and raise their families, which is why I believe meaningful change must begin at this level. State policymakers have the power to shape environments that either support or hinder a person’s ability to thrive. I want to be part of the group that makes those decisions with compassion, fairness, and real-world understanding. One issue I care deeply about is affordable and equitable childcare. For many families, childcare is not just a personal challenge, it’s a systemic barrier to opportunity. The rising cost of childcare, combined with the limited number of licensed providers, creates enormous stress for working parents, especially for women of color, who often face the dual pressures of economic instability and structural racism. These barriers not only affect the well-being of families but also have long-term economic consequences for communities. I would like to advocate for stronger state investment in childcare subsidies, accessible licensing pathways for new providers, and support programs that allow parents to pursue work or education without sacrificing the quality of care their children receive. I also believe that civil discourse plays a foundational role in shaping public policy. In today’s polarized climate, the ability to listen respectfully, engage in thoughtful debate, and collaborate across political differences is more important than ever. Civil discourse invites diverse perspectives to the table and builds trust between policymakers and the public. It reminds us that governance is not about winning arguments, it’s about solving problems. I hope to contribute to a political culture that values empathy, inclusion, and integrity, where people feel empowered to engage and where policy reflects the lived realities of those it is meant to serve.