College is where my creative instincts meet professional ambition. For years, I've made Gacha content as a hobby—curating ensemble scenes, scripting musical arcs, and blending genre logic with emotional payoff. It started as play, but it became a practice: a way to rehearse storytelling, choreography, and editorial clarity. Now, college marks the moment I take that discipline seriously—not just as a creator, but as an actress, a dancer, and a student editor. It's a turning point where my office becomes a rehearsal space for something bigger. I'm not just experimenting anymore; I'm preparing. College means stepping into a world where my passions are sharpened by training, collaboration, and critique. It's the next act in a story I've been scripting for years—one where I bring my ensemble energy to the stage, studio, and page with purpose. This is where my creative life becomes my professional path. I'm preparing to transfer to the University of Texas at Austin next fall to earn my Bachelor of Arts in Theatre and Dance, with a minor in Radio-Television-Film. This program aligns perfectly with my creative goals: developing as a performer while gaining the production and storytelling skills needed to build a media franchise. My long-term vision centers on 25 Days of Christmas, a collection of related media derived from my original two-season Gacha series of the same name. From that foundation, I plan to produce a spin-off series, an Oscar-style award show honoring the musical finales of both seasons, Gacha music videos that spotlight specific characters and their dynamics, and a short film based on the silent open scene Warm Enough from Victorious: A Christmas Gacha Musical. At UT Austin, I'll gain access to advanced acting, dance, and media production training that will help me expand this franchise with clarity, emotional depth, and ensemble energy. Through my Associate of Arts in Dance and Drama at Austin Community College (ACC), I've built a foundation I'm ready to expand at UT Austin. My credits will transfer directly into major-specific training, where I'll first take Stage Movement at ACC to strengthen physical expression before I take Acting II and III post-graduation. These courses will help me refine my emotional range, ensemble presence, and on-screen performance skills—essential for both live theatre and my Gacha projects. In dance, I'll advance to intermediate levels in ballet, modern, and jazz, continuing the genre-aligned practice I've ritualized through daily practice. I also plan to explore additional styles through electives that broaden my movement vocabulary and support my choreographic instincts. Each class is part of a larger rehearsal arc—one that prepares me to grow as a performer, creator, and collaborator. This preparation isn't just academic; it's a strategic transition into the next act of my artistic and professional journey. This scholarship would directly support the goals I've outlined—helping me build my "25 Days of Christmas" media franchise and pursue advanced training in acting and dance at UT Austin to finish off my bachelor's degree. As I prepare to transition from community college to university, I'm navigating financial recovery after the Fourth of July flooding that impacted my move-in day. The scholarship would ease the cost of attendance (COA), submission fees, and creative tools that are essential to my growth as a performer and producer. More than financial support, it'd be an affirmation of the work I've done and the vision I'm ready to expand. I'm embarking on a new journey where professional practice transforms my rehearsal rituals and opportunity sharpens my creative instincts. This scholarship would help me step into that space with clarity, confidence, and the ensemble energy that always defines my work.

My interest in the arts didn't begin with a spotlight—it began with scheduling conflicts. I took my first theatre class in sixth grade, but it wasn't until my final year of middle school that I truly stepped into the world of performance. STAAR results often replaced my electives with academic classes like Applied Reading and Study Skills, delaying my first dance class until eighth grade. Still, I held onto the rhythm. Theatre and dance became more than subjects—they became survival, storytelling, and self-expression. Arts education taught me how to shape chaos into choreography and how to locate my voice in movement, ensemble, and editorial clarity. School stages and studio floors became the first spaces where I learned to listen, move, and collaborate. In sixth grade, theatre introduced me to ensemble storytelling—how a cast becomes a chorus of voices, and how blocking, timing, and character choices shape a scene's emotional arc. Two years later, I finally joined my first dance class, where movement became its own kind of language. Even then, I was drawn to structure: the way choreography balanced chaos and control, and how genre shaped both performance and interpretation. These early experiences taught me that the arts weren’t just about expression—they were about discipline, collaboration, and emotional clarity. Whether rehearsing a scene or refining a dance routine, I began to understand how performance could hold memory, meaning, and legacy. That realization never left me. Three mentors helped refine my artistic instincts: Lindy Foster (now Hanson), Kelly Mabry, and Nathan Tran. Ms. Foster, who taught me Dance III and IV, emphasized proper technique across all styles—her teaching was grounded in precision, making sure every movement had intention and control. Mrs. Mabry, also my Dance IV teacher, encouraged joy in the process—her approach was about having fun and not overthinking the sequence of movements, which helped me trust my instincts. In Theatre Production IV, Mr. Tran balanced humor with seriousness; he knew when to joke and when to be firm, much like my version of Mr. Sikowitz in season 1 of my Gacha skit series 25 Days of Christmas. Each of them shaped my artistic voice, helping me grow as both a performer and a storyteller. Over time, I've learned that my artistic voice isn’t limited to one type of art—it thrives across disciplines and forms. In the performing arts, I express myself through acting and dance, where emotion and movement intertwine to tell stories that resonate. In the visual arts, I've found rhythm as student editor of A Collaborative Culture, ACC's digital magazine that amplifies student voices. I manage its social media presence with intentionality and visual awareness, curating content that celebrates creativity, community, and collaboration. Arts education gave me tools to navigate both worlds: to honor structure while embracing spontaneity, and to treat every project—whether a performance or a post—as a chance to build a legacy. My evolution as an artist is ongoing, for the belief that expression takes many forms that deserve care. As I continue shaping my artistic path, I carry with me the lessons of ensemble, genre discipline, and editorial care. Whether I'm curating a post, choreographing a moment, or refining a narrative, I treat each act as part of a larger legacy—one built on collaboration, reflection, and creative evolution. My work honors the chaos and boundaries that make art meaningful, and I strive to spotlight voices, stories, and rituals that deserve to be remembered and celebrated. With every performance and publication for the magazine, I deepen my commitment to storytelling that resonates. I'm not just creating—I'm archiving, amplifying, and building something enduring and thoughtfully made.

For most of my life, I've been quiet about my mental health. I've felt the weight of burnout, anxiety, and emotional exhaustion—but rarely named it aloud. I worried that speaking up might make me seem weak or dramatic. That changed last October, when my first article for A Collaborative Culture, titled "Mental Health First: A Student's Perspective," was published on World Mental Health Day. For the first time, I wrote publicly about how I care for my mental health as a student. I didn't just share strategies; I shared my story. That moment marked a shift from silence to visibility. When readers responded with gratitude, I realized storytelling could be a tool for destigmatization. I wasn't just writing for myself—I was writing for every student who felt like they had to stay silent too. Since then, I've continued using narrative as advocacy. I now serve as the Student Voices Editor for A Collaborative Culture, Austin Community College's digital magazine. In this role, I curate and manage our social media presence, spotlighting stories that foster emotional clarity, creative resilience, and student connection. My caption for the summer launch read, "I look forward to amplifying voices, celebrating creativity, and fostering connection across our campus community." That wasn't just a welcome—it was a mission statement. As both a contributor and student editor, I've worked to normalize conversations around mental health. In "Mental Health First: A Student's Perspective," I outlined five strategies for prioritizing wellness, including treating academics like a full-time job and building a support system. I wrote with honesty and structure, hoping to offer students a framework that felt both practical and compassionate. Publishing that piece on World Mental Health Day was intentional—it was my way of saying, "We’re allowed to talk about this." It was also the first time I saw my vulnerability reflected back as strength, not weakness. In my second article, "The Pros and Cons of a 9-to-5 School Schedule," I explored how structure can both empower and exhaust students depending on their circumstances. I examined how routine can support mental clarity, but also how rigidity can heighten stress for students juggling multiple responsibilities. That piece wasn't just about time management—it was about emotional sustainability. It asked: How do we build systems that support—not strain—student wellness? Through both articles, I've learned that destigmatization isn't always loud. Oftentimes, it's quiet, methodical, and deeply personal. As I prepare to transfer to UT Austin in Fall 2026, I plan to expand this work across stage, screen, and digital platforms. I want to create performances that center emotional truth, curate publications that elevate marginalized voices, and build spaces where students feel seen, supported, and safe. I don't just want to survive college—I want to help reshape it. I've learned that advocacy can start with a single sentence, a single story, or a single post. And I've learned that when we speak with clarity, we invite others to do the same. The resolution was real, but so is my ongoing work to ensure students like me aren't left behind.

It began around the halfway point of the summer semester—the same week I was moving. I was balancing boxes, class deadlines, and the quiet panic of realizing my tuition hold hadn't been lifted. I'd already paid, already submitted documents, and already followed instructions. But the system didn't reflect that. As I unpacked my life in a new city, I found myself repacking the same information over and over—proof of payment, scholarship breakdowns, screenshots, and timelines. What should've been a simple update became a full-scale advocacy effort. The timing couldn't have been worse. I was in the middle of a mid-semester slump—creatively drained, academically stretched, and emotionally frayed. I was scripting scenes for my musical episode in my Gacha skit series, editing submissions for ACC's student magazine, and trying to stay focused on my goals. But the tuition hold loomed. It wasn't just a logistical issue—it felt like a threat to everything I'd built. I needed to register for Beginning Jazz to stay on track for graduation. I needed clear understanding to continue moving forward. And I needed the system to see me not just as a student in crisis, but as a student in motion. So I treated it like a case—not a legal one, but a personal one. I built a folder with five email threads, organized every document, and proposed four solutions: a chancellor-facilitated payment plan, a registration override, an emergency fund request, and a tuition appeal deferral. I framed my situation clearly, respectfully, and with precision. I wasn't asking for special treatment—I was asking for responsiveness. I knew I wasn't the only student facing this kind of barrier. The resolution was real—but so is my ongoing work to ensure students like me aren't left behind. Eventually, the hold was lifted. My payment was processed, my registration confirmed, and my plan activated. But the work isn't over. I'm entering my final semester at Austin Community College, preparing to transfer to UT Austin in August 2026. I'm still navigating financial aid systems, scholarship deadlines, and the emotional labor of being both a student and an advocate. I cleared the path for myself—and now I’m working to keep it open for others. I didn't just endure a broken system—I challenged it with guts, grace, and precision. I turned a moment of confusion into a blueprint for change. I learned that advocacy isn't always loud—it's often quiet, methodical, and deeply personal. I'm still building my path, but now I know how to pave it with clarity. I speak with purpose, organize with intention, and lead with resilience. That's what it means to be a champion of a new path—not just surviving the system but reshaping it for those who come next.

"When am I gonna stop being great for my age and just start being good?" Olivia Rodrigo's lyric from Teenage Dream stayed in my mind as I entered nineteen, my last year as a teenager. For many years, people described me as "wise beyond my years," "great for my age," and "quietly misunderstood." At first, I felt proud of those labels. Over time, I realized they kept me tied to my age instead of my abilities. I was not only a promising student or a young artist; I was a person actively building a life and a legacy. At nineteen, I was still young, but others expected me to have answers. Although I was still growing, people already measured my progress. That contrast made the year a turning point in my life. During that year, I started asking new questions about who I wanted to become. Creatively, I'm a Gacha creator who makes videos using character presets and storytelling tools. My current project is my 25 Days of Christmas Gacha skit series. It's divided into two seasons inspired by my favorite childhood shows: Victorious and Phineas and Ferb. This project honors the stories that shaped me while reimagining them through my style. Professionally, I'm an actress, a dancer, and a student editor. I perform, choreograph, and edit scripts with emotional clarity and precision. Balancing my creative passion with my professional discipline has taught me to manage my time carefully, protect my voice, and work with purpose. My teenage years taught me how to fight for my education and my voice. At nineteen, I learned to take full ownership of both my education and my voice. Even with these achievements, I sometimes questioned whether the world had already seen my greatest work. I feared that my early accomplishments might be my peak, that applause was for my age rather than my ability, and that being "quietly misunderstood" felt safer than being fully seen. Olivia's lyrics expressed this fear clearly. It also reminded me that growing up means more than gaining wisdom—it requires letting go of the pressure to be "exceptional" only because of youth. As I reflected on this, I felt a shift in my mindset. I began to value the steady strength of being perfect because of my skills and choices, not simply because I was young. Now I understand that the best parts of me are still ahead. I'm no longer the "pretty young thing" to others; I'm a woman with determination and guts. I build worlds on stage and off stage. I turn personal challenges into meaningful stories. I create, advocate, and endure. My artistry is about precision, not precocity. My advocacy is about reshaping systems, not just surviving them. I speak with clarity, collaborate with purpose, and trust my instincts. The GUTS scholarship is more than financial support; it represents recognition of my growth and belief in my continued potential. I'm still growing, still creating, and still working toward being the best I can be. When I blew out my birthday candles, I marked the end of my teenage years and the start of my life as a fully self-defined artist. I was no longer concerned about aging out of a narrative created by others. I was writing my own story—one with guts, grace, and growth. It's a story where I'm not only surviving but also building something extraordinary. I'm ready for what comes next.

I'm a Dance and Drama major at Austin Community College, graduating from ACC in Fall 2025 and transferring to UT Austin in August 2026. My passion lies in storytelling as a form of healing—whether through acting, dance, or editorial work. I believe intentional narrative builds empathy, fosters connection, and transforms both the self and community. As student editor of A Collaborative Culture, ACC's digital magazine, I curate content and manage social media to spotlight student creativity and resilience. My editorial work emphasizes collaboration and creates space for emotional clarity across campus. I approach every post as a moment of connection—an invitation for others to feel seen and valued. My visual and performing arts background deepens this mission. As an actress, a dancer, and a student editor, I use dialogue, movement, and storytelling to celebrate joy and build bridges across difference—each medium offering its own path toward healing and connection. I often integrate academic milestones into my creative projects, transforming personal challenges into narrative breakthroughs resonating far beyond the screen or stage. I envision expanding this healing-centered storytelling into future projects—across stage, screen, and digital platforms. Whether acting, dancing, or doing editorial work, my commitment remains to create spaces that empower others to shape their narratives. This scholarship would sustain my academic and creative momentum. It celebrates the healing work I started and drives the collaborative, intentional storytelling I'll carry forward. By supporting my journey, it invests in art that seeks not only to entertain but also to inspire lasting change.

Being a college student, I've realized that mental health is essential, not a choice. It shapes how I show up in the classroom, how I process feedback in rehearsal, how I connect with peers, and how I dream about the future I'm building. It wasn't a smooth realization. I had to go through a period of real strain before I began to notice what my body and mind had been quietly showing me. During my second semester at Austin Community College (ACC), I experienced severe academic burnout. I was a full-time student balancing demanding classes, assignments, and the unspoken pressure to constantly perform at a high level. At first, I responded by pushing harder and staying quiet. But as the exhaustion deepened, I realized that ignoring my well-being wouldn't help me succeed—it'd only break me down further. That's when I reached out to an ACC mental health counselor. Through our counseling sessions, I began to unpack that pressure and build new strategies to navigate school life with more care and intention. One of the most transformative shifts I made during that time was learning to treat school like a 9-to-5 job. I created structured routines with defined work hours, breaks between emotionally demanding tasks, and boundaries that allowed me to recover. It wasn't about doing less—it was about doing better, with balance. That framework helped me re-engage with my academic and artistic work in a sustainable way. Mental health became not just a personal necessity but a lens I used to approach everything: my schedule, my relationships, and my creative growth. As I began to heal, I felt compelled to speak out—first through writing, then through action. In October 2024, I published my first article, "Mental Health First: A Student's Perspective," with A Collaborative Culture, a newsletter hosted by El Centro at ACC Riverside. That piece resonated deeply with students, faculty, and staff members across the campus. In the weeks following, I received messages from peers who finally felt seen and from instructors who appreciated someone naming the silent struggle so many students carry. The article's reach led to an exciting new opportunity: I was invited to join A Collaborative Culture as a student editor, where I now focus on social media content creation. In this role, I help amplify student stories through visual and digital storytelling—creating accessible, emotionally resonant content for platforms that students engage with every day. From curating Instagram posts that celebrate student resilience to producing short-form content that highlights cultural events and mental health resources, I use social media as an extension of my advocacy. I want students scrolling between classes to feel seen, reminded, and supported—even in the smallest moments. My writing journey also continued. In April 2025, during my first sophomore semester, I published "The Pros and Cons of a 9-to-5 School Schedule," expanding on the very structure that helped me recover. The final essay in my series, "From Self to Society: Accenting Personal Growth," will release in Fall 2025—just before I graduate and transfer to a four-year institution. What began as survival has become a steady, meaningful platform for change. Today, whether I'm performing, writing, editing, or simply listening, I lead with the belief that mental health advocacy happens every day—in visible work and quiet choices. Prioritizing wellness gave me back my voice. Now I use it to help others find their own.

During my second semester at Austin Community College (ACC), I faced an unexpected challenge. The academic burnout I'd tried to ignore finally caught up with me. As a full-time student in demanding courses, I constantly pressured myself to succeed—every class, every assignment, every moment. What started as manageable stress turned into daily mental and emotional exhaustion. I kept pretending everything was fine, but eventually, I couldn't stay silent anymore. That's when I made a choice that changed both my academic path and my personal well-being: I reached out to an ACC mental health counselor. In mental health counseling, I began to unpack the pressure I had been carrying. I didn't just talk through what I was feeling—I started rebuilding my habits and mindset. One of the most helpful changes was learning to treat school like a 9-to-5 job. That idea gave me a new way to manage my time, energy, and workload. I built routines that included clear working hours, intentional breaks, and recovery time after long or emotional days. This structure didn't just help me avoid future academic burnout—it gave me the clarity and space to fully re-engage with my studies. I realized success doesn't mean pushing yourself past every limit. It means knowing when to pause, breathe, and reset. As I found more balance, I felt a growing need to share what I'd learned. In October 2024, during my final freshman semester, I published my first article: "Mental Health First: A Student’s Perspective." I submitted it to A Collaborative Culture, a newsletter founded by El Centro at the Riverside Campus. The response was stronger than I expected, as students reached out to say they felt seen, while faculty and staff members thanked me for starting an important conversation. Encouraged by that momentum, I kept going. In April 2025, during my first sophomore semester, I published a second article: "The Pros and Cons of a 9-to-5 School Schedule." I expanded on the method that helped me heal, sharing how it worked, what needed adjusting, and how other students could adapt it for themselves. The final piece in the series, "From Self to Society: Accenting Personal Growth," is scheduled for release in Fall 2025—just before I graduate and transfer to a four-year institution. Through this experience, I came to see writing not just as reflection but as advocacy. My articles weren't only about my story—they helped others feel less alone in theirs. I learned that being open about mental health doesn't make you weak. In fact, it's one of the strongest things you can do. Vulnerability builds connection. It opens space for healing, support, and change. Now, whether I'm getting into character, rehearsing dance choreography, working on my creative projects, or applying for scholarships like this one, I carry those lessons with me. Taking care of my physical, mental, and emotional health isn't separate from success—it's what makes success possible. I'm not just building a career, as I'm building a life rooted in clarity, balance, and resilience. Thus, I'm committed to helping others feel strong enough to do the same.

Losing my older sister to a drug overdose was a heartbreak I never saw coming. As the one-year anniversary of her passing approaches, the grief still feels raw. But more than anything, it compels me to act. I'm committed to using my education and voice to advocate for African-American women affected by substance abuse and domestic violence. Witnessing how addiction can consume a life and fracture a family has made me deeply aware of the urgent need for better care, coordinated support, and community-based resources. My sister's experience wasn't an isolated one—it reflected a larger, deeply rooted problem. African-American women face systemic barriers that make it harder to access mental health care and substance abuse treatment. Stigmas around addiction, especially in communities of color, often lead to silence rather than support. These conditions trap women in unsafe environments with little access to resources, protection, or escape. Many also suffer domestic violence without the means to leave—lacking financial stability, community backing, or access to social services. The cycle becomes generational, leaving enduring impacts on families and communities. Seeing these struggles firsthand has shaped my desire to create lasting change through education, storytelling, and the arts. As I prepare to become the student editor of ACC's A Collaborative Culture magazine, I understand how powerful storytelling can be. It allows us to uplift voices that are too often silenced and bring attention to overlooked issues. My content will aim to reach readers of all backgrounds—especially African-American women—by centering topics like mental health, education reform, and systemic injustice. I believe journalism is a catalyst for both awareness and change. Through this platform, I want to challenge harmful narratives and help amplify the voices that deserve to be heard. At the same time, I'm pursuing an Associate of Arts Degree in Dance and Drama to transfer to UT Austin for my Bachelor of Arts Degree in Theatre and Dance because I believe art is just as vital to social change. Performance has long served as a meaningful tool for expressing truth, fostering healing, and sparking important dialogue. Whether through theatre, movement, or community-driven productions, I aim to create artistic spaces where audiences can engage with the lived experiences of African-American women. These stories can be difficult to tell, but sharing them encourages understanding, thoughtful consideration, and meaningful change. Dance and drama are more than performance—they're vehicles for justice, healing, and connection. I carry my sister's memory with me every day, and it fuels both my personal journey and professional goals. Her story, and those of countless others, deserve to be acknowledged, understood, and addressed. Through journalism and the arts, I want to help transform pain into purpose and silence into action. I want to raise awareness and help build real solutions for the women and communities most affected. By combining advocacy, education, media, and performance, I plan to confront the barriers that too often go unchallenged—and to honor my sister by working toward a world where stories like hers lead to change. We must confront these barriers, uplift the voices of African-American women, and build the systemic change necessary to turn their stories from pain into progress.