The first time I walked onto the golf course, I knew I was the worst player there. Everyone else had years of experience, polished swings, and scores that seemed unreachable. I was a beginner in a sport that demands precision and mental toughness. To make it harder, I was a girl stepping into a space that often feels male-dominated, where confidence is assumed and weakness is exposed. Every practice felt like a test, but I showed up anyway. In the beginning, bravery was embarrassing. I was topping the ball, losing matches, and writing down “triple bogey”. I wondered if I belong. It’s difficult to persist when you feel like you are a let down. Yet, I made the decision to keep moving forward. I arrived early to practice. I stayed late to hit extra balls. I let myself be coached. I chose to be uncomfortable. I chose to believe that effort, even when unseen, matters. Golf is as mental as it is physical. When you are struggling, there is nowhere to hide. Every shot is yours, and every mistake echoes. I had to learn how to quiet self-doubt. Instead of replaying bad shots, I thought about the next. I stopped measuring success by comparison and started measuring it by growth. One stroke at a time. At the same time, I was navigating something invisible to people around me: I suffer from hemiplegic migraines; a rare and severe form of migraine that mimic stroke symptoms. During an episode, I experience temporary paralysis on one side of my body, vision disturbances, numbness, slurred speech, confusion, and a migraine. Even after an episode passes, the fatigue lingers. On the golf course, this condition affects my grip strength, coordination, balance, and endurance. There were tournaments where I played through lingering weakness, praying my hands would stay steady over a putt. There were practice days when simply walking eighteen holes felt overwhelming, when the sun and noise intensified symptoms, and when quitting would have been easier. Managing a chronic illness while competing taught me a deeper level of discipline. I had to prepare carefully - hydrating consistently, prioritizing rest, managing stress, and recognizing early warning signs; while still training at a high level. I learned to advocate for myself when I needed recovery and to push myself responsibly. Some days, success meant finishing a round. Hemiplegic migraines forced me to develop resilience physically and mentally. Being a girl in a male-dominated sport added pressure. I often felt pressure to prove that I deserved to be there. My presence was not symbolic, but competitive. Instead of shrinking, I let that pressure sharpen me. I embraced the strength it takes to compete in spaces where you are underestimated. Over time, I realized that my determination was my advantage. The transformation did not happen overnight. It was built through hundreds of range sessions, setbacks, and small breakthroughs. Eventually, the results reflected the work. I became a three-time regional qualifier. I won our conference tournament. I earned all-conference honors. As a beginner golfer who once struggled to break into the lineup, those accomplishments mean more than trophies. They represent the countless moments I chose not to quit. I started as the weakest player on the team. I battled self-doubt, physical setbacks, and the challenges of standing out in a sport where I felt outnumbered. I learned that bravery isn’t about immediate success. It’s about stepping forward, persisting when progress is slow, and trusting that consistent effort compounds over time. Golf taught me that being bad at something new is not a verdict - it’s an invitation. I accepted it.

I used to think bravery meant being good at something. Confident. Effortless. Naturally talented. Golf proved me wrong. The first time I stepped onto a course, I was terrible. My drives sliced into trees, my chips barely left the ground, and I dreaded keeping score because the numbers felt embarrassing. It would have been easy to quit. No one expects you to stick with something you’re bad at. But for some reason, I did. I decided that being bad at something wasn’t a reason to walk away - it was a reason to lean in. Golf humbled me in ways nothing else had. Improvement was slow and painfully visible. Every early morning practice, every range session in the cold, every round where I lost more balls than I could count forced me to confront the same question: was I willing to look foolish in order to grow? I learned that perseverance is less about dramatic moments of inspiration and more about quiet, daily discipline. It’s choosing to show up again. It’s listening to criticism without letting it define you. It’s understanding that progress hides beneath failure. Over time, something shifted. My swing became more consistent. My scores dropped. I stopped playing to avoid embarrassment and started playing to compete. The awards I eventually won meant more to me because of where I started. They weren’t proof of talent; they were proof of resilience. Golf taught me that mastery is built on a foundation of mistakes. More importantly, it taught me to be comfortable being uncomfortable. That lesson extends far beyond the course. It shapes how I approach my future as an obstetric sonographer. Ultrasound technology is a field that demands both technical precision and deep empathy. It requires mastering complex anatomy, understanding evolving medical technology, and communicating clearly with patients who may be experiencing joy, fear, or uncertainty; sometimes all at once. I know there will be moments in my education when I feel overwhelmed learning to interpret subtle variations on a screen, or anxious about making sure I capture images that physicians rely on for critical decisions. But golf has already prepared me for that discomfort. Being brave enough to be bad means I won’t shy away from challenges. I will ask questions. I will practice until my hands are steady and my eye is trained to notice details others might miss. I will accept feedback not as criticism, but as an opportunity to improve. Just as I once stood on the first tee unsure of myself, I will enter clinical settings ready to learn, knowing competence comes from commitment. As a sonographer, I hope to impact the world in quiet, meaningful ways. Early detection of complications can save lives. Clear communication can ease anxiety during vulnerable moments. A steady, compassionate presence can transform a clinical appointment into a memory of reassurance. While I may not always be the physician delivering diagnoses, I will play a crucial role in gathering the information that guides care and in supporting patients during pivotal milestones. Golf taught me that growth happens when we choose courage over comfort. It showed me that excellence is not reserved for the naturally gifted, but earned by those willing to persist through imperfection. As I pursue a career in obstetric sonography, I carry that lesson with me. I am not afraid to begin as a beginner. I am not afraid to struggle. Because I know now that the willingness to be bad at something new is often the first step toward becoming truly great - and toward making a difference in the lives of others.

Growing up I always knew I needed to bring my community together - it wasnt until my sophomore year of highschool I realized my community would be the closest during grief. In March of 2024 my close friend Kyleigh passed away in a tragic car accident, for moments after there was silence, and I felt as if my grief isolated me from everything I knew. I soon realized, I wasnt the only one grieving, my community was too. I found that Kyleigh had touched far more lives than I had noticed, and in that shared pain, I found an opportunity to create connection and bring people together. While 2024 was not an easy year by any means, there was a community that made it better. Later that year in September, a hurricane swept through Appalachia and destroyed my home town, and the towns surrounding it - one being completely wiped off the map. I was stuck in my home without food, water, and without knowing when I'd get out. We had 84 trees fall on our house, and water pouring down every second, yet while my family was struggling as soon as we got back on our feet we provided for others in need, we cooked homeade meals, ran food drives, organized clothing drives, and I volunteered to clean up a local farm that was hit. Once 2025 came around, I thought it was going to be my year, I hoped for the best and I grew my relationship with God and within myself. I had no idea the loss that was coming. In October of 2025 I lost my bestfriend, Brianna, in a head on collision with a dump truck. I have never seen a community come together quite like I did during that time. At her funeral, there wasn't an empty pew, there were so many people that showed up for her, even though she was not physically there, she still showed up and recordings of her voice preached and led the songs of her funeral. My point being, through mountains of grief and loss, there is light. There is community which comes together and creates a sense of belonging, and I learned that friendship doesn't always come from having all the answers, instead it often comes from the hardest moments. Grief has a way of breaking people apart, but it also can bring people together. I am proud I was able to transform my grief into healing and a connection throughout my community.

“Be brave enough to be bad at something new,” I told myself as I stepped up to hit a golf ball with a club I barely knew how to hold. I felt out of place among two state qualifiers who spoke a language of handicaps, birdies, and pars - terms that meant nothing to me. I left that first practice with blistered hands, a bruised ego, and confidence at an all-time low. Despite everything, I wanted to come back the next day. Golf was unlike any sport I had ever played. There was no cheering, fast-paced action, or teammates to rely on in moments of failure. I was used to energy on the sidelines, momentum fueled by cheers and communication. Golf was different. It thrived on silence. Every mistake was mine, and every improvement had to be earned. There was no hiding from failure - each swing was exposed, each miss undeniable. I never imagined that a sport defined by stillness would challenge me so deeply, yet that challenge drew me in. By the end of my first season, I qualified for regionals. That moment represented more than athletic progress - it marked a shift in how I viewed myself and my potential. I was no longer just trying to keep up; I was contributing to the team’s success. Golf taught me that growth comes from persistence, not perfection. The only score that truly mattered was my previous one, and improvement was measured by effort not results. Beyond competition, golf changed how I approach my goals and my role within my community. The discipline, patience, and accountability I developed on the course carried into other areas of my life. Golf taught me to show up consistently, even when progress felt slow, and to lead by example through quiet determination. These lessons inspired me to give back by mentoring younger players, encouraging new athletes to step outside their comfort zones, and showing them that it is okay to struggle while learning something new. I became someone others could look to - not because I was the best, but because I was willing to persevere. Golf also forced me to confront my greatest challenge: silence. In that stillness, I had to face my doubts, control my nerves, and reset after setbacks. I learned to pause, breathe, and focus on the next shot. In a world full of noise, pressure, and constant expectations, golf became my safe space. It taught me patience, self-reflection, and confidence rooted in resilience. Today, my goals extend far beyond the course, but golf continues to shape who I am becoming. It taught me that bravery is not aggression or fearlessness - it is the humility to begin something new, the courage to fail publicly, and the discipline to keep showing up. The silence no longer intimidates me; it centers me. And I carry that lesson with me as I pursue my future and strive to make a positive impact wherever I go.

I’ve always believed in God, but it wasn’t until March of 2024 I began to have a true relationship with Him. On March 2nd, 2024 one of my closest friends was in a car accident, I remember sitting at dinner and replaying my friends stories on snapchat “prayers for kyleigh”, I didn’t know what happened until later that night - she was in a car accident where her car wrapped around a tree, and she was in the ICU. The next day I was called to go to church, I had never been, I didn’t know what to expect, but I went. That day, the scripture read was 1 John 4:19 “We love because He first loved us” and directly after we sang “Reckless Love” - this was not only Kyleighs favorite verse, but also her favorite worship song. At this moment, I knew this was Gods plan to bring me closer to him; this moment diminished all of my doubts, and I knew he was real, and going to help me heal. I began studying the bible, and I set a goal for myself to read the bible in a year, and I did just that. I finished in October of this year shortly before my best friend passed away. October 13th, 2025 was a day I never imagined, I never thought losing my bestfriend was something that would happen twice. At 10:22 in the morning we were snapping, texting, and talking about the football game that upcoming Friday, at 1pm I was informed she had passed. Brianna crashed at 10:23 that morning, she was hit head on and passed immediately. For a second, I was angry at God, I didn’t understand how this could happen. These girls had a stronger faith than anyone I knew and now they were gone. I didn’t understand how they spent their lives being His servant and spreading the Gospel for this to be His plan for them. I soon realized that His plan was much larger than what I could see, and I knew I had to trust Him. I was so lost but this time I didn’t feel that calling from God to go to church, instead, I felt the need to spread His word. I began telling everyone about the sweet love of God, and everything He can do for your life. Having God in my life is a joy I cannot begin to explain, His love is so graceful and beautiful. He has taught me that no matter what I am going through, He will be there to guide me through it. He is the light in the darkness. Through all the pain and grief i’ve been through, He has been there. This leads me to my favorite verse, Isaiah 43:2 “When you feel like you’re drowning; remember you have a savior who walks on water”. Every time I felt like I was drowning, He helped me through it. Through every hardship - I learned to Trust in him, and the relationship I have with Him is beyond special and rewarding.

Attending a university and earning my bachelor’s degree is profoundly important to me and my family because it represents opportunity, resilience, and the fulfillment of a dream that extends beyond myself. As a first-generation college student, higher education is not something that was always accessible or guaranteed. My parents were unable to attend college due to financial barriers, and their sacrifices have shaped my determination to pursue the opportunities they never had. Growing up, I witnessed firsthand the challenges that come with limited access to higher education. My parents worked hard to provide for our family, often putting their own dreams aside so that I could have a better future. Their experiences taught me the value of perseverance and the importance of education as a pathway to stability and growth. Earning a bachelor’s degree is my way of honoring their sacrifices and transforming their hopes into reality. For me, attending a university is about more than academics; it is about growth, independence, and discovering my potential. College provides an environment where I can challenge myself intellectually, engage with diverse perspectives, and develop skills that will prepare me for a meaningful career in healthcare. Through higher education, I will gain not only knowledge, but also confidence, leadership abilities, and a stronger sense of purpose. These experiences will allow me to contribute positively to my community and serve as a role model for others who may doubt their ability to succeed in college. As a first-generation student, I understand the responsibility that comes with this opportunity. I am motivated to succeed not only for myself, but for my family and future generations. Earning my bachelor’s degree will demonstrate that financial hardship and lack of access do not define one’s potential. It will open doors to advanced education, professional opportunities, and long-term stability that would otherwise remain closed. Higher education also empowers me to give back. With a degree, I will be better equipped to serve my community through a career rooted in compassion and service. I hope to use my education to advocate for others, break cycles of limitation, and encourage younger students to pursue their own academic goals. By sharing my journey, I can help normalize college aspirations for families like mine. Ultimately, earning my bachelor’s degree is not just a personal milestone - it is a shared victory for my family. It represents hope, progress, and the belief that hard work can create lasting change. As a first-generation college student, I carry my family’s dreams with me, and I am committed to making the most of this opportunity by pursuing higher education with dedication, gratitude, and purpose.

Choosing to pursue a degree in healthcare, specifically in obstetric sonography, is rooted in my desire to serve others during some of the most meaningful and vulnerable moments of their lives. Healthcare is more than a profession to me; it is a calling that combines compassion, responsibility, and purpose. I have always been drawn to science and human biology, but it was my passion for helping people and making a tangible difference that solidified my decision to enter this field. Obstetric sonography stands out to me because it represents both hope and trust. Sonographers are often the first to share pivotal moments with expectant parents, from hearing a heartbeat to ensuring the health and development of a child. I am inspired by the role sonographers play in providing reassurance, education, and emotional support to patients. The ability to combine technical skill with compassionate patient care is what makes this profession so powerful to me. As a woman pursuing a career in healthcare, I am especially motivated to advocate for patient-centered care and empathy within the medical field. Women often serve as caregivers not only in their professions, but also within their families and communities. I hope to bring that same sense of understanding and attentiveness into my work. By actively listening to patients, respecting their concerns, and creating a supportive environment, I aim to ensure that individuals feel seen, heard, and valued throughout their care. I also hope to make a positive impact by serving as a role model for other young women, particularly first-generation college students, who may not see themselves represented in healthcare professions. My journey into higher education represents perseverance, dedication, and a commitment to growth. I want to show others that it is possible to overcome barriers, pursue advanced education, and build a meaningful career rooted in service. Beyond direct patient care, I plan to continue learning and growing within the healthcare field by staying current with medical advancements and advocating for quality, ethical care. Obstetric sonography requires precision, responsibility, and continual education - qualities I am eager to embrace. I understand the importance of trust placed in healthcare professionals, and I am committed to upholding that trust with integrity and compassion. Ultimately, my goal is to make a lasting difference by combining medical knowledge with genuine care. By pursuing a career in obstetric sonography, I hope to positively impact families, empower women, and contribute to a healthcare system that prioritizes empathy and excellence. As a woman in healthcare, I am motivated not only to succeed personally, but to uplift others and help create a more compassionate future for patients and providers alike.

At sixteen I sat front-row at my bestfriends funeral - a traumatic experience I didn't ever think I'd experience twice. Losing my two closest friends in separate car accidents just one year apart changed my life in ways I never imagined. Grief does not arrive quickly, it doesn't make sense, and it's not linear, for me, grief was anger, questions, an overwhelming sense of helplessness and constant "what ifs. The harsh fact that hurts the most: these accidents were preventable. One second is all it takes, one second of distracted driving and you're gone forever. Distracted driving is what killed my bestfriends. While nothing could ease the pain of these losses, I realized I could choose what I did with my grief - I chose to turn it into purpose. After the first loss of my beloved friend Kyleigh, I struggled to understand how one moment could permanently alter so many lives, and when the second accident occurred a year later with my bestfriend of 7 years - Brianna - the reality became impossible to ignore. These were not isolated tragedies, they were reminders of how common distracted driving is, and how easily it is dismissed. The reality is; no one thinks it will happen to them, but it can, and it will. I couldn't stay silent anymore, I felt a responsibility to speak up - not just for my friends, but for the families who never got a second chance. I began contributing to my community by spreading awareness about just how quick an accident can happen, especially among young drivers. I shared my story, my pain, and my experiences, even when it was painful because I knew personal stories resonate more deeply than statistics alone - if I could save one life, I was satisfied. I spoke to peers, used social media to advocate, and encouraged people to put their phones down. Every conversation, post, and reminder was my way of making sure their lives, and deaths, meant something beyond another loss. I started to see a real impact. My friends told me they stopped speeding, they stopped texting and driving because they realized they could be next. While these changes may seem minuscule, I learned that even saving one life is significant. This painful tragedy shaped who I am today, it taught me to show up for my community, I became more empathetic, vocal, and I began to advocate for causes that protect others. It taught me that leadership does not always come from positions of authority, but from courage and compassion. While my friends are no longer here, their lives made an impact on who I am becoming and every conversation I have about distracted driving. Awareness begins with honesty, If you choose to text and drive, it is not if it happens to you, it's when.

Furthering my education is important to me because it represents more than earning a degree, it represents growth, purpose, and the opportunity to turn my passion into a career. Education is the foundation that will allow me to make a meaningful impact, not only in my own life but also the lives of the future patients I will serve. I plan to major in Biology and then my certification in Obstetric Sonography. This path is important to me because it combines science, compassion, and human connection - this allows me to create a bond with each of my patients while working a job I align with. I am motivated by the idea of being present during some of the most vulnerable and important moments in a families life. Education also represents resilience to me; I have learned that growth is not linear nor promised , and often comes from perseverance, discipline, and the willingness to be uncomfortable. By pursuing higher education, I am choosing to invest in myself and in my future, knowing that the sacrifices I make now will allow me to create stability and purpose later in my life. I strive to be someone who sets goals and follows through on them, not only for my own success but also to lead as an example to others who may doubt what they are capable of. As a first generation college student I hope to leave a legacy of compassion, service, and positive influence. I want to be remembered as someone who used her education to help others feel seen, supported, and cared for - and to know the paths of those before them doesn’t have to be theirs. Whether it is reassuring a nervous patient, advocating for patient understanding, or simply showing kindness during vulnerable and emotional moments, I want my work to matter. I hope I can inspire other young adults, ones like myself, to pursue their goals despite how impossible or may feel, fear of obstacles, and to believe that education can be a powerful tool for change. Ultimately, furthering my education is about creating a future for myself where I can give back. I want my legacy to reflect dedication, empathy, and a commitment to making a difference. By continuing my education, I am taking an important step toward becoming not only a skilled professional, but also a person who leaves a lasting, positive impact on the lives of others.

“Be brave enough to be bad at something new”, I said to myself as I stepped up to hit a ball with a club I didn’t even know how to swing. I was an outcast among two state qualifiers, who spoke a language of “handicaps, birdies, and pars”. I was the extra Lego piece; I was there for a reason, but no one quite knew my purpose. I left that day with blistered hands, a hurt ego, and my confidence was at an all time low. Yet the strangest part about it all, I wanted to go back the next day.   Golf wasn’t like the sports I had played before, it was focused on silence. It wasn’t loud and fast paced like everything I knew. To me, noise meant energy, presence, and momentum. There were no teammates to rely on, no sideline cheering, no one to pass to if I messed up. In golf, pressure is subtle. Every error is my responsibility, improvements must be earned, and they don’t come easy. There’s no hiding; every swing is out in the open, every miss falls squarely on you. I never imagined that a sport defined by stillness would be the one to change my understanding of bravery, and yet the more I played, I began to realize the challenge didn’t deter me, it drew me in. By the end of my first season, I managed to qualify for regionals. It was a huge moment, my persistence and determination not only allowed me to make the team, but now I was actively contributing to our victories. It all clicked, and I realized it wasn’t just about my growth anymore, I was part of something much larger. My effort mattered, and it encouraged me to push myself further. I dedicated more time, effort, and concentration, and while golf was still a silent battle within myself, I remembered the only score I needed to beat was my previous one. Soon, I realized golf wasn’t just a game, it was a reflection of myself. I noticed that it wasn’t about competing with other players, it was about coming face to face with my biggest fear: Silence. I had to confront my own doubts, nerves, and impatience. My mind began to race, “Could I reset, make adjustments, and swing again?”, “Could I remain calm after a rough hole?” I had to learn that in golf, the silence is the distraction, to ignore my thoughts and concentrate on the next shot, time and time again. In a busy life, full of distractions, deadlines, and pressure to perform, golf is my safe space. Golf is quiet, it forces me to listen, not to others, but to myself. In the silence, it taught me to pause and think, take everything in, and to be patient. I learned that sometimes the only thing you can do is breathe, reset, and hit the ball again. Golf taught me to be brave, but not in the way bravery is perceived by the world, not with toughness, or aggression, but with the willingness to be uncomfortable—the humility of being bad at something new, and the discipline to keep showing up anyway. When I walk up to the tee box and hear nothing but the whistles of the wind and a faint clinking of a club in the distance, I feel at home. The silence doesn’t intimidate me anymore; it centers me. “Be brave enough to be bad at something new,” I say to anyone who underestimates what they’re capable of becoming.

“Be brave enough to be bad at something new”, I said to myself as I stepped up to hit a ball with a club I didn’t even know how to swing. I was an outcast among two state qualifiers, who spoke a language of “handicaps, birdies, and pars”. I was the extra Lego piece; I was there for a reason, but no one quite knew my purpose. I left that day with blistered hands, a hurt ego, and my confidence was at an all time low. Yet the strangest part about it all, I wanted to go back the next day.   Golf wasn’t like the sports I had played before, it was focused on silence. It wasn’t loud and fast paced like everything I knew. To me, noise meant energy, presence, and momentum. There were no teammates to rely on, no sideline cheering, no one to pass to if I messed up. In golf, pressure is subtle. Every error is my responsibility, improvements must be earned, and they don’t come easy. There’s no hiding; every swing is out in the open, every miss falls squarely on you. I never imagined that a sport defined by stillness would be the one to change my understanding of bravery, and yet the more I played, I began to realize the challenge didn’t deter me, it drew me in. By the end of my first season, I managed to qualify for regionals. It was a huge moment, my persistence and determination not only allowed me to make the team, but now I was actively contributing to our victories. It all clicked, and I realized it wasn’t just about my growth anymore, I was part of something much larger. My effort mattered, and it encouraged me to push myself further. I dedicated more time, effort, and concentration, and while golf was still a silent battle within myself, I remembered the only score I needed to beat was my previous one. Soon, I realized golf wasn’t just a game, it was a reflection of myself. I noticed that it wasn’t about competing with other players, it was about coming face to face with my biggest fear: Silence. I had to confront my own doubts, nerves, and impatience. My mind began to race, “Could I reset, make adjustments, and swing again?”, “Could I remain calm after a rough hole?” I had to learn that in golf, the silence is the distraction, to ignore my thoughts and concentrate on the next shot, time and time again. In a busy life, full of distractions, deadlines, and pressure to perform, golf is my safe space. Golf is quiet, it forces me to listen, not to others, but to myself. In the silence, it taught me to pause and think, take everything in, and to be patient. I learned that sometimes the only thing you can do is breathe, reset, and hit the ball again. Golf taught me to be brave, but not in the way bravery is perceived by the world, not with toughness, or aggression, but with the willingness to be uncomfortable—the humility of being bad at something new, and the discipline to keep showing up anyway. When I walk up to the tee box and hear nothing but the whistles of the wind and a faint clinking of a club in the distance, I feel at home. The silence doesn’t intimidate me anymore; it centers me. “Be brave enough to be bad at something new,” I say to anyone who underestimates what they’re capable of becoming.

At sixteen I sat front-row at my bestfriends funeral - a traumatic experience I didn’t ever think I’d experience twice. Losing my two closest friends in separate car accidents just one year apart changed my life in ways I never imagined. Grief does not arrive quickly, it doesn’t make sense, and it’s not linear, for me, grief was anger, questions, an overwhelming sense of helplessness and constant “what ifs”. The harsh fact that hurts the most: these accidents were preventable. One second is all it takes, one second of distracted driving and you’re gone forever. Distracted driving is what killed my bestfriends. While nothing could ease the pain of these losses, I realized I could choose what I did with my grief - I chose to turn it into purpose. After the first loss of my beloved friend Kyleigh, I struggled to understand how one moment could permanently alter so many lives, and when the second accident occurred a year later with my bestfriend of 7 years - Brianna - the reality became impossible to ignore. These were not isolated tragedies, they were reminders of how common distracted driving is, and how easily it is dismissed. The reality is; no one thinks it will happen to them, but it can, and it will. I couldn’t stay silent anymore, I felt a responsibility to speak up - not just for my friends, but for the families who never got a second chance. I began contributing to my community by spreading awareness about just how quick an accident can happen, especially among young drivers. I shared my story, my pain, and my experiences, even when it was painful because I knew personal stories resonate more deeply than statistics alone - if I could save one life, I was satisfied. I spoke to peers, used social media to advocate, and encouraged people to put their phones down. Every conversation, post, and reminder was my way of making sure their lives, and deaths, meant something beyond another loss. I started to see a real impact. My friends told me they stopped speeding, they stopped texting and driving because they realized they could be next. While these changes may seem minuscule, I learned that even saving one life is significant. This painful tragedy shaped who I am today, it taught me to show up for my community, I became more empathetic, vocal, and I began to advocate for causes that protect others. It taught me that leadership does not always come from positions of authority, but from courage and compassion. While my friends are no longer here, their lives made an impact on who I am becoming and every conversation I have about distracted driving. Awareness begins with honesty, If you choose to text and drive, it is not if it happens to you, it’s when.