I was in fourth grade, and she was in third, the day Amber moved into the house across the street. From that moment on, we were inseparable. We weren’t bound by blood, but by something even stronger — time, love, memories, laughter. She was my sister. My person. My always. I didn't know she was sick. I didn’t know the seizures could come so suddenly, so violently. One day, she was laughing. The next, she was gone — a seizure sent her into cardiac arrest right across the street from the home I grew up in. My entire childhood, that street was a place of comfort. Now it’s a place I can hardly look at without remembering the ambulance, the flashing lights, the silence after. Her loss split me open. I didn't process it, not really. I still haven't. I push people away now, not because I don’t care, but because I do. I’m terrified of ever letting someone that close again. The grief lives in me. Sometimes loudly, sometimes in whispers. It doesn’t go away. It waits. Amber left behind two younger brothers — sweet, silly, bright boys. One is on the autism spectrum, and it’s begun to show up more in his school life. I babysit them often. They feel like mine — like the little brothers me my sister and never had. I’m not their mom or their sister, but I am there. Help when her parents need it. I show up to celebrate them. I do what I can. I have to. It’s my way of keeping Amber alive — showing up for who she loved most. Amber also has a baby sister now, Nazeena. She’s the most beautiful little thing — soft, brown skin just like Amber’s, eyes wide with wonder. She’s my god-sister now. Holding her feels like touching a second chance. I once visited Amber, and she offered to make me ramen. Not the microwave kind. She cracked the egg, stirred it right into the pan with a fork, and grinned like she was teaching me magic. She was always like that — a spark in motion. In high school, I wrote a poem called “The Things I Carry.” It still holds. I’m a lady of many bags, Bags, I’ve come to believe, complete me. From my purse to my track bag, My book bag to my duffel bag. My tea bags to eye bags from the raft of restless nights. I carry two planners… not for organization, but for control. I’m scared of the unknown. I carry a tattered orange scrunchie — Amber’s spirit. She said we’d go to high school together. Now, it’s just me and the scrunchie. In my wallet is a picture of my older sister — A reminder that I am never alone. I carry advice, memories, and love. What I face today won’t erase who I come from. I am grounded, supported, and loved forevermore. I didn’t plan to grow up with grief, but here I am — still growing, grieving, loving. It doesn’t end. It becomes part of the story you carry, and part of how you love what’s left. This scholarship wouldn’t just honor Amber. It would help me keep showing up — for her siblings, for our story, for the dreams she didn’t get to chase. I was always so angry that a spirit so bright and deserving was taken. I wanted to quit. But look at me now. I’ll carry that honor, and her, for the rest of my life. I'll live the way she always wanted me to be bold and unapologetic.

Orange and green have colored my dreams for as long as I can remember. My dad is a proud Florida A&M Rattler, and even before I fully understood what that meant, I felt it pulling me in. FAMU feels like home before I’ve even started—it’s where I see my future, my people, and my purpose. It’s not just a college to me—it’s the dream I’ve carried since childhood. I plan to major in biology and become a dermatologist, focusing on skin conditions that impact Black communities. My cousin lives with lupus, and watching her strength through flare-ups, fatigue, and invisible battles opened my eyes to the kind of care our communities deserve but often don’t receive. I’ve walked beside her at lupus events in Piedmont Park, not just to raise awareness, but to show up for someone who’s shown up for me all my life. Before high school even began, I had already run in several 5 Ks, earning medals and plaques—not because I was chasing trophies, but because I was learning endurance. In 2017, I placed first in my age group in a Halloween 5K, and I’ve been running ever since. I also danced throughout my early years and middle school, and while I no longer perform on stage, I carry the rhythm of that discipline in everything I do. Music has been my constant companion for over a decade. I’ve played classical piano since I was young, and performing has taught me more than just notes—it’s taught me grace. People often tell me they feel the emotion and strength in my playing, even when I make mistakes. I’m never perfect, but the love and passion I put into every performance always shine through. My commitment to community is personal. I’ve volunteered with Black Student Union, Beat Club, and Target, helping collect essentials like clothing and school supplies for students in need. When my friends didn’t have a place to stay, they stayed with me. I gave up my room, my time, and my energy—because that’s what love and leadership mean. I’ve helped parents navigate hard holidays, supported the school nurse with donation drives, and worked quietly in the background to make sure others didn’t feel alone. Most recently, I joined the NAACP Gwinnett Chapter to become more active in long-term change. At FAMU, I see myself deeply involved in service, in a sorority, in student organizations, internships, and every space where I can grow and give. I want to open a dermatology clinic focused on inclusive care, rooted in access, research, and love for the people I come from. This scholarship would bring me closer to that dream. I don’t have to finish first to finish strong—and I will cross that line, no matter how long it takes. I will help others if it's the last thing I do, I must. I don't care about being remembered, but my actions my work will have an everlasting impact at every stage in life.

Every step I take toward becoming a dermatologist is fueled by watching my cousin bravely manage lupus and my passion for helping those whose struggles often go unseen. If selected for this scholarship, I would use the funds to deepen my hands-on experience in healthcare by shadowing medical professionals, attending workshops, and expanding my knowledge about skin conditions and autoimmune diseases. This will prepare me to better serve underserved communities, especially Black women, who face unique health challenges. The scholarship would also help cover the costs of textbooks and lab supplies for my biology classes, ensuring I can stay at the top of my studies while gaining the skills I need to make a real impact. By investing in my education, you’re not just supporting me—you’re investing in a future healthcare leader dedicated to making a difference.

Growing up in Georgia, I’ve always believed that community is more than just the place you live—it’s the people you lift along the way. Whenever friends or their families faced tough times—whether their parents had to leave town or they needed a safe place—I opened my home and heart to them. I gave up my room, my time, and my space to make sure they had somewhere to feel cared for. Sometimes, all someone needs is a listening ear or a safe place to just be. That’s the kind of community I want to build: one where we look out for each other, no matter what. Beyond my home, I’ve been actively involved in organizations like the Black Student Union and BETA Club, where I worked alongside others to support our school community. Volunteering for Target as well with my family and helping local schools, I’ve made sure nurses, parents, and children by providing gifts, clothing, and essentials, especially for families who couldn’t afford them, felt loved. I’ve also reached out to help the homeless and other vulnerable groups in my community, knowing that even small acts can spark big change. My community—primarily Black families—faces unique challenges, from economic struggles to limited resources, but I see strength and hope everywhere I look. That’s why I want to dedicate my life to creating spaces where everyone feels valued and supported. I imagine future programs that offer mentorship, affordable access to health and wellness resources, and education on how to build financial stability and confidence. I believe by empowering young people and their families today, we can build a stronger, more resilient community for generations to come. The drive to serve comes from understanding firsthand how much impact a little kindness and dedication can have. I’m motivated not just by the challenges but by the possibilities—knowing that through education and community effort, we can create lasting change. This scholarship would help me continue that journey by supporting my education, giving me the tools to make an even bigger impact in the future. To me, community is a circle—when you lift one person, you lift us all. I want to keep that circle growing wider, stronger, and more inclusive every day.

Before I even started middle school, I was already running in local races. In 2017, I ran a Halloween 5K and came in first place, female in my age group. That moment wasn’t just about winning—it was the start of a journey that taught me about passion, resilience, and moving forward even when the road gets hard and people don’t always believe in me. Alongside running, dance has been a part of my life since before middle school. Moving to music helped me express emotions I couldn’t always put into words. Dance taught me discipline and grace, and it gave me a space where I could let go of stress and simply be myself. Those early years of dance shaped how I face challenges today, with strength and calm. Balancing school, work, varsity running, and my love for dance hasn’t been easy. There were mornings I woke up tired, weighed down by everything going on, but I still showed up, ready to put in the work. I wasn’t always the fastest on the team or the captain, but I stayed loyal and committed. Because of that, my teammates kept coming back too, motivated and happy to be there. I learned that being second best didn’t mean I wasn’t important—it meant I was steady, dependable, and always worthwhile. Being a female athlete in a space that often favors male sports taught me to find strength in quiet leadership and to never stop pushing. I created my own space on the team and in my life, using every challenge as a lesson and every setback as fuel. Running with my teammates showed me how to find my voice, my resilience, and my power. The biggest lesson I’ve learned is this: this race—my life—is mine to run. It doesn’t matter how long it takes or how many obstacles come up. What matters is that I keep moving forward, at my own pace, guided by my own heart. No matter the struggles or doubts, I will cross that finish line on my terms. Looking forward, I plan to keep running through college clubs or local leagues, carrying with me the strength and balance I’ve built from juggling school, work, and sports. This scholarship would help me take the next step toward my goals and keep breaking barriers, for myself and for all the women who keep running their races. In this race called life, strength isn’t about being first—it’s about running your race with heart, lifting others as you climb, and never forgetting who you are becoming.

I’ve always been the kind of person who notices what others might miss. The classmate who keeps their hoodie up to hide a breakout. The teacher who quietly mentions a health struggle but keeps pushing forward. The friend who needs someone to listen without judgment. Over time, I realized that this way of seeing people—not just what’s on the surface, but what they’re carrying underneath—is something I want to build my future around. My cousin has lupus, and her strength has taught me a lot. Watching how the illness affects her—some days more than others—made me want to understand more about autoimmune diseases, especially how they show up in the skin. I’ve walked in several lupus events at Piedmont Park, but more importantly, I’ve tried to learn what it means to be supportive, to show up, and to use my education to make a difference. That’s why I plan to study biology in college and pursue dermatology. I want to focus on bridging gaps in care, especially for communities that rarely see doctors who understand their skin, their stories, or their struggles. I don’t just want to be in medicine; I want to help reimagine it to be more accessible, compassionate, and inclusive. My journey hasn’t been picture-perfect. There were moments when I felt like the world kept turning without me, when grief, stress, and silence weighed heavily. But I’ve always had this quiet promise to myself: no matter what, keep moving forward with purpose. That’s what’s carried me—whether I was helping out at health fairs, balancing work and school, or encouraging classmates who felt invisible. I often think about the people who shaped me, including my childhood best friend, who passed away in middle school. She once told me I was like a sister. I didn’t fully understand how much that meant until she was gone. Now, I carry her with me—not in sadness, but as a reason to do better, love harder, and serve with intention. The Sweet Dreams Scholarship would help me take another step toward that vision. For me, “sweet dreams” means rest, hope, and healing—not just for myself, but for all the communities I want to care for. And I plan to spend my future making those dreams real.

My name is Kendall Pass, and I will become a dermatologist—not just because I’m interested in skin, but because I care about what people carry beneath the surface. I was born in Atlanta, Georgia, but raised in the suburbs. I graduated from Collins Hill High School, and I plan to major in biology with a specialization in dermatology. I have often been the observer—the friend who watches quietly, absorbing the world around me. I feel empathy so deeply that I make others’ pain my own. In middle school, I lost my childhood best friend, someone who called me her sister. She kept her illness private, but her strength became a quiet beacon for me. Later, during my senior year, my grandfather passed away, bringing unexpected changes and new connections to family I hadn’t known. These moments taught me resilience, patience, and the power of support. My cousin lives with lupus, a disease that affects both skin and immune health. I have watched her push through pain unseen by most, and she has been one of my strongest role models—steady and inspiring, supporting me through college and life. To honor her journey, I have participated in several lupus walks at Piedmont Park. Those experiences fuel my passion for focusing on skin conditions that affect Black women and other underrepresented communities. I have faced my battles, too. Wrestling with depression and anxiety while trying to keep my head above water has shaped how I see the world. It has made me more grounded, more patient, and more determined. Even when the weight feels heavy, I keep moving—maintaining a 4.2 GPA, working nearly full-time at Burlington, and competing on varsity cross-country and track. I don’t always feel okay, but I always show up. Music has also been my refuge. For over ten years, I’ve played classical piano and sung in the Advanced Women’s Chorus. Performing taught me how to hold myself together under pressure, but also how to let go, finding peace when nothing else seems to fit. Through education, I have gained the tools to turn empathy into action. My goal is to attend medical school and open a clinic that offers affordable, inclusive skincare and autoimmune research. There aren’t enough dermatologists who look like me or truly understand the struggles people like my cousin face. I want to change that narrative. This scholarship would bring me one step closer to that goal. I’m not perfect, and I’ve had to fight for everything I have. But I’m still here—still trying, believing that I can transform pain into healing, for myself and others.