The college journey is not always paved with certainty. My time at Tuskegee University was riddled with moments of struggle, from academic pressure to financial hardship. As a student at a HBCU, I have witnessed firsthand how community support can shape futures and turn potential into purpose. Charity, to me, is more than giving. It means extending the opportunity to someone else the way someone once extended it to me. Growing up, I saw my community rally around one another in times of need. Whether it was church fundraisers or school drives for students in need of supplies, I saw how small acts of giving created ripples of change. That mindset shaped how I live and serve today. Over the past few years, I’ve volunteered as a math tutor and art teacher at a local middle school, led a teacher supply drive, and created art initiatives that connect students with culture and creativity. These experiences taught me that giving back is not about having abundance but about making an impact with what you have. Receiving this scholarship would help relieve the financial burden of pursuing my degree and allow me to deepen my commitment to giving. I plan to earn my graduate degree and dedicate my career to public health and social equity, focusing on disparities that affect underserved communities. Through policy and mentorship, I will continue giving back by ensuring that others, especially Black students and families, have access to the resources, education, and healthcare they deserve.

Pursuing higher education has been a journey shaped by resilience, and one of my greatest obstacles came before I even started college. At seventeen, I was diagnosed with an abnormal heart rhythm that required emergency surgery. The news was overwhelming. I feared not only the procedure but also how it would impact my future. Would I be strong enough to continue my education? Would this setback define me? The diagnosis came unexpectedly during what was supposed to be a routine doctor’s visit. I still remember the tense look on my parents' faces as we pulled into the parking garage at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. Hours of ultrasounds, EKGs, and stress tests led to one conclusion: without an emergency cardiac ablation, my condition could lead to cardiac arrest. I needed surgery in just five days. The suddenness of it all was paralyzing. I wasn’t ready to face something so serious, and I certainly wasn’t ready to accept that my body had limitations I couldn’t control. Through it all, my family became my greatest source of strength. My parents reassured me that my dreams didn’t have to be put on hold, reminding me that I had already overcome so much. They never allowed me to dwell on fear for too long, constantly reinforcing the belief that this was just another challenge—not an ending. My younger sister, despite her own fears, kept me laughing, refusing to let my condition steal my joy. Even when I was overwhelmed with anxiety the morning of my surgery, my mother held my hand and told me, “You are strong enough to get through this. And when you do, nothing in life will seem impossible.” That support carried me through my recovery and shaped my approach to challenges moving forward. I refused to let my surgery define my limits. Instead, I used it as motivation to push myself academically. Despite the disruption to my senior year, I remained focused on my education and earned a full-ride scholarship to Tuskegee University. My experience in the hospital also gave me a new perspective on healthcare. I realized how critical it was to have not just competent medical care, but also compassion and advocacy—especially for people of color, who often face disparities in treatment. As I near graduation this May, I reflect on how that obstacle shaped my path. I will begin my Master’s in Hospital Administration at Xavier University this summer, driven by the desire to improve healthcare access for BIPOC women. Too often, women of color face implicit bias, delayed diagnoses, and systemic barriers to quality care. I want to change that by creating policies that center patient advocacy and equitable treatment. Long term, I aspire to become a hospital administrator leading initiatives that ensure BIPOC women receive the support, respect, and quality care they deserve. Whether it’s expanding community outreach programs, increasing diversity in healthcare leadership, or implementing patient-centered care models, I am committed to breaking down the barriers that have historically left women of color overlooked in medical settings. My heart surgery could have been a roadblock, but with my family’s encouragement, it became a defining moment that strengthened my resolve. It not only shaped my personal journey but also fueled my passion for equitable healthcare. The scar on my leg is small, but its impact is lasting. It reminds me of what I overcame and why I chose this path. My story is no longer just about me—it’s about fighting for the voices of women who, for too long, have gone unheard in healthcare spaces.

As a child, I dreamed of storytelling, imagining myself as an author crafting worlds with words. But life had a different story in mind—one that led me to healthcare. At seventeen, I was diagnosed with an abnormal heart rhythm that required emergency surgery. In the sterile hospital environment, what comforted me most wasn’t the medical expertise—it was the nurse who held my hands and reassured me. That moment shifted my perspective on healthcare. I realized the power of compassionate care and the urgent need to ensure every patient, regardless of background, feels seen and heard. Now, as I prepare to graduate from Tuskegee University, I am committed to a career in hospital administration, with a focus on expanding healthcare access for BIPOC women. Too often, women of color face disparities in treatment, implicit bias, and systemic barriers to quality care. I want to change that. By pursuing a Master’s in Hospital Administration at Xavier University, I aim to implement policies that improve access, enhance patient advocacy, and build trust between healthcare providers and marginalized communities. Long term, I aspire to lead initiatives that address racial and gender disparities in healthcare, ensuring that BIPOC women receive equitable treatment. Through strategic leadership and community-driven programs, I will work to dismantle barriers that prevent women of color from receiving the quality care they deserve. The scar on my leg is small, but its impact is lasting. It reminds me of what I overcame and why I chose this path. My story is no longer just about me—it’s about fighting for the voices of women who, for too long, have gone unheard in healthcare spaces.

As a child, I dreamed of a future filled with storytelling, imagining myself as an author crafting worlds with words. But life had a different story in mind—one I never expected to live through. The tense looks on my parents’ faces told me this wasn’t a routine doctor’s visit. Pulling into the parking garage plastered with Cincinnati Children’s Hospital signs felt like a silent warning that my world was about to change. Hours of ultrasounds, EKGs, and stress tests confirmed it—I had an abnormal heart rhythm that could lead to cardiac arrest if left untreated. The doctors spoke in hushed tones, explaining everything to my parents as if I weren’t just months away from my eighteenth birthday. I needed an emergency cardiac ablation, an invasive procedure to regulate my heart’s electrical signals. Finding out I needed heart surgery five days before the procedure was a shocking way to end a doctor’s appointment. Returning to school after winter break, I tried to hold onto normalcy, explaining my upcoming absence to my teachers. Most responded with concern and questions I couldn’t answer. But my history teacher was different. He didn’t ask about the medical details or offer reassurances I wasn’t ready to hear. Instead, he placed a hand on my shoulder and asked, “How are you feeling emotionally?” That simple question caught me off guard. It was the first time someone acknowledged that beyond the medical jargon and clinical procedures, I was just a scared teenager trying to process an uncertain future. That same compassion met me again on the day of my surgery. Sitting in the pre-op room, my gown felt too big, my hospital socks too thin, my fear too overwhelming. I made a last attempt to stall, locking myself in the bathroom, staring at my reflection, wishing I could escape. But when I stepped back into the room, a nurse with salt-and-pepper hair stopped typing and looked at me with knowing eyes. She saw through my bravado. She didn’t flood me with medical explanations. Instead, she gently held my hands and said, “These surgeons are the best in the country, so don’t be afraid.” It was a simple statement, but it made all the difference. For the first time in weeks, I smiled. That moment stayed with me. It changed the way I saw healthcare—not just as a system of procedures and treatments, but as a field built on human connection. Patients aren’t just cases to be solved; they’re people who deserve to be seen, heard, and reassured. Before that experience, I thought my future would be in writing. But after my surgery, I knew I wanted to be part of healthcare—not as a doctor, but as an advocate for patients like me. Now, as I prepare to graduate from Tuskegee University in May, I reflect on how my journey led me here. This summer, I will begin my Master’s in Hospital Administration at Xavier University in Cincinnati, Ohio. My goal is to become a hospital administrator, ensuring that every patient—regardless of background—receives the same level of care, support, and dignity that I need during my most vulnerable moment. The scar on my leg is small, but its impact is lasting. It reminds me of what I overcame and why I chose this path. I once dreamed of telling stories, and in a way, I still will—but now, my story is about fighting for equitable healthcare, making sure no one feels invisible in a hospital room, and ensuring that every patient has a voice.

As a child, I dreamed of a future filled with storytelling, imagining myself as an author crafting worlds with words. But life had a different story in mind—one I never expected to live through. The tense looks on my parents’ faces told me this wasn’t a routine doctor’s visit. Pulling into the parking garage plastered with Cincinnati Children’s Hospital signs felt like a silent warning that my world was about to change. Hours of ultrasounds, EKGs, and stress tests confirmed it—I had an abnormal heart rhythm that could lead to cardiac arrest if left untreated. The doctors spoke in hushed tones, explaining everything to my parents as if I weren’t just months away from my eighteenth birthday. I needed an emergency cardiac ablation, an invasive procedure to regulate my heart’s electrical signals. Finding out I needed heart surgery five days before the procedure was a shocking way to end a doctor’s appointment. Returning to school after winter break, I tried to hold onto normalcy, explaining my upcoming absence to my teachers. Most responded with concern and questions I couldn’t answer. But my history teacher was different. He didn’t ask about the medical details or offer reassurances I wasn’t ready to hear. Instead, he placed a hand on my shoulder and asked, “How are you feeling emotionally?” That simple question caught me off guard. It was the first time someone acknowledged that beyond the medical jargon and clinical procedures, I was just a scared teenager trying to process an uncertain future. That same compassion met me again on the day of my surgery. Sitting in the pre-op room, my gown felt too big, my hospital socks too thin, my fear too overwhelming. I made a last attempt to stall, locking myself in the bathroom, staring at my reflection, wishing I could escape. But when I stepped back into the room, a nurse with salt-and-pepper hair stopped typing and looked at me with knowing eyes. She saw through my bravado. She didn’t flood me with medical explanations. Instead, she gently held my hands and said, “These surgeons are the best in the country, so don’t be afraid.” It was a simple statement, but it made all the difference. For the first time in weeks, I smiled. That moment stayed with me. It changed the way I saw healthcare—not just as a system of procedures and treatments, but as a field built on human connection. Patients aren’t just cases to be solved; they’re people who deserve to be seen, heard, and reassured. Before that experience, I thought my future would be in writing. But after my surgery, I knew I wanted to be part of healthcare—not as a doctor, but as an advocate for patients like me. Now, as I prepare to graduate from Tuskegee University in May, I reflect on how my journey led me here. This summer, I will begin my Master’s in Hospital Administration at Xavier University in Cincinnati, Ohio. My goal is to become a hospital administrator, ensuring that every patient—regardless of background—receives the same level of care, support, and dignity that I needed during my most vulnerable moment. The scar on my leg is small, but its impact is lasting. It reminds me of what I overcame and why I chose this path. I once dreamed of telling stories, and in a way, I still will—but now, my story is about fighting for equitable healthcare, making sure no one feels invisible in a hospital room, and ensuring that every patient has a voice.

Rubbing the fresh paint from my hand over my colorful jeans gives me a sense of accomplishment that I’ve never felt before. This comes from being a leader for the community during a time of need. My life is put on hold during the summer of 2020. The world faces an unprecedented pandemic as well as the harsh reality of racial discrimination. Instead of sitting around, I decide that I can use my talents to become a beacon of positivity in these trying times. My most impactful gift is my love of art. I have been taking art classes for as long as I can remember, and they have always allowed me to freely express my frustrations as a young Black woman through painting and drawing. Since the Black Lives Matter Movement and racial injustice are at the forefront, I want to create something to raise awareness, start conversations, and be a way for others to learn about the struggles that marginalized people like me face. Considering my options, the creation of a visually accessible and socially impactful mural is my statement. To complete this project, I design multiple sketches, buy paint brushes and pans, and meet with numerous town mayors and business owners for their support and permission. It is soon decided that the home for my painting will be my old grade school. Now the question is where exactly should the mural be painted. I cannot enter the building, so we have to start working with Bethany School through Zoom meetings. Finally, after weeks of planning, being able to set foot inside is a long-awaited pleasure; that in-person tour of the school is short, but it is enough to examine a possible space. The answer is a long hallway section in the school’s art wing. The space is bare and white, but I can see its hidden potential. My mural features the word “love” in American Sign Language. Each of the four hands represents different ethnicities in our society. Its message, “WE LOVE BECAUSE HE LOVED US!” from 1 John 4:19, embodies the message of inclusivity, spirituality, and strength hidden within all of us. Spending countless hours painting a simple but heartwarming message of equality on a 12’ x 20’ hallway has meant more to me than spending a typical summer traveling and hanging out with friends. Painting this mural has brought me a newfound love of community. By the end of August, I create a symbol for youth activism. The presence of this project now constantly inspires a community of young students who will be able to constantly view it. Young students are going to become the future world leaders who will always remember the impact that can come from a simple creative spark. When walking back and admiring the dried paint, I see the way that art has inspired me to actively participate in causes that inspire change in this complex world.

The tense looks on Mom and Dad’s faces tell me this isn’t going to be a typical doctor's visit. Pulling into the parking garage plastered with Cincinnati Children’s Hospital signs is a blaring red flag that something is amiss. After hours of ultrasounds, EKGs, and stress tests, sitting idly becomes the best part of my day. I gaze at laminated charts of heart diagrams on the walls, quizzing myself to label each part. "… right ventricle, left pulmonary artery, aortic arch." Yes, I know the heart well—but the heart I don’t know is my own. Two doctors direct their explanation to my parents, acting as if I’m not just nine months away from my eighteenth birthday. My EKGs indicate a bizarre heart rhythm that could lead to cardiac arrest if left untreated. I need an invasive procedure called “Cardiac Ablation.” A catheter will create a direct path to my heart, where it will burn off harmful tissue. Once scarred, my heart will regulate its own electrical signals without my prior, dangerous arrhythmia. We drive home in silence, each of us digesting my critical surgery happening in just five days. Finding out that I needed emergency heart surgery was a shocking way to end a doctor's appointment. The first day back from Christmas break, I explain my upcoming absence to my teachers. Their reactions—concerned looks and unanswerable questions—make me put on a brave face. "It will be okay; I can handle a little surgery." But my history teacher's response is different. He doesn’t ask about the procedure or offer empty reassurances. Instead, he simply places a hand on my shoulder and asks, "How are you feeling emotionally?" That question, simple yet profound, hits me harder than any medical explanation. It forces me to admit—to myself more than anyone—that I am terrified. His quiet empathy teaches me a lesson that will stick with me forever: sometimes, the greatest act of care is simply acknowledging someone’s fear. The hardest part of the surgery isn't the procedure itself—it’s the moments leading up to it. Sitting on the stretcher, clad in an ill-fitting hospital gown, I feel powerless. I rush to the bathroom in a last attempt to delay the inevitable. Staring at my reflection, I know I can’t run from this. When I return, a nurse with salt-and-pepper hair and kind eyes sits beside me. She stops typing, looks at me with understanding, and says, "These surgeons are the best in the country, so don’t be afraid." She speaks directly to me—not my parents—and holds my hands. For the first time in days, I smile. Today, when I look down at the small scar on my leg, I don’t just see a reminder of that surgery—I see proof of my strength. That experience shaped not only who I am but also what I want to do with my future. In May, I will graduate from Tuskegee University, and directly after, I will attend Xavier University in Cincinnati, Ohio, to complete my Master’s in Hospital Administration. My goal is to become a hospital administrator because my heart surgery showed me firsthand the importance of equitable healthcare. I know what it feels like to be scared, unheard, and uncertain about your own health. That’s why I want to help create a healthcare system where every patient feels seen, supported, and empowered. This experience will always be a part of me—like a scar on my mind. But I choose to see it as a badge of honor, a lesson in resilience, and a commitment to ensuring that others have access to the compassionate, high-quality care they deserve.

The tense looks on Mom and Dad’s faces tell me this isn’t going to be a typical doctor's visit. Pulling into the parking garage plastered with Cincinnati Children’s Hospital signs is a huge red flag for me that something is amiss. After hours of ultrasounds, EKGs, and stress tests, sitting idly turns into being the best part of my day. I gaze at laminated charts of diagrams of hearts on the walls. I quiz myself to see if I can label each part. "… right ventricle, left pulmonary artery, aortic arch." I know the heart well, but the heart I don't know is my own. Two doctors direct their explanation to my parents as if I’m not just nine months away from my eighteenth birthday. My EKGs indicate a bizarre heart rhythm that can result in cardiac arrest. I’m going to have an invasive procedure called “Cardiac Ablation.” A catheter will be inserted into my groin to create a direct path to my heart where it will burn off tissue. After this harmful tissue is permanently scarred, my heart will regulate its own electrical signals without my prior, dangerous arrhythmia. We drive home in silence as the three of us individually digest my surgery in five days. Living with a defective heart hasn’t been easy. I’ve watched my friends enjoy the simple pleasures of teenage life: hiking the neighborhood trails, playing volleyball for MND, and swimming in the Loveland watering hole. I gaze longingly from the sidelines due to the fatigue that overcomes me, but I power through to fit in with friends. No matter how strong I think I am, my symptoms become glaringly apparent during my trip with Explorica Italy in 2019. As I ascend the steep stairs inside of the Tower of Pisa, my energy and excitement wane. Not wanting to be a burden, I reassure the group to go ahead without me, citing my fear of heights. Once out of sight, I collapse to collect my breath. The photos they’ve taken at the top of the Tower are stunning but make me yearn to see the view myself. Upon returning from Italy, I can no longer bounce back from defeat, and acting okay is now a chore. I withdraw from friends, family, and activities. Mom confronts me, “Are you depressed?” That question allows me to be honest about my feelings of embarrassment and hopelessness. That’s when we schedule a doctor’s appointment to get answers. The hardest part is sitting on the stretcher, waiting to be wheeled into the sterile operating room. I rush to the bathroom as a last attempt to postpone the inevitable. Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror in an ill-fitting gown and tan socks assures me that this is no dream. I come back to see a nurse with salt-and-pepper hair sitting next to the stretcher. With kind eyes, she explains to the terrified seventeen-year-old in front of her, "These surgeons are the best in the country, so don't be afraid." I smile, something I haven’t done in ages. After feeling powerless for so long, she helps me take control by saying. Today, looking down at my leg to see the quarter-sized scar, I’m reminded that I’m stronger than ever imagined. I want to be here to hug my friends after our high school graduation, to experience my first day of college, and to see my sister drive. I wake up every morning, promising myself that with this new day, anything is possible. Like a badge of honor, the scar demonstrates that I can heal from anything that life throws at me.

My life is put on hold during the summer of 2020. The world faces an unprecedented pandemic as well as the harsh reality of racial discrimination. Instead of sitting around, I decide that I can use my talents to become a beacon of positivity in these trying times. My most impactful gift is my love of art. I have been taking art classes for as long as I can remember, and they have always allowed me to freely express my feelings through painting and drawing. Since the Black Lives Matter Movement and racial injustice are at the forefront, I want to create something to raise awareness, start conversations, and be a way for others to learn about the struggles that marginalized people face. Considering my options, the creation of a visually accessible and socially impactful mural is my statement. To complete this project, I design multiple sketches, buy paintbrushes and pans, and meet with numerous town mayors and business owners for their support and permission. It is soon decided that the home for my painting will be my old grade school. Spending countless hours painting a simple but heartwarming message of equality on a 12’ x 20’ hallway has meant more to me than spending a typical summer traveling and hanging out with friends. Painting this mural has brought me a new-found love of community. By the end of August, I create a symbol for youth activism. The presence of this project now constantly inspires a community of young students.

My life is put on hold during the summer of 2020. The world faces an unprecedented pandemic as well as the harsh reality of racial discrimination. Instead of sitting around, I decide that I can use my talents to become a beacon of positivity in these trying times. My most impactful gift is my love of art. I have been taking art classes for as long as I can remember, and they have always allowed me to freely express my feelings through painting and drawing. Since the Black Lives Matter Movement and racial injustice are at the forefront, I want to create something to raise awareness, start conversations, and be a way for others to learn about the struggles that marginalized people face. Considering my options, the creation of a visually accessible and socially impactful mural is my statement. To complete this project, I design multiple sketches, buy paintbrushes and pans, and meet with numerous town mayors and business owners for their support and permission. It is soon decided that the home for my painting will be my old grade school. Spending countless hours painting a simple but heartwarming message of equality on a 12’ x 20’ hallway has meant more to me than spending a typical summer traveling and hanging out with friends. Painting this mural has brought me a new-found love of community. By the end of August, I create a symbol for youth activism. The presence of this project now constantly inspires a community of young students.

My life is put on hold during the summer of 2020. The world faces an unprecedented pandemic as well as the harsh reality of racial discrimination. Instead of sitting around, I decide that I can use my talents to become a beacon of positivity in these trying times. My most impactful gift is my love of art. I have been taking art classes for as long as I can remember, and they have always allowed me to freely express my feelings through painting and drawing. Since the Black Lives Matter Movement and racial injustice are at the forefront, I want to create something to raise awareness, start conversations, and be a way for others to learn about the struggles that marginalized people face. Considering my options, the creation of a visually accessible and socially impactful mural is my statement. To complete this project, I design multiple sketches, buy paintbrushes and pans, and meet with numerous town mayors and business owners for their support and permission. It is soon decided that the home for my painting will be my old grade school. Spending countless hours painting a simple but heartwarming message of equality on a 12’ x 20’ hallway has meant more to me than spending a typical summer traveling and hanging out with friends. Painting this mural has brought me a new-found love of community. By the end of August, I create a symbol for youth activism. The presence of this project now constantly inspires a community of young students.

My life is put on hold during the summer of 2020. The world faces an unprecedented pandemic as well as the harsh reality of racial discrimination. Instead of sitting around, I decide that I can use my talents to become a beacon of positivity in these trying times. My most impactful gift is my love of art. I have been taking art classes for as long as I can remember, and they have always allowed me to freely express my feelings through painting and drawing. Since the Black Lives Matter Movement and racial injustice are at the forefront, I want to create something to raise awareness, start conversations, and be a way for others to learn about the struggles that marginalized people face. Considering my options, the creation of a visually accessible and socially impactful mural is my statement. To complete this project, I design multiple sketches, buy paintbrushes and pans, and meet with numerous town mayors and business owners for their support and permission. It is soon decided that the home for my painting will be my old grade school. Spending countless hours painting a simple but heartwarming message of equality on a 12’ x 20’ hallway has meant more to me than spending a typical summer traveling and hanging out with friends. Painting this mural has brought me a new-found love of community. By the end of August, I create a symbol for youth activism. The presence of this project now constantly inspires a community of young students.

Rubbing the fresh paint from my hand over my colorful jeans gives me a sense of accomplishment that I’ve never felt before. This comes from being a leader for the community during a time of need. My life is put on hold during the summer of 2020. The world faces an unprecedented pandemic as well as the harsh reality of racial discrimination. Instead of sitting around, I decide that I can use my talents to become a beacon of positivity in these trying times. My most impactful gift is my love of art. I have been taking art classes for as long as I can remember, and they have always allowed me to freely express my frustrations as a young black woman through painting and drawing. Since the Black Lives Matter Movement and racial injustice are at the forefront, I want to create something to raise awareness, start conversations, and be a way for others to learn about the struggles that marginalized people like me face. Considering my options, the creation of a visually accessible and socially impactful mural is my statement. To complete this project, I design multiple sketches, buy paint brushes and pans, and meet with numerous town mayors and business owners for their support and permission. It is soon decided that the home for my painting will be my old grade school. Now the question is where exactly should the mural be painted. I cannot enter the building, so we have to start working with Bethany School through Zoom meetings. Finally, after weeks of planning, being able to set foot inside is a long-awaited pleasure; that in-person tour of the school is short, but it is enough to examine a possible space. The answer is a long hallway section in the school’s art wing. The space is bare and white, but I can see its hidden potential. My mural features the word “love” in American Sign Language. Each of the four hands represents different ethnicities in our society. Its message, “WE LOVE BECAUSE HE LOVED US!” from 1 John 4:19, embodies the message of inclusivity, spirituality, and strength hidden within all of us. Spending countless hours painting a simple but heartwarming message of equality on a 12’ x 20’ hallway has meant more to me than spending a typical summer traveling and hanging out with friends. Painting this mural has brought me a new-found love of community. By the end of August, I create a symbol for youth activism. The presence of this project now constantly inspires a community of young students who will be able to constantly view it. Young students are going to become the future world leaders who will always remember the impact that can come from a simple creative spark. When walking back and admiring the dried paint, I see the way that art has inspired me to actively participate in causes that inspire change in this complex world.

Rubbing the fresh paint from my hand over my colorful jeans gives me a sense of accomplishment that I’ve never felt before. This comes from being a leader for the community during a time of need. My life is put on hold during the summer of 2020. The world faces an unprecedented pandemic as well as the harsh reality of racial discrimination. Instead of sitting around, I decide that I can use my talents to become a beacon of positivity in these trying times. My most impactful gift is my love of art. I have been taking art classes for as long as I can remember, and they have always allowed me to freely express my frustrations as a young black woman through painting and drawing. Since the Black Lives Matter Movement and racial injustice are at the forefront, I want to create something to raise awareness, start conversations, and be a way for others to learn about the struggles that marginalized people like me face. Considering my options, the creation of a visually accessible and socially impactful mural is my statement. To complete this project, I design multiple sketches, buy paint brushes and pans, and meet with numerous town mayors and business owners for their support and permission. It is soon decided that the home for my painting will be my old grade school. Now the question is where exactly should the mural be painted. I cannot enter the building, so we have to start working with Bethany School through Zoom meetings. Finally, after weeks of planning, being able to set foot inside is a long-awaited pleasure; that in-person tour of the school is short, but it is enough to examine a possible space. The answer is a long hallway section in the school’s art wing. The space is bare and white, but I can see its hidden potential. My mural features the word “love” in American Sign Language. Each of the four hands represents different ethnicities in our society. Its message, “WE LOVE BECAUSE HE LOVED US!” from 1 John 4:19, embodies the message of inclusivity, spirituality, and strength hidden within all of us. Spending countless hours painting a simple but heartwarming message of equality on a 12’ x 20’ hallway has meant more to me than spending a typical summer traveling and hanging out with friends. Painting this mural has brought me a new-found love of community. By the end of August, I create a symbol for youth activism. The presence of this project now constantly inspires a community of young students who will be able to constantly view it. Young students are going to become the future world leaders who will always remember the impact that can come from a simple creative spark. When walking back and admiring the dried paint, I see the way that art has inspired me to actively participate in causes that inspire change in this complex world.