Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect is not a slogan to me. It is the backbone of how I grew up, how I survived, and how I choose to show up for others. I found the rave scene as a queer, trans kid in the late 90s, looking for a place of acceptance. PLUR taught me that community can be invented on a dance floor, and that a bracelet traded between strangers can mean, I see you. I carried those lessons into adulthood, into every project, and into the way I love. In 2001 I began throwing events in Seattle. We hosted events where harm reduction was standard. Water was free, volunteers were trained, and individuals made it their responsibility to look out for folks who were overwhelmed. Our values were not theoretical. They were visible in every detail: the way we welcomed newcomers, how we handled conflict, and how we made inclusive spaces for all people. Then came the Capitol Hill massacre. During an afterparty connected to an event I organized, a gunman killed six of my friends. It broke everything I believed about safety and inclusion. In the aftermath, various media outlets accused us of promoting harm because we practiced sex positivity and harm reduction. I turned down interviews, worried the story would be twisted, but eventually appeared on Good Morning America to speak for my community with as much empathy and clarity as I could. I talked about grief and I tried to show that PLUR is not a shield from pain. It is a promise to keep caring, even when it hurts. For a while, I questioned everything. Could I still trust these spaces? Could I still be the person who invites others in? I found my way back through communities that live PLUR in action. Burning Man helped. Radical inclusion, communal effort, gifting, and leave no trace reminded me that culture can be rebuilt through practice. I returned to making EDM music. I went back to making kandi, tiny gifts passed from hand to hand as a ritual of connection. PLUR also followed me off the dance floor. I helped cofound Rainbow League Dodgeball to build a queer-centered, playful, and affirming sports space. I hosted workshops for Nonviolent Communication because I believe language can turn conflict into understanding. I cared for my brother through years of substance use, and hoarding, where love required boundaries and patience. I backpacked across the country for a year, living out of a pack, learning how little I needed and how much I valued human connection. All of that is PLUR, too. Today I am pursuing a career in clinical mental health counseling. PLUR sits beside me in the classroom and in my practicum dreams. Peace looks like nervous systems that feel safe enough to rest. Love looks like unconditional positive regard. Unity looks like communities that hold one another accountable without exile. Respect looks like consent, autonomy, and access baked into the design of every room. The rave kid I was in the 90s is still here, just with sturdier tools and a deeper commitment to healing. PLUR taught me how to belong to myself and to others. The massacre tested whether I believed those words. Burning Man, chosen family, and the wider rave community helped me return. I still dance. I still make music. I still give gifts. And I still believe that peace, love, unity, and respect are not ideals for perfect nights. They are daily practices that turn ordinary people into a community that can survive anything and still choose joy.

As a queer person who has spent years immersed in conflict resolution, caregiving, and community-building, I wanted to create a challenge that speaks directly to my lived experience. I've worked with the Center for Nonviolent Communication (NVC), supported trauma survivors, and co-founded Rainbow League Dodgeball, a queer-centered sports league. Over and over, I’ve seen that most interpersonal drama—whether on Love Island or in real life—comes not from what people feel, but from how they express it. This challenge brings that insight to life with humor, heart, and a bit of chaos. I would name this challenge: Observation or Judgment Relay The "Observation or Judgment Relay" is a fast-paced, high-energy Love Island challenge that turns emotional intelligence into entertainment. Inspired by Nonviolent Communication (NVC), the game playfully reveals how often our words get in the way of real connection—and how powerful clarity and empathy can be when it comes to love. How It Works: Islanders are divided into two teams and face off in a three-part relay. In each leg of the race, players must sprint to a table with a pile of flashcards, each containing a statement someone might say in a moment of conflict or insecurity (e.g., “You’re selfish,” “I feel ignored,” “You never listen to me”). They must quickly decide: is this an observation or a judgment? Correctly sorting a card lets them pass the baton to the next teammate. Incorrect answers send them back to the start, but the race isn't over once the judgements have been discovered. After the race, each team must select one judgment card and transform it into a full NVC statement, following the four-step structure: Observation Feeling Need Request For example, “You never listen to me” might become: “When I see you checking your phone while I’m talking, I feel hurt because I need to feel heard. Would you be willing to put your phone down while we chat?” The team that not only wins the relay but successfully crafts a NVC statement wins a prize—like a private villa date or immunity from elimination. Why This Challenge Matters to me: This challenge takes everything I believe in—clear communication, emotional accountability, and joy in learning—and wraps it in a game Islanders and viewers will remember. The real magic happens not just in identifying judgments, but in practicing how to reframe them. That’s what I do in my daily life as a caregiver and advocate. Whether supporting my brother through hoarding and addiction, mediating conflict among friends, or helping autistic peers navigate travel abroad, I’ve seen how rephrasing just one sentence can shift a conversation from defensive to connective. I’ve also lived the consequences of judgment. As a queer, neurodivergent person, I’ve been misread, mislabeled, and misunderstood. Learning NVC gave me language to express myself and taught me how to hear others more fully. It has made me a better partner, friend, and community member—and soon, I hope, a trauma-informed therapist. This challenge is fun, yes, but it also plants a seed. It invites contestants to reflect on the difference between what they observe and what they assume. In a space like Love Island, where drama often escalates over miscommunication, this playful practice of empathy and clarity could lead to some surprising emotional breakthroughs—and maybe even a more secure connection or two. And in the end, that’s what love really is: understanding, revealed through language and presence. The "Observation or Judgment Relay" turns that truth into a game—but one with the potential to leave a lasting impact, both on the villa and in the hearts of viewers watching at home.

As a queer person living with anxiety and Complex PTSD, my mental and physical wellness is not just important to me—it is foundational to my ability to thrive, support others, and live authentically. For me, wellness is not about perfection or optimization. It’s about cultivating spaces and practices that help me feel safe in my own body, grounded in my community, and resilient in the face of systemic and personal challenges. Growing up in environments that often felt unsafe or invalidating left me with a deep understanding of how marginalization affects both mental and physical health. I internalized fear and shame, which manifested in disconnection from my body, difficulty trusting others, and long periods of depression. As I’ve grown older and begun the work of healing, I’ve come to see wellness not as a destination but as a continuous, intentional practice of returning to myself with care. That practice, which consists of consistent physical and mental routines, has helped me reclaim agency and joy. One of the most meaningful steps I’ve taken in my wellness journey was helping to co-found Rainbow League Dodgeball, a queer-centered dodgeball league that operates under the nonprofit Seattle Dodgeball. This space was created specifically to provide LGBTQIA+ individuals with an affirming, playful, and physically active environment free from the judgment or exclusion so common in traditional athletic settings. As someone who once felt alienated from sports due to gender and identity dynamics, building a league where all bodies and identities are welcomed has been profoundly healing. Rainbow League is more than just dodgeball—it is a container for community, movement, and belonging. It allows people like me to reconnect with physical activity on our own terms. At the same time, maintaining wellness as a student—particularly as a graduate student pursuing a degree in mental health counseling—presents ongoing challenges. Balancing academic workload, caregiving responsibilities, and community involvement while managing my own mental health is a complex and sometimes overwhelming task. Finding a therapist who understands my intersecting identities has been difficult, and access to consistent mental health care is often limited by cost and insurance restrictions. These systemic barriers make it hard to access the very support systems I am training to provide for others. I also experience periods of burnout, especially when navigating institutions not designed with queer, neurodivergent, or trauma-impacted individuals in mind. Even as I advocate for more inclusive practices, I must often do so while contending with microaggressions, lack of understanding, or administrative red tape. Staying well in these contexts means finding small ways to reclaim autonomy—through community, movement, therapy, rest, and creative expression. My commitment to mental and physical wellness is not only personal but communal. I care for myself so I can show up for others. Through my work as a caregiver, facilitator, and future therapist, I aim to help others access the same tools for healing and wholeness that have been so transformative in my life. Scholarships like this make that commitment more sustainable, allowing me to continue this work without sacrificing my own well-being in the process.

My journey toward a career in mental health therapy has been anything but linear, but each step, challenge, and breakthrough has deepened my commitment to creating a more compassionate and inclusive world. For much of my early adult life, I worked in project management, a field that allowed me to build skills in organization, leadership, and communication. But I always knew my calling lay elsewhere: in helping others heal. My lived experiences with anxiety and Complex PTSD, as well as my role as a caregiver to my brother (who lives with Autism, ADHD, substance use disorder, and hoarding behaviors) led me to confront firsthand how limited and often inaccessible our mental health care systems are. Navigating services for him meant facing constant bureaucracy, financial strain, and a lack of understanding from professionals. Yet through that process, I discovered something vital: that care work, though emotionally demanding, is also deeply transformative. I saw the power of empathy, patience, and steady presence in someone’s healing journey, and I realized I wanted to make that my life’s work. These experiences also shaped my core values: compassion, equity, and accountability. I believe that everyone deserves to be met where they are; with respect, with care, and with the support they need to thrive. I believe healing is not a luxury but a human right. And I know that individual wellbeing is inextricably tied to community support and systemic change. To further this mission, I am now pursuing higher education to become a licensed clinical mental health therapist. My goal is to work with marginalized populations (especially trauma survivors, neurodivergent individuals, and queer communities) using inclusive, trauma-informed, and culturally competent care. I envision creating spaces where people feel seen, heard, and valued, regardless of the labels society has assigned them. In the future, I also hope to expand my impact beyond one-on-one therapy. I want to contribute to the development of community-based mental health programs, advocate for policy reform, and train future therapists in inclusive care models. I believe that healing must happen on both individual and systemic levels, and I want to be part of that shift. This scholarship would play a critical role in helping me reach that goal. As someone returning to school later in life, balancing financial realities with educational aspirations is a constant challenge. But the support of this scholarship would allow me to focus more fully on my studies, community work, and training. More importantly, it would affirm that the work I’ve done and do is seen, valued, and worth investing in. My commitment to service is not just theoretical; it is personal, lived, and enduring. Through my career in mental health, I plan to carry forward the lessons I’ve learned, the people I’ve supported, and the communities that have shaped me, using every tool at my disposal to help others heal and thrive.

Returning to higher education at this stage in my life is the result of a long, often challenging, and ultimately transformative journey. My lived experiences—as a caregiver, community advocate, and someone navigating my own mental health—have profoundly shaped my values and aspirations. They’ve instilled in me a deep belief in empathy, equity, and the importance of trauma-informed care. These experiences have not only led me to pursue a graduate degree in clinical mental health counseling but have also reinforced my commitment to using my education as a tool for community healing and systemic change. For many years, I worked as a project manager, building strong communication and leadership skills. But parallel to my professional career, I was engaged in far more personal, meaningful work—supporting my older brother, who lives with Autism, ADHD, substance use disorder, and hoarding behaviors. When our parents could no longer provide care, I stepped into that role, helping him navigate housing, legal, and healthcare systems that were not designed with his needs in mind. These responsibilities were emotionally taxing but transformative. They exposed me to the reality of how inaccessible and unaccommodating many support systems are, particularly for neurodivergent individuals or those dealing with co-occurring disorders. I realized that while compassion was critical, it wasn’t enough. I needed more tools. At the same time, I was working through my own experiences with anxiety and Complex PTSD. Therapy, community support, and self-education helped me reconnect with myself and taught me the power of being truly seen and understood. These moments shaped my personal values: deep listening, mutual respect, and an unwavering belief that everyone deserves access to support that honors their full humanity. These insights have also fueled my commitment to community service. I’ve volunteered with the Zendo Project, supporting individuals through difficult psychedelic experiences, and facilitated workshops with the Center for Nonviolent Communication. I’ve offered emotional support during crises and created safer spaces for friends with disabilities and neurodivergence—both informally and in organized contexts. These experiences confirmed that my passion and skill set lie in helping others find healing and resilience. Now, as I pursue graduate study in clinical mental health counseling, I plan to focus on trauma-informed care, neurodivergence, and community-based therapy models. My goal is to offer inclusive, affirming support to those who, like my brother and myself, have often been overlooked or misunderstood. I envision a future where I work both in one-on-one therapy and in public education or advocacy—helping shift narratives around mental health and improving accessibility for marginalized communities. This scholarship would significantly ease the financial burden of graduate school, allowing me to focus more fully on my studies and community work. It represents not just financial support, but recognition of the path that brought me here and the impact I hope to make. With the help of this scholarship, my goals of becoming a Washington state Licensed Mental Health Counselor can be fully realized. I am fully committed to this journey and I will see it through no matter what assistance I am offered, but certainly I will be a more focused student and hopefully a better therapist if I am afforded opportunities to work less while making this transition.

My experience with mental health—both my own and that of those I love—has deeply influenced my beliefs, shaped my most important relationships, and guided me toward my future as a mental health therapist. It has taught me that compassion, when combined with resilience and skill, can be a life-saving force. Living with anxiety and Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD), while also serving as a caregiver for my older brother who lives with Autism, ADHD, substance use disorder, and hoarding behaviors, has given me a firsthand view of both the cracks in our systems and the possibilities for healing when empathy and support are present. Growing up, I didn’t always have the language for what I was experiencing. I knew I felt overwhelmed, often disconnected from my body, and haunted by a sense of danger I couldn’t explain. Later, I would come to understand these experiences as symptoms of CPTSD. My diagnosis didn’t fix anything overnight, but it offered a map. It helped me recognize the moments when my brain was trying to protect me, and it gave me new tools to navigate life with intention rather than fear. It also gave me a deeper sense of connection to others who live with trauma. I became more attuned to nonverbal cues, more willing to sit with discomfort, and more able to offer steady presence in times of crisis. This internal work was happening alongside my role as a caregiver to my brother. His struggles began young, but in adulthood, they compounded. Misdiagnosed and under-supported, he lacked access to effective treatment. Over time, his coping mechanisms spiraled into dangerous territory. He hoarded food and objects until his home was no longer safe to live in. He self-medicated with substances. When my parents could no longer help, I stepped in. I helped clean his home, navigated local services, provided emotional and logistical support, and advocated for him in medical and legal systems not built to accommodate his needs. One of the most difficult moments came when he became involved in a violent incident: after upsetting a group of dangerous individuals, they retaliated by shooting into his home, injuring his roommate and leaving him physically beaten. I was terrified, not only for his safety but for the reality that he might not survive much longer if the cycle continued. I wanted to protect him, but I also had to accept the limitations of what I alone could do. This experience taught me a hard truth: that care requires boundaries, and that sustainable support often depends on having the right tools, training, and community. These personal experiences directly shaped my relationships. I became someone others turned to in crisis, not because I had all the answers, but because I could remain grounded when things got hard. Friends facing trauma or navigating neurodivergence felt safe with me. I built relationships based on deep listening, emotional honesty, and mutual support. I also learned the value of community-based healing. When I volunteered with the Zendo Project, offering support to individuals undergoing difficult psychedelic experiences, I saw how effective peer support could be when guided by compassion and presence. Hosting workshops with the Center for Nonviolent Communication further expanded my understanding of how language, intention, and empathy can transform conflict. Another pivotal experience was traveling to Vietnam with three autistic friends. For one, it was their first time leaving the country; for the others, it was their first time traveling without a large group structure. I took on a caregiving role, managing sensory needs, planning accommodations, helping with communication, and mediating conflict. When two group members became overwhelmed in a crowded night market and got separated, I was able to locate them, help them regulate their emotions, and get them safely home. Their appreciation reminded me that small, intentional actions can create deep safety for others. But perhaps the most publicly challenging mental health-related experience I’ve had was in the aftermath of the Capitol Hill massacre, where six of my friends were killed. The media coverage vilified our community, implying that our values—harm reduction, sex positivity, and mutual support—had created an unsafe environment. I was asked to give interviews; most I declined, knowing the risks of being misrepresented. But I agreed to appear live on Good Morning America, where I did my best to reframe the narrative. I spoke about our community’s values, our work with local authorities, and the grief and trauma we were experiencing. My goal was to bring humanity into a story that others were trying to turn into a spectacle. That experience reinforced my belief that public understanding of mental health and community care still has a long way to go—and that I have a role to play in that education. Through all of these experiences, my belief in the importance of trauma-informed care has only grown stronger. I believe that everyone deserves to be understood, not just treated. Mental health is not just a set of symptoms—it’s a window into someone’s story, their history, and their coping mechanisms. My personal journey has shown me that healing doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens in connection. In therapy rooms, in caregiving relationships, in communities willing to grow together. That’s why I’ve chosen to pursue a career in clinical mental health therapy. I want to offer others what I once needed myself: a space to be heard, a witness to their struggle, and a partner in their healing. I want to specialize in working with trauma survivors, neurodivergent individuals, and those who, like my brother, fall through the cracks of our current systems. I want to help shift the mental health field toward more inclusive, accessible, and community-rooted models of care. My experience with mental health has been painful, complex, and, ultimately, transformative. It has taught me that resilience is not about avoiding hardship but about showing up—again and again—with care, humility, and courage. It has shaped the way I love, the way I work, and the way I dream. And it continues to guide me as I build a life centered on helping others heal.