Let’s play a game. I will tell you two truths and one lie about myself. It is your job to find the lie: My favorite color is red. I am 25 years old. I spent my childhood hating social workers. When you are born into a struggling home, there is little room to dream. I didn’t dream of becoming a firefighter or to walk on the moon. I craved stability before I even knew what that word meant and the only lifelong dream I’ve ever had is peace. Growing up, my mother was an addict and a single parent to five children. My father went to prison when I was two years old. Our food came from EBT, and our clothes were paid for by my mother’s extracurricular activities. Eviction notices were a constant presence in our lives, and we learned never to get too comfortable. Still, we had each other, and most of the time, that was enough. Until it wasn’t. I was nine years old when my mother was arrested. Within twenty-four hours, my family fell apart. My father gained custody of my older brother and me, a man I barely knew. My two younger sisters were placed into foster care, and my oldest sister went out on her own. In a single day, the only life I knew disappeared. I remember a social worker telling me I would not be seeing my mother for a while. I remember her telling me my sisters would not be coming with us. In my nine-year-old mind, she was the reason my family had been torn apart. For years, I blamed social services for the loss of my childhood. Before the age of ten, I learned how quickly life could change. Throughout school, much of my energy went toward surviving and understanding my family situation rather than building an impressive academic resume. Instead, I developed empathy for others facing hardship. Psychology became the only class that truly mattered to me, as I tried to understand addiction, trauma, and why bad things happen to good people. Through that understanding grew a desire to help those who could not help themselves. At seventeen, I found that calling while working with individuals diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and dementia. I cleaned rooms, assisted with meals, and provided care that went beyond a job description. I worried about Ruth on my days off and stayed late to ensure Rich was comfortable in bed. Though others didn’t understand why I loved the work, I knew I had found my purpose. In 2022, I began working with elderly individuals and people living with disabilities in low-income homes. I ensured they had clean clothes, transportation to appointments, and someone who genuinely cared. I learned that Pat spoke daily to the daughters she had outlived and that Robby, before his stroke, had a chef’s love for cooking. Though I was hired to improve their lives, they improved mine just as much. Fact: I hated social workers growing up.
Fact: I am 25 years old.
Lie: My favorite color is red. Today, I am proud to say I will be attending Georgia Military College to pursue an Associate’s degree in Social Work. I now see the social workers who I once blamed as advocates who fought for my safety and future. I want to support the single mother battling addiction, the parent reentering society after incarceration, and the children navigating foster care. My passion is advocacy, and with the help of this scholarship, I can turn that passion into a career dedicated to helping others find the peace I once longed for.

Let’s play a game. I will tell you two truths and one lie about myself. It is your job to find the lie: My favorite color is red. I am 25 years old. I spent my childhood hating social workers. When you are born into a struggling home, there is little room to dream. I didn’t dream of becoming a firefighter or to walk on the moon. I craved stability before I even knew what that word meant and the only lifelong dream I’ve ever had is peace. Growing up, my mother was an addict and a single parent to five children. My father went to prison when I was two years old. Our food came from EBT, and our clothes were paid for by my mother’s extracurricular activities. Eviction notices were a constant presence in our lives, and we learned never to get too comfortable. Still, we had each other, and most of the time, that was enough. Until it wasn’t. I was nine years old when my mother was arrested. Within twenty-four hours, my family fell apart. My father gained custody of my older brother and me, a man I barely knew. My two younger sisters were placed into foster care, and my oldest sister went out on her own. In a single day, the only life I knew disappeared. I remember a social worker telling me I would not be seeing my mother for a while. I remember her telling me my sisters would not be coming with us. In my nine-year-old mind, she was the reason my family had been torn apart. For years, I blamed social services for the loss of my childhood. Before the age of ten, I learned how quickly life could change. Throughout school, much of my energy went toward surviving and understanding my family situation rather than building an impressive academic resume. Instead, I developed empathy for others facing hardship. Psychology became the only class that truly mattered to me, as I tried to understand addiction, trauma, and why bad things happen to good people. Through that understanding grew a desire to help those who could not help themselves. At seventeen, I found that calling while working with individuals diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and dementia. I cleaned rooms, assisted with meals, and provided care that went beyond a job description. I worried about Ruth on my days off and stayed late to ensure Rich was comfortable in bed. Though others didn’t understand why I loved the work, I knew I had found my purpose. In 2022, I began working with elderly individuals and people living with disabilities in low-income homes. I ensured they had clean clothes, transportation to appointments, and someone who genuinely cared. I learned that Pat spoke daily to the daughters she had outlived and that Robby, before his stroke, had a chef’s love for cooking. Though I was hired to improve their lives, they improved mine just as much. Fact: I hated social workers growing up.
Fact: I am 25 years old.
Lie: My favorite color is red. Today, I am proud to say I will be attending Georgia Military College to pursue an Associate’s degree in Social Work. I now see the social workers who I once loathed as advocates who fought for my safety and future. I want to support the single mother battling addiction, the parent reentering society after incarceration, and the children navigating foster care. My passion is advocacy, and with the help of this scholarship, I can turn that passion into a career dedicated to helping others find the peace I once longed for.

Let’s play a game. I will tell you two truths and one lie about myself. It is your job to find the lie: My favorite color is red. I am 25 years old. I spent my childhood hating social workers. When you are born into a struggling home, there is little room to dream. I didn’t dream of becoming a firefighter or to walk on the moon. I craved stability before I even knew what that word meant and the only lifelong dream I’ve ever had is peace. Growing up, my mother was an addict and a single parent to five children. My father went to prison when I was two years old. Our food came from EBT, and our clothes were paid for by my mother’s extracurricular activities. Eviction notices were a constant presence in our lives, and we learned never to get too comfortable. Still, we had each other, and most of the time, that was enough. Until it wasn’t. I was nine years old when my mother was arrested. Within twenty-four hours, my family fell apart. My father gained custody of my older brother and me, a man I barely knew. My two younger sisters were placed into foster care, and my oldest sister went out on her own. In a single day, the only life I knew disappeared. I remember a social worker telling me I would not be seeing my mother for a while. I remember her telling me my sisters would not be coming with us. In my nine-year-old mind, she was the reason my family had been torn apart. For years, I blamed social services for the loss of my childhood. Before the age of ten, I learned how quickly life could change. Throughout school, much of my energy went toward surviving and understanding my family situation rather than building an impressive academic resume. Instead, I developed empathy for others facing hardship. Psychology became the only class that truly mattered to me, as I tried to understand addiction, trauma, and why bad things happen to good people. Through that understanding grew a desire to help those who could not help themselves. At seventeen, I found that calling while working with individuals diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and dementia. I cleaned rooms, assisted with meals, and provided care that went beyond a job description. I worried about Ruth on my days off and stayed late to ensure Rich was comfortable in bed. Though others didn’t understand why I loved the work, I knew I had found my purpose. In 2022, I began working with elderly individuals and people living with disabilities in low-income homes. I ensured they had clean clothes, transportation to appointments, and someone who genuinely cared. I learned that Pat spoke daily to the daughters she had outlived and that Robby, before his stroke, had a chef’s love for cooking. Though I was hired to improve their lives, they improved mine just as much. Fact: I hated social workers growing up.
Fact: I am 25 years old.
Lie: My favorite color is red. Today, I am proud to say I will be attending Georgia Military College to pursue an Associate’s degree in Social Work. I now see the social workers who I once loathed as advocates who fought for my safety and future. I want to support the single mother battling addiction, the parent reentering society after incarceration, and the children navigating foster care. My passion is advocacy, and with the help of this scholarship, I can turn that passion into a career dedicated to helping others find the peace I once longed for.

Let’s play a game. I will tell you two truths and one lie about myself. It is your job to find the lie: My favorite color is red. I am 25 years old. I spent my childhood hating social workers. When you are born into a struggling home, there is little room to dream. I didn’t dream of becoming a firefighter or to walk on the moon. I craved stability before I even knew what that word meant and the only lifelong dream I’ve ever had is peace. Growing up, my mother was an addict and a single parent to five children. My father went to prison when I was two years old. Our food came from EBT, and our clothes were paid for by my mother’s extracurricular activities. Eviction notices were a constant presence in our lives, and we learned never to get too comfortable. Still, we had each other, and most of the time, that was enough. Until it wasn’t. I was nine years old when my mother was arrested. Within twenty-four hours, my family fell apart. My father gained custody of my older brother and me, a man I barely knew. My two younger sisters were placed into foster care, and my oldest sister went out on her own. In a single day, the only life I knew disappeared. I remember a social worker telling me I would not be seeing my mother for a while. I remember her telling me my sisters would not be coming with us. In my nine-year-old mind, she was the reason my family had been torn apart. For years, I blamed social services for the loss of my childhood. Before the age of ten, I learned how quickly life could change. Throughout school, much of my energy went toward surviving and understanding my family situation rather than building an impressive academic resume. Instead, I developed empathy for others facing hardship. Psychology became the only class that truly mattered to me, as I tried to understand addiction, trauma, and why bad things happen to good people. Through that understanding grew a desire to help those who could not help themselves. At seventeen, I found that calling while working with individuals diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and dementia. I cleaned rooms, assisted with meals, and provided care that went beyond a job description. I worried about Ruth on my days off and stayed late to ensure Rich was comfortable in bed. Though others didn’t understand why I loved the work, I knew I had found my purpose. In 2022, I began working with elderly individuals and people living with disabilities in low-income homes. I ensured they had clean clothes, transportation to appointments, and someone who genuinely cared. I learned that Pat spoke daily to the daughters she had outlived and that Robby, before his stroke, had a chef’s love for cooking. Though I was hired to improve their lives, they improved mine just as much. Fact: I hated social workers growing up.
Fact: I am 25 years old.
Lie: My favorite color is red. Today, I am proud to say I will be attending Georgia Military College to pursue an Associate’s degree in Social Work. I now see the social workers who I once loathed as advocates who fought for my safety and future. I want to support the single mother battling addiction, the parent reentering society after incarceration, and the children navigating foster care. My passion is advocacy, and with the help of this scholarship, I can turn that passion into a career dedicated to helping others find the peace I once longed for.