I began playing tennis during my freshman year of high school in 2022, at the age of fourteen. At the time, I had limited knowledge of the sport, and I rarely saw people who looked like me on the court. As an African American girl, stepping into that environment initially felt unfamiliar. However, learning about Serena and Venus Williams, two Black women who excelled in a sport where they were often underestimated, shifted my perspective. Their journeys did more than inspire me; they affirmed that I belonged in spaces where representation is limited. Tennis quickly became more than an after-school activity. Even on the hottest days or during long, demanding matches, I developed a genuine love for the sport. Competing, refining my skills, and pushing myself beyond discomfort became part of my growth. Holding a tennis racket gives me a sense of confidence and control, as though I am accessing a strength I did not fully recognize within myself. Each point reinforces the understanding that my potential extends beyond initial expectations. As a young Black girl participating in a sport where representation remains limited, tennis has shaped how I view both identity and future possibility. It has underscored the importance of visibility, not only for me, but for younger girls who may be observing from a distance. Seeing Serena and Venus succeed once gave me a sense of possibility; now, I aspire to serve as that same example for others, demonstrating that it is possible to enter spaces where you are underrepresented and still excel. Tennis has also cultivated discipline, resilience, and leadership. It has required me to manage my time effectively, remain composed under pressure, and persist even when performance does not meet expectations. It has also strengthened my ability to support teammates, maintain focus during adversity, and value growth over immediate outcomes. These skills extend far beyond athletics and influence how I approach academic and personal challenges. Most significantly, tennis has shaped my understanding of perseverance. There are moments when physical exhaustion, missed shots, or frustration could easily shift momentum. In those moments, the challenge becomes mental, choosing to remain engaged, focused, and committed despite difficulty. This mindset has become central to how I approach obstacles both on and off the court. Tennis has influenced my future by reinforcing to me that I can enter unfamiliar spaces, adapt, and succeed even when representation is limited. It has strengthened my confidence, discipline, and sense of purpose. Regardless of the path I pursue, the principles developed through the sport, resilience, leadership, and representation, will continue to guide my growth. I do not simply play tennis to compete; I play to redefine what presence, excellence, and possibility look like in every space I enter.

You cannot build trust in a community if you refuse to acknowledge its reality. Improving the relationship between law enforcement and African American communities doesn’t start with policies, it starts with truth. For many African Americans, mistrust of law enforcement is shaped not only by history, but by what we continue to see today, unfair treatment, lack of accountability, and the feeling that our voices are not heard. When those realities are ignored or dismissed, it creates a divide that policies alone cannot fix. I experienced this firsthand during a college-level criminal justice course I took through dual enrollment. My instructor, who was a white law enforcement officer, said that the deaths of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor were not what they appeared to be and were being misrepresented. Sitting in that classroom, I felt frustrated and honestly hurt. It wasn’t just a disagreement, it felt like the pain of an entire community being dismissed. In that moment, I realized how difficult it is to build trust when people in positions of authority refuse to acknowledge the truth or even try to understand perspectives different from their own. But that experience didn’t make me stay quiet, it pushed me to use my voice even more. As a member of the Douglas County Youth Commission and a National Youth Council Member with Big Brothers Big Sisters, I’ve had opportunities to speak up for young people and be part of conversations that matter. I also serve as the only youth member on an all-adult Participant Advisory Council for Big Brothers Big Sisters of Metro Atlanta, where I bring youth perspectives into decisions that directly impact programs and opportunities. Being in these spaces has shown me that change starts when people are willing to listen to voices that are often overlooked. I believe law enforcement agencies can improve their relationships with African American communities by choosing understanding over defensiveness. Officers need training that goes beyond policies and focuses on cultural awareness, bias, and the real history behind why trust has been broken. But more importantly, they need to listen, not just to respond, but to truly understand. Acknowledging harm isn’t about blame; it’s about being honest so real change can begin. Building trust also requires consistent and meaningful engagement. In my community, initiatives like Coffee with a Cop give officers and residents the chance to interact in a more relaxed and positive environment. Moments like that matter because they allow people to see each other as individuals, not just roles. However, real progress requires more than occasional events. It requires consistency, transparency, and accountability. Trust between law enforcement and the communities they serve are built over time when communities see that their voices are heard and respected. My interest in this issue is also reflected in my education. Through dual enrollment, I earned a Criminal Justice certification from West Georgia Technical College, where I developed a deeper understanding of how the system operates and how it impacts different communities. That experience, combined with my leadership roles, has strengthened my goal of becoming a lawyer. In the future, I want to use my voice and my career to advocate for fairness, accountability, and real change. I want to help create a system where justice is not just something people are told exists, but something people can actually feel and trust.

Growing up, I learned early that substance abuse can affect families in ways that last for generations. My maternal grandmother struggled with drug addiction for over 30 years, and my great-grandmother became dependent on pain medication. Because of my grandmother’s addiction, my mother and her siblings were raised by extended family. Hearing these stories helped me understand how deeply addiction can disrupt stability, relationships, and a sense of security. Growing up without my father also shaped my understanding of how substance abuse can affect family stability. His struggle with drug use contributed to his absence in my life, and it exposed me to how addiction can interfere with relationships, responsibility, and consistent support. This helped me understand that substance use does not only impact the individual, but also the children and families who depend on them. Even though I was raised in a stable home by my mother, I’ve always been aware of how close these challenges were to my own life. Addiction was not just something I heard about, it was something that shaped my family’s history across multiple generations. It showed me how easily people can become vulnerable to substances, and how those choices can affect not just one person, but entire families over time. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve also seen how dangerous drugs like fentanyl have become, especially for young people who may not fully understand what they are being exposed to. Many individuals are harmed not because they intend to make dangerous choices, but because they were misled or placed in unsafe environments. That reality is something I want to help change. I’ve also taken steps to be part of the solution in my own community. Through my work with Big Brothers Big Sisters and the Douglas County Youth Commission, I’ve had opportunities to support youth advocacy and promote positive decision-making. These experiences have shown me how important education, mentorship, and early intervention are in helping young people make safe and informed choices. I’ve faced my own challenges with anxiety and trust, and through therapy, I’ve started learning how to break cycles and build healthier patterns for my future. These experiences have made me more aware of how important support systems and early intervention can be in preventing long-term harm. Because of what I’ve seen and experienced, I want to pursue a degree in criminal justice. I want to understand the systems that are meant to protect people and work to improve them. My goal is to advocate for stronger protections, better education, and more accountability when it comes to substance exposure and youth safety. I want to be part of a future where fewer families are impacted by addiction and where young people are better informed and protected from dangerous substances like fentanyl. My story is not defined by the challenges my family has faced, but by what I choose to do because of them. I am choosing to turn those experiences into purpose and to work toward creating safer communities for others.

From a young age, I learned how deeply mental health and support systems can shape a person’s life. My journey with anxiety began in third grade after a frightening experience with a classmate who was struggling with serious mental health challenges and made repeated threats toward me. At the time, I felt unsafe, overwhelmed, and unheard, and I didn’t have the language to explain what I was experiencing. As I got older, my anxiety intensified, especially during high-stakes testing like the Georgia Milestones. At my school, students were told that if they didn’t pass, they could be held back. Even as a strong student, that pressure felt overwhelming. During one test, my anxiety became so severe that I had to be removed from the classroom because I couldn’t calm down. That moment led to my diagnosis and receiving a 504 plan, which has supported me throughout school. Initially, I felt embarrassed about needing accommodations like extra time or breaks. I didn’t want to be seen as different. Over time, I realized these supports were not weaknesses, they were tools that helped me succeed. That shift changed how I saw myself and others who need support. My understanding of mental health and disability is shaped by my family. My grandfather served his entire career in the United States Air Force and now battles PTSD and depression. Watching him has shown me that strength and struggle can exist at the same time, and that people deserve support, not judgment. In addition, both my mother and I experience anxiety, which we openly navigate together. Because of her advocacy, I was able to get the help I needed, something I know not everyone has. These experiences opened my eyes to how often individuals with mental health challenges or intellectual disabilities are misunderstood or overlooked. This is why I have volunteered with the Special Olympics throughout high school. For four years, I have supported students with intellectual disabilities, helping with events and encouraging participation. This experience has allowed me to give back while reinforcing my belief that everyone deserves to be seen for their abilities. Because of these experiences, I have developed a passion for advocacy. I plan to pursue a career as either a forensic or child welfare attorney, where I can advocate for individuals, especially children and families, who may not be able to speak for themselves. I have taken steps toward this goal by earning my Criminal Justice certification through West Georgia Technical College. I am especially interested in shaping policies that improve access to services and ensure individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities are treated with dignity and fairness. My involvement with Big Brothers Big Sisters also shaped who I am. For nearly a decade, I’ve had a mentor who helped me grow in confidence and recognize my potential. Through this program, I’ve spoken publicly about my experiences and traveled to Capitol Hill to advocate for mentorship programs, showing me how policy impacts lives. Recently, my family has faced financial challenges due to my mother’s unemployment. While I’ve been accepted into over forty colleges and universities, affordability will determine where I can attend. This scholarship would help make my education possible and allow me to continue pursuing a path centered on advocacy and service. What inspires me most is knowing what it feels like to struggle, to feel misunderstood, and to need someone to advocate for you. I want to be that person for others. I hope to use my voice and future career to create meaningful change and ensure that no one feels overlooked in systems meant to support them.

Communication is one of the most powerful tools a person can develop. I have learned that the ability to speak with clarity, confidence, and authenticity can open doors, but it can also take time and lived experience to fully develop that voice. As an African American student with Indigenous ancestry on my maternal side, I have come to understand how identity, assumptions, and representation influence whether a voice is heard, or overlooked. The first time I experienced what it felt like to struggle to use my voice was in elementary school. I had transferred to a new school after previously experiencing serious safety concerns, including repeated threats from another student at my former school. I hoped the new environment would feel safer and more supportive, but instead I quickly became aware of how different I felt there. The administration was entirely white, and there were very few Black teachers, only a small number across the entire school. Most Black staff members were not in classroom or leadership roles, but instead served as paraprofessionals, cafeteria workers, or custodial staff. In that environment, I often felt out of place and overly observed, as if I had to constantly prove that I belonged. Over time, I began to feel singled out in ways that affected my confidence. I was treated with suspicion in academic and social spaces, as if I needed to justify my presence. Instead of speaking up, I became quieter and unsure of how to advocate for myself in a space where I already felt unseen. Eventually, the situation became serious enough that my mother had to advocate for me directly at the district level after observing how I was being treated. That experience taught me that when your voice is still developing, it matters who is willing to stand beside you until you are ready to fully stand on your own. Today, I serve as a National Youth Council Member with the Big Brothers Big Sisters National Office, which gave me the opportunity to travel to Washington, D.C. for Capitol Hill Day. In this role, I met with staff of U.S. Senators as part of an advocacy effort focused on youth mentorship programs and expanding opportunities for young people. During preparation for this experience, I had a separate and deeply impactful moment within Big Brothers Big Sisters. A representative from the organization asked me if I had ever been involved in the juvenile justice system. The question was not based on anything I had shared, but rather on assumptions tied to how I might be perceived as a Black young woman in that space. In that moment, I recognized how quickly narratives can be formed about people before they have the chance to define themselves. Instead of stepping back, I remained engaged and continued participating in the advocacy process. That experience strengthened my understanding that communication is not only about speaking, it is also about staying present, grounded, and intentional even when you feel misunderstood. It also deepened my awareness of how often young people from marginalized backgrounds are mischaracterized before they are given the opportunity to fully express who they are. Following that experience, I chose to use my voice in a more direct way. I spoke with leadership within Big Brothers Big Sisters about what occurred and how it reflected broader concerns about assumptions in youth-serving spaces. As a result of those conversations, I learned that the organization strengthened its commitment to cultural awareness by developing additional sensitivity and inclusion training for staff. They also implemented a practice where a representative from their national office is present during Youth Council meetings and other spaces where young people engage with adults, helping to ensure that participants feel supported and safe in all environments. These experiences have shaped how I understand both voice and identity. My heritage and lived experiences have taught me that identity is not always fully seen or understood by others, and that assumptions can often replace understanding if we are not intentional about speaking for ourselves. Because of that, I have learned the importance of defining myself through my own words rather than allowing others to define me. My experience at Capitol Hill Day helped transform my perspective on communication into something more active and purposeful. I realized that speaking with confidence is not about never feeling uncertain, it is about choosing to show up anyway, especially in spaces where your voice is needed. Ultimately, my goal is to use my voice to advocate for young people and families who feel unheard or misrepresented, particularly within African American communities and other historically marginalized groups. I plan to pursue a career as a family and social justice attorney so I can continue using communication as a tool for advocacy and systemic change. Through law, I hope to ensure that people are heard and fairly represented, especially in moments where their voices might otherwise be overlooked or misunderstood. As I pursue this path, financial challenges are also a reality for my family, especially after my mother experienced a layoff last year, making the cost of college a significant concern. This scholarship would help make it possible for me to continue my education and fully pursue my goal of becoming an attorney who serves and advocates for others. My identity and experiences have taught me the importance of speaking with intention and truth. I want to carry that forward by helping others find and use their own voices with confidence and clarity. Ultimately, I hope to use my voice not only for myself, but to uplift others, ensuring that future generations feel seen, heard, and empowered to speak without hesitation.

Growing up, my mom always told me that school should be my top priority. As a single parent, she handled everything: work, bills, and the house on her own for 17 years. She decided to excuse me from chores so I could focus completely on my education. I was just a kid trying to do well in school, hang out with my friends, and enjoy being young. I knew other kids my age were helping out at home, doing dishes, folding laundry, and cleaning. My world was mostly academics and after-school activities. That routine stayed the same until seventh grade, when everything changed. When COVID-19 hit, the world slowed down, and our home became something different. It wasn’t just a place to relax anymore; it turned into a shared workspace. My mom started working remotely, and I began noticing things I hadn’t paid attention to before. I saw how she balanced conference calls with cooking dinner, how she sighed quietly when she thought I wasn’t listening, and how she never complained, even when the stress was obvious. One afternoon, during a Zoom meeting, a coworker made a comment showing microaggressions. I realized that my mom wasn’t just doing physical work; she was carrying emotional weight too. She was showing up every day as both a mother and a professional, and most of it went unnoticed. Even with everything going on, she never let her struggles affect my education. She made sure I stayed on top of my assignments, encouraged me to keep learning, and reminded me that my future mattered. I started to understand that strength isn’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes, it’s quiet. It’s doing what needs to be done without asking to show up. As I got older and entered high school, I started to see things differently. I realized that while I was still hanging out with friends, studying, and doing the things most teens do, my mom was carrying a lot. I also noticed that many of my classmates were balancing school with chores and responsibilities at home. That made me think about everything my mom had shielded me from in life, and I wanted to step up. I started helping out more around the house, cooking simple meals, keeping things organized, and just being more present. I wanted her to know I saw her and that I appreciated everything she had done for me. This experience has shaped who I am today. I’ve learned that real strength comes from sympathy, from noticing what others are going through, even when they don’t say it out loud. My mom’s quiet strength has inspired me to be more responsible, more thoughtful, and more grounded in my values. Outside of home, I’ve also worked hard to grow academically and socially. I’m part of my school’s student ambassadors, where I help freshmen adjust to high school by offering help and support. I’ve joined Key Club and participated in community service projects, such as donation drives and volunteering at local shelters. These experiences have taught me that leadership isn’t about being in charge; it’s about being kind, listening, and working together. I’ve also been involved in student government, where I’ve learned how to speak up for others and help create a more inclusive school environment. As I look ahead to college, I’m excited to keep growing not just as a student, but as a person. I want to bring my experiences, independence, and dedication to a campus where I can learn from others, make a difference, and continue to become the kind of person my mom always believed I could be.