Jack Terry’s story is incredibly inspiring because it shows how resilience and determination can completely change a person’s life. He lost everything at such a young age—his family, home, and even his sense of security—yet he didn’t let that define his future. Instead, he rebuilt his life from nothing, surviving and thriving. He became an engineer, a doctor, a soldier, an athlete, and a father. But what stands out the most to me is that after everything he went through, he still found the strength to share his story and use his experiences to inspire others. He didn’t just focus on himself—he gave back, making sure that others could learn from what he endured. While my struggles are different, I relate to pushing forward no matter how difficult life gets. My father is severely disabled and often ill, and our family has always struggled with the financial burden of his medical bills. When he had to have his leg amputated, I had to live alone so I could continue school while still visiting him every day, bringing him food, and keeping him company. It was hard, but I didn’t want him to feel alone. At the same time, I was dealing with my own personal hardships, including the loss of close friendships after a traumatic experience. It felt like I had to grow up overnight, but through these challenges, I found strength. I am so proud of myself for being able to balance school, work, and the emotional stress all at once. Despite everything, I never gave up on my goals. I worked hard in school, and my jobs and I found strength through volunteering—mentoring underprivileged students, helping at food banks, and working with community programs. Giving back has always been important to me because I know what it’s like to struggle, and I want to be someone who makes things easier for others. The value of community service and giving back is something that is very important to me, and it has been a significant part of my journey. Jack Terry’s resilience has inspired me to use my skills in business marketing to effect change. Marketing, at its core, is about communication and connection. I aim to use my skills to raise awareness for causes I feel passionate about. Supporting underprivileged students, and creating opportunities for those in need are both issues that are near and dear to my heart. Like Jack, I want to turn my personal struggles into a force for good, demonstrating that no matter the challenges we face, we can always find a way to make a meaningful impact.

When my 82-year-old dad had his leg amputated, he spent almost three months in a rehab facility. It was a tough time for both of us. Suddenly, I was living alone, trying to figure out daily life without him. Simple things—cooking and handling household chores—felt overwhelming at first, but I adjusted and became more independent over time. Visiting him every day became my priority. I’d bring home-cooked meals, play games, and watch TV with him—little things that made a big difference. Those moments gave us both something to look forward to and helped us stay connected during such a hard time. On top of the emotional toll, I had to take on a lot of responsibility. I coordinated his care, kept up with his doctors, and made sure he had everything he needed to recover. Once he was well enough to travel, I helped move him back to Thailand so he could be with my mom. That summer, I became his main caregiver, helping him with everyday tasks and encouraging him as he adjusted to his new reality. Since he can’t work anymore, we rely on his small pension and social security, which makes finances really tight. Getting a scholarship would take a huge weight off my shoulders and let me focus on school without feeling like I’m adding to my family’s struggles. At the same time, I went through something else that really tested me. My closest friend, someone I trusted completely, attempted suicide. But instead of letting me be there for her, she turned on me, bullied me, and convinced others to do the same. She insisted her suicide attempt was just an accident and dismissed my concern like it was nothing. Losing her and the friends who took her side was heartbreaking—I felt completely alone, wondering how someone I cared about so much could betray me like that. It took time, therapy, and a lot of self-reflection, but I learned to put my own well-being first. I focused on what mattered—my future, my education, and my self-worth. As painful as that experience was, it showed me how strong I really am. All of these challenges have shaped me into the person I am today—resilient, compassionate, and determined. They’ve taught me that struggles don’t define me; they push me to grow. No matter how hard things get, I know I’ll keep moving forward, and my best is still ahead of me.

When my 82-year-old dad had his leg amputated, he spent almost three months in a rehab facility. It was a tough time for both of us. Suddenly, I was living alone, trying to figure out daily life without him. Simple things—cooking and handling household chores—felt overwhelming at first, but over time, I adjusted and became more independent. Visiting him every day became my priority. I’d bring home-cooked meals, play games, and watch TV with him—little things that made a big difference. Those moments gave us both something to look forward to and helped us stay connected during such a hard time. On top of the emotional toll, I had to take on a lot of responsibility. I coordinated his care, kept up with his doctors, and made sure he had everything he needed to recover. Once he was well enough to travel, I helped move him back to Thailand so he could be with my mom. That summer, I became his main caregiver, helping him with everyday tasks and encouraging him as he adjusted to his new reality. Since he can’t work anymore, we rely on his small pension and social security, which makes finances really tight. Getting a scholarship would take a huge weight off my shoulders and let me focus on school without feeling like I’m adding to my family’s struggles. At the same time, I went through something else that really tested me. My closest friend, someone I trusted completely, attempted suicide. But instead of letting me be there for her, she turned on me, bullied me, and convinced others to do the same. She insisted her suicide attempt was just an accident and dismissed my concern like it was nothing. Losing her and the friends who took her side was heartbreaking—I felt completely alone, wondering how someone I cared about so much could betray me like that. It took time, therapy, and a lot of self-reflection, but I learned to put my own well-being first. I focused on what mattered—my future, my education, and my self-worth. As painful as that experience was, it showed me how strong I really am. All of these challenges have shaped me into the person I am today—resilient, compassionate, and determined. They’ve taught me that struggles don’t define me; they push me to grow. No matter how hard things get, I know I’ll keep moving forward. So, look out world, my best is yet to come!

Once upon a time (because all fairy tales start this way), I was locked in a tower by King Curmudgeon—picture Rapunzel without the long blonde hair or a window big enough to escape. My room was cold and damp. I shivered in a thin, tattered nightgown. Even my blanket had more holes than Swiss cheese. A tiny window let in only the faintest slivers of light. Dust and cobwebs clung to the glass, blurring the world outside. Some days, I stood on my cracked wooden stool, straining to see past the grime. I could barely glimpse the sky, and even when it was bright blue, it felt gray to me. The same dream haunted me night after night. I was walking through a vast meadow, wildflowers in every shade of purple and yellow swaying in the breeze. The emerald grass rippled like waves, and I could feel the warm sunlight on my skin. Until… bam! Awake again! My dreams always ended the same way: I woke up in my miserable tower, reality crashing down on me. But this time was different. This time, I woke up gasping for air, my heart pounding. Blinking away sleep, I focused on a small shape at the foot of my bed—a mouse. How the heck did he get in here? “Hey, little guy,” I whispered. He stared at me for a moment, then scurried across the floor and—vanished. Wait. What? I scrambled out of bed and rushed to where he had disappeared. My bare feet pressed against the cold floor. That’s when I felt it—a faint draft. How had I never noticed this before? I knelt and traced my fingers along the floor, where I found a small, hidden lock. Before I could even process what was happening, the mouse returned. But this time, he carried a rusty key in his mouth. He dropped it in front of me. I picked up the key, my fingers shaking. I slid the key into the lock, and with a rusty click, the floor shifted. A trapdoor creaked open, revealing a narrow, dark passage. It was so small. My fear of tight spaces gripped me, threatening to stop me before I even started. But this was my chance. I took a deep breath and forced myself through the opening, my shoulders scraping against the stone as I squeezed into the unknown. The mouse darted ahead, leading me down a spiraling staircase that seemed to stretch forever. At the bottom, another locked door. I stared at it in disbelief. I slumped to the ground. The sobs came hard and fast—ugly crying, complete with hiccups. Then, something clinked against the floor. The key. I had stuffed it in my pocket, and now it lay there, glinting in the dim light. How had I forgotten about it? My hands fumbled as I grabbed it and shoved it into the lock. The door swung open. Blinding sunlight poured in. I staggered back, shielding my eyes. When I finally adjusted, my breath caught in my throat. It was my meadow. The wildflowers, the rolling grass, the golden sunlight—it was all here, just like my dreams. I stepped forward. The warmth of the sun wrapped around me like an embrace. Years of captivity faded like a distant dream. The world was waiting for me. It reached out its hand, urging me to move forward. I glanced back at the little mouse. “Thank you,” I whispered. Then, with a heart full of bravery, curiosity, and gratitude, I stepped into the light.

“Take the shape of the object that you are in, just like water.” A saying from my mother that has been engraved in my mind for as long as I can remember. A saying that has guided me through life. Growing up in a dual-cultural household with a Thai mother and an American father, I learned the art of adaptation. My pale skin, light brown hair, and rosy cheeks stood out among my black-haired, tan-skinned peers in Chiang Dao, Thailand. My differences sometimes made me feel out of place, but my mother’s words helped me embrace my uniqueness and build meaningful connections with my peers. I realized that being raised in a multicultural household made me versatile. At school, I played traditional Thai games and immersed myself in the local culture. At home, I spoke English with my father, who taught me cursive writing and introduced me to American literature. These experiences bridged the gap between my two worlds, ensuring I stayed connected to both roots and heritage. My mother’s words grew closer to my heart when I moved into a dormitory in seventh grade. My family’s home was too far for a daily commute, so I had to adjust to living away from them, seeing them once every 2-3 weeks. This period taught me independence, resilience, and the importance of forming new friendships while keeping up with my academics. Extracurricular activities and tutoring sessions filled my time during my time there. At 15, my world shifted when I moved to Long Island, New York. My father, who was 80 years old at the time, needed medical treatment, and my mother’s words became like a mantra to me. In 2022, my father’s health complications led to a leg amputation, followed by months of rehabilitation. During this time, I lived alone in our apartment, managing life independently. When my father returned to Thailand in 2023, I moved to live with relatives in another state. Each event was challenging to me but they strengthened my ability to adapt and thrive under pressure. I deepened my bond with my father and formed meaningful relationships with my family in the U.S. Since childhood, I’ve been passionate about learning. I picked up the violin, explored art through drawing and pottery, and took rigorous courses to challenge myself. Today, I express my creativity through photography, painting, and drawing, while also treasuring time with friends, family. To support myself and ease my parents’ financial burden, I’ve taken on two part-time jobs. These roles not only help cover my personal expenses but also allow me to engage with diverse people. I also enjoy doing small community service around my community to engage with people I would never have the chance with elsewhere. I have realized that becoming ‘like water’ (as my mother would have said) sparked my love for connecting with people and inspired me to pick communications as my major for college. The journey ahead is daunting. As a first-generation college student, I’ve had to navigate this path independently. My father, now 82, continues to face pain and financial strain after his amputation. Watching him endure these challenges has been difficult, but it motivates me to work harder. His modest pension and Social Security have supported our family, but I know this support won’t last forever. The cost of higher education feels overwhelming, but a scholarship would make it manageable. It would allow me to focus on my studies, honor my parents’ sacrifices, and build a future that makes them proud.

Growing up in the rural area of Chiang Dao, Thailand, my identity often felt like a question mark. Raised by a Thai mother and American father, I was the “white girl” in my town, the one who stood out in every crowd. Women at the market often commented on my pale skin, light brown hair, and rosy cheeks. They told my mother how lucky she was to have a “white daughter.” I silently thought, “I’m still Thai, though.” But my appearance said otherwise. My features made me different from a sea of black-haired, tan-skinned peers. Being mixed race shaped my perspective from an early age. By age 5, I seamlessly switched between English and Thai. My family and friends often praised my linguistic skills. Yet, in Chiang Dao, mixed kids were rare, and I couldn’t help but feel like I occupied an in-between space. At age 15, my world shifted when I moved to the United States leaving my parents behind back at home. To my surprise, the narrative of my identity changed. If I didn’t explicitly tell people I was half white, they would say, “I Never would have guessed that you’re mixed race.” Back home, I had always been told I looked white, but here, I was viewed differently. Once again, I didn’t quite fit in. In conversations about childhood memories, I couldn’t fully relate to my peers. I was neither fully American nor fully Thai. That, to me, is the essence of being Asian-American: belonging to multiple worlds yet never entirely fitting into any of them. However, living in the U.S. exposed me to a diversity I had never encountered. Meeting people from different backgrounds was rare in Thailand, where the population is mainly monoethnic. But in America, I made friends from all over the world—Pakistan, Puerto Rico, Japan, Peru, Ukraine, and more. This diversity helped me realize that being different wasn’t isolating; it was a shared experience. Being Asian-American gave me a unique story, just like everyone else. Since childhood, I’ve been passionate about learning. I picked up the violin, explored art through drawing and pottery, and enrolled in rigorous courses to challenge myself. My love for learning drives me to pursue higher education to make my parents proud and build a future doing something I genuinely enjoy. Still, the journey ahead is daunting. As a first-generation college student, I’ve had to navigate this path independently. Compounding this challenge is my family’s financial situation. My father, now 82, faces constant pain after losing his leg to amputation. Watching him endure this while dealing with overwhelming medical expenses has been incredibly hard. Despite his struggles, he supports my family by relying solely on a modest pension and Social Security. But as his health declines, I know that this support won’t last forever. The cost of my education already feels like a significant burden. With additional financial help, it may become manageable. I aim to ease my father’s worries by securing scholarships, ensuring I can pursue my dreams without adding to his stress. I want him to know I’ll be okay, even when he can no longer support me. A scholarship would allow me to focus on my education and future without fear of overwhelming debt. It would allow me to honor my parents’ sacrifices and build a life they can be proud of. Most importantly, it would empower me to continue growing, learning, and carving out my place in a world where I no longer feel like I have to choose between being Thai or American but can proudly be both.