Darkness still hung heavy when I woke, earlier than needed, up before practice just to handle what waited. Mom was bedridden, distancing hope by sunrise. As the house held its breath, I led my little brother step by step, setting up lifts so he’d get to class on time. Food for Mom followed: positioned close, within reach, ready without effort. Quiet showed me subtleties speaking couldn’t like, her foot slowly tapping, her eyes darting to the window, and how air stuck in her throat whenever hurt arose. Medicine jars stood row after row near the pillow, close enough to grab without reaching far. Minutes dragged heavier there, pulled tight by need on one end, longing on the other. I lifted the pack onto one side and walked past the threshold, when mom’s breathing evened out, and not before, following a shape of who I might be just outside that frame. After class ended, time kept moving. The books hit the desk, assignments got done quick, leaving room to guide my brother through his. Tryouts came around a lot that year, which meant diving into rehearsal rhythm of running lines, taping practice clips, breaking down scenes, slow walks to the restroom, holding on tight each step of the way, followed by cooking, cleaning, and aligning the house for the next day. On-ramps or off-ramps, I came last every day. Over time, decisions provided less room for error. Near bus shelters, I grabbed time with pages; during my brother's drills, words flowed again under quiet hands. Time was fragmented with shorter bursts, and no segments truly got to settle. broke into pieces - short bursts, scattered spans - each one slipping before it could settle. Transport was dynamic weekly, shifting without warning. changed every week. What seemed set flipped without warning. Showing up stopped meaning strength and began meaning deep, painful endurance, balancing school, work, home, and practice. And somehow, even that “normalized”. Getting by took little effort; dreaming past that seemed indulgent, almost strange. And when I dreamed, it was of acting abroad, studying under different skies, seeing shows in distant towns I'd only read about. Even in the midst of what I had to do, I was literally daring to dream of “more”. Some days began before sunrise, others after long walks through wet pavement. London shifted something inside without warning one autumn morning. Lessons arrived as voice shaping mornings, bodies moving midday, scenes unfolding under bright lights. The academy demanded focus but gave back more than expected. Instead of clinics and quiet rooms, schedules filled with blocking notes, script pages taped to walls. Fellow students spoke little yet understood much. Nights belonged to stages scattered near rivers or tucked behind old buildings. Watching plays became necessary, like breathing deeply after silence. Performances reminded us why standing onstage went from impossible to teachable. The suffocating flux of life was not defied by the persistence of this dream. Housework never faded away, but rather into foreign clocks, different paces, relearning its role. One step at a time, I'm dipping into the idea of learning abroad, aiming for a session at the British American Drama Academy in London. That opening might shape what I can do, widen how I notice others and distant streets, while showing that duty must make space for purpose and desire. Starting to build something real instead of just getting by begins small, with nothing more than a single move: stepping under the light myself, no longer lingering behind someone else's story.

It started without thinking about spotlight or perfect lines. Under bright lamps, someone like me spoke words that softened the weight of being alone. Everything shifted after that moment—suddenly, getting a BFA isn’t just something I want; it’s what makes sense. Learning goes beyond breath work or body practice; it reveals how stories turn quiet spaces into bridges between people. Step by step through each session, the goal comes clearer: making places where standing tall doesn’t depend on your past, but opens wide for those often left behind. Later on, television plots and book tales felt distant from my days. Paying attention without speaking up fit right in. Keeping pieces steady when no one looked was part of the rhythm. Theatre showed up slowly, never shouting cures. Instead, it shaped the quiet things that had no voice before. Acting let feelings I couldn’t name sit down and speak. Years later, I notice how heavy my own thoughts always were. That knowing never left—it settled deep. Some days start with pages spread near my coffee. Getting a degree in acting means more than memorizing lines; it means digging into what makes every beat matter. When focus holds steady, rehearsal takes on an edge, fitting motives together like torn pieces of a puzzle. Notes from directors change reactions bit by bit. Tiny shifts stack up unseen. The costume shop pulls me sideways now; loose threads and stitched edges carry weight they never did. Leading taught my eyes to catch small things on their own. People feel changes, even if words slip away. When night falls, feedback can hit hard, but returning the next day is quiet proof I’m still here. This road doesn’t promise fame—it builds someone steady enough to meet whatever follows. Something deeper than victory keeps me moving. Moving forward means bringing people along, not walking ahead alone. I picture classes in overlooked corners—places where drama disappears behind cost or silence, especially in Black neighborhoods worn down by limits. Training sharpens my performance, but it uncovers a softer skill too: leading circles, tending sparks, settling storms before the curtain rises. Every warm‑up, every method tucked away waits until a person faces me, focused, words just beginning. Stillness hits harder when you’re the one holding the house together. Solving every problem by yourself writes lines on the inside. A child breaking down against your chest makes seconds stretch like years. When you’re steering all the pieces, choices keep arriving before the last one lands. Papers stack as dinner cools. Lines need drawing—so I drew them. Silence slips away under duty. Learning reshaped what came easily: stepping forward, staying alert, finding fixes. It molded those instincts. Less sprinting toward saving, more moving beside someone until their voice returns. This way feels right. It lines up with what I care about most. I don’t just want to act; I want to tell stories drawn from everyday lives and familiar places. Rather than chasing recognition alone, I picture rooms full of young people moving forward, steady and sure. One step at a time, skills deepen—not just performance, but purpose. Connection before applause changes what the stage means. Tools show up quietly: my words gain weight, thoughts clear space, courage gathers in silence. Not luck, but choice shapes plans to run workshops and invite unfinished scenes into the light. A BFA isn’t just paper; it’s proof that change moves where effort stays. Each run‑through shifts more than faces—my own resolve bends with it. Moment by moment, what rises now becomes the ground for lives still unnamed.

The night before I left for Howard University, I stood in my bedroom surrounded by half-packed suitcases, listening to my mom move around our apartment. Everything felt heavy. Not because I was unsure about my dream, but because I knew how much it cost my family for me to chase it. In that moment, being a first-generation college student stopped being a title and became a responsibility I carry with me every day. I grew up in Queens, New York, raised by a single mother who never had the privilege of planning for college or financial security. After losing my grandmother, who supported our family emotionally and financially, and my younger brother’s father passing away, my mom became the sole provider. I watched her push through grief, job instability, and exhaustion to keep our family afloat. When she lost her job after surgery, fear crept into our home quietly. Bills still needed to be paid. Dreams still had to be protected. I learned early that resilience isn’t loud. It’s waking up and doing what needs to be done, even when you’re tired. Acting has been my constant since I was five years old, but it has never been an easy space for me. I was often the only Black girl in my classes. I was chosen last, left without a partner, and expected to blend in when I couldn’t. Instead of shrinking, I learned how to stand alone. Performing monologues by myself taught me confidence, discipline, and how to trust my voice when no one else did. Acting became where I processed loss, rejection, and grief, especially after my grandmother passed. It gave me a way to turn pain into purpose. Coming to Howard University changed everything. For the first time, I felt seen. I found community, excellence, and expectation all in one place. I stepped into leadership roles as Costume Shop Manager and Lead Draper, managing teams, communicating with faculty, and supporting productions behind the scenes. These roles strengthened my confidence and taught me accountability, time management, and professionalism under pressure. Still, the financial burden remains real. Tuition, housing, books, and daily expenses fall on my mother alone. This scholarship would ease that weight and allow me to stay focused on my education instead of worrying about whether I can afford to continue. My dream is to build a career in film and television and eventually create affordable acting spaces for young Black artists who feel unseen. What drives me is purpose, gratitude, and the sacrifices that brought me here. This scholarship is not just financial support. It is the difference between surviving and fully stepping into my potential.

I remember those late nights at the kitchen table, the quiet hush while my parent sorted through a stack of bills. The room was dim, the TV was off, and the only sound was the soft scrape of paper sliding across the surface. I did not understand every number, but I felt the weight. I felt the tension. I understood how money could steal a good night’s sleep or leave you staring at the ceiling in the dark. That moment did not pass and disappear. It changed how I move through life. Growing up in a single parent, low income household taught me to carry responsibility early. I learned not to waste opportunities because there was no safety net beneath me. When things became difficult, quitting was never an option. Figuring it out was. Now, as a freshman at Howard University, I face challenges with that same quiet determination. When deadlines pile up or finances feel uncertain, I return to the image of that table, those bills, and the strength it took to keep going anyway. I show up fully in my classes, in leadership roles, and in my community because I know what it means to be counted on. I lead with empathy because I know what it feels like not to be seen. Whether I am volunteering, creating, or supporting others, I act with care and intention. My past did not just shape me. It fuels me. I am using my education to turn those lessons into action and to build spaces where people feel supported, represented, and hopeful about what comes next.

My name is Alaya Haywood, and I am a 17-year-old actress from Queens, New York. Acting has been a part of my life since I was five years old, but over the years it has grown from a childhood passion into a calling that shapes who I am and who I want to become. My grandmother, whom I affectionately called “Moomie,” was the person who first encouraged my creativity and nurtured my love for performance. She was my biggest cheerleader, and her belief in me gave me the confidence to pursue acting as more than just a hobby. Losing my grandmother was one of the hardest experiences of my life. She suffered from lupus, and during one of our annual family cruises, she became very ill. After the trip ended, she was taken to a hospital in Texas where she passed away the next morning. The news devastated me. I felt unmoored, unable to focus on school, and flooded with memories of her. Grief made me retreat into myself. But eventually, I found a way to channel my emotions: through acting. When I step into a role, I am able to release feelings that I often keep bottled inside. Acting became both therapy and empowerment for me, allowing me to transform my pain into something meaningful. Every character I play becomes a mirror for my own emotions, and every performance feels like a tribute to my grandmother, who always believed in my potential. Workshops like Tasha Smith’s Acting Workshop (TSAW) gave me the tools to take my craft seriously. Learning the Ivana Chubbuck technique, for example, pushed me to build characters with depth, which made my performances more authentic and personal. Howard University is the place where I plan to take my next steps. I want to immerse myself in an environment that celebrates Black artistry and legacy, while also pushing me to excel in television and film, especially in action and drama. My long-term career goal is to work in the entertainment industry as an actress, but also as a leader who changes the opportunities available to others. I plan to open acting schools in underserved Black communities. I know firsthand how expensive training programs can be and how isolating it feels to be the only Black girl in a room. I want to create affordable spaces where young people of color can see themselves reflected, feel included, and know their voices matter. In doing so, I hope to break barriers of access and representation in the performing arts. Beyond acting, I am also committed to community service. In 2024, after a hurricane devastated Jamaica—my grandmother’s homeland—I started a relief project to collect food, clothing, and essentials for families in need. Seeing the outpouring of support and being able to help those affected reminded me of how service is just as powerful as art in building community and healing wounds. Through my studies and career, I hope to make an impact by inspiring others, telling authentic stories, and opening doors for future generations. My grandmother’s spirit continues to guide me, and I carry her strength in everything I do. Acting may be my profession, but my mission is bigger: to use my art and voice to heal, empower, and uplift.

My name is Alaya Haywood, and I am a first-year Acting major at Howard University, where I am pursuing a degree in Theatre Performing Arts. For me, acting has never just been a hobby—it has always been a lifeline, a way of expressing myself when words fell short. I grew up facing challenges that forced me to mature quickly, including the loss of my grandmother and my younger brother’s father within months of each other. These losses deeply affected my family, especially my mother, who became the sole provider. In those moments, acting gave me an outlet to process grief, release emotion, and find strength. That is why I chose this degree: because the arts represent healing, storytelling, and transformation. Another reason I pursued acting is because of representation. Throughout my childhood, I noticed that in acting classes, workshops, and auditions, I was often the only Black girl in the room. That experience could be isolating—I was overlooked for parts or left without a partner in exercises. Even as a child, I understood what it felt like to be excluded, and I promised myself that one day I would create spaces where others would not feel the same. When I attended Howard’s admitted students day, it was the first time I walked into a room full of aspiring artists who looked like me. I felt a deep sense of belonging, and it affirmed my decision to continue on this path. Representation matters because, despite progress, Black women still make up a very small percentage of the theatre and film industry. Studies show that fewer than 6% of lead roles in Hollywood go to Black women. That number represents both a challenge and an opportunity. I am proud to be part of that small percentage, but I also recognize the responsibility that comes with it. My goal is not only to succeed personally, but to widen the path for those coming behind me. I plan to make an impact on my community by using my degree and my platform to build opportunities for others. My dream is to open performing arts schools in underserved Black communities, where young people often do not have access to affordable training or resources. I know firsthand how powerful it is to see yourself represented on stage and screen, and I want to ensure that children in my community can develop their talents without feeling like they are outsiders in the industry. Beyond that, I hope to produce films and plays that center Black voices and stories, making sure they are shared on both local and global stages. The arts are important because they reflect who we are, where we’ve been, and where we are going. They give voice to the unheard, shed light on truths that might otherwise stay hidden, and create empathy across differences. For me, acting is not just about entertainment—it is about impact. It is about showing someone that their pain, joy, culture, and dreams are valid. It is about turning my personal story of resilience into proof that success is possible, even in the face of adversity. By pursuing this degree, I hope to inspire the next generation to dream bigger and push further. If today only 6% of leading roles belong to Black women, then tomorrow, because of my work and the work of others, that percentage can grow. My goal is to be more than an actor—I want to be a trailblazer, a mentor, and a builder of opportunities. I want every young Black artist to know they belong in the spotlight.

One of the things I’m proudest of happened soon after a hurricane slammed into Jamaica in June 2024. Because my grandmother grew up there, the images of shattered homes hit close to home, and I knew I couldn’t just watch from a distance. I asked friends, neighbours, and local businesses for food, clothes, and everyday supplies, then packed everything into boxes and arranged a shipment. Flying over myself, I handed some of the items to a single mother of four whose house had vanished—seeing her smile reminded me why every small effort counts. The whole journey showed me I’m tougher than I realise and that you don’t need a big name or a fat wallet to change things. What you really need is the guts to care, roll up your sleeves, and keep going when the headlines fade. That day on the rubble-strewn street I learned I could be a leader beyond classrooms and stages: I could be the person who simply shows up when someone else’s world falls apart. In the future, I hope to keep using my voice not only as an actress but also as someone who lifts others up. I want people to remember me for telling stories that matter and for showing up whenever my community needs me. Whether that happens through film, volunteer work, or a mix of both, I want every project to be grounded in purpose. The moment I felt that vibe in Jamaica lit a fire inside me. Im not interested in chasing success for its own sake; what I really want is to mean something to the people around me. That trip didn’t just change my view of the world; it flipped the lens I use to look at myself. Handing out water bottles in a Jamaican village taught me that real leadership rarely struts on stage; it simply shows up when the lights are dim. Watching families smile even after losing roofs and beds showed me resilience I had only read about. In that moment I understood storytelling isn’t limited to rehearsed lines; it can be the quiet act of helping someone draft a brighter next chapter. I still dream of a Hollywood marquee, but the reason is less glitter than heart. I want characters who feel painfully real, heroes with wobbly knees who remind audiences they aren’t alone. I want those stories to spark conversations, lift faces that mainstream scripts overlook, and prove that “different” is its own kind of strength. Fame would be welcome, yet the ground work matters more: packing food, raising voices for the voiceless, and carving safe corners where every story can breathe. What I did for Jamaica was just the first step. I intend to take that same energy with me wherever I land. At the end of the day, it isnt only about what I accomplish-its about who I lift up and how I make people feel.

Through my art, I hope to spark change, healing, and empowerment. As a young Black girl from Queens, New York, I didn’t always feel like I belonged in many of the acting spaces I entered. I was often the only Black girl in the room, pushed to the side, overlooked, or told to fit a mold that didn’t reflect who I really was. But over time, I learned that art wasn’t just about performance—it was about expression, identity, and connection. I found my voice in acting, and with that voice, I want to reach others who feel like they don’t have one. One of my biggest goals through art is representation. I want to bring more diverse stories to the stage and screen—stories that reflect the beauty and complexity of our communities. I believe when people see someone like them succeeding, dreaming, and overcoming, it opens doors in their minds and hearts. That’s what acting has done for me. It helped me process the grief of losing my grandmother and my younger brother’s father within months of each other. It gave me a safe space to express the pain I was holding inside, especially while juggling school, home responsibilities, and community leadership. I also hope to achieve joy. Art, for me, is healing. Whether I’m performing a monologue or baking cupcakes for Lay Lay’s Cupcakery, I’m creating something that brings light into the world. I want my future relationship with art to always include that joy, even as I grow professionally. I plan to attend Howard University’s acting program—my dream school—because it’s one of the first places I’ve ever felt fully seen and celebrated as a Black actress. There, I hope to refine my craft, build meaningful connections, and continue developing as a storyteller who leads with heart and purpose. But my vision doesn’t stop at my own success. I want to open acting schools in underserved Black communities so that kids who can’t afford expensive classes still have the chance to dream big. I want to make acting accessible, to help other young people explore their voices, emotions, and creativity. I want to create safe spaces where they feel heard, just like art did for me when my world felt heavy. Art has always been more than a hobby—it's been my lifeline, my therapy, and my way of giving back. I see my future relationship with it as a lifelong journey of learning, expression, and service. Whether I’m on a stage, behind a camera, or leading a youth workshop, I will always carry with me the belief that art has the power to transform lives. Because it transformed mine. Heres a link to my work - https://drive.google.com/file/d/1FMzsHEP0nqEHDsuYe1IM288gu9wGEZDL/view?usp=sharing

Empowerment, to me, means recognizing your worth, owning your voice, and having the confidence to take up space—even when the world tries to silence or shrink you. It’s the power to stand tall in who you are, despite your circumstances, your environment, or your obstacles. Empowerment isn’t just about feeling strong—it’s about knowing you have the right to dream, speak, and lead, and that your story matters. As a young Black girl growing up in Queens, New York, I’ve had to find empowerment in places where it wasn’t always freely given. I’ve been acting since I was five years old, and in many of the acting programs I’ve participated in, I was often the only Black girl in the room. That came with challenges—being overlooked for roles, feeling like an outsider, and having to fight to be seen and heard. But over time, those moments taught me something powerful: I had to be my own source of strength. I learned that empowerment often starts from within. Still, I never wanted to just empower myself. I wanted to lift others up, too. That’s why I launched “Lay Lay’s Cupcakery,” a dairy-free, organic cupcake business that reflects both my creativity and my commitment to health and community. It’s also why I became the Volunteer Director for Alaya’s Hope for JA, where I organize hurricane relief efforts for communities in Jamaica. And it’s why I continue to serve with The Gem In Us Inc., supporting at-risk and abused girls who, like me, deserve a future full of hope. Empowerment has shaped every corner of my life. It’s helped me push through grief after losing my grandmother and my younger brother’s father. It’s driven me to take on leadership roles, even when I was scared. It’s kept me grounded as a first-generation college student navigating new territory. And most importantly, it’s motivated me to dream bigger—for myself and for others. I’ve been accepted to Howard University, where I’ll study performing arts and surround myself with peers who reflect my background and my passion. My goal is to one day open acting schools in underserved Black communities. I want kids who look like me to know they don’t have to wait to be “given” power—they already have it. They just need someone to remind them. Empowerment is more than a word—it’s a movement, a mindset, and a mission. It’s the belief that with courage, purpose, and love, we can create a future where everyone gets to shine. And I’m proud to be part of that future.

The Stage That Healed Me Art has always been more than a talent or a hobby for me—it has been my lifeline. After losing my grandmother to lupus, my world shifted. She wasn’t just a family member; she was my biggest supporter, the one who nurtured my dreams and reminded me of my worth. Her passing left me numb, struggling to process emotions I didn't know how to name. I started drifting into silence, and it felt like no one could see what I was carrying. That’s when acting became more than a performance. It became healing. The first time I stepped back on stage after her death, I broke. But that breaking was also a breakthrough. In every scene, every character, I poured pieces of my grief and pain. Through monologues and improvisation, I found a way to say what I couldn’t in conversation. Acting let me cry without apology, scream without fear, and eventually, smile again with meaning. It became a space where I could feel deeply and be understood. Art gave me my voice back. Since then, I’ve embraced acting, photography, and writing as tools of emotional expression—not just for me, but for others, too. I began working with “The Gem In Us Inc.,” where I help lead creative workshops for at-risk girls. We use poetry, performance, and visual storytelling to unpack trauma, anxiety, and identity struggles. I’ve watched girls walk in with their heads low and leave with light in their eyes, all because they finally had space to express what they’d buried inside. That transformation reminds me of my own, and why this work matters. One of my favorite projects was a self-directed short scene I wrote and performed about a girl navigating grief in silence. Every line mirrored my inner world during the months after my grandmother passed. The piece ended not with a resolution, but with a quiet moment of acceptance. That was the turning point for me—realizing that healing doesn’t always look like a big recovery. Sometimes, it’s simply being honest with where you are. The works I submitted reflect that journey. Whether it’s a photo capturing raw emotion or a performance that holds space for the stories we hide, everything I create comes from a place of purpose. I want people to feel seen, to know that pain doesn’t make them weak—it makes them real. Art is a mirror, a bridge, and a sanctuary. It helped me survive my darkest moments, and it continues to be my way of spreading light to others. That’s my passion—not just creating, but helping others discover the power of their own voices through art. Heres a link to My recent SNL skit i couldn't attach it to the files. https://drive.google.com/file/d/1FMzsHEP0nqEHDsuYe1IM288gu9wGEZDL/view?usp=sharing

How My Mental Health Journey Shaped Who I Am Most people don’t expect a loud, bubbly, joke-cracking girl like me to have been through deep grief or to have struggled with mental health. But I have—and it changed my life, my relationships, and my dreams forever. In middle school, I lost my grandmother—my “Moomie”—to lupus. It wasn’t just the loss of someone I loved; it felt like I lost a part of myself. She was my biggest supporter, the one who cheered the loudest at my performances and reminded me that I was special, even when I didn’t feel it. We had just been on a family cruise when she suddenly fell ill and passed away in Texas. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. After that, everything changed. I withdrew from school, friends, and even acting—the one thing that had always brought me joy. I didn’t feel like myself anymore. My thoughts felt heavy, and I didn’t know how to ask for help. But I knew Moomie wouldn’t want me to stay stuck in that sadness. Acting became my escape and, eventually, my therapy. When I stepped into a character, I could express all the emotions I didn’t have the words for. Through monologues, I found healing. I started attending more serious acting programs, like Tasha Smith’s TSAW, where I finally felt seen—not just for my talent, but for my story. I mastered the Ivana Chubbuck method, which helped me channel my real-life pain into my performances. I grew not just as an actress, but as a person learning to process grief. With my mom’s encouragement, I also started therapy. Talking to someone helped me understand that grief wasn’t something to get over—it was something to live with, and grow through. That realization changed the way I treat myself and others. I’ve become someone who checks in on people, who listens deeply, and who always reminds her friends: “Speak your truth—no one can tell you how to feel.” This journey also shaped my purpose. I want to use my story and my voice to help others, especially young Black kids like me who often feel overlooked or misunderstood. I plan to attend Howard University to study acting and eventually open acting schools in underserved communities. I want them to be safe spaces—places where mental health, creativity, and culture all matter. Mental health isn’t just something I went through; it’s something that taught me who I am. It taught me to love deeper, dream bigger, and keep going even when the weight is heavy. It’s the reason I perform with passion, connect with others honestly, and lead with compassion. And it’s why I know that whatever stage I stand on—whether it’s Broadway, a classroom, or my own acting studio—I'll use it to heal, inspire, and uplift.

Money was never something I could ignore growing up—it was always present in some way, not because we had a lot of it, but because we didn’t. Raised in Queens, New York, I grew up with a front-row seat to struggle and resilience. My mom, a single mother, worked tirelessly to support me and my younger brother. When my brother’s father passed away—before he was even born—and not long after, we lost my grandmother, our family was hit with emotional and financial challenges that changed everything. I watched my mother stretch every dollar, juggle bills, and still manage to make birthdays and holidays feel special. She taught me lessons I’ll never forget: how to prioritize needs over wants, how to be resourceful, and how to ask for help without shame when necessary. Even without a formal financial education, I learned how to budget just by watching her. Our circumstances didn’t define us—they pushed us to adapt. There were times I had to say no to school field trips or skip out on outings with friends. I got creative with outfits and made the most out of what I had. But out of those limitations came strength. I even started a small baking business at school, selling cupcakes and cookies. It wasn’t just a way to make money—it taught me how to manage expenses, reinvest profits, and build something from scratch. That little business gave me independence and confidence. Now, as I prepare to attend Howard University to study performing arts, financial literacy feels more important than ever. I’ll be responsible for managing my own expenses—from textbooks to food to transportation. I don’t just want to get by—I want to thrive. That means taking financial education seriously. I plan to learn more about credit, budgeting, investing, and business development. I want to be smart with my money, so that I can build something lasting. One of my biggest goals is to open acting schools in underserved Black communities like mine. Growing up, I often felt isolated in acting classes—usually the only Black girl in the room. I want to change that. My dream is to make professional training accessible and affordable so that no kid has to miss out because of money. But to build that dream, I need the financial knowledge to run a sustainable business and be a leader who empowers others. I’ve seen what financial struggle looks like. But I’ve also seen what drive, creativity, and resilience can do. I plan to turn those lessons into action—not just for me, but for the communities I hope to serve. To me, financial education isn’t just about money—it’s about freedom, opportunity, and building a future where success isn’t limited by income.

The movie that has had the greatest impact on my life is The Pursuit of Happyness starring Will Smith. This film tells the story of Chris Gardner, a man who faces extreme adversity, including homelessness and financial struggles, but never gives up on his dreams of becoming a successful stockbroker. Watching it resonated with me deeply, particularly because of the challenges my family has faced, such as the loss of my brother's father before he was born and the passing of my grandmother shortly after. In many ways, I saw myself in Chris's journey. Growing up, my family dealt with financial difficulties that often made it hard to imagine a path forward. But just like Chris, I realized that perseverance and determination can change your circumstances. His story showed me that no matter how hard life gets, it’s important to hold onto hope and keep pushing forward. It taught me that success is not about avoiding failure, but about overcoming the inevitable setbacks and continuing to work towards your goals, no matter the obstacles in your way. The film also made me reflect on my own dreams and how much I am willing to fight for them. As a young Black girl passionate about acting, I’ve often felt isolated in the industry, as many of my acting classes were predominantly white. The exclusion and isolation were tough, but just like Chris, I’ve learned that these challenges don’t define my ability to succeed. Watching The Pursuit of Happyness reinforced my belief that with persistence, resilience, and a belief in my dreams, I can make it. One of the most powerful lessons the movie taught me is the importance of giving back to others. Chris Gardner’s journey wasn’t just about him succeeding—it was about ensuring that his son had a better future. This part of the story inspired me to think about how I can use my success not only to achieve my own dreams but also to make a difference in my community. I now dream of opening acting schools in underserved neighborhoods, where kids like me can have the opportunity to chase their dreams. Watching The Pursuit of Happyness encouraged me to believe that even the most difficult circumstances can be turned around with hard work and a willingness to help others along the way. Ultimately, the movie taught me that success isn’t just about personal achievement; it’s about resilience, determination, and the impact you make on others. The Pursuit of Happyness continues to inspire me to push through my own struggles and fight for a future where my dreams—along with the dreams of those in my community—can become a reality. It’s a reminder that anything is possible if you never give up, no matter the odds.

My academic goal is to complete my degree in performing arts at Howard University, which will allow me to pursue my passion for acting and make the art form more accessible in underserved communities, particularly within Black communities. Growing up in Queens, New York, I’ve seen firsthand how access to creative programs like acting can be limited. That’s why I plan to open acting schools in neighborhoods like mine, where these opportunities are few, and to make them affordable and inclusive for everyone. Professionally, I aim to bridge the gap in the acting industry by becoming a role model for young Black aspiring actors who don’t often see themselves represented. As the only Black girl in many of my acting classes, I faced challenges of exclusion and isolation. These experiences only strengthened my resolve to create spaces where young people of all backgrounds, especially those who are underrepresented, can have access to acting opportunities. Attending Howard University has been a transformative experience for me because, for the first time, I was surrounded by others who looked like me, pursuing the same passion. This has shaped my drive to make acting programs more accessible to all, regardless of their background or financial status. Beyond academics, I have always tried to give back to my community. Through my role as the Volunteer Director at Alaya’s Hope for JA, I help with distributing aid to victims of Hurricane Jamaica. I’ve also volunteered with organizations like The Gem In Us Inc., where I assist with administrative tasks, organize events, and mentor at-risk and abused girls. These experiences have given me the opportunity to directly impact the lives of others and have helped me grow as an individual. They’ve taught me how small acts of kindness can make a huge difference in someone’s life. Additionally, I’ve worked with organizations such as Hope for the Homeless and Angels From Heaven Inc., where I helped distribute school supplies and clothing to children in need. Volunteering has not only inspired me to keep helping my community, but it has also reinforced my desire to pursue my dream of making a larger difference through education and the arts. Through these volunteer experiences, I’ve learned how powerful it is to give back and how important it is to create opportunities for others, just as I am striving to do with my future career in the arts. Giving back has become an essential part of my life’s mission. I want to create spaces where people like me can feel empowered, seen, and heard. My experiences have shown me that by helping others, we can make the world a better place, and by pursuing our passions, we can inspire others to do the same. In addition to excelling in my field, I hope to create opportunities for others to follow their dreams—just as I am pursuing mine.

When I was younger, I attended numerous acting classes and workshops, something I’ve always been passionate about. However, one thing that I noticed during those years was the lack of diversity, which often made me feel out of place. The environment wasn’t very conducive to making friendships either, which left me feeling isolated at times. I would always look forward to going home and showing my mom what I had learned, but not having anyone to share my progress with during breaks or social events made me feel disconnected. It was frustrating, and the racial disparity was palpable. I would often be the last to be chosen for scene partners or to act out a scene, which left me feeling even more excluded. Rather than dwelling on this exclusion, I made a conscious decision to become a bridge-builder. I would seek out the other kids who felt just as excluded as I did, whether it was by asking someone to join my lunch table or reaching out to girls who were found crying in the bathroom, asking if they were okay or if they needed someone to talk to. I made it my mission to create safe spaces and inclusive environments, no matter where I was or who I was with. Over time, I began to realize the importance of being a sanctuary for others, especially for those who might be struggling in silence. This desire to be a bridge-builder is something I want to carry forward into my academic career, particularly as I transition to college life. Although New York University (NYU) is known for its diversity, I know there will still be people who feel left out. I want to be the person who helps others feel seen and heard. I am committed to making sure that no one feels isolated or excluded, just as I once did. I know firsthand what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong, and I want to change that for others. Being the first person in my family to attend college is an immense honor. My mother has been my biggest supporter throughout this journey, and she has worked tirelessly to ensure that I have the opportunities she didn’t have. Growing up, we faced many challenges, and there were times when I had to go without certain things, including lunch money, or when I had to stay behind while my classmates went on school trips, like the one to Spain in my sixth grade year. We were living with my late grandmother at the time, in a one-bedroom apartment with my mom, my brother, and me. My mom was working two jobs and trying to save for a house, but it wasn’t enough, and that trip was one of many I had to miss out on because of our financial situation. Though I was devastated at the time, that experience taught me resilience. It pushed me to work harder and appreciate the opportunities I did have. I knew that I wanted to use my education as a way to improve my life, my family’s life, and to break the cycle of financial hardship. This experience of overcoming financial challenges has had a profound impact on my academic decisions. It has shaped my desire to pursue a career in acting and theater arts, and I know that attending a school like NYU will provide me with the tools and experiences I need to achieve my dreams. Theater has always been my outlet for self-expression, and it has given me the chance to connect with others, both on stage and off. Acting allows me to explore different aspects of human nature and use my voice to amplify stories that may not always be heard. In a world that often feels divided, I want to use my platform to create connections, just as I did in my acting classes, by fostering a sense of inclusivity and community. My commitment to creating inclusive spaces is also something I want to bring to my chosen field of study. As I pursue a degree in acting, I want to build a platform where diversity is not just welcomed but celebrated. I also want to give back to my community by making acting more accessible to young people, particularly those in minority neighborhoods. Growing up, I noticed that many of the best acting schools and opportunities were not available in underserved communities. If I could, I would love to create my own acting schools in predominantly Black neighborhoods, providing access to professional training and mentorship, all while keeping tuition costs affordable. It’s important to me that every child, regardless of their background, has the chance to pursue their dreams, and I believe this is how I can make a lasting impact in my community. This experience of leadership and overcoming adversity, along with my passion for acting, has prepared me for college and beyond. I’m committed to bringing the lessons I’ve learned from my journey—about resilience, leadership, and the importance of inclusivity—to NYU, and I’m excited for the opportunity to grow both as an artist and as an individual. College, for me, is not just an academic pursuit—it’s a chance to make a difference, to use my voice and actions to uplift those who need it the most. Whether on stage or in the classroom, I want to be the person who leads with compassion, and who helps build spaces where everyone can feel like they belong.

Jack Terry’s story is an inspiring example of resilience. His ability to overcome adversity and use his experiences to help others resonates deeply with me. Like Jack, I’ve faced my own struggles, and his story fuels my desire to turn my challenges into a force for good. Growing up in a home where my parents often argued, I was caught in the middle of their conflicts. This created an unstable environment that affected my emotional well-being. I learned to mature quickly and became a mediator, trying to keep the peace. This early experience taught me the importance of empathy, resilience, and how to navigate hardship. I realized that while adversity can be painful, it doesn’t define us—how we respond to it does. As I got older, I saw the importance of using my own struggles to help others. I created a project aimed at supporting at-risk and abused girls, helping them build confidence and heal from trauma. My own experience as a survivor gave me a unique perspective and inspired me to create a safe space where girls could express themselves, heal, and rise above their challenges. Through Zoom sessions, international outreach, and local mentoring, I’ve seen how powerful a supportive environment can be in helping young people, especially girls, heal. These girls often feel unseen, but when they are given a chance to speak and be heard, they begin to find their voice and rebuild their confidence. This project has shown me that when we empower others to rise above their struggles, we create stronger, more connected communities. From these experiences, I’ve learned that adversity can be a source of strength. Jack Terry’s story, like mine, demonstrates that the pain we experience can fuel our desire to make a difference. Rather than allowing hardship to hold us back, we can use it to propel us forward and lift others along the way. My studies will allow me to continue giving back to society. I plan to major in Theatre Arts with a focus on performance and directing because I believe the arts have the power to heal and connect people. Acting provides an outlet for self-expression and emotional release. Through my studies, I hope to gain the skills to teach young people how to use the arts to express their emotions, build confidence, and heal from trauma. I want to create spaces where youth can learn not only about acting but also about the power of self-expression and community-building. In the future, I plan to open acting schools in underserved neighborhoods, particularly in minority communities. These schools will be affordable, diverse, and offer a safe space for young people to develop their talents and find their voices. I want to help youth, especially those from at-risk backgrounds, discover their potential and gain the confidence they need to succeed. Jack Terry’s story inspires me to use my education and experiences to help others. Like him, I believe that adversity can be a catalyst for change, both in our lives and in the lives of others. Through my studies and future work, I hope to empower young people to overcome their challenges, express themselves, and rise above their circumstances.