Every person's immediate first love is their mother. Whether it is purely biological or just something about the warmth that radiates from their soul, it is engraved in our being. I, for one, was no exception to the rule. My mother is and always has been the most amazing human being I have ever met. She retired from the military as a Senior Chief, but her career wasn't what made her exemplary. Nor is it her beauty, which she certainly has in no short supply, but it is her kindness. My mother is the person you call when the world has collapsed. Ryan, my baby cousin, died when I was eight years old. My mother was the first person my aunt called. Immediatley flights were booked, and my mom and I were on our way to the airport. My mom stood the entire time, staring at every clock as if it would make the time go by faster. It was physically paining her that she couldn't get to my aunt in that exact moment. I recognized how she felt even then because this wasn't the first time my mother had done all she could to help others. I was feeling exactly like she was. I practically grew up in a women's shelter. Not because I actually resided there, but because my mother volunteered most days after she got off work. My mother was sacrificing her own meals during this time so I could eat, and every day she still gave back by volunteering her time. I was practically raised by Wonder Woman. She is who I wanted to be. Kind. Kind was a word repeated in my household a lot. Not be nice. Not correct. But be kind. That was what I was taught. The words seem so similar, and yet there is an invisible line creating a very clear distinction. To be kind is to truly care, not for your own future advantage, but to ensure everyone feels at least a breath of happiness every day. As I have gotten older, my list of favorite people has multiplied quite a bit. One of them is Donovan, a boy in the Passport program at my school. Last school year, during our six-minute break, he would ask me to watch him and make sure he didn't walk around with his computer. He would ask me every single day, and each day I said yes. He, unfortunately, did not mind when it was cold outside, though. This year, I went to a track meet for yearbook, and he is on the team, so he asked me to take a photo with him several times, more like twenty, not of him, but of me with him. Then my fellow yearbook member looked at me and said, "You are better than me." When I asked what she meant, she said it was weird because he is in the special-needs program. I would say I separated myself from her quite quickly. Later that day, Donovan said I was his best friend. Soon after, I decided that I would be buying us both cream because you can't have a best friend who doesn't buy you ice cream. So while I might have lost a terrible friend that day, I got a best friend instead. I gained a best friend because my mom taught me the most valuable thing of all, to be kind. I will always continue to act on the lessons my mother has taught me. Soon, it will be in Seattle, where I will be attending the University of Washington.

I am from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. There is no singular place that I can definitively call home. The constant moving and separation from areas I had grown attached to played a huge role in the shaping of my character. At first, I didn't really notice I was different from other children, not until I was sent to live with my aunt while my single mother deployed. I moved from California to Texas for that tour. In that time, I grew attached to the movie A Little Princess, which, while comforting me, also terrified me endlessly. The idea that my mother could possibly forget who I was became petrifying. Luckily, my mother thought ahead and got me what is commonly referred to as a military doll, a photo of your deployed loved one in uniform on a small pillow-like object. It became my prized possession; I slept with it every day for the seven months she was gone. With the constant moving, my mom had become what I was attached to most. Physical places stop being your home; people become it. I have come to place a lot of value on human connection and relationships, which is quite ironic as they are one of the hardest things for me to maintain. There was a point in my high school career where I isolated myself, not trying in any way to make friends at our new duty station. I thought there was no point; I would be leaving soon anyway. I fell into a depressive state and was quickly proven how wrong I was. I then moved in with my biological father, who was retired from the Navy and was permanently staying in Louisiana. At first, it was amazing until he showed me why my mother left him. He liked to physically and emotionally hurt women; I was no exception to his rule. So, I moved back in with my mother after living in an inpatient facility for five months and abandoned my earlier way of thinking. When I moved to Lemoore, my stepfather's duty station, I made a change. I actually sought out friendships, joining clubs that I am still involved with today. I am currently Vice President of the car club and am tasked with organizing a car show; luckily enough for me, newly enlisted sailors normally buy an amazing vehicle with their signing bonus. Sometimes I will see people at the Commissary or anywhere around base that I am able to ask to come and hand out information to. That's one of the many amazing things that being a military child brings: an overwhelming sense of community. Overall, while being a military brat does have its downsides, I am also afforded many luxuries. I have never once not had a meal on my table. I have always had clothes that fit, a bed to sleep in, and a roof over my head. Those luxuries are not something I take for granted. I'm so thankful for my mother's and stepfather's sacrifice that has provided me with them today.

I have never known a home. Not in the sense of never having a roof over my head, I have always been incredibly fortunate in that sense, but rather everywhere I am stationed feels like a fishbowl, not a place of comfort. More so, a place where my actions, thoughts, and emotions are displayed for the world to see, and yet when I needed people to care most, they covered their eyes and left me to face the shark in my tank. My father saved his nastiest bites for when he was around me. It never made sense to me; in fact, understanding why others act the way they do is generally confusing. My father's abuse is most understandable when compared to Asymptotic Notation; O Notation. His mistreatment is the independent variable. The more it grew, the further I was constrained; the space for me to be a child and grow into a young woman was shortened, and I was within the constraints of his actions. It felt like Lillian Tibbit: The Dependent Variable was engraved across my forehead; each branding was his way of showing that I would only ever be as free as he allowed me to be. Every bruise he left was his sadistic way of displaying that he was in control. I often wonder what people thought about my household. My father's actions were a shared secret among our rural town; everyone knew he was like a bull shark, but they were all more concerned about looking as if they were keeping to themselves. They didn't want to admit they were peering through the thin glass that separated me from the world. So they left me to fend for myself in my fragile fishbowl. Humans are a complex system; it was apparent that my father's behavior had become normal to them. It was nonlinearity. His actions toward me had little effect on what people perceived as just, but hearing a child walking out of line appeared to rattle their earth. It was a disproportionate reality that I had to come to terms with. Day after day, I continued my attempt to understand. I was trying to solve my problems at home and neglecting the ones the school was giving me to complete. I fell behind quickly; I was drowning in my own water. Eventually, I was removed from my little glass bowl. I went back to live with my mother, and it still felt like I was missing something. I was able to grow, no longer encapsulated by my father's abuse. I could not complain; my mother felt like she had saved me, done me a favor, which she had indeed done. Complaining about my emptiness would make me appear ungrateful. I felt like I had to hide all of my imperfections, all of my grief. I needed something to solve, something to analyze and fix. She worked to make my home life so perfect, ensuring that there were no issues that needed fixing. I was able to delve back into schoolwork. Math became a source of comfort. Everything had its place; it was just up to me to figure out where it belonged. The second an equation landed on my table, I was in a trance. I needed to figure it out. Many people talk about their love languages; math is mine. Math is the bait that fished me out of my miserable tank. The human body shares many characteristics with math. Its constant complexity provides an amazing equation. It is the perfect problem; it's not exactly black and white, but there are tells and signs when there is an issue. That's why, after receiving my undergraduate degree, I plan on attending medical school. Solving problems is what I have a passion for. Medicine gives me another equation to solve with each patient. After graduating from medical school, I plan to join the military as a General Medical Officer. Both of my parents were corpsmen in the military, so I look forward to carrying on the tradition of being a patriot. Academics at first were just another anchor added to me, but now they have become an integral part of the new reality I have worked so hard for. The classes I used to complain about are now something I look forward to because I get to learn and grow. I am not stuck as the little, fragile girl my father forced me to be, and eventually, those same academics will prepare me to save someone's life as a licensed medical doctor.

I have never known a home. Not in the sense of never having a roof over my head, I have always been incredibly fortunate in that sense, but rather everywhere I am stationed feels like a fishbowl, not a place of comfort. More so, a place where my actions, thoughts, and emotions are displayed for the world to see, and yet when I needed people to care most, they covered their eyes and left me to face the shark in my tank. My father saved his nastiest bites for when he was around me. It never made sense to me; in fact, understanding why others act the way they do is generally confusing. My father's abuse is most understandable when compared to Asymptotic Notation; O Notation. His mistreatment is the independent variable. The more it grew, the further I was constrained; the space for me to be a child and grow into a young woman was shortened, and I was within the constraints of his actions. It felt like Lillian Tibbit: The Dependent Variable was engraved across my forehead; each branding was his way of showing that I would only ever be as free as he allowed me to be. Every bruise he left was his sadistic way of displaying that he was in control. I often wonder what people thought about my household. My father's actions were a shared secret among our rural town; everyone knew he was like a bull shark, but they were all more concerned about looking as if they were keeping to themselves. They didn't want to admit they were peering through the thin glass that separated me from the world. So they left me to fend for myself in my fragile fishbowl. Humans are a complex system; it was apparent that my father's behavior had become normal to them. It was nonlinearity. His actions toward me had little effect on what people perceived as just, but hearing a child walking out of line appeared to rattle their earth. It was a disproportionate reality that I had to come to terms with. Day after day, I continued my attempt to understand. I was trying to solve my problems at home and neglecting the ones the school was giving me to complete. I fell behind quickly; I was drowning in my own water. Eventually, I was removed from my little glass bowl. I went back to live with my mother, and it still felt like I was missing something. I was able to grow, no longer encapsulated by my father's abuse. I could not complain; my mother felt like she had saved me, done me a favor, which she had indeed done. Complaining about my emptiness would make me appear ungrateful. I felt like I had to hide all of my imperfections, all of my grief. I needed something to solve, something to analyze and fix. She worked to make my home life so perfect, ensuring that there were no issues that needed fixing. I was able to delve back into schoolwork. Math became a source of comfort. Everything had its place; it was just up to me to figure out where it belonged. The second an equation landed on my table, I was in a trance. I needed to figure it out. Many people talk about their love languages; math is mine. Math is the bait that fished me out of my miserable tank. The human body shares many characteristics with math. Its constant complexity provides an amazing equation. It is the perfect problem; it's not exactly black and white, but there are tells and signs when there is an issue. That's why, after receiving my undergraduate degree, I plan on attending medical school. Solving problems is what I have a passion for. Medicine gives me another equation to solve with each patient. After graduating from medical school, I plan to join the military as a General Medical Officer. Both of my parents were corpsmen in the military, so I look forward to carrying on the tradition of being a patriot. Academics at first were just another anchor added to me, but now they have become an integral part of the new reality I have worked so hard for. The classes I used to complain about are now something I look forward to because I get to learn and grow. I am not stuck as the little, fragile girl my father forced me to be, and eventually, those same academics will prepare me to save someone's life as a licensed medical doctor.

My name is Lillian, and I am a 17 year old student preparing to attend college in the coming months. While my goals for the future are centered around growth, service, and education, my past has shaped me into someone who understands resilience, empathy, and the importance of advocacy. Growing up, I experienced an environment that no child should have to endure. My father’s behavior was unpredictable and often harmful, shifting between moments of anger, control, and brief periods of calm that made everything more confusing. I learned to be constantly aware of my surroundings, to read tone and body language, and to stay quiet in order to protect myself. There were times when I tried to speak up and seek help, believing that someone would intervene, but those attempts did not lead to the safety I hoped for. Instead, I was left feeling trapped in a cycle that seemed impossible to break, where fear and uncertainty became a normal part of my daily life. Despite those challenges, my experiences did not define the end of my story; they became the beginning of my determination to create something better for myself. Leaving that environment was the turning point in my life. It was the moment I realized that I was more than what I had been through. I was not just a victim of my circumstances, but someone capable of growth, strength, and purpose. Since then, I have made a conscious commitment to breaking cycles and building a future rooted in compassion and resilience. In six months, I will be attending the University of Washington, an opportunity that represents not only academic achievement but personal triumph. Looking ahead, I plan to pursue a career in medicine. My goal is to become a physician who provides not only medical care, but also understanding and compassion for patients who may be facing difficult circumstances. My past has given me a deep awareness of how important it is to feel seen, heard, and cared for, and I hope to bring that perspective into my future career. These experiences have made me a strong advocate for this scholarship because I understand the value of perseverance and the impact that support can have on someone’s life. I carry a deep sense of empathy for others facing adversity, and I am driven to use my voice to uplift those who may feel unheard. Whether through my future work in medicine or through everyday interactions, I am committed to helping others find strength and hope. This scholarship would not only support my education, but it would also invest in someone who is determined to turn hardship into purpose. I am dedicated to continuing my journey with resilience, using my experiences to advocate for others, and proving that where you come from does not limit where you are capable of going.

I knew if I fought back, it would make it worse, and yet I was kicking and screaming loud enough for someone to hear, and still no one came. In Louisiana, a parent is allowed to punish their child however they see fit; it was just another one of his cruel games. My father's work boots always had a way of taunting me. Our inconceivable similarities could root themselves in the pit of my stomach; they begged me to rebel against the person who had given us something in common. As his cowboy boots sat by the steps of our weathered trailer, I knew they were mocking me, aching to tell me how weak I was for continuing to endure another valley of my father's cycle. "Go to the police," I knew they urged to scream at me, but the battered shoes knew what had happened last time I'd tried. Previously, when I attempted to plead to the sheriff, I quickly found he was an old friend of my father's when he called him to come get me. Apparently, he was the first person to arrest him for assault, but he wasn't the last. At first, I thought I didn't explain it well enough, but when I sank down the wall of the police station and saw my father's boots hitting the floor as he stormed toward me, I knew. The cycle I was in would keep me imprisoned forever. The next morning, I was awoken by my father dragging me out of bed by my ankles and down the metal stairs of our trailer. He had yanked me so quickly, I flew over each step before landing on the freezing January dirt. He paraded me around outside, through all the rocks and leaves that littered the land my grandfather had given him. I was the buck he was bringing home after a hunt, utterly helpless. The boots he dragged through our wet, muddy Louisiana still seemed so pristine because at the end of every day, he would sit on our small couch to dust off and polish them. I realize my father had done the same with me. I suppose our three a.m. trips to What-a-Burger were the horse brush he used to dust me off, and allowing me to choose a show to watch was the colored boot polish he used to cover all the cuts and bruises he left me with. He was impossible not to love when we were entrapped in the height of his cycle; he was a dad then. We sat on the couch to clean our boots; I chose the show to watch, and quickly, I was polished as well. Soon after that day, I realized I would do whatever it took to get out. I could no longer be the little girl he pushed around. At the time, I felt the need to be brave, but looking back now, I didn't need to be; I was a child. First and foremost, I was a kid. A little girl. Stephen Tibbit taught me that I can endure. That I am resilient. I am so much more than the young girl that he felt he had the right to push around. I am not just a victim of abuse; I am a human meant to do good and help others. I will do so in any way I can, and in six months, I will be attending a university, something he never did. I am breaking a cycle, a process I started the day I left that weathered old trailer he still calls home.

Fitness will forever be more than just working out to me. It is not just how heavy a weight you can lift, but your wellness as a whole. During my freshman year of high school, I had some struggles with my mental health. My continuous spiral into depression led me to eventually try to take my own life. I took 26 antidepressants. I was thankfully taken to the hospital, where I was given a second shot at life, one I wasn’t going to take advantage of again. I was quickly introduced to the idea of coping skills, and handed a list of hundreds for me to “choose from,” and coincidentally, working out was on it. It was something I had done with my stepfather and actually loved. It supposedly regulates your mood by reducing stress hormones, but even before I knew that, I had loved it because it helped me sleep. Any insomniac knows you will do anything for a good few hours of sleep, and my trick was power lifting with my dad or timed interval runs throughout the neighborhood. Also on that list was reading; it was the only hobby I actually took from the packet. I now have over a hundred books in my room and am constantly stuck with my nose in one. It is yet another habit I now share with my father. In truth, we have our own sort of book club where we share recommendations back and forth. I am currently reading a recommendation of his called The Rape of Nanking, The Forgotten Holocaust of World War II, and while I must admit it is more emotionally heavy than I normally read, as this is a real life tragedy where over three hundred thousand people lost their lives, it is a topic I feel the need to be educated on, especially because it wasnt taught in any of my history classes. Your intellectual well-being is just as important as your physical. My favorite book is titled Orbiting Jupiter, and not so strangely, I identify with the main character, Joseph, on a deep level. He grows up with an abusive man for a father and is sent to foster care on a dairy farm. Unfortunately, the book ends with Joseph losing his life due to his father, but his overall life goal being completed, his daughter is safe. My biological father is not much different than Joseph’s, but at the age of fifteen, I regretfully did not know that. I moved in with him during my sophomore year of high school and was quickly introduced to that monstrous side of him. I felt like I was back at square one, immediately put back in my depressive hole. I wasn’t, though. I had been given the building blocks to pick myself up, and again, I worked to better myself. While running or reading a book may feel like ordinary tasks you do throughout the day, they are the same seemingly simple coping skills that kept me breathing at one point.