On Labor Day 2024, I learned that a day off does not mean the same thing to everyone. My friend, Ramiel, had asked me to help him with his short film for his film class. Seeing as I had no other responsibilities that day, I told him he could use me however he needed. After taking the short trolley ride into downtown San Diego, we got to work. With a camera and microphones in hand, we set out to interview people experiencing homelessness, thinking I would document struggles I already understood. Growing up in federally subsidized housing, with cockroaches in our kitchen and a broken heater in our bedroom, I thought I knew the fear that one setback could leave us without a home. Then, I met Joy. Joy lived in a government-run shelter she described as “barely livable,” and because it was Labor Day, its laundromat was closed. For the employees of this shelter, the holiday meant a deserved break, but for Joy, it meant losing access to something essential. Homelessness doesn't simply pause for a federal holiday. I was astounded and frustrated. For years, California had devoted significant resources to ending homelessness, yet Joy couldn't even wash her clothes. Her experience exposed what those numbers could miss: a program can exist, receive funding, and still fail the person trying to use it. Who were we to blame? Was the laundromat's closure a budget constraint, a staffing decision, or a policy nobody had reconsidered? I didn't know, but listening gave me a better chance of understanding and making change. That lesson followed me when I moved to Montclair, New Jersey, where I began volunteering with Montclair Emergency Services for Hope and was elected as a student representative to the Board of Education. As our school district faced significant budget cuts, I saw how easily decisions about funding could overlook the students directly affected by them. Rather than simply speaking on their behalf, I began organizing monthly student meetings and gathering feedback through surveys to understand their concerns. I wanted students to have an opportunity to participate in conversations that would otherwise happen without them. By bringing their perspectives before the Board of Education, I hoped to make the distance between those making decisions and those experiencing their consequences a little smaller. My commitment to helping others also extends to education. Having struggled academically when I was younger, I understand how easily a student's circumstances can limit their opportunities. That understanding motivated me to establish a free SAT preparation club at my high school. Each week, my fellow club leaders and I organize lessons and practice questions to make test preparation more accessible to students who might not be able to afford private tutoring. What may seem like a small initiative is, to me, an opportunity to ensure that financial circumstances do not determine who receives academic support. These experiences have taught me that helping others does not always require having the solution. Sometimes it begins with listening, recognizing an overlooked need, and using whatever resources or influence you have to address it. I cannot claim to have solved the problems Joy described, my district's financial challenges, or the inequalities in education. But I can continue working to make sure the people affected by these problems are neither overlooked nor unheard. To me, service is not simply about what I can give others. It is about ensuring that the opportunities and dignity I would want for myself are equally available to them.

For much of my life, financial stability was something I worked toward rather than something I could depend on. When I was four years old, my father passed away, leaving my mother and me in San Diego, California, without our household's primary source of income. Growing up, I became familiar with the anxiety of wondering whether we could afford groceries, rent, or other basic necessities. These experiences shaped my understanding of financial hardship and, eventually, my interest in economics, finance, and public policy. At 15, I began working at Kumi Sushi Grill to help support my household. When my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2023, my financial responsibilities increased significantly. I worked approximately 15 hours a week during the school year and over 40 hours weekly during summers, using my earnings to contribute toward rent, groceries, car payments, medical expenses, and transportation. As my mother's health deteriorated, I also became increasingly responsible for her daily care while continuing my education. On May 20, 2025, my mother passed away. Shortly afterward, I relocated across the country to Montclair, New Jersey, to live with my grandmother. Although losing both of my parents has been incredibly difficult, moving to Montclair gave me opportunities to become more involved in my community and pursue interests that I previously had limited time to explore. Since arriving, I have been elected Student Representative to the Montclair Board of Education, representing students throughout the district and advocating for greater transparency, student involvement, and safer learning environments. I also serve as President of the Jewish Student Union, where I encourage discussions among students with different religious backgrounds and perspectives. Outside school, I volunteer with Montclair Emergency Services for Hope (MESH), helping prepare and distribute 50 meals weekly to individuals experiencing homelessness. My experiences with financial insecurity have made this volunteer work particularly meaningful. Having once faced the possibility of losing our housing, I understand how quickly someone's financial circumstances can change. I believe that individuals who have experienced hardship have a responsibility to advocate for others facing similar challenges. As I prepare to enter higher education, my financial circumstances remain a significant concern. I am an orphan and an independent student without parental financial support. My father's estate remains unresolved, and I cannot depend on those assets to finance my education. Although I have worked throughout high school, paying for tuition, housing, textbooks, and other college expenses independently would create a substantial financial burden. Receiving this scholarship would reduce that burden and allow me to dedicate more time to my education, community service, and leadership opportunities rather than having to prioritize employment simply to afford basic necessities. I hope to study finance and economics to better understand how financial institutions, government policies, and economic decisions affect people's opportunities. My long-term goal is to use that knowledge to help create systems that provide greater economic stability for families experiencing circumstances similar to mine. For years, earning money was primarily about helping my family survive. This scholarship would help me begin a new chapter in which education becomes an opportunity not just to improve my own future, but to positively influence the futures of others.

My understanding of community has been shaped by knowing what it feels like to need support and not always have somewhere to turn. After losing my father at four and my mother to breast cancer in May 2025, I relocated from San Diego, California, to Montclair, New Jersey. Although I had only attended Montclair High School for a year, I was elected Student Representative to the Board of Education, giving me the opportunity to represent students throughout the district. Community involvement is incredibly important to me because I believe everyone deserves to feel that they belong. As President of the Jewish Student Union, I work to create an inclusive environment where students from different backgrounds and religious beliefs can engage in open discussions. I also volunteer with Montclair Emergency Services for Hope (MESH), helping prepare and distribute approximately 50 meals weekly to individuals experiencing homelessness. Having experienced financial insecurity myself, this service is especially meaningful because I understand how circumstances beyond someone's control can threaten their stability. My financial need entering higher education is substantial. Since age 15, I have worked to help support my household, contributing toward rent, groceries, transportation, medical expenses, and other necessities while caring for my mother during her illness. At times, I worked approximately 15 hours weekly during the school year and over 40 hours during summers. Following my mother's passing, I became an orphan and an independent student without parental financial support. Additionally, my father's estate remains unresolved, meaning I cannot rely on those assets to finance my education. Financial assistance would allow me to pursue college without having to shoulder the same financial obligations that defined much of my childhood. Protecting young people from bullying is an important part of my responsibilities as Student Representative. Recently, during a discussion of our school district's self-reported anti-bullying assessment scores, I raised the importance of ensuring that online harassment, whether sexual or verbal, is not tolerated within our school community. I believe that school districts have a responsibility to protect students beyond the physical boundaries of their classrooms, particularly when harassment occurring online affects students' safety and well-being at school. I advocate for students to feel safe both inside and outside school, recognizing that cyberbullying can follow someone home long after the school day ends. Through my position, I want students to know that their experiences matter and that their concerns deserve to be heard by district leadership. I am also working to establish regular student meetings to create more opportunities for students to communicate directly with their representatives. Ultimately, I want to help build the community I needed growing up: one where young people feel heard, protected, and supported regardless of their circumstances. Whether through volunteering, student government, or advocating for safer schools, I believe meaningful leadership begins with listening to those who need a voice.

Every time someone mispronounces my last name, I correct them. My name is Lorenzo Sansone, and I make sure the final “e” is pronounced. To most people, this may seem insignificant, but to me, it represents something much greater: a part of my identity that I have spent much of my life trying to preserve. I was born to a Jewish mother from New Jersey and an Italian father from Palermo, Sicily. Before I was old enough to understand religion, there was already a disagreement over which faith I would follow. My Italian relatives wanted me to be raised Catholic, while my Jewish relatives wanted me to be raised Jewish. Ultimately, I grew up practicing Judaism, a faith that has shaped my values and provided a foundation for my life. However, I have never believed that embracing my Jewish identity should mean sacrificing my Italian heritage. When I was four years old, my father passed away from cancer in February 2012. His death meant more than losing a parent; it also meant losing my strongest connection to my Italian family. Following his passing and the subsequent deaths of my paternal grandparents, disagreements surrounding family estates created divisions that have continued to affect my relationships with relatives. Despite these circumstances, my pride in being Italian never disappeared. Perhaps the most frustrating reminder of this disconnect is my inability to speak Italian fluently. Italian was my first language, yet over time, without my father or consistent exposure to the language, I lost the ability to speak it. I can still understand certain words and phrases, but it is difficult knowing that something once so natural to me has become something I must relearn. On May 20, 2025, my mother passed away, forcing me to leave San Diego, California, where I had spent most of my childhood, and relocate to New Jersey. Although I would never have chosen the circumstances of this move, it unexpectedly gave me an opportunity to reconnect with my Italian relatives and rediscover my heritage. Today, taking Italian in high school means far more to me than earning a grade. Whether I am learning the words to *Bella Ciao* or figuring out how to ask for a glass of water in Italian, each lesson brings me closer to a part of myself I once feared losing. Even the simplest sentences represent progress toward reclaiming something my father passed down to me. At the same time, I remain deeply connected to my Jewish identity. As president of my school's Jewish Student Union, I work to create an environment where students can explore their faith, exchange perspectives, and understand that Judaism can mean different things to different people. My own upbringing has taught me that identity is not always straightforward, and that differences should be embraced rather than divided. What matters most to me is preserving both sides of who I am. One day, I hope to live in Italy, become fluent in my father's language, and build stronger relationships with the family and culture I have missed for so long. More importantly, I want my future children to grow up understanding both their Jewish faith and Italian heritage, without feeling that they must choose between them. I cannot change the circumstances that separated me from parts of my family, but I can decide what I carry forward. I am Jewish. I am Italian. And I am proud to be both.

Selflessness, to me, isn't a grand gesture. It's showing up consistently, even when no one is watching and even when you have very little to give. I learned that lesson early, out of necessity, and it's shaped how I try to move through the world now. Every week, I volunteer with MESH, Montclair Emergency Services for Hope, where I produce and pack 50 meals for people in my community who are food insecure. It's not glamorous work. It's repetitive, it's early mornings, and most of the people receiving those meals will never know my name. But that's exactly why I keep showing up. I know what it feels like to wonder if there will be enough food, to count on a stranger's generosity or a lucky break just to get through a hard week. Packing those meals isn't charity to me, it's recognition. I see myself in the people MESH serves, and I want to be part of making sure they don't feel as alone in that struggle as I sometimes did. That instinct to show up for others didn't start with MESH. It started at home. I grew up in a single-parent household with a mother who worked constantly and still struggled to keep us financially stable. By the time I was eleven, I was cleaning shoes to earn my own money. By sixteen, I had a job at a sushi restaurant and had saved $6,500, not for myself, but to help cover rent and car repairs so my mother wouldn't have to carry that weight alone. I gave up things other teenagers took for granted, sleep, free time, the ease of not worrying about money, because I understood that my family's stability depended on more than one person pulling weight. Selflessness wasn't a choice I made once. It was a habit I built out of love and necessity, meal after meal, paycheck after paycheck. Perseverance has looked like continuing to show up for others even during the hardest years of my own life, including after losing both of my parents. It would have been easy to turn inward, to decide I had given enough and had nothing left for anyone else. Instead, I've tried to carry what I learned from my own hardship into how I treat people who are struggling now. When I pack meals for MESH, I'm not doing it because it looks good on an application. I'm doing it because I know exactly how much a consistent, reliable act of care can mean to someone who feels like the world keeps taking things from them. Being selfless, for me, means recognizing that everyone is fighting something, and that even small, unglamorous acts, a bag of groceries, a shared meal, showing up week after week, can be the thing that helps someone keep going. I plan to carry this into whatever I do next, whether that's through community service, my future career, or simply how I treat the people around me. Helping others isn't separate from who I am. It's the through-line of everything I've survived and everything I hope to build.

Both of my parents died from cancer. My father passed away from cancer when I was four years old, and my mother, who raised me alone after that, passed away from cancer as well. Losing them shaped nearly every part of who I am today, including the career I've chosen to pursue. After my father died, my mother raised me by herself on a Latin teacher's salary in San Diego. Money was never something we could count on. Some weeks the question wasn't what we wanted, it was whether we could afford gas or a burger at Carl's Jr. When my grandparents passed away, their estate never reached us either, and that loss compounded everything else. I started working young, cleaning shoes at eleven and later saving cash tips from my first restaurant job, because I understood early that if I wanted any kind of security, I would have to build it myself. By sixteen I had saved $6,500 on my own, money that went toward car repairs and rent, because I knew my mother couldn't carry that weight alone. Cancer doesn't just take a person. It takes stability. When someone gets sick, families are often left scrambling to understand insurance, medical bills, estates, and finances they were never taught how to manage, all while grieving. I watched my mother struggle with exactly that after my father died, and after she passed, I found myself navigating financial and legal systems I didn't fully understand, with no one to guide me through it. That experience is the reason I want a career in finance and wealth management. I want to help families who are going through what mine went through. Losing a parent to cancer is devastating enough without also losing the family's financial footing because no one explained how to protect it. I think about the estate that never reached my family, the medical bills my mother tried to manage on her own, and the gap in financial guidance that made an already painful situation harder. I don't want other people to face that same gap. I want to be someone who sits with a family in crisis and makes the financial side of loss less confusing and less frightening, whether that means estate planning, insurance guidance, or simply helping someone understand what their options actually are. A career in finance and wealth management would let me turn what my family lost into something useful. It would give me the technical knowledge, in investment strategy, estate planning, and risk management, that I currently only understand through lived experience and hard lessons. More than that, it would let me become the kind of advisor my mother and I never had: someone patient, honest, and genuinely invested in a family's future rather than just their portfolio. I plan to work with clients who come from backgrounds like mine, low-income, single-parent, touched by illness, because I know firsthand how much it matters to have someone in your corner who understands what's actually at stake. This scholarship would help me get there without the same financial strain that first taught me why this work matters to me.

I chose finance and wealth management because I have spent my whole life watching what happens when money is unstable, and I want to become the kind of person who fixes that instability for other people, the way I've had to try to fix it for my own family. Growing up, money was never something I could take for granted. My mother was a Latin teacher raising me on her own, and some weeks the question wasn't what we wanted, it was whether we could afford gas or a burger at Carl's Jr. When my grandparents passed away, their estate never made it to us, and that gap shaped years of my childhood. I started earning money young: cleaning shoes at eleven, saving up cash tips in envelopes at my first restaurant job by sixteen. By the time I was saving for a car so I could stop taking three buses to school before six in the morning, I had put away $6,500 on my own. I learned early that money isn't abstract. It is rent, groceries, whether the lights stay on, whether a family stays together. The moment that turned this into a real interest instead of just survival was learning about compound interest in eighth grade. For the first time, I understood that money could work on its own, that a small amount managed well could grow into something that protects a family instead of constantly threatening it. That idea has stayed with me ever since. I started paying attention to how wealth is built, protected, and passed down, and how often that process fails the families who need it most. My own family is proof of that. An estate that should have supported us instead disappeared into legal and financial gaps nobody explained to us. I don't want other families to lose what's rightfully theirs simply because no one guided them through it. That's what draws me to wealth management specifically. It isn't just about growing money for people who already have plenty. It's about being the person in the room who explains things clearly, who plans ahead so a family isn't blindsided the way mine was, and who treats a client's financial security as something personal, because for me it always has been. I want to be the advisor I wish my mother had access to. A degree in finance would give me the technical foundation, in markets, investment strategy, estate planning, and risk management, that I currently only understand instinctively from lived experience. It would also open doors I've had to work around my entire life: internships, mentorship, a professional network, and the credibility to sit across from clients and be trusted with their futures. Beyond the classroom, this degree represents something bigger for me. It's the first time in my family's history that financial literacy will be formalized instead of learned through hardship. I plan to use it not only to build a stable career, but to eventually help families like mine, especially first-generation and working-class families, understand and protect what they earn. This scholarship would let me pursue that path without the same financial strain that first taught me why this work matters.

Moving to New Jersey after my mother died was the hardest decision I've ever made, but it's one I'm endlessly grateful for. I grew up in City Heights, San Diego, raised by a single mother who taught Latin and worked constantly just to keep us afloat. Money was never guaranteed, some weeks I wondered if we'd have enough for gas, let alone a burger at Carl's Jr. I started earning my own money young, cleaning shoes at eleven so I could buy my first pair of Jordans, then working my first real job at a sushi restaurant at sixteen, saving $6,500 tucked into cash-tip envelopes my coworker decorated with stickers. That money wasn't just for me, it was for rent, for car repairs, for keeping our small family together when nothing else felt steady. Our relationship was complicated. I loved my mother fiercely, but our house was also marked by real pain, moments that were hard on both of us in ways I'm still making sense of. I carry my father's wallet, worn and sun-faded, from a man I barely knew before he died of cancer when I was four. That wallet is some days the only proof he existed at all, and it reminds me of the kind of person I want to become: someone who shows up, who provides, who doesn't disappear. When my mother passed away, I had to leave the only home I'd ever known and move across the country to New Jersey to live with family I barely remembered: an aunt I hadn't seen in years, a grandmother whose stories I was hearing for the first time. It was disorienting and lonely at first. But it was also the beginning of something I didn't expect: a family history I finally got to claim. I learned about my grandfather, a veteran and NYU graduate who worked overseas until a stroke changed his life. I learned about my great-grandfather, a Jewish immigrant who fled Russia during the fall of the Tsar to build something better in America. Each of their wallets, worn and different, carried through hardship, tells me the same thing: sacrifice built the life I now get to live. New Jersey gave me the chance to rebuild. I now attend the same high school my mother once did, I've spoken with my representatives about issues I care about, and I've found a place in Montclair's Jewish community that I didn't know I was looking for. None of it erases what came before: the instability, the grief, the years of learning to take care of myself. But it gave that pain a direction. This scholarship would mean I could keep building toward a future in finance, a field I fell for the moment I first understood compound interest, without the constant fear that money will run out before opportunity does. I'm not asking for a handout. I'm asking for the chance to finish what every wallet in my family started.