The arts have been the one place where I’ve always felt like I could exist freely. Before I had words for anything I felt, there was rhythm, melody, movement—stories trapped in my body just waiting to be released on the page and on stage. Growing up, the were a refuge for me, a lens through which I could see possibilities bigger than the world I lived in. My earliest guide into that world—and my favorite artist to this day—is my mentor, Chani. She was one of my first dance teachers, this brilliant, bright, and graceful young woman who felt larger than life. Yet somehow, she still made space for me. She was a big sister in spirit and the one person who made sure I knew I could belong in the arts, not just admire them from afar. She has since moved to New York, trained, performed on Broadway, choreographed shows, and become a vocal coach—my vocal coach. Even from across the country, she’s remained the person lighting the path for me. Since I was a little girl, I’ve studied the way she carries herself—with poise, wisdom, elegance, and unyielding determination—and the way she carries her art. The way she embodies it, the fresh perspective she brings to each peace, the authenticity and warmth she introduces that can only be created by genuine love. How she approaches it even scientifically, technically, and entrepreneurial. How she always remains grounded and makes the arts feel accessible. Every day, I try to carry myself and conduct my art in the same way. I hold myself high because she does. I push myself because she first taught me how. I want to create stories, productions, and artistic experiences that give others the same sense of belonging they gave me, to make people feel seen, understood, and inspired in the same way Chani inspires me. Art is where I learned to grow, to express, to lead, and to imagine beyond the box society tried to put me in. And as I grow, it is the home I choose over and over again. I’ve always believed that who we truly are shows in the small moments, the ones that aren’t graded, applauded, or posted online. But the moments that made me weren’t all good and sweet. My family struggled and fought, financial strain just another thing to throw in each other’s faces. And as a child, I wasn’t always safe. Books held me up when the world felt too heavy to carry alone. Writing became the place where I could turn pain into purpose, shaping my laments into something meaningful. Dance showed me how to move through emotion, that bleeding it out on stage could make something beautiful. Healing came slow, in small, steady shifts. But I learned to breathe again. To hope again. To trust that connection is survival. I want to write books that give people the same lifeline that my favorite literature gave me. I want to be part of shows that uplift voices that society ignores, mutes, and doubts. I want to make people feel seen. Art helped me survive. It helped me find myself. Chani helped me find myself by introducing me to art and helping me pursue it as an adult. And I want to share that with as many people as I can—loudly, quietly, consistently, and wholeheartedly.

I remember being ten years old, lying awake at night and staring at the door so I could see him coming. I remember hating his eyes. Years later, I stared into them again in a courtroom as he was sentenced to life for what he had done to me. For a long time, my memories of those years were tangled with a question: how could a man who shook hands with our pastor on Sunday mornings be the same man who stole my childhood? I remember wondering why God would allow it to happen, why the people meant to protect me had failed to do so. And still, I whispered prayers at night. I prayed that the nightmares would stop, that I could breathe again, that I would feel clean and whole. And when sleep finally came, I felt something that I couldn't accept—the quiet reassurance that God had heard me. Healing did not happen quickly, but as years passed, the anger transformed into purpose. I began to understand that faith was not the absence of pain, but the strength to keep living in spite of it. The arts became the place where that strength grew. I first turned to books to escape the noise in my mind, and eventually to writing, where I could say the things I was too afraid to speak aloud. Words allowed me to process my trauma, but they also gave me something more important. On the page, I learned that my words had power. They gave me the belief that my story could help someone else feel less alone. That belief shaped my approach to school and my future. I threw myself into academics, writing, and the performing arts, discovering confidence I never knew I had. I became involved in choir, drama, dance, and academic organizations that pushed me beyond the quiet, fearful child I once was. I worked relentlessly in my classes, maintaining strong grades while pursuing leadership roles. Eventually, I became President of both my school's National Honor Society chapter and Student Government. I performed in award winning shows, discovering how powerful my voice could be when I sang or monologued on stage. I used dance to embody the emotions that I often kept inside, to process the trauma that weighed me down. Each achievement and each performance taught me that my past did not have to define my future. That my pain did not define my potential. I realized that was the lesson God needed me to learn. That I could be strong. That I could stand on my own and use my voice—that I could become. Faith has played a quiet, constant role in my journey of becoming. Even through doubt and fury, it taught me that my experiences were not meaningless. Instead of allowing my story to silence me, I've come to see it as something that can empower others. I plan to study Theatre and Leadership while pursuing a career as an author, artist, and creative executive administrator. Through storytelling and the arts, I hope to amplify voices that have been ignored, particularly those of marginalized groups and young people who have experienced hardship. The frightened child who once stared at the door at night is no longer waiting in fear. She is moving forward with purpose, with God in her heart, and with determination to build a future where her voice—and the voices of others—cannot be ignored.

My childhood was grey. Quiet. Just my mom, my brother and me. She worked constantly, often locked in her office all night. I took care of my little brother and cooked for us in the tiny apartment we shared. I always asked if she was okay, if she'd eaten. Her answers were always yes, and no. I still ask today, and the answers are still yes, and no. Growing up, I was often found in a corner with a book because other kids tended to make fun of what they didn't understand. My hair, usually done simply because we couldn't afford for me to get braids like the other girls. The same pairs of shoes I cycled through, my broken glasses taped together, faded hand-me-down tshirts and permission slips always turned in at the last minute. It was easier to read and escape into another world than explain to my classmates why I couldn't go on the field trip, or why my lunch was different than theirs, or why only my mom came to field day. I was shy and isolated as my small family navigated constant moves and empty refrigerators. There were periods when groceries were scarce and when making it through the month required creativity and sacrifice. My mom made many choices she wasn't proud of to be able to feed, clothe, and house us. Maybe those choices are what keep her up at night now. We always figured it out. It sort of became our motto, and trust me, it stuck. But in figuring it out, we weren't always safe. My brother’s father was a towering man with money in his wallet and violence in his heart. The abuse I survived silenced me for over a year, because we needed shoes and school supplies and groceries and my "stepfather" had a pocket full of green bills. What saved me were the stories I'd always loved. I escaped into my books, read Harry Potter more times than I can count. Then there were movies, shows, theatre...and eventually, I escaped into writing—where I could tell my truth without being punished for it. Writing became not only my first form of escape, but release. And then it became my first taste of power. My teachers read my poems aloud for the class. They entered me in writing contests. I learned how to post things I wrote online and it gained attention. I realized my words held weight. That they could influence others and potentially spark change. I also realized that it wasn't enough. I couldn't hide behind my creative outlets forever. Because the refrigerator was still empty, my school fees still unpaid, and eviction notices in the mail my mother tried and failed to hide. The screaming in my head—from the abuse, the hunger, the exhaustion, the anger at seeing my mother helpless and tired all the time—it grew louder. I filled every journal I had, but it never went away. I knew the life I wanted, the woman I would be, the future my family deserved, and I decided it was my responsibility to cultivate that for myself and for us all. I'm still figuring it out. But I know the arts saved me when I felt like the walls were closing in. They still do, like now where I'm listening to music while writing essays. I have spent my life thus far dedicated to my art and my education, and I plan to form my career around creating opportunities for children who grew up like me to access both, because I know how valuable they can be.

The arts have always been the one place where I could exist freely. Before I had words for what I felt, there was rhythm, melody, and movement—stories trapped in my body, waiting to be released on the page and on stage. When my world felt unstable, art became my refuge. Books held me up when life felt too heavy to carry alone, and writing became the place where I could turn pain into purpose. What began as escape became power. As a child, I wrote to survive. I filled journals with the words I couldn’t say out loud, creating characters and worlds that gave me control when I felt powerless. But over time, I realized my words didn’t just belong to me—they had the ability to reach others, to make them feel seen, understood, and less alone. That realization changed everything. Art is not just expression—it is connection. It reflects us, challenges us, and preserves the stories that might otherwise be forgotten. Through dance, I learned how to embody emotion without speaking. Through choir, I learned the strength of collective voices. Through theatre, I learned that I could stand alone and still be heard. And through writing, I found the courage to tell the truth. Together, these art forms taught me that vulnerability is not weakness—it is the bridge between people. In my future career, I plan to continue writing novels and poetry while also pursuing musical theatre and working in publishing. I want to exist on both sides of storytelling: creating my own work while helping others bring theirs to life. I believe storytelling, in all its forms, has the power to spark dialogue, increase awareness, and challenge the way people see the world. I want my art to make people feel something real. I want to write stories that sit heavy in someone’s chest and stay with them long after the final page. I want to perform in productions that amplify voices often ignored or silenced. I want to create work that doesn’t just entertain, but asks questions—about identity, about pain, about healing, about what it means to belong. Because art has always been more than an escape for me. It has been a lifeline. It was the thing that helped me process what I couldn’t understand, express what I couldn’t say, and imagine a future beyond my circumstances. It gave me a sense of agency when I felt powerless, and a voice when I struggled to find my own. My vision is to create that same sense of possibility for others. Whether it’s through a novel, a poem, or a performance, I want someone to see themselves in my work and feel less alone. I want to remind people that their stories matter, that their voices are worth hearing, and that beauty can exist even in the most difficult experiences. Art helped me survive. It helped me become. And now, I intend to use it to help others do the same.

When I was eleven, I whispered in my fifth grade teacher’s ear and told her about the man I had to face each time I went home. Until then, I believed silence was the safest way to live. I grew up in a single-parent household where survival came before everything else. My mother worked constantly, often through the night, doing everything she could to support my younger brother and me. We moved from place to place, and I learned to find something to love in each one—the porch, the yard, the rare bedroom where I didn’t have to sleep on the couch anymore. I took on responsibility early. I cooked, helped raise my brother, and checked on my mother when she refused to rest. I always asked if she was okay, if she had eaten. Her answers were always yes, and no. I tried to protect what little stability we had, even when that meant staying silent about things that were hurting me. For a long time, I believed keeping the peace mattered more than my safety. Books became my escape. Then writing did. I filled journals with the words I couldn’t say out loud. On paper, I was fearless. In reality, I was quiet. Terrified. But silence has a cost, and I learned that it was more expensive than anything else we struggled to pay for. The weight became too much. And I told someone. Speaking out changed everything. The stability I had tried so hard to preserve fell apart, and I was forced to face the consequences of choosing myself. The world wasn’t kind when I did. And at first, I regretted it. Years later, I faced him again, this time in a courtroom. I recounted the memories I had spent years trying to bury. When the verdict was read and he was sentenced to life, everyone around me felt relief. I felt exhausted. Broken. Undone. I didn’t sleep peacefully for days. But somewhere in the shattered pieces of myself, I found something I hadn’t understood before. My voice was not the thing that broke my life. It was the thing that saved it. For most of my childhood, silence felt like safety, but it kept me trapped. Unlearning that was the real challenge. Now, I face smaller versions of that challenge every day—moments where I have to decide between silence and something more. And every time I choose to speak, even when it’s uncomfortable, I grow. I become the girl I needed at eleven. I protect the girl I was at fifteen. That lesson reshaped how I move through the world. I poured myself into my education, my writing, and the arts. I stepped into leadership roles, serving as President of both National Honor Society and Student Government, working to create the kind of supportive environments I once needed. At home, I continue to help raise my siblings and support my mother, but now I do so with a different understanding of strength. Strength is not silence. It is honesty. Advocacy. The courage to exist unapologetically. If I could give advice to someone facing what I did, I would tell them this: do not be afraid of the sound of your own voice. Do not be afraid to take up space. You are here, and you deserve to be here—no one can take that from you. And I promise, your power has not left you. I thought I had lost mine once. I hadn’t.

When I was eleven, I whispered in my fifth grade teacher’s ear and told her about the man I had to face each time I went home. Until then, I believed silence was the safest way to survive. I grew up in a single-parent household where survival came before everything else. My mother worked constantly to support my younger brother and me, and I took on responsibility early—cooking, helping raise him, checking on her when she refused to rest. I always asked if she was okay, if she had eaten. Her answers were always yes, and no. I tried to protect what little stability we had, even when that meant staying silent about things that were hurting me. For a long time, I believed keeping the peace mattered more than my safety. Writing became my escape. I filled journals with the words I couldn’t say out loud. On paper, I was fearless. In reality, I was quiet. Terrified. But silence has a cost, and I learned it was more expensive than anything else we struggled to pay for. When I finally told my teacher, everything changed. The stability I had tried to protect fell apart, and I was forced to face the consequences of choosing myself. The world wasn’t kind when I spoke up, and for a while, I regretted it. Years later, I faced him again, this time in a courtroom. I recounted the memories I had spent years trying to bury. When the verdict was read and he was sentenced to life, everyone around me felt relief. I felt exhausted. But underneath the pain, fear, and overwhelming heaviness, I realized something I hadn’t understood before. My voice was not the thing that broke my life. It was the thing that saved it. Unlearning silence was the real challenge. Now, I face smaller versions of that choice every day—moments where I have to decide between silence and something greater. And every time I choose to speak, even when it’s uncomfortable, I grow. I become the girl I needed at eleven. I protect the girl I was at fifteen. Strength is not silence. It is not endurance at the expense of yourself. It is honesty, advocacy, and the courage to exist unapologetically. The challenge I faced was not just speaking out. It was learning that my voice was worth hearing.

When I was a ten, I learned how to survive through silence. When I sixteen, I learned how to break it. At eighteen, I learned something even more difficult—how to teach someone else to do the same. My best friend and I have always been compared—same quirks, same features, same laugh. People joke that we look like sisters. But what they don't see is how our lives have mirrored each other in ways that aren't that easy to laugh about. I recognized the signs before she told me. The exhaustion, the forced smiles, the sleepless nights and the way her shoulders tensed when certain names were mentioned. It was like watching the ghost of my past wear her face. I knew what it meant to carry pain quietly, to believe that keeping the peace mattered more than telling the truth. For most of my childhood, I chose to stay silent because it kept me safe. Finally speaking out shattered the fragile stability I was trying to protect, but it also saved my life. It gave me agency I didn't have before. So when my best friend began facing her own battles—financial instability, family conflict, and abuse—I saw a version of myself I remembered all too well. But she wasn't me. And she had something that I hadn't: a friend. I stayed. I listened. I reminded her, over and over again, that she deserved more and that her voice mattered. When she doubted herself, I lifted her up. When she was afraid to stand, I stood beside her and held her hand. I walked with her in every moment that seemed small to the outside world but were everything to us—from speaking up and setting boundaries to choosing herself. She did what I wasn't brave enough to do as a child. She advocated for herself. She spoke out not only to protect herself, but to protect her younger sister. Resilience is often seen as something internal, something personal to an individual. For me, it became something shared. Strength was no longer about surviving my past. It was about using it to change someone else's future. I thought my story ended with finding my voice. Now I see that it begins there. Because resilience doesn't stop with healing. It doesn't stop with one person. It multiples. It echoes. It becomes a lifeline for everyone else who is still searching for their way out. And moving forward, if I can be even a fraction of what I once needed for someone else—of what I was able to be for my friend—then I know that I made it through for a reason.

I grew up in a single-parent household where survival came before everything else. My mother worked constantly, often through the night, doing everything she could to support my younger brother and me. My earliest memories are of living in a small apartment at the storage facility where she worked, but we lived in dozens of others in the years to come. I remember when the only joy I could feel was from finding something to like in each one. The porch, the yard, the one that actually had a bedroom so I didn't have to sleep on the couch anymore. In every year and every move, I learned early what it meant to take on responsibility. I cooked, helped raise my brother, and checked on my mother in the moments she refused to rest. I always asked if she was okay, if she had eaten. Her answers were always yes, and no. She still says the same thing today. I always tried to protect what little stability we had, even when that meant staying silent about things that were hurting me. When my brother's father entered our lives, I told myself that keeping the peace mattered more than the nights I cried myself to sleep after he left my room. For a long time, I carried that belief. Books became my escape, the place where I could disappear into another world when mine felt heavy. Eventually, I picked up a pen and began to write, turning my pain into poems and pages. I let myself say in ink what I couldn't say out loud. But silence has a cost, and I learned that it was more expensive than anything else we struggled to pay for. The weight became too much. And I told someone. In that moment, I was given what I had never allowed myself before: permission. Permission to speak, to take up space, to stop protecting others at my expense. To be a child who needed help. Speaking out changed everything. The stability and peace I had tried so hard to preserve fell apart, and I was forced to face the consequences of choosing myself. The world wasn't kind when I did. And at first, I regretted it. But years later, I stood in a courtroom and faced the man who had taken my childhood from me. I looked him in the eye and spoke—not as the quiet child I once was, but as someone who had grown and learned the power of her voice. That moment was more than an act of courage. It was a realization. Because after I gave my statement and the judge sentenced him to life, I understood that my voice was not something to hide or minimize, but the very thing that could protect me, define me, and help others. That epiphany changed the way I moved through the world. I poured myself into my education, my writing, and the arts. I became involved in choir, theatre, and dance while I challenged myself academically. I maintained strong grades and stepped into leadership roles, serving as President of both my school's National Honor Society and Student Government Association. I mentored other students, coordinated service initiatives, and worked to create the kind of supportive environment I once needed. At home, my role never changed. I continue to help raise my younger siblings and support my mother. But now, I do so with a different understanding of myself and the world. I see strength as honesty, advocacy, and the courage to exist unapologetically.

To me, service is not defined by grand gestures, hours, or recognition. It lives in the quiet, consistent choices we make to care for others. I have learned that a life of service is built through connection, through the small moments where we choose to show up for someone else. Growing up, community played a powerful role in shaping who I became. For a child with an unstable home life, after-school programs, mentors, and local organizations gave me spaces where I felt encouraged, supported, and challenged to grow. Many of the teachers, coaches, and leaders I met through those experiences continue to inspire me today. Their guidance showed me the impact that compassionate leadership can have on a young person's life, and it is part of what motivates me to give back in the same way. Over the past several years, I have tried to embody that commitment to service in both my school and my community. As President of my school's National Honor Society chapter, I have helped organize service initiatives that connect students with opportunities to support one another and our surrounding community. These initiatives have included coordinating monthly food and clothing drives with local shelters, organizing fundraisers to support student programs, and helping create student-led skill workshops that allow students to share their strengths and uplift one another academically. I have also worked with fellow student leaders and administrators to recognize and celebrate student leadership within our school, helping build a stronger sense of unity and shared purpose among our peers. Beyond school, I volunteer with Atlanta Bulldogs Academy, a youth sports organization that serves families and young athletes across the Atlanta metro area. What began as supporting my brother when he signed on as a player quickly became something much more meaningful. Through volunteering at practices, games, and community events, I have seen how powerful it can be when an entire community commits itself to uplifting young people and their families. Programs like these do far more than teach sports—they build confidence, provide mentorship, and create spaces where young people feel valued and supported. These experiences have shaped the way I understand service. It is about creating environments where people feel seen, heard, and empowered to grow. Education will allow me to expand that work. I plan to study Theater and English while pursuing careers as a writer and performer. Through storytelling, I hope to amplify voices that are often overlooked and ensure that more people can see themselves reflected in the media they consume. The arts have always been a powerful tool for empathy, understanding, advocacy, and activism, and I want to help create stories that contribute to the growing and developing culture of professional arts. In addition to writing and performing, I hope to mentor young creatives and support programs that bring arts education to underserved communities. The arts provide people with a powerful way to explore their identities, express their experiences, and discover their voices. By helping create spaces where those voices can grow, I hope to continue the cycle of encouragement and opportunity that shaped my own path. A life of service is not something that happens in a single moment. It is built day by day, through compassion, action, and a consistent effort to lifting others as we move forward. Through my education and career, I intend to keep building those bridges, ensuring that the next generation has even further opportunities to lead, grow, and be heard.

I remember being ten years old, lying awake at night and staring at the door so I could see him coming. I remember hating his eyes. Years later, I stared into them again in a courtroom as he was sentenced to life for what he'd done to me. For a long time, my memories of those years were tangled with a question: how could a man who shook hands with our pastor on Sunday mornings be the same man who stole my childhood? I was an angry child more than a frightened one. I remember wondering why God would allow it to happen, why the people meant to protect me had failed. I avoided the Bible on my bookshelf. I lied when my grandmother asked if I enjoyed the service. And still, I whispered prayers at night. I prayed that the nightmares would stop, that I could breathe again, that I would feel clean and whole. And when my breathing slowed and sleep finally came, I felt something that I couldn't accept—the quiet reassurance that God had heard me. Healing did not happen quickly. It was slow and uneven, a series of small choices and defiances to keep going. As the years passed, the anger transformed into purpose. I began to understand that faith was not the absence of pain, but the strength to keep living in spite of it. Growing up, I often helped care for my younger brother while my mother worked long hours to support us. Watching her perseverance and savoring the late nights she spent teaching me to read or showing me her favorite movies taught me not only the value of education and determination, but the power of art. The arts became the place where that strength grew. I first turned to books to escape the noise in my mind, and eventually to writing, where I could say the things I was too afraid to speak aloud. Words allowed me to process my trauma, but they also gave me something more important. On the page, I learned that my words had power. They gave me the belief that my story could help someone else feel less alone. That belief shaped my approach to school and my future. I threw myself into academics, writing, and the performing arts, discovering confidence I never knew I had. I became involved in choir, drama, dance, and academic organizations that pushed me beyond the quiet, fearful child I once was. I worked relentlessly in my classes, maintaining strong grades while pursuing leadership roles. Eventually, I became President of both my school's National Honor Society chapter and Student Government. I performed in award-winning shows, discovering how powerful my voice could be when I sang or monologued on stage. I used dance to embody the emotions that I often kept inside, to process the trauma that weighed me down. Each achievement and each performance taught me that my past did not have to define my future. That my pain did not define my potential. Then my little sister was born. And finally, I began to understand. Because the woman I was growing into was exactly the one I had needed when I was ten. Exactly the one my little sister needs me to be now—a role model who helps her grow up knowing she deserves safety, opportunity, and a voice that no one can take away. I had become confident enough to hear myself speak, sing, yell. I had saved myself. Over, and over, and over again. I realized that was the lesson God needed me to learn. That I could be strong. That I could stand on my own and use my voice—that I could become. Faith has played a quiet, constant role in my journey of becoming. Even through doubt and fury, it taught me that my experiences were not meaningless. Instead of allowing my story to silence me, I've come to see it as something that can empower others. I plan to study Theater and English while pursuing a career as an author and actress. Through storytelling and the arts, I hope to amplify voices that have been ignored, particularly those of marginalized groups and young people who have experienced hardship. The frightened child who once stared at the door at night is no longer waiting in fear. She is moving forward with purpose, with God in her heart, and with determination to build a future where her voice—and the voices of others—cannot be ignored. Instagram: @lyssaethomas

I pursue my education with the understanding that I am standing in a doorway that a few generations before me were never allowed to enter. My grandparents and great-grandparents lived in a world where opportunities like higher education, creative careers, and artistic expression were often inaccessible. Their sacrifices made my future possible. Because of that, I refuse to treat my education as something meant only for personal success. Instead, I see it as a responsibility to create opportunities for others. My path toward that understanding was not easy. Growing up in financial hardship and instability shapes a child long before they understand what it means. My mother raised our family largely on her own while juggling multiple jobs just to keep a roof over our heads. We lived in a small apartment, and from an early age I learned what it meant to grow up quickly. I helped take care of my younger brother, cooked meals, and took on responsibilities that many children do not face until much later in life. At the same time, my childhood was marked by emotional hardship and unsafe environments. One of the most difficult challenges I faced was surviving abuse within my household. For a long time, fear and silence defined my reality. Eventually, I found the courage to speak about what had happened and testify in court, a moment that changed the course of my life and my family's future. That experience taught me something powerful: circumstances do not have to define a person's future. Instead, they can become the motivation that pushes someone toward something greater. During those difficult years, education became more than schoolwork to me. Books were often the only place where I felt understood. Within their pages I found worlds where people overcame impossible odds, where characters discovered their voices, and where hope still existed even in darkness. Reading allowed me to escape for a while, but it also helped me imagine a future that looked different from the life I was living. Eventually, those stories inspired me to write my own. Writing started as a private act of survival. It was a place where I could process my experiences and express thoughts that felt too heavy to say aloud. Over time, that quiet act of survival turned into something much bigger. Writing became my voice. Through stories and poetry, I could transform painful experiences into something meaningful, something that might help someone else feel less alone. Theatre and performance gave me another language for expression. While writing allowed me to shape my thoughts on paper, acting and performance allowed me to embody emotions and stories in a different way. On stage, I discovered the power of storytelling in its most immediate form—how a single performance can make an audience feel seen, understood, or inspired. Through both writing and theatre, I began to see art as more than entertainment. Art is advocacy. Art is education. Art is representation, restoration, and healing. Stories allow people to see the world through someone else's eyes. They challenge assumptions, build empathy, and create space for voices that might otherwise go unheard. For someone growing up feeling isolated or misunderstood, a story can be a lifeline. It can show them that their experiences matter and that their future is not limited by their circumstances. Education helped me realize that storytelling could be more than a passion. It could become a purpose. Throughout high school, I pushed myself academically and creatively because I understood how valuable educational opportunities are. My parents spoke it over me and my passion breathed it into my body. I stepped into leadership roles such as President of both National Honor Society and Student Government, where I worked to support my peers and organize service initiatives within my school community. At home, I continued to help care for my siblings and supporting my family as my mother worked toward building a more stable future for all of us. Balancing these responsibilities was not always easy, but it strengthened my determination to build a different future. Every challenge reinforced how important education is—not only as a pathway to personal growth, but as a tool for community impact. Because of that, I plan to study creative writing and theatre in college so that I can build a career as both an author and performer. In the long term, I also hope to work in publishing, helping bring powerful and diverse stories into the world. I want to amplify voices that have historically been overlooked and ensure that more people can see themselves reflected in the stories they read and the performances they watch. Beyond my professional goals, I also hope to mentor young writers and artists who come from backgrounds similar to my own. Creative expression can be transformative, especially for young people navigating hardship or uncertainty. By helping others discover their voices, I hope to create the same kind of opportunities that once helped me find my own. The challenges I have faced throughout my life have shaped the way I approach both my education and my future goals. They taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of perseverance. More importantly, they taught me that success is not simply about personal achievement. It is about what you do with the opportunities you receive. Education has given me direction, purpose, and the tools to transform my experiences into something meaningful. The opportunities I pursue today were made possible by the sacrifices of those who came before me, and I intend to honor that legacy by ensuring that the door stays open for the generations that follow. Because education opened that door for me, I want to spend my life holding it open for someone else.

Growing up in financial hardship and instability shapes a child long before they understand what it means. For students from disadvantaged backgrounds, higher education can feel like a locked door guarded by costs, circumstances, and expectations we never asked for—a room we were never invited into. My childhood was largely shaped by my mother, who raised us as a single parent while juggling multiple jobs just to keep a roof over our heads. We lived in a tiny apartment, and from an early age I learned what it meant to grow up quickly. I helped take care of my younger brother, cooked meals, and took on responsibilities many children don't have to face. My brother's father was a towering man with money we needed in his wallet and violence in his heart. The abuse I survived silenced me for over a year, and when I finally found the courage to speak about it, we lost what little we had. But even in that instability, my mother never stopped fighting for us. Watching her work tirelessly to support our family taught me resilience, respect, and responsibility. It showed me that strength is not loud or glamorous, but often quiet determination—the decision to keep moving forward even when you're carrying a life that feels impossibly heavy. My upbringing was also shaped by a blended and multicultural extended family. Diversity has never been an abstract concept in my life. It has been my everyday reality. My family includes Black and Dominican relatives from the Northeast, Black family from the deep South, and a Gujarati immigrant stepmother and stepfamily. My parents are also professional Latin dancers, so music, movement, and culture from around the world have always filled out home. Family gatherings might include conversations shifting between broken Spanish, AAVE, and the Gujarati or Hindi terms that have become part of my daily vocabulary. Growing up in this environment taught me that identity is layered and expansive. It showed me the beauty of different cultures and the ways people express love, community, faith, and creativity. Together, these experiences shaped how I see the world. From my mother, I learned the value of perseverance and love through hardship. From my extended family, I learned openness, curiosity, and respect for diverse perspectives. Stories became my refuge during the darkest parts of my childhood. Books were often the only place where I could hide, the only place where I felt understood. Reading turned into writing, and writing became a way for me to process my experiences and transform them into something meaningful. Theatre and dance gave me another outlet—one where I was free to live, breathe, and sweat beyond what I faced at home, where emotions that felt impossible to explain could finally exist in the open. I began to understand that art is far more than entertainment. Art is advocacy. Art is education. Art is representation, restoration, and healing. Because of that, I plant to study creative writing and theatre so I can build a career as both an author and performer. Through storytelling, I hope to create work that explores resilience, identity, and emotional complexity. In the future, I also hope to mentor young writers and performers and help bring arts programming to disadvantaged communities to give young people a place to process, imagine, and realize that their voices matter. I want to be someone who lifts as she climbs, someone who keeps the door open for the next generation so that fewer children grow up believing that opportunities like education, creativity, and success are rooms they were never meant to enter.

Growing up, I learned early that strength is often quiet. It is the decision to keep going, to keep caring, and to keep believing in people even when life has shown you how difficult that can be. Those lessons shaped who I am today—a writer, a leader, and someone deeply committed to building community wherever I go. I serve as President of my school's National Honor Society and President of Student Government, working alongside other student leaders to organize service projects, support school initiatives, and create opportunities for students to connect with and serve our local community. These roles have taught me how meaningful leadership can be when it is rooted in empathy and collaboration rather than authority. Outside of school, I volunteer regularly with Atlanta Bulldogs Academy, a youth sports organization that brings together young athletes and families through community football training. Since 2022, I have assisted with admissions, helped organize events, managed concession operations, and supported cheer coaching during games and practices. While these responsibilities may seem small individually, together they help create an environment where young athletes feel supported, encouraged, and proud of their hard work. Working with Atlanta Bulldogs Academy has shown me the power of youth programs in strengthening communities. Sports create spaces where children learn teamwork, discipline, and perseverance while families come together to support one another. I have also seen how mentorship extends beyond the field, with coaches and leaders guiding young athletes academically and personally. Being part of that environment and contributing to it has been incredibly meaningful to me. Beyond formal service, I believe community is built in everyday interactions. Whether it's checking on a classmate, encouraging a younger student, or simply offering kindness to someone who may need it, I believe that small moments of connection matter. Those quiet pockets of time are often where people feel the most seen and supported, and i try to carry that mindset into everything I do. My commitment to service is deeply connected to my own experiences growing up. I understand how powerful it can be when someone invests their time and belief in you. Those moments of support can change the course of a person's life—the way they changed mine. Because of that, I want to dedicate my future career to creating opportunities and amplifying voices that deserve to be heard. After college, I plan to pursue a career in publishing and performance to continue my work as an author and performer. Through literature and visual storytelling, I hope to bring my voice to stories that explore identity, resilience, and the complexity of human experiences. Books played a powerful role in my own life, helping me feel understood during difficult times. I want to help create and support stories that offer that same sense of connection to others. If awarded this scholarship, I will use it to support my education as I pursue studies in Theatre and English. Higher education will allow me to develop the skills necessary to succeed in publishing while continuing to grow as a writer and leader. More importantly, it will allow me to carry forward the work of building supportive communities through storytelling, mentorship, and service. To me, success isn't just a personal achievement—it's the ability to reach a hand back to the next person climbing. This scholarship would help me continue that work, giving me the opportunity to invest in my education so that I can continue investing in others the way they have for me.

When I was twelve years old, I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression. At fourteen, I began medication. Over the years, my diagnoses continued to expand, and those labels began to feel more like a sentence than an explanation. I was a child trying to understand emotions that felt far bigger than me. One of my earliest memories of how deeply mental health affected my life came on Christmas Eve when I was twelve years old. Instead of celebrating the holiday, I sat crying in a corner, wondering if life was worth continuing. I felt isolated and powerless, unsure how to explain or live with the storm in my mind. Mental illness did not only affect me, but my family as well. Trauma and mental health struggles created tension, misunderstanding, and distance between us. I was always hypervigilant, left feeling alone as though something about my existence was inherently wrong. Healing has never been a straight path. There were moments when I thought I was finally "better," only to find myself back in another episode. I thought I was cursed. That I was broken, that my life would always be one of trauma, mania and pain. For a long time, I believed strength meant enduring everything silently, but over time, through therapy, reflection, and support, my perspective began to change. I learned that strength does not mean never faltering. It means faltering and still choosing to take the next step. My experiences with mental health forced me to learn self advocacy earlier than most. For years, I was silenced—physically and metaphorically—and finding my voice has been one of the most important journeys of my life. I had to learn how to speak about my needs, how to seek help, and how to rebuild my sense of self. Along the way, I also discovered the importance of connection. When everything felt overwhelming, the small things kept me going: a conversation with a friend, a moment of understanding, or just something small to look forward to the next day. Those connections reminded me that I was not as alone as I thought. Writing became my first real act of defiance against the darkness. As a child growing up in an unstable and unsafe home, books were my escape. The worlds inside their pages felt safer than the one around me, and eventually they inspired me to create stories of my own. What began as a refuge grew into a passion and a purpose. Today at eighteen, I am an author and poet while pursuing opportunities in theatre and publishing. Through storytelling, i want to explore themes of identity, resilience, and emotional complexity. Stories have the power to help people feel seen, understood, and less isolated—like they did for me. I finally feel like I am not just surviving but living. Even on my hard days or during depressive episodes, I'm able to look back on how far I've come and be proud of the little girl crying on Christmas Eve. She survived the next few Christmases and there will be more to come. Mental health has profoundly shaped how I see the world and how I interact with others. I lead with empathy, compassion, and intentionality because I know firsthand how powerful it can be when someone is kind and makes space for your truth.

I am a musical theatre major in the performing arts magnet program at my high school while also serving as President of both National Honor Society and Student Government. I’m a writer, dancer, actress, barista, and the oldest daughter in a loud, loving, and complicated family. When I’m not leading meetings, studying Spanish with my dad, or editing my latest draft, you can usually find me feeding stray neighborhood dogs, tending to my garden, or handing someone their morning coffee with a smile. I’ve always believed that who we truly are shows in the small moments—the ones that aren’t graded, applauded, or posted online. Moments like checking on classmates who seem overwhelmed, calling my grandparents every day, reminding my mom to eat after a long shift, or listening when a friend finally feels brave enough to share their struggles. Those moments taught me that leadership isn’t about being important; it’s about making others feel important. The arts have been the place where I learned how to turn that empathy into action. Before I had words for everything I felt, there was rhythm, melody, movement—stories waiting to be expressed. Growing up, the arts were more than activities after school. They were a refuge and a lens through which I could imagine possibilities beyond the world I knew. Arts education shaped every part of who I am. Dance taught me discipline and emotional expression. Choir taught me the power of harmony and collaboration. Theatre taught me the courage to stand alone on a stage and tell a story that matters. My own story, however, was not always easy. My family experienced financial strain and conflict, and as a child I often searched for stability and safety. During those times, books and creative expression became lifelines. Writing allowed me to transform pain into purpose, and performing helped me release emotions that were too heavy to carry alone. Through art, I learned how healing can happen slowly—through connection, creativity, and the courage to keep going. Those experiences are what shape my academic and professional goals today. After college, I plan to pursue a career in publishing as an assistant editor or literary agent while continuing to write and act professionally. I hope to build a life centered around storytelling across multiple mediums. Whether through literature or performance, I want to create work that gives people the same sense of belonging and hope that art once gave me. Giving back to my community has shown me that small acts of care can ripple outward in powerful ways. Through leadership roles, creative collaboration, and simply showing up for others, I’ve learned that making a difference doesn’t always require a spotlight. Sometimes it begins with listening, encouraging, and helping someone believe in their own voice. My goal is to continue doing exactly that through the arts. I want to write stories that remind people they are not alone. I want to perform in shows that amplify voices society often overlooks. Most of all, I want to create spaces where others feel seen, understood, and valued. Art helped me survive. It helped me discover who I am. Now, I want to spend my life sharing that gift with others—one smile, one story, one show at a time.

When I was fourteen, I was medicated for anxiety and depression. Over the years, my diagnoses continued to expand, and those labels began to feel more and more like a sentence rather than an explanation. I was a child trying to understand emotions that felt far bigger than me. Healing has never been a straight path. There were moments when I thought I was finally “better,” only to realize the journey wasn’t over. For a long time, I felt like I was simply surviving. But through therapy, reflection, and time, things began to shift. And today, at eighteen, I finally feel like I’m living. I’m learning who I am and building the life I want. More than that, I’m excited about it. My experiences with mental health have deeply shaped the way I understand relationships. Growing up, trauma and mental illness created tension and misunderstanding within my family. I often felt hypervigilant, isolated, and like my existence was inherently wrong. It took me a long time to understand that it wasn’t normal to live and feel this way. I’ve had to relearn what healthy connections and safe environments look like. The most important lesson I’ve learned is self-advocacy. For years, I was silenced—physically and metaphorically—and the journey of finding my voice, from my art to my mouth, is perhaps the longest and most rewarding that I’ve been privileged to experience. Mental health has shaped how I see the world, as well as how I navigate it. I used to think that strength meant never faltering in the face of hardship. Now I understand that strength often looks like faltering and still choosing to take the next step. I’ve had to reparent myself in many ways, and the same kindness that I learned to treat myself with is what I try to give to everyone I come across. I listen carefully, reach out more intentionally. I lead with compassion, empathy, and grace for others and myself. I try to create spaces where people feel safe being honest. I know how powerful it is when someone gives you the space to feel, to be heard, to be seen. My first defiance against the darkness that was my normal was writing. My second was acting, and now both have become declarations of my existence and my right to take up space. My right to power and peace. And through that, I realized that stories can do more than comfort the person writing or performing them. They can help others feel seen, understood, and less alone. Because of that realization, I plan to study theatre and creative writing in college with the long-term goal of building a career in publishing and performing. While continuing my work as an author, I want to help bring more diverse voices and honest stories into the world, especially stories that explore mental health, identity, and resilience. Art is a mirror, a reckoning, and an embrace. For me, it was a lifeline. Now that I’ve found light, I want to spend my life creating and supporting art that helps others find theirs. Mental illness once made me feel powerless. But through healing, self-discovery, and creativity, I’ve learned that my experiences do not define my limits. My diagnoses do not designate who I am. Instead, my art has. And they all have shaped my purpose: to create, to connect, and to remind others that even in darkness, you have the right to demand hope.

When I was eleven, I whispered in my fifth grade teacher’s ear and told her about the man I had to face each time I went home. The one I called my father. I was fifteen when I faced him again, this time in court. I recounted my memories of him, each one I had tried to bury. Of his hands. Of his eyes and the voice that had haunted my nightmares for every year since. But it was my voice—mine—that gave the testimony that put him away for life. I remember how proud everyone was, how my lawyer cried and congratulated me when the verdict was read. She was proud and I was terrified. I didn’t sleep peacefully for the next three days. When I could finally breathe again, I realized I’d learned a valuable lesson. Advocacy. For most of my childhood, I survived by staying quiet. I swallowed my needs and emotions to keep the peace, minimized myself so others could feel comfortable. Silence was safer than conflict, but it also kept me trapped. And as I continued to learn growing up, I can’t live my life that way. Not as the woman I want to be. Not as the person my younger self deserves to know she became. Writing has always been a passion and strength of mine. My words have the power to move people. For the longest time, I thought that was limited to my writing. To ink pens and the journals I hoarded and the margins of my favorite books. I admired the authors of them, idolized them and their words. On paper, I was fearless. In reality, I was not. I was quiet. I had few friends. Ultimately, I was afraid. When home became the least safe place for me, my silence became suffocating. And if no one was going to protect me or speak out for me, then I had to do it myself. That may have been the biggest battle I’ve fought. Now, I face smaller battles every day, tiny moments where I have to choose silence or ascension. Because that’s what it is each time I am brave enough to speak out not just for others but for me. I ascend, I grow, I become. I become the girl I needed at eleven. I protect the girl I was at fifteen. I push forward for the little sister that looks up to me. I stand for the woman I am at eighteen—a writer, yes, but also a performer, scholar, and vocalist. Even as a singer, I sometimes find myself afraid of the sound of my voice. Of its volume, presence, and power. But it isn’t a stop sign anymore. It’s an invitation. I plan to use my voice not only to tell my own story, but to amplify others who have been silent. I want to speak out for others like me who have been silenced by fear or pain, to create spaces where they feel safe enough to speak themselves. I want to make silence less lonely. The voice I once believed I’d never have is now the tool I use to build change. And I intend to keep using it.

I’m a musical theatre major in the performing arts magnet program at my high school—while also balancing being President of both National Honor Society and Student Government. I’m a writer, dancer, actress, barista, and the oldest daughter in a loud, loving, and complicated family. When I’m not leading meetings, studying Spanish with my dad, or editing my latest draft, you can find me feeding stray neighborhood dogs, tending to my garden, or handing someone their morning coffee with a smile. I’ve always believed that who we truly are shows in the small moments, the ones that aren’t graded, applauded, or posted online. Moments like checking on classmates who seem overwhelmed, calling my grandparents every day, reminding my mom to eat after work, or listening to a friend who finally felt brave enough to share their struggles. Those moments taught me that leadership isn’t about being important, but about making others feel important. But the moments that made me weren’t all good and sweet. My family struggled and fought, financial strain just another thing to throw in each other’s faces. And as a child, I wasn’t always safe. Books held me up when the world felt too heavy to carry alone. Writing became the place where I could turn pain into purpose, shaping my laments into something meaningful. Dance showed me how to move through emotion, that bleeding it out on stage could make something beautiful. Healing came slow, in small, steady shifts. But I learned to breathe again. To hope again. To trust that connection is survival. It’s why I’m planning to move to New York after college and perform professionally while building a career in publishing. I want to write books that give people the same lifeline that my favorite literature gave me. I want to be part of shows that uplift voices that society ignores, mutes, and doubts. I want to make people feel seen. If I could start my own charity, that is where its heart would beat. I would build an organization dedicated to bringing arts access and arts education to underdeveloped and disadvantaged communities. Food, clothing, housing, physical and mental health—these are essentials, and many charities address them. But art is a different kind of necessity. Art gives people a place to put their pain. A way to express what they feel—beautiful or not—and a language for the emotions that don’t have words yet. It builds community, confidence, and imagination—especially for kids who feel powerless or unseen, the way I once did. My charity would serve children, families, and communities who don’t have access to creative spaces or opportunities. Volunteers would lead art classes, writing workshops, dance and movement sessions, theatre games, and music activities. They would paint murals with neighborhoods, read stories to children, guide teens through writing poems, or even take families to see plays, concerts, museums, and recitals. The mission would be to give people access to joy, expression, and connection, and the chance to see art not just as a luxury, but a lifeline. Art helped me survive. It helped me find myself. And I want to share that with as many people as I can—loudly, quietly, consistently, and wholeheartedly. One smile, one story, one show at a time.

I’m a musical theatre major in the performing arts magnet program at my high school—while also balancing being President of both National Honor Society and Student Government. I’m a writer, dancer, actress, barista, and the oldest daughter in a loud, loving, and complicated family. When I’m not leading meetings, studying Spanish with my dad, or editing my latest draft, you can find me feeding stray neighborhood dogs, tending to my garden, or handing someone their morning coffee with a smile. I’ve always believed that who we truly are shows in the small moments, the ones that aren’t graded, applauded, or posted online. Moments like checking on classmates who seem overwhelmed, calling my grandparents every day, reminding my mom to eat after work, or listening to a friend who finally felt brave enough to share their struggles. Those moments taught me that leadership isn’t about being important, but about making others feel important. But the moments that made me weren’t all good and sweet. My family struggled and fought, financial strain just another thing to throw in each other’s faces. And as a child, I wasn’t always safe. Books held me up when the world felt too heavy to carry alone. Writing became the place where I could turn pain into purpose, shaping my laments into something meaningful. Dance showed me how to move through emotion, that bleeding it out on stage could make something beautiful. Healing came slow, in small, steady shifts. But I learned to breathe again. To hope again. To trust that connection is survival. It’s why I’m planning to move to New York after college and perform professionally while building a career in publishing. I want to write books that give people the same lifeline that my favorite literature gave me. I want to be part of shows that uplift voices that society ignores, mutes, and doubts. I want to make people feel seen. If I could start my own charity, that is where its heart would beat. I would build an organization dedicated to bringing arts access and arts education to underdeveloped and disadvantaged communities. Food, clothing, housing, physical and mental health—these are essentials, and many charities address them. But art is a different kind of necessity. Art gives people a place to put their pain. A way to express what they feel—beautiful or not—and a language for the emotions that don’t have words yet. It builds community, confidence, and imagination—especially for kids who feel powerless or unseen, the way I once did. My charity would serve children, families, and communities who don’t have access to creative spaces or opportunities. Volunteers would lead art classes, writing workshops, dance and movement sessions, theatre games, and music activities. They would paint murals with neighborhoods, read stories to children, guide teens through writing poems, or even take families to see plays, concerts, museums, and recitals. The mission would be to give people access to joy, expression, and connection, and the chance to see art not just as a luxury, but a lifeline. Art helped me survive. It helped me find myself. And I want to share that with as many people as I can—loudly, quietly, consistently, and wholeheartedly. One smile, one story, one show at a time.

The arts have been the one place where I’ve always felt like I could exist freely. Before I had words for anything I felt, there was rhythm, melody, movement—stories trapped in my body just waiting to be released on the page and on stage. Growing up, the arts weren’t just something I did after school. They were a refuge, a lens through which I could see possibilities bigger than the world I lived in. My earliest guide into that world was my mentor, Chani. She danced with my parents’ company when I was small. She was this brilliant, bright, and graceful young woman who felt larger than life. Yet somehow, she still made space for me. She was one of my first dance teachers, a big sister in spirit, and the one person who made sure I knew I could belong in the arts, not just admire them from afar. As I grew up, she moved to New York, training relentlessly, performed on Broadway, choreographed shows, and eventually became a vocal coach—my vocal coach. Even from across the country, she remained the person who lit a path for me. Family members would often compare me to her, my theatre mentors talked about how amazing it was to work with her. Since I was a little girl, I’ve studied the way she carries herself—with poise, wisdom, elegance, and unyielding determination—and every day, I try to carry myself the same way. I hold myself high because she does. I push myself because she first taught me how. Arts education shaped every part of who I am. Dance taught me discipline and how to express emotion without saying a word. Choir taught me to move among a group, how powerful our voices can be when we stand together. And theatre taught me that I was strong enough, bright enough, to stand alone and still shine. After college, I aim to move to New York to work in publishing as an assistant editor or literary agent while continuing to write novels and perform as a musical theatre artist. I want a career built on creativity, collaboration, and storytelling across multiple mediums. The arts have shaped who I am and every dream I have. I want to create stories and perform shows that give others the same sense of belonging they gave me. Whether I'm in the corner of a cafe working on a manuscript or pushing myself through an eight hour rehearsal, my goal is always the same: to make others feel seen, understood, and inspired in the same way that Chani has inspired me. Art has always been my home—where I learned to grow, to express, to lead, and to imagine beyond the box society tried to put me in. And as I grow, it is the home I choose over and over again.

I’m a musical theatre major in the performing arts magnet program at my high school—while also balancing being President of both National Honor Society and Student Government. I’m a writer, dancer, actress, barista, and the oldest daughter in a loud, loving, and complicated family. When I’m not leading meetings, studying Spanish with my dad, or editing my latest draft, you can find me feeding stray neighborhood dogs, tending to my garden, or handing someone their morning coffee with a smile. I’ve always believed that who we truly are shows in the small moments, the ones that aren’t graded, applauded, or posted online. Moments like checking on classmates who seem overwhelmed, calling my grandparents every day, reminding my mom to eat after work, or listening to a friend who finally felt brave enough to share their struggles. Those moments taught me that leadership isn’t about being important, but about making others feel important. But the moments that made me weren’t all good and sweet. My family struggled and fought, financial strain just another thing to throw in each other’s faces. And as a child, I wasn’t always safe. Books held me up when the world felt too heavy to carry alone. Writing became the place where I could turn pain into purpose, shaping my laments into something meaningful. Dance showed me how to move through emotion, that bleeding it out on stage could make something beautiful. Healing came slow, in small, steady shifts. But I learned to breathe again. To hope again. To trust that connection is survival. It’s why I’m planning to move to New York after college and perform professionally while building a career in publishing. I want to write books that give people the same lifeline that my favorite literature gave me. I want to be part of shows that uplift voices that society ignores, mutes, and doubts. I want to make people feel seen. If I could start my own charity, that is where its heart would beat. I would build an organization dedicated to bringing arts access and arts education to underdeveloped and disadvantaged communities. Food, clothing, housing, physical and mental health—these are essentials, and many charities address them. But art is a different kind of necessity. Art gives people a place to put their pain. A way to express what they feel—beautiful or not—and a language for the emotions that don’t have words yet. It builds community, confidence, and imagination—especially for kids who feel powerless or unseen, the way I once did. My charity would serve children, families, and communities who don’t have access to creative spaces or opportunities. Volunteers would lead art classes, writing workshops, dance and movement sessions, theatre games, and music activities. They would paint murals with neighborhoods, read stories to children, guide teens through writing poems, or even take families to see plays, concerts, museums, and recitals. The mission would be to give people access to joy, expression, and connection, and the chance to see art not just as a luxury, but a lifeline. Art helped me survive. It helped me find myself. And I want to share that with as many people as I can—loudly, quietly, consistently, and wholeheartedly. One smile, one story, one show at a time.

When I was a child, I felt powerless. I didn't have the safest or best home life. Books were my escape. I felt more comfortable in pages of fiction than I did in my own head. One day, a book series inspired me so much that I picked up a pen and began writing. I admired the characters and the story so much that I molded them to my imagination. It wasn't long before I created my own characters, my own stories. That was my first taste of power. I had always written for me, but soon I realized my words held weight, that they could influence others and be a catalyst for change. To most people, words are just words. It is why writers are so rare. And that is what I love. This passion and talent that I have to create worlds by hitting a few keys and manipulating a pen is incredibly rare, yet just as powerful as any weapon. I've written an endless number of poems and recently finished my first novel. I'm working on two others while it's in the process of being published. Art is as essential to society as anything. It reflects us, connects us, motivates us, remembers us. What I hope to achieve with my writing is to open people's eyes to the magic of creation in literature, to guide them to see how sacred books and the art of writing really is. From fiction to nonfiction, poetry to prose. Authors hold so much power in their minds, in their hands, and they are brave enough to share it with the world even if others call them crazy. I believe all good artists must be a little bit odd, a little less sane than the rest, because it takes courage to be vulnerable, to defy what society views as acceptable. It takes courage to face the horrors of the world and it takes passion to find beauty in them, to write about them and look at them through various lenses. That is what I have done and will continue to do. I want to share my writing, my gift with the world and inspire others to do the same. Throughout college and life, I will write until my hands no longer work, create as many worlds as I can. I will write books and poetry, all while studying the works of others, being inspired by my professors and peers, pushing myself, and expanding my knowledge and skills. I aim to have a career in supporting other writers. While publishing my own books, I plan to work in the publishing field, likely as an agent or editor. I want to help others achieve their goals, motivate them and continue to cultivate love for the art of writing that I believe many of us lose under the pressure and competition of the working world. We are all the same at our core. We all have a passion, a purpose. This is mine. I love it more than anything and that is why I will succeed.

Jack Terry's story reminds me that even in unfathomable darkness, hope can survive and even thrive. He lost everything as a child yet managed to build a life filled with healing, purpose, and generosity. Like Jack, I've faced adversity that shaped me in ways I didn't choose. But also like him, I've chosen what to do with it. My elementary schoolyard was vibrant, but I often stayed in the garden, chasing butterflies or reading. I felt out of place. The kids made fun of what they didn’t understand—my hair, my body, my love for reading. I was an anomaly to them and to myself. Growing up with a single mother in an unstable home, I felt powerless. Financial struggles loomed over everything from food to housing and even basic peace of mind. On top of that, I was placed in a predominantly white school where I faced isolation, adversity and social injustice. But my parents, especially my mom, instilled a love of literature in me. My father, who I saw biweekly, read me Harry Potter as bedtime stories for years. Books became my refuge. Middle school was more diverse, yet I was still seen as “too strange,” “too smart,” “too white.” I spoke “too well” and read “too much." Then one day, a book series inspired me to start writing. That was my first taste of power. I realized my words held weight—they could influence others and spark change. But soon, I learned, it wasn't enough. I could no longer hide behind creative outlets. I knew the life I wanted, the woman I wanted to be, and it was my responsibility to cultivate that. In high school, I chose the FAME magnet program for choir—after eight years of performing, awards, and all-state honors, it seemed like the natural choice, but it wasn't the right one. I struggled with my depression, anxiety, PTSD and a new diagnosis: borderline personality disorder. Because of my academic success, my pain tended to be overlooked. So I advocated for myself. I left the program, found a place where I could breathe again, and reclaimed my identity as a creator and a human being. Writing became more than an outlet—it was a declaration of my existence. Just months later, I faced another huge challenge. One of the hardest, but most important, moments of my life. I testified in court against my abuser. I gave my victim statement at the end of the trial and helped convict him. He received two life sentences. It was terrifying, exhausting, and deeply painful—I celebrated by taking a trip to Puerto Rico which I mostly cried and slept through on the couch of our AirBnB—but I found strength in telling my truth. I realized the power of my voice wasn't just for stories. It was for justice, too. My family's financial hardship taught me resilience, trauma taught me survival, mental illness taught me empathy, and being raised by a single mother taught me strength. I now work to be a role model for my younger sister and my community, showing them they can live full, authentic lives despite challenges. In college, I plan to study creative writing and business, with the goal of one day creating a publishing or literary agency that focuses on marginalized voices, especially BIPOC creators like myself. Words saved me. I want to create stories that do the same for others. Art reflects, transforms, motivates, and remembers. I could have stayed confined to the box I was placed in, but instead, I broke free and changed my world. I’m determined to inspire others to do the same.

I’m a musical theatre major in the performing arts magnet program at my high school—while also balancing being President of both National Honor Society and Student Government. I’m a writer, dancer, actress, barista, and the oldest daughter in a loud, loving, and complicated family. When I’m not leading meetings, studying Spanish with my dad, or editing my latest draft, you can find me feeding stray neighborhood dogs, tending to my garden, or handing someone their morning coffee with a smile. I’ve always believed that who we truly are shows in the small moments, the ones that aren’t graded, applauded, or posted online. Moments like checking on classmates who seem overwhelmed, calling my grandparents every day, reminding my mom to eat after work, or listening to a friend who finally felt brave enough to share their struggles. Those moments taught me that leadership isn’t about being important, but about making others feel important. But the moments that made me weren’t all good and sweet. My family struggled and fought, financial strain just another thing to throw in each other’s faces. And as a child, I wasn’t always safe. Books held me up when the world felt too heavy to carry alone. Writing became the place where I could turn pain into purpose, shaping my laments into something meaningful. Dance showed me how to move through emotion, that bleeding it out on stage could make something beautiful. Healing came slow, in small, steady shifts. But I learned to breathe again. To hope again. To trust that connection is survival. It’s why I’m planning to move to New York after college and perform professionally while building a career in publishing. I want to write books that give people the same lifeline that my favorite literature gave me. I want to be part of shows that uplift voices that society ignores, mutes, and doubts. I want to make people feel seen. If I could start my own charity, that is where its heart would beat. I would build an organization dedicated to bringing arts access and arts education to underdeveloped and disadvantaged communities. Food, clothing, housing, physical and mental health—these are essentials, and many charities address them. But art is a different kind of necessity. Art gives people a place to put their pain. A way to express what they feel—beautiful or not—and a language for the emotions that don’t have words yet. It builds community, confidence, and imagination—especially for kids who feel powerless or unseen, the way I once did. My charity would serve children, families, and communities who don’t have access to creative spaces or opportunities. Volunteers would lead art classes, writing workshops, dance and movement sessions, theatre games, and music activities. They would paint murals with neighborhoods, read stories to children, guide teens through writing poems, or even take families to see plays, concerts, museums, and recitals. The mission would be to give people access to joy, expression, and connection, and the chance to see art not just as a luxury, but a lifeline. Art helped me survive. It helped me find myself. And I want to share that with as many people as I can—loudly, quietly, consistently, and wholeheartedly. One smile, one story, one show at a time.

The arts have been the one place where I’ve always felt like I could exist freely. Before I had words for anything I felt, there was rhythm, melody, movement—stories trapped in my body just waiting to be released on the page and on stage. Growing up, the arts weren’t just something I did after school. They were a refuge, a lens through which I could see possibilities bigger than the world I lived in. My earliest guide into that world was my mentor, Chani. She danced with my parents’ company when I was small. She was this brilliant, bright, and graceful young woman who felt larger than life. Yet somehow, she still made space for me. She was one of my first dance teachers, a big sister in spirit, and the one person who made sure I knew I could belong in the arts, not just admire them from afar. As I grew up, she moved to New York, training relentlessly, performed on Broadway, choreographed shows, and eventually became a vocal coach—my vocal coach. Even from across the country, she remained the person who lit a path for me. Family members would often compare me to her, my theatre mentors talked about how amazing it was to work with her. Since I was a little girl, I’ve studied the way she carries herself—with poise, wisdom, elegance, and unyielding determination—and every day, I try to carry myself the same way. I hold myself high because she does. I push myself because she first taught me how. Arts education shaped every part of who I am. Dance taught me discipline and how to express emotion without saying a word. Choir taught me to move among a group, how powerful our voices can be when we stand together. And theatre taught me that I was strong enough, bright enough, to stand alone and still shine. After college, I aim to move to New York to work in publishing as an assistant editor or literary agent while continuing to write novels and perform as a musical theatre artist. I want a career built on creativity, collaboration, and storytelling across multiple mediums. The arts have shaped who I am and every dream I have. I want to create stories and perform shows that give others the same sense of belonging they gave me. Whether I'm in the corner of a cafe working on a manuscript or pushing myself through an eight hour rehearsal, my goal is always the same: to make others feel seen, understood, and inspired in the same way that Chani has inspired me. Art has always been my home—where I learned to grow, to express, to lead, and to imagine beyond the box society tried to put me in. And as I grow, it is the home I choose over and over again.

Growing up in financial hardship and instability shapes a child long before they understand what it means. For students from disadvantaged backgrounds, higher education can feel like a locked door guarded by costs, circumstances, and expectations we never asked for. A room we are never invited in. That’s why scholarships matter. They aren’t handouts. They are bridges between potential and possibility, between children who survived more than they should have and adults who will go on to change the world because someone finally invested in them. My own childhood was defined by instability—emotionally, financially, and physically. My mom juggled multiple jobs just to afford the tiny apartment where we lived. I took care of my younger brother, cooked meals, and learned early what it meant to grow up fast. My brother’s father was a towering man with money in his wallet and violence in his heart. The abuse I survived silenced me for over a year. What saved me were stories. I escaped into books, then eventually into writing—where I could tell my truth without being punished for it. Eventually, I gained the courage to tell that truth aloud. That choice cost us what little stability we had, thrust us further into the struggle we’d always known. Disadvantaged students deserve scholarships because we work twice as hard for half the reward and recognition. We discover our potential in the cracks of poverty and we learn resilience not as a virtue, but as a necessity. And when we succeed, we don’t rise alone. We carry our families, our communities, and every younger version of ourselves with us. I’ve spent my high school years proving that my past would not be my future. I work relentlessly—academically, creatively, and emotionally. Among various creative pursuits, I stepped into leadership as President of National Honor Society and Student Government. At home, I help raise my siblings and support my mother as she goes back to college. I even faced my abuser in court and delivered the testimony that put him behind bars for life. And it’s all because of the people who poured into me, even when they had little to give. Every day I see examples of what I could have become without them, and every day I am grateful. I fight to give that same support to others because I know how powerful it is to be seen. This scholarship would not only ease the financial strain of college, but allow me to continue rising beyond the circumstances I was born into. I plan to study English, write books that help others feel less alone, and eventually work in publishing to amplify voices like mine. Students from disadvantaged backgrounds deserve opportunities because we’ve already proven we don’t give up. We just need someone willing to open the door so we can walk through it. We’ve all heard the saying that society’s top is only as strong as its bottom. And if you would look close enough, you’d see we’re stronger than you think.

I’ve spent most of my life learning how to breathe in rooms designed to suck the air from my lungs. Anxiety, depression, and trauma shaped my childhood long before I had the vocabulary to name any of it. There were nights I didn’t think I would make it to adulthood, mornings where I fought with myself just to get out of bed. Healing wasn’t linear or glamorous—just a long series of small choices to keep moving, to choose love, to choose growth, to choose myself. These are choices that I still have to make every day. But if pain taught me anything, it’s that silence is deadly. And I refuse to let anyone suffer alone. That’s the driving factor behind everything I do—whether I’m writing, performing, serving my community, or just handing someone their coffee with a smile. I’ve always believed that who we really are shows up in the small, quiet moments. The coworkers we check on, the strangers we say “hello” to, the teachers we thank, the seniors we hold the door for, the classmates we listen to without rushing them. That’s where character lives, and character is the foundation of everything I work to build. After college, I plan to move to New York to work in publishing as an assistant editor or literary agent while continuing to write books and perform in musical theatre. My dream is to use my stories and voice to open doors for others who have been dismissed, muted, or overlooked. I want to represent writers—especially young people, people of color, those from disadvantaged backgrounds who grew up navigating challenges and persevered through all odds. I want those who are still persevering to see me, hear me and know that someone is rooting for them. I want to be a force that connects us, drives us, and moves us. Books saved me before I knew how to save myself. They gave me courage, hope, and the sense that somewhere out there, someone understood me. If I can give that experience to even one other person—if someone can pick up a book I wrote or helped publish and feel less alone—I will be grateful, happy, and proud. I want my career to be a hand extended backwards for the next person climbing. I want to build bridges in a society that constantly tries to divide us. I want to create art, written or performed, that reminds people that they are human and worthy. My impact won’t come from being the loudest voice in the room, but from being the one who listens, who feels deeply, who leads with compassion, and who refuses to let anyone fall through the cracks. That’s how I plan to cause change in the world—through one story, one connection, one cup of coffee and one “hello” at a time.

I lost my innocence when I was nine. Earlier, perhaps. My childhood was grey. Quiet. Just my mom, my brother and I—except when I saw my dad some weekends. My mom came home from work just to lock herself into her office and work through the night. I took care of my little brother and cooked for us in the tiny apartment we shared at the storage unit where she worked. I always asked if she was okay, if she had eaten. Her answers were always yes, and no. I ask today, and the answers are still yes, and no. Eventually, she got a boyfriend—my brother’s father. The largest man I’ve ever seen, always carrying a weapon and stacks of bills in his wallet. But he bought groceries, shoes. He didn’t make her happy—I rarely saw her happy—but he was there. One day, his hand reached for his wallet, and strayed. To places it never should have. It strayed quite often. The world stayed quiet, but my mind got loud. A year passed. I lost my voice, my light. And no one knew. I read to escape—like my mom once read to me, before work consumed her. Books became my lifeline. Then, I picked up a pen. I began to weave my pain into poems. I let myself scream in ink what I couldn’t whisper aloud. Until those screams in my head grew louder, and I couldn’t take it. I told someone. And they gave me permission—to stand up for myself. To not feel guilty for “ruining” their relationship, taking away my brother’s hero, taking up space when I'd always been taught to stay small. I was a terrified child. But I was right—everything fell apart. Everyone’s anger turned on me. I battled PTSD, depression, anxiety, and medication—all before I turned fourteen. But sound started to seep back in, grey started to fade. I saw color again. The grey castle had to fall for me to build my own of gold. I found my voice. I haven’t let myself be silenced since. After writing as an escape for years, learning that my words held weight and power, I knew it was what I wanted to do. I poured my energy into school, craft, and growth. I won spelling bees, worked my way up in a latin dance company, made honor roll every year. I went to all-state choir three times, joined FAME Drama, and starred in an award-winning play by my sophomore year of high school. I idolized authors and wrote relentlessly—poems and stories remained my outlet as I worked toward goals and through trauma in tandem. I finished my first novel at seventeen and plan to publish within the year. I became Treasurer of National Honors Society, and now I am President of NHS and SGA. I mentor students, coordinate service projects with in-school and outside officials, and lead teams of my peers with integrity and positivity. I help care for my baby sister, continue to support and care for my brother, and cheer on my mother as she goes back to college. I faced off against my abuser in court. Gave a personal statement, looked him in the eye as I recounted all he did to me—ensuring he got life in prison. My past defines nothing about me but my strength. I smile, laugh, and walk into every room with confidence. My intelligence precedes me, but it’s my resilience, heart and passion that make me memorable. That passion will carry me through college and put my name onto the shelves of every bookstore I once escaped into.

I lost my innocence when I was nine. Earlier, perhaps. My childhood was grey. Quiet. Just my mom, my brother and me—except when I saw my dad some weekends. My mom worked constantly, often locked in her office all night. I took care of my little brother and cooked for us in the tiny apartment we shared at the storage unit where she worked. I always asked if she was okay, if she'd eaten. Her answers were always yes, and no. I still ask today, and the answers are still yes, and no. Eventually, she got a boyfriend—my brother’s father. The largest man I’ve ever seen, always carrying a weapon and bills in his wallet. He didn’t make her happy—I rarely saw her happy—but he was there. One day, his hand reached for his wallet, and strayed. To places it never should've. After that, it strayed often. The world stayed quiet, but my mind got loud. Over a year passed. I lost my voice, my light. No one knew. I read to escape—like my mom once read to me. Books became my lifeline. Then, I picked up a pen. I began to weave my pain into poems, let myself scream in ink what I couldn’t whisper aloud. When the screams grew to loud, I told someone. And they gave me permission—to stand up for myself. To not feel guilty for “ruining” their relationship, for taking away my brother’s hero, for becoming a problem, for taking up space when I'd always been taught to stay small. I was a terrified child. But I was right. The moment I opened my mouth, everything fell apart. Everyone’s anger turned on me. But the grey castle had to fall for me to build my own of gold. I battled PTSD, depression, anxiety, and medication—all before I turned fourteen. But sound started to seep back in. The grey started to fade. I saw color again. I found my voice. And I haven’t let myself be silenced since. I’d always loved school. After writing as an escape for years, learning that my words held power, I knew it was what I wanted to do. I poured my energy into school, craft, and growth. I won spelling bees, became a semi-pro member of a Latin dance company, made honor roll every year. I went to all-state choir three times, joined a theatre magnet program, and starred in an award-winning play by sophomore year. I idolized authors and wrote relentlessly—poems and stories remained my outlet as I worked toward goals and through trauma in tandem. I finished my first novel at seventeen and plan to publish within the year. I became Treasurer of National Honors Society, and now I am President as well as an officer in SGA. I mentor students, personally coordinate service projects with both in-school and outside officials, and lead with integrity and positivity. I help raise my new baby sister, continue to care for my brother, and cheer on my mother as she returns to college. I faced off against my abuser in court. I gave a personal statement and looked him in the eye. He got life in prison. My past defines nothing about me but my strength. I still smile. I laugh. I walk into every room with confidence. My intelligence precedes me, but it’s my resilience, heart and passion that make me shine. That same passion will carry me through college and put my name on the shelves of every bookstore I once escaped into. I just need a little help to get there—and this scholarship could do just that.

Jack Terry's story reminds me that even in unfathomable darkness, hope can survive and even thrive. He lost everything as a child yet managed to build a life filled with healing, purpose, and generosity. Like Jack, I've faced adversity that shaped me in ways I didn't choose. But also like him, I've chosen what to do with it. My elementary schoolyard was vibrant, but I often stayed in the garden, chasing butterflies or reading. I felt out of place. The kids made fun of what they didn’t understand—my hair, my body, my love for reading. I was an anomaly to them and to myself. Growing up with a single mother in an unstable home, I felt powerless. Financial struggles loomed over everything from food to housing and even basic peace of mind. On top of that, I was placed in a predominantly white school where I faced isolation, adversity and social injustice. But my parents, especially my mom, instilled a love of literature in me. My father, who I saw biweekly, read me Harry Potter as bedtime stories for years. Books became my refuge. Middle school was more diverse, yet I was still seen as “too strange,” “too smart,” “too white.” I spoke “too well” and read “too much." Then one day, a book series inspired me to start writing. That was my first taste of power. I realized my words held weight—they could influence others and spark change. But soon, I learned, it wasn't enough. I could no longer hide behind creative outlets. I knew the life I wanted, the woman I wanted to be, and it was my responsibility to cultivate that. In high school, I chose the FAME magnet program for choir—after eight years of performing, awards, and all-state honors, it seemed like the natural choice, but it wasn't the right one. I struggled with my depression, anxiety, PTSD and a new diagnosis: borderline personality disorder. Because of my academic success, my pain tended to be overlooked. So I advocated for myself. I left the program, found a place where I could breathe again, and reclaimed my identity as a creator and a human being. Writing became more than an outlet—it was a declaration of my existence. Just months later, I faced another huge challenge. One of the hardest, but most important, moments of my life. I testified in court against my abuser. I gave my victim statement at the end of the trial and helped convict him. He received two life sentences. It was terrifying, exhausting, and deeply painful—I celebrated by taking a trip to Puerto Rico which I mostly cried and slept through on the couch of our AirBnB—but I found strength in telling my truth. I realized the power of my voice wasn't just for stories. It was for justice, too. My family's financial hardship taught me resilience, trauma taught me survival, mental illness taught me empathy, and being raised by a single mother taught me strength. I now work to be a role model for my younger sister and my community, showing them they can live full, authentic lives despite challenges. In college, I plan to study creative writing and business, with the goal of one day creating a publishing or literary agency that focuses on marginalized voices, especially BIPOC creators like myself. Words saved me. I want to create stories that do the same for others. Art reflects, transforms, motivates, and remembers. I could have stayed confined to the box I was placed in, but instead, I broke free and changed my world. I’m determined to inspire others to do the same.

My elementary schoolyard was vibrant, but I often stayed in the garden, chasing butterflies or reading. I felt out of place. The kids made fun of what they didn’t understand—my hair, my body, my love for reading. I was an anomaly to them and to myself. Growing up with a single mother in an unstable home, I felt powerless. Financial struggles loomed over everything from food to housing and even basic peace of mind. On top of that, I was placed in a predominantly white school where I faced isolation, adversity and social injustice. But my parents, especially my mom, instilled a love of literature in me. My father read me Harry Potter as bedtime stories for years. Books became my refuge. Middle school was more diverse, yet I was still seen as “too strange,” “too smart,” “too white.” I spoke “too well” and read “too much." Then one day, a book series inspired me to starting writing. That was my first taste of power. I realized my words held weight—they could influence others and spark change. But soon, I learned, it wasn't enough. I could no longer hide behind creative outlets. I knew the life I wanted, the woman I wanted to be, and it was my responsibility to cultivate that. In high school, I chose the FAME magnet program for choir—after eight years of performing, awards, and all-state honors, it seemed like the natural choice, but it wasn't the right one. I struggled with my depression, anxiety, PTSD and a new diagnosis: borderline personality disorder. Because of my academic success, my pain tended to be overlooked. So I advocated for myself. I left the program, found a place where I could breathe again, and reclaimed my identity as a creator and a human being. Writing became more than an outlet—it was a declaration of my existence. My family's financial hardship taught me resilience, mental illness taught me empathy, and being raised by a single mother taught me strength. I now work to be a role model for my younger sister and my community, showing them they can live full, authentic lives despite challenges. This scholarship would bring me one step closer to my dreams. My mom always says, "You can do anything and go anywhere you want—as long as we can find the money." In college, I plan to study creative writing and business, with the goal of one day creating a publishing or literary agency that focuses on marginalized voices, especially BIPOC creators like myself. Leadership roles in National Honor Society and Student Government Association have taught me the value of community, collaboration, and service. I intend to carry these values with me in college and beyond. Words saved me. I want to create stories that do the same for others. Art reflects, transforms, motivates, and remembers. I could have stayed confined to the box I was placed in, but instead, I broke free and changed my world. I’m determined to inspire others to do the same.

I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, PTSD, and depression when I was twelve. I was medicated when I was fourteen. I am now seventeen, my medication has changed, and I've been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. My entire life, I've watched trauma and mental health tear my family apart. It has divided us, caused us to mistrust and misunderstand each other. For a while, I was angry and bitter. After all, I was just a child. So are my brother and sister, as well as my friends and peers who've faced similar struggles of their own. We are so afraid of not being accepted that we hide our pain. We suffer in silence, because those of us that have dared to make themselves heard have been shunned, abandoned, ignored and or forgotten. I was just a child, and I lost hope. I was twelve years old, crying in a corner on Christmas Eve, considering suicide. Twelve years old on Christmas Eve. It's tragic to believe that that can happen to someone, especially so young, but it did and it does. Every day. What got me through it was finding things to hold on to. I believe everything happens for a really good reason. If I lose sight of that, nothing makes sense. So I find the reasons, no matter how big or small. When anxiety has me by the throat and I can't breathe, when depression is keeping me confined in my bed and not allowing me to leave, when my moods are erratic and unpredictable and I feel myself ready to lash out at a loved one, I remember that this is someone I love. Whether it's myself, my friend, or my family, this is someone that I love. Or something. I apply that to my every day life now, especially when things are dark. I find my reasons, I find something to look forward to, and I connect. If all else fails, I'll call a friend. These are some things I've learned throughout my healing process that I keep in mind daily. Healing, as a whole, is not a linear process. This can be hard to come to terms with, but it is undeniable. There have been many times where I thought, "Finally, I'm healed. I'm ready. War is over." I quickly learned that was not the case. I wonder if it will ever truly be "over," if there is a such thing as fully healed. Perhaps, perhaps not. I believe there are some things I will always struggle with. Anxiety and depression, surely. I struggle with relationships and maintaining a stable sense of self and I know that is a battle I will fight for a long time. But I think as long as I focus on what I love and reaching my goals, I can make it through. When I was a child, I felt powerless. I didn't have the safest or best home life. Books were my escape. I felt more comfortable in pages of fiction than I did in my own head. One day, a book series inspired me so much that I picked up a pen and began writing. What I hope to achieve with my writing is to open people's eyes to the magic of creation in literature, empathy, emotional struggles, and the intricacies of life. Part of rediscovering my love for living was achieved in cultivating my love for writing. I want to help others to do the same, to find the one thing that keeps them going and possibly build a career out of it as I have.

My elementary schoolyard was vibrant, but I often stayed in the garden, chasing butterflies or reading. I felt out of place. The kids often made fun of what they didn’t understand—my hair, my body, my love for reading. I was an anomaly to them and to myself. As a child, I felt powerless. My unstable home life and being placed in a predominantly white school left me facing adversity and social injustice. But my parents were avid readers. My father read me Harry Potter as bedtime stories for years. Books became my refuge. Middle school was more diverse, yet I was still seen as “too strange,” “too smart,” “too white.” I spoke “too well” and read “too much,” which made me an outsider. One day, a book series inspired me to start writing. That was my first taste of power. I realized my words held weight—they could influence others and spark change. However, challenges persisted. I continued to be placed in spaces that didn’t fit. I could no longer hide behind my creative outlets. I knew the life I wanted, the woman I wanted to be, and it was my responsibility to cultivate that. By high school, I had been involved in choir for eight years—honor chorus, all-state, and awards. I chose the FAME magnet program for chorus, but it wasn't the right fit. I struggled with my mental health, an issue often dismissed because of my academic success. I felt like my struggles didn’t matter. I was trapped. No one was coming to rescue me, so I advocated for myself and found a program where I could thrive. I reclaimed my power as a creator and individual. Writing became more than an outlet—it became a declaration of my existence. I learned to shape my own narrative. I gained confidence and clarity, realizing I wanted to be that example for others. My identity as an artist is about connection—giving them spaces to grieve, feel, and grow. Rather than keeping my growth to myself, I chose to share it. I work hard every day, remaining in touch with my health and emotions. I want to be a role model to my peers and my younger sister, showing them they can live full, authentic lives despite struggles. I continue to grow, speak out and show up for my community. Many people believe words are just words, but to me, they are everything. Art is as crucial to society as water—it reflects, transforms, motivates, and remembers. Writing gave me my passion, voice, and courage. I could have stayed confined to the box I was placed in, but I broke free and changed my world. Now, I'm determined to do the same for others. Throughout college, I plan to study both creative writing and business so I can one day start my own publishing company or literary agency—one that advocates for marginalized voices, especially in the BIPOC community. I’ve developed a passion for leadership through my roles in National Honor Society and Student Government Association, which have taught me the value of service, vision, innovation, and collaboration. I'm determined to attend a school that nurtures both creativity and purpose. I want to lead, write, and connect, because my story isn't just mine—it's a blueprint for anyone who's ever been underestimated.

My elementary schoolyard was vibrant, but I often stayed in the garden, chasing butterflies or reading. I felt out of place. The kids often made fun of what they didn’t understand—my hair, my body, my love for reading. I was an anomaly to them and to myself. As a child, I felt powerless. My unstable home life and being placed in a predominantly white school left me facing adversity and social injustice. But my parents were avid readers. They instilled in me a love for literature; my father read me Harry Potter as bedtime stories for years. Books became my refuge. My middle school was more diverse, yet I was still seen as “too strange,” “too smart,” and “too white.” I spoke “too well” and read “too much,” which made me an outsider. One day, a book series inspired me to starting writing. That was my first taste of power. I realized my words held weight—they could influence others and spark change. However, challenges persisted. I continued to be placed in spaces that didn’t fit, forcing me to find something more than writing. I could no longer hide behind creative outlets. I knew the life I wanted, the woman I wanted to be, and it was my responsibility to cultivate that. By high school, I had been involved in choir for eight years—honor chorus, all-state, and awards. I chose the FAME magnet program for chorus, which turned out to be a poor fit. I struggled with my mental health, an issue often dismissed because of my academic success. I felt like my struggles didn’t matter. I found myself trapped. No one was coming to rescue me, so I advocated for myself and found a program where I could thrive. I reclaimed my power as a creator and individual. Writing became more than an outlet—it became a declaration of my existence. I learned to shape my own narrative. I gained confidence and faith in myself, realizing I wanted to be that example for others as well. My identity as an artist has always been about connecting with others—giving them spaces to grieve, feel, and grow. Rather than keeping my growth to myself, I chose to share. I work hard every day, remaining in touch with my health and emotions. I want to be a role model to my peers and my younger sister, teaching them they can succeed and live the life they want despite their struggles. I engage with my community, continue to grow, and speak out for myself and others. Many people believe words are just words, but to me, they are everything. Art is as crucial to society as water—it reflects, transforms, motivates, and remembers. I found myself through writing—my passion, voice, and courage. I could have stayed confined to the box I was placed in, but instead, I broke free and changed my world. I’m determined to inspire others to do the same. Throughout college, I will write and connect with the world around me. I'm determined to attend a school that nurtures collaboration and community. I’ve developed a passion for leadership through my roles in National Honor Society and Student Government Association. These experiences taught me the value of collaboration and leadership. I look forward to taking on similar roles in college, joining student organizations, and contributing to causes I’m passionate about. We are all the same at our core. We face challenges, passion, and purpose. Writing and connecting with others is my purpose. I am dedicated to creating, learning, and sharing my stories, because I know words can change lives—the way they changed mine.

When I was a child, I felt powerless. I didn't have the safest or best home life. Books were my escape. I felt more comfortable in pages of fiction than I did in my own head. One day, a book series inspired me so much that I picked up a pen and began writing. I admired the characters and the story so much that I molded them to my imagination. It wasn't long before I created my own characters, my own stories. That was my first taste of power. I had always written for me, but soon I realized my words held weight, that they could influence others and be a catalyst for change. To most people, words are just words. It is why writers are so rare. And that is what I love. This passion and talent that I have to create worlds by hitting a few keys and manipulating a pen is incredibly rare, yet just as powerful as any weapon. I've struggled with mental health for most of my life. Part of rediscovering my love for living was achieved in cultivating my love for writing. I want to help others to do the same, to find the one thing that keeps them going and possibly build a career out of it as I have. I've written an endless number of poems and recently finished my first novel. I'm working on two others while it's in the process of being published. Art is as essential to society as anything. It reflects us, connects us, motivates us, remembers us. What I hope to achieve with my writing is to open people's eyes to the magic of creation in literature, to guide them to see how sacred books and the art of writing really is. From fiction to nonfiction, poetry to prose. Authors hold so much power in their minds, in their hands, and they are brave enough to share it with the world even if others call them crazy. I believe all good artists must be a little bit odd, a little less sane than the rest, because it takes courage to be vulnerable, to defy what society views as acceptable. It takes courage to face the horrors of the world and it takes passion to find beauty in them, to write about them and look at them through various lenses. That is what I have done and will continue to do. I want to share my writing, my gift with the world and inspire others to do the same. Throughout college and life, I will write until my hands no longer work, create as many worlds as I can. I will write books and poetry, all while studying the works of others, being inspired by my professors and peers, pushing myself, and expanding my knowledge and skills. I aim to have a career in supporting other writers. While publishing my own books, I plan to work in the publishing field, likely as an agent or editor. I want to help others achieve their goals, motivate them and continue to cultivate love for the art of writing that I believe many of us lose under the pressure and competition of the working world. We are all the same at our core. We all have a passion, a purpose. This is mine. I love it more than anything and that is why I will succeed.

I was diagnosed with anxiety disorder and depression when I was twelve. I was medicated when I was fourteen. I am now seventeen, my medication has changed, and I've been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. My entire life, I've watched trauma and mental health tear my family apart. It has divided us, caused us to mistrust and misunderstand each other. For a while, I was angry and bitter. After all, I was just a child. So are my brother and sister, as well as my friends and peers who've faced similar struggles of their own. We are so afraid of not being accepted that we hide our pain. We suffer in silence, because those of us that have dared to make themselves heard have been shunned, abandoned, ignored and or forgotten. I was just a child, and I lost hope. I was twelve years old, crying in a corner on Christmas Eve, considering suicide. Twelve years old on Christmas Eve. It's tragic to believe that that can happen to someone, especially so young, but it did and it does. Every day. What got me through it was finding things to hold on to. I believe everything happens for a really good reason. If I lose sight of that, nothing makes sense. So I find the reasons, no matter how big or small. When anxiety has me by the throat and I can't breathe, when depression is keeping me confined in my bed and not allowing me to leave, when my moods are erratic and unpredictable and I feel myself ready to lash out at a loved one, I remember that this is someone I love. Whether that be myself, my friend, or my family, this is someone that I love. Or something. I apply that to my every day life now, especially when things are dark. I find my reasons, I find something to look forward to, and I connect. If all else fails, I'll call a friend. These are some things I've learned throughout my healing process that I keep in mind daily. Healing, as a whole, is not a linear process. This can be hard to come to terms with, but it is undeniable. There have been many times where I thought, "Finally, I'm healed. I'm ready. War is over." I quickly learned that was not the case. I wonder if it will ever truly be "over," if there is a such thing as fully healed. Perhaps, perhaps not. I believe there are some things I will always struggle with. Anxiety and depression, surely. I struggle with relationships and maintaining a stable sense of self and I know that is a battle I will fight for a long time. But I think as long as I focus on what I love and reaching my goals, I can make it through. When I was a child, I felt powerless. I didn't have the safest or best home life. Books were my escape. I felt more comfortable in pages of fiction than I did in my own head. One day, a book series inspired me so much that I picked up a pen and began writing. What I hope to achieve with my writing is to open people's eyes to the magic of creation in literature, empathy, emotional struggles, and the intricacies of life. Part of rediscovering my love for living was achieved in cultivating my love for writing. I want to help others to do the same, to find the one thing that keeps them going and possibly build a career out of it as I have.

I was diagnosed with anxiety disorder and depression when I was twelve. I was medicated when I was fourteen. I am now seventeen, my medication has changed, and I've been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. My entire life, I've watched trauma and mental health tear my family apart. It has divided us, caused us to mistrust and misunderstand each other. For a while, I was angry and bitter. After all, I was just a child. So are my brother and sister, as well as my friends and peers who've faced similar struggles of their own. Through it all, I've realized that humans are more alike than we realize. We tend to judge, criticize and fear what we do not understand. That is human nature. It is also in human nature to connect with others, but we are so afraid of not being accepted that we hide our pain. We suffer in silence, because those of us that have dared to make themselves heard have been shunned, abandoned, ignored and or forgotten. I was just a child, and I lost hope. I believe most of us have. But I've begun to see the light again. All of my personal struggles and those I have helped others through have hurt me, yes, but have also opened my eyes to what's important. I believe everything happens for a really good reason. If I lose sight of that, nothing makes sense. So I find the reasons, no matter how big or small. Everything I do, I do with empathy and love. Those are the things we have to nurture. When anxiety has me by the throat and I can't breathe, when depression is keeping me confined in my bed and not allowing me to leave, when my moods are erratic and unpredictable and I feel myself ready to lash out at a loved one, I remember that this is someone I love. Whether that be myself, my friend, or my family, this is someone that I love. Or something. I was twelve years old, crying in a corner on Christmas Eve, considering suicide. Twelve years old on Christmas Eve. It's tragic to believe that that can happen to someone, especially so young, but it did and it does. Every day. What got me through it was finding things to hold on to, the things and the people that I love. It's different for everyone, but it's important to find something to look forward to. I apply that to my every day life now, especially when things are dark. I find my reasons, I find something to look forward to, and I connect. Connection is one of the most important things for any species to survive. There are numerous studies that support the idea that short interactions can have significant effects on stress levels, emotions, and overall wellbeing. If all else fails, I'll call a friend. These are some things I've learned throughout my healing process that I keep in mind daily. Healing, as a whole, is not a linear process. This can be hard to come to terms with, but it is undeniable. There have been many times where I thought, "Finally, I'm healed. I'm ready. War is over." I quickly learned that was not the case. I wonder if it will ever truly be "over," if there is a such thing as fully healed. Perhaps, perhaps not. I believe there are some things I will always struggle with. Anxiety and depression, surely. I struggle with relationships and maintaining a stable sense of self and I know that is a battle I will fight for a long time. But I think as long as I focus on what I love and reaching my goals, I can make it through. I'm an author. Writing is my passion; books are my everything. I want to have a career as an author as well as an agent or editor so that I can help others to pursue such a career path as well. When I was a child, I felt powerless. I didn't have the safest or best home life. Books were my escape. I felt more comfortable in pages of fiction than I did in my own head. One day, a book series inspired me so much that I picked up a pen and began writing. I admired the characters and the story so much that I molded them to my imagination. It wasn't long before I created my own characters, my own stories. That was my first taste of power. I had always written for me, but soon I realized my words held weight, that they could influence others and be a catalyst for change. To most people, words are just words. It is why writers are so rare. And that is what I love. This passion and talent that I have to create worlds by hitting a few keys and manipulating a pen is incredibly rare, yet just as powerful as any weapon. I've written an endless number of poems and recently finished my first novel. I'm working on two others while it's in the process of being published. Art is as essential to society as anything. It reflects us, connects us, motivates us, remembers us. What I hope to achieve with my writing is to open people's eyes to the magic of creation in literature, empathy, emotional struggles, and the intricacies of life. Part of rediscovering my love for living was achieved in cultivating my love for writing. I want to help others to do the same, to find the one thing that keeps them going and possibly build a career out of it as I have. Mental health is real. It is everywhere, in all of us. It should be recognized and better understood. I encourage all to work to better understand themselves and the people around them, to put their health above all else. And to never give up.

I was diagnosed with anxiety disorder and depression when I was twelve. I was medicated when I was fourteen. I am now seventeen, my medication has changed, and I've been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. My entire life, I've watched trauma and mental health tear my family apart. It has divided us, caused us to mistrust and misunderstand each other. For a while, I was angry and bitter. After all, I was just a child. So are my brother and sister, as well as my friends and peers who've faced similar struggles of their own. We tend to judge, criticize and fear what we do not understand. That is human nature. It is also in human nature to connect with others, but we are so afraid of not being accepted that we hide our pain. We suffer in silence, because those of us that have dared to make themselves heard have been shunned, abandoned, ignored and or forgotten. I was just a child, and I lost hope. I believe most of us have. But I've begun to see the light again. All of my personal struggles and those I have helped others through have hurt me, yes, but have also opened my eyes to what's important. I believe everything happens for a really good reason. If I lose sight of that, nothing makes sense. So I find the reasons, no matter how big or small. Everything I do, I do with empathy and love. Those are the things we have to nurture. When anxiety has me by the throat and I can't breathe, when depression is keeping me confined in my bed and not allowing me to leave, when my moods are erratic and unpredictable and I feel myself ready to lash out at a loved one, I remember that this is someone I love. Whether that be myself, my friend, or my family, this is someone that I love. Or something. I was twelve years old, crying in a corner on Christmas Eve, considering suicide. Twelve years old on Christmas Eve. It's tragic to believe that that can happen to someone, especially so young, but it did and it does. Every day. What got me through it was finding things to hold on to, the things and the people that I love. It's different for everyone, but it's important to find something to look forward to. I apply that to my every day life now, especially when things are dark. I find my reasons, I find something to look forward to, and I connect. Connection is one of the most important things for any species to survive. There are numerous studies that support the idea that short interactions can have significant effects on stress levels, emotions, and overall wellbeing. If all else fails, I'll call a friend. These are some things I've learned throughout my healing process that I keep in mind daily. Healing, as a whole, is not a linear process. This can be hard to come to terms with, but it is undeniable. There have been many times where I thought, "Finally, I'm healed. I'm ready. War is over." I quickly learned that was not the case. I wonder if it will ever truly be "over," if there is a such thing as fully healed. Perhaps, perhaps not. I believe there are some things I will always struggle with. Anxiety and depression, surely. I struggle with relationships and maintaining a stable sense of self and I know that is a battle I will fight for a long time. But I think as long as I focus on what I love and reaching my goals, I can make it through. I'm an author. I want to have a career as an author as well as an agent or editor so that I can help others to pursue such a career path. When I was a child, I felt powerless. I didn't have a good home life. Books were my escape. I felt more comfortable in pages of fiction than in my own head. One day, a book series inspired me so much that I picked up a pen and began writing. I've written an endless number of poems and recently finished my first novel. I'm working on two others while it's in the process of being published. What I hope to achieve with my writing is to open people's eyes to the magic of creation in literature, empathy, emotional struggles, and the intricacies of life. Part of rediscovering my love for living was achieved in cultivating my love for writing. I want to help others to do the same, to find the one thing that keeps them going and possibly build a career out of it as I have.

I was diagnosed with anxiety disorder and depression when I was twelve. I was medicated when I was fourteen. I am now seventeen, my medication has changed, and I've been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. My entire life, I've watched trauma and mental health tear my family apart. It has divided us, caused us to mistrust and misunderstand each other. For a while, I was angry and bitter. After all, I was just a child. So are my brother and sister, as well as my friends and peers who've faced similar struggles of their own. Through it all, I've realized that humans are more alike than we realize. We tend to judge, criticize and fear what we do not understand. That is human nature. It is also in human nature to connect with others, but we are so afraid of not being accepted that we hide our pain. We suffer in silence, because those of us that have dared to make themselves heard have been shunned, abandoned, ignored and or forgotten. I was just a child and I lost hope. I believe most of us have. But I've begun to see the light again. All of my personal struggles and those I have helped others through have hurt me, yes, but have also opened my eyes to what's important. I believe everything happens for a really good reason. If I lose sight of that, nothing makes sense. So I find the reasons, no matter how big or small. Everything I do, I do with empathy and love. Those are the things we have to nurture. When anxiety has me by the throat and I can't breathe, when depression is keeping me confined in my bed and not allowing me to leave, when my moods are erratic and unpredictable and I feel myself ready to lash out at a loved one, I remember that this is someone I love. Whether that be myself, my friend, or my family, this is someone that I love. Or something. I was twelve years old, crying in a corner on Christmas Eve, considering suicide. Twelve years old on Christmas Eve. It's tragic to believe that that can happen to someone, especially so young, but it did and it does. Every day. What got me through it was finding things to hold on to, the things and the people that I love. It's different for everyone, but it's important to find something to look forward to. I apply that to my every day life now, especially when things are dark. I find my reasons, I find something to look forward to, and I connect. Connection is one of the most important things for any species to survive. There are numerous studies that support the idea that short interactions can have significant effects on stress levels, emotions, and overall wellbeing. If all else fails, I'll call a friend. These are some things I've learned throughout my healing process that I keep in mind daily. Healing, as a whole, is not a linear process. This can be hard to come to terms with, but it is undeniable. There have been many times where I thought, "Finally, I'm healed. I'm ready. War is over." I quickly learned that was not the case. I wonder if it will ever truly be "over," if there is a such thing as fully healed. Perhaps, perhaps not. I believe there are some things I will always struggle with. Anxiety and depression, surely. I struggle with relationships and maintaining a stable sense of self and I know that is a battle I will fight for a long time. But I think as long as I focus on what I love and reaching my goals, I can make it through. I'm an author. Writing is my passion; books are my everything. I want to have a career as an author as well as an agent or editor so that I can help others to pursue such a career path as well. When I was a child, I felt powerless. I didn't have the safest or best home life. Books were my escape. I felt more comfortable in pages of fiction than I did in my own head. One day, a book series inspired me so much that I picked up a pen and began writing. I admired the characters and the story so much that I molded them to my imagination. It wasn't long before I created my own characters, my own stories. That was my first taste of power. I had always written for me, but soon I realized my words held weight, that they could influence others and be a catalyst for change. To most people, words are just words. It is why writers are so rare. And that is what I love. This passion and talent that I have to create worlds by hitting a few keys and manipulating a pen is incredibly rare, yet just as powerful as any weapon. I've written an endless number of poems and recently finished my first novel. I'm working on two others while it's in the process of being published. Art is as essential to society as anything. It reflects us, connects us, motivates us, remembers us. What I hope to achieve with my writing is to open people's eyes to the magic of creation in literature, the intricacies of life. Part of rediscovering my love for living was achieved in cultivating my love for writing. I want to help others to do the same, to find the one thing that keeps them going and possibly build a career out of it as I have. Mental health is real. It is everywhere, in all of us. It should be recognized and better understood. I encourage all to work to better understand themselves and the people around them, to put their health above all else. And to never give up.

When I was a child, I felt powerless. I didn't have the safest or best home life. Books were my escape. I felt more comfortable in pages of fiction than I did in my own head. One day, a book series inspired me so much that I picked up a pen and began writing. I admired the characters and the story so much that I molded them to my imagination. It wasn't long before I created my own characters, my own stories. That was my first taste of power. I had always written for me, but soon I realized my words held weight, that they could influence others and be a catalyst for change. To most people, words are just words. It is why writers are so rare. And that is what I love. This passion and talent that I have to create worlds by hitting a few keys and manipulating a pen is incredibly rare, yet just as powerful as any weapon. I've written an endless number of poems and recently finished my first novel. I'm working on two others while it's in the process of being published. Art is as essential to society as anything. It reflects us, connects us, motivates us, remembers us. What I hope to achieve with my writing is to open people's eyes to the magic of creation in literature, to guide them to see how sacred books and the art of writing really is. From fiction to nonfiction, poetry to prose. Authors hold so much power in their minds, in their hands, and they are brave enough to share it with the world even if others call them crazy. I believe all good artists must be a little bit odd, a little less sane than the rest, because it takes courage to be vulnerable, to defy what society views as acceptable. It takes courage to face the horrors of the world and it takes passion to find beauty in them, to write about them and look at them through various lenses. That is what I have done and will continue to do. I want to share my writing, my gift with the world and inspire others to do the same. Throughout college and life, I will write until my hands no longer work, create as many worlds as I can. I will write books and poetry, all while studying the works of others, being inspired by my professors and peers, pushing myself, and expanding my knowledge and skills. I aim to have a career in supporting other writers. While publishing my own books, I plan to work in the publishing field, likely as an agent or editor. I want to help others achieve their goals, motivate them and continue to cultivate love for the art of writing that I believe many of us lose under the pressure and competition of the working world. We are all the same at our core. We all have a passion, a purpose. This is mine. I love it more than anything and that is why I will succeed.