Caregiving started when I was eight, making breakfast for my four older siblings before school. My mother was sleeping off another hangover. Dad had walked out months earlier, chasing his own vices. As the youngest of five kids on the Shoshone Wind River Reservation, I should've been the one getting taken care of. Existence had different plans. Those mornings taught me something my Sisseton Wahpeton (Dakota) grandmother would've recognized. When family needs help, you show up. Doesn't matter how you're feeling on any particular day, you do what needs done. I learned to move quietly through our trailer, getting everyone fed and dressed without waking Mom. Honestly, it was normal; I didn't know different. I was a kid trying to help when other options did not exist. Is all, really. Now I'm in my thirties and still caregiving, though it looks different. I spend my days helping Steve and Debby (or just Deb), an elderly couple whose family embraced me during my darkest patches in recovery. Steve has severe Parkinson's disease. Watching his hands shake while he struggles with shirt buttons reminds me why patience is necessity. Deb pretends she doesn't need help reaching things, or fixing stuck drawers but I know she appreciates it every step of the way. My routine involves driving them to specialists in Boise, cooking meals that work with medication schedules, and doing mundane or simple things like keeping track of their favorite show's times or navigating streaming platforms to find old classics. They ove Cinema. Last month I rebuilt their bathroom safety bars and built ramps for their stairs. If Steve tumbles, I help him up casually with the gentle firmness my mother needed during her worst days. It's frustrating losing your faculties, so I often illuminate goofy failings of my own that calm their anxiety. This couple saved my life during seven years of homelessness and addiction. They offered their time and care when I had nowhere else to go, never asking for rent I couldn't pay. They checked in on me every day even when I was lost in addiction. Now that I'm sober and stable, caring for them defines a cycle that began decades ago with my siblings. Caregiving shaped everything about how I approach service and advocacy. Even during my worst years living on the streets, I volunteered at food banks and helped newer homeless people navigate social services and survival. The instinct to help others, germinated in those childhood mornings, led to two years with AmeriCorps NCCC doing humanitarian aid across the country. I did prescribed burns from South Carolina to Maine, restored 20,000 acres of habitat, and helped move the red-cockaded woodpecker from "endangered" to "threatened" status. Each project taught me that meaningful change blossoms through showing up consistently, whether you're feeding siblings breakfast or protecting endangered species. My grandfather Woodrow Keeble earned the Medal of Honor. My uncle Bryan Akipa received the highest folk arts award from the U.S. President for his traditional flute making. My cousin Sarah practices law, advocating for Native families. Caregiving runs in our blood. Family example has shown me that service comes in many forms, but the foundation remains the same: you protect and support your people. This scholarship represents more than financial assistance. It's the connective tissue between my current caregiving responsibilities and my future legal advocacy goals. I want to specialize in cases involving Native American missing persons and families navigating poverty. Too many cases get dismissed or mishandled by systems that don't recognize us. Having witnessed firsthand how poverty, addiction and systemic oversight tear families apart, I know these issues require advocates who understand them personally. This scholarship eliminates the financial blockage that currently limit my educational focus. With stable funding, I can dedicate necessary time to pre-law coursework while maintaining my caregiving commitments to Steve and Debby. The financial stress of choosing between supporting those who supported me and pursuing the education needed to help others becomes manageable through this scholarship. Law school will provide the technical expertise, but caregiving already taught me the foundation of effective advocacy: everyone deserves dignity and consistent support regardless of their circumstances. Whether helping Steve maintain his independence despite Parkinson's progression or ensuring a missing Native woman's case receives proper investigation, the underlying principle stays the same. You show up consistently. You refuse to give in. You remember that behind each case, each statistic, each policy is a real person whose existence matters. The eight-year-old making breakfast in that rough reservation trailer never imagined he'd someday argue cases in courtrooms. But caregiving taught me that transformation remains possible for everyone, including the crumbling systems that routinely fail vulnerable populations. This opportunity provides the link between the helpful kid and the educated advocate who will fight for systematic change.

The drumbeat still hits hard when I think about that pow wow in South Dakota. I was maybe eight, watching my uncle Bryan's commendation for receiving the highest folk arts award from the President for his traditional flute making. But it wasn't the ceremony that stayed with me. It was afterward, when he sat with me and explained how each flute he carved from bear bone carried the past and future of our people. "Your breath is the same as mine. We share the same breath as our parents and theirs. So remember to breathe not just for yourself" he said. I didn't understand then how prophetic those words would be. My childhood wasn't easy. Born to a single Sisseton Wahpeton Oyate (Dakota) mother with no higher education, we navigated periods of homelessness and abuse. When my father died of blood cancer at fifteen, my world collapsed. Mom did her best, taking us to ceremonies, but poverty doesn't wait for grief. Then came seven years of homelessness. Opiate addiction. Sleeping under bridges. I volunteered at food banks even while living on the streets because I was accustomed to helping other people, even when I'd given up on myself. Recovery happened through small daily choices. Recovery groups and lots of therapy taught me that vulnerability isn't weakness, it's where strength germinates. When Mom was diagnosed with colon cancer two years ago, I was lost, unable to be fully present for her. We thought stage two was manageable. Then they found the lymph nodes. Stage four. The chemotherapy stole pieces of who she was. Memory gaps. Involentary movement. Electrolyte chaos. Pain that made her choose dignity over treatment. She died within days, not the weeks they promised us. But I wasn't really there, in the throes of withdrawal for her final moment. In detox I didn't sleep; for 7 days I sat at the edge of my bed, counting down from 100 to 0, over and over due to the necessary but excruciating pain of kicking opiates. It was an infinite endless pain but I came out the other side and it saved my life. I thought about my mom a lot. My tribe doesnt allow any addicts to participate in family ceremony. But this July, I'll participate in the "Wiping of the Tears" ceremony in South Dakota. It's our traditional way of transitioning from mourning to celebration of life. The timing isn't coincidental. It happens during pow wow season, when community surrounds healing. It's inexplicable the pride I feel for sobriety and allowing myself to become involved. My volunteer experience spans over a decade, from AmeriCorps NCCC to wildland firefighting with the Forest Service. I've been a Type-II firefighter, managed equipment for the National Parks Service, coordinated logistics for The Nature Conservancy. I want to continue service through education. That's why I'm pursuing Legal Studies. Not because I want to be rich or important, but because I've lived in the gaps where systems fail. I know what it feels like when bureaucracy forgets you. I want to be the advocate I needed throughout my life. This scholarship isn't just financial support. It's the key that unlocks my ability to transform lived experience into systematic change. As the first college graduate in my family, I'll study how legal systems can better serve families navigating poverty, individuals in recovery, and Native communities facing bureaucratic barriers. I've seen how one effective advocate can impact generations of families. I want to be that advocate, armed with both personal understanding and professional knowledge. The financial barrier is real. No family savings, no college fund, no safety net except determination and community support. This scholarship would eliminate the choice between working multiple jobs and succeeding academically. It would let me focus on learning how to draft policy that protects vulnerable children, how to navigate complex legal systems that currently intimidate families like mine used to be. My goal is to honor the legacy of my family. My contribution will be legal advocacy that transforms how systems serve people society often overlooks. My breath caries purpose, healing, and hope multiplied through community action.

When I think about my future as a legal advocate, I see my mother's face during those final weeks of chemotherapy. The confusion in her eyes when medical bills arrived that made no sense. The way she'd apologize for not understanding forms that seemed designed to confuse people who needed help most. She was brilliant in ways that mattered – could make anyone laugh, spoke three languages, knew every plant on the reservation that could heal or harm. But the systems meant to help her felt like they were built for someone else entirely. That's what drives my goal to become a legal advocate specializing in vulnerable populations. Not abstract justice, but the memory of watching my mother struggle with bureaucracies while fighting cancer. The understanding that comes from sleeping under bridges and knowing firsthand how quickly someone can fall through cracks in our safety net. My career aspirations center on three areas where lived experience meets critical need. First, representing children and families in foster care. I spent my childhood moving between homes, never quite fitting anywhere despite loving families on both sides. That instability taught me things you can't learn from case files. Like how a seven-year-old processes being removed from everything familiar. Or why Native kids in foster care have such high rates of running away – sometimes it's not rebellion, it's trying to get home to their culture. During my nine years of volunteer work with various nonprofits, I've seen how legal representation in family court can feel mechanical. Case numbers instead of human stories. Lawyers who mean well but can't recognize the difference between poverty and neglect, especially in Native communities. Second, housing advocacy. Seven years on the streets taught me things law school probably won't cover. How someone loses everything when they miss one court date because mail doesn't reach people without addresses. The way landlords' voices change on the phone after they meet you in person – subtle discrimination that's hard to prove but impossible to miss. Through my work with Americorps and various environmental service organizations, I learned that individual effort multiplies when it's part of systematic change. That's why I want to work both individual cases and policy reform. Sometimes you have to change the rules, not just play them better. Third, I'm committed to addiction recovery advocacy, particularly the intersection of criminal justice and treatment. I remember sitting in courtrooms watching people get sentenced for being sick. Watching judges who meant well but couldn't understand why someone would choose drugs over stability. The thing is, most of us weren't choosing. We were surviving the only way we knew how. Legal advocates who understand addiction as a health issue rather than a moral failing can make the difference between someone getting help or getting lost in the system forever. What makes my approach different is authenticity. I'm not just advocating for people like me – I am people like me. When I sit across from a mother worried about losing her kids, I remember that harsh reality of being that scared child. When I work with someone navigating recovery, I share strategies that actually worked, not textbook theory or superficial judgement. This isn't just about credibility. It's about trust. People who've been failed by systems before? They can tell when someone really gets it. My educational goals go beyond just earning a degree. I'm pursuing Legal Studies because I need to understand how laws work and how they don't work. How policies that sound reasonable on paper can create impossible situations for real families. I want to learn advocacy skills that complement the empathy I've developed through experience. The combination of academic knowledge and lived understanding is what I believe will make me most effective. This scholarship means I can afford to graduate debt-free and work in public service immediately. Without it? I can't go to school at all. Simple as that. Mom passed away with medical debt we're still paying. No college fund, no family support, no safety net except what I've built through sobriety and stability. But it's more than money – it's validation. Someone believes my background is an asset, not just an obstacle overcome. That my story has value beyond inspiring others, that it can translate into professional effectiveness. The financial support would let me focus on studies instead of survival. Participate in internships instead of working multiple jobs. Afford books, court observations, conference attendance. All those extras that turn education into real opportunity. After graduation, I'll start with a public defender's office or legal aid organization. I need that courtroom experience while serving people who can't afford private attorneys. Learning from seasoned advocates while building their practice will eventually, allow me to start a nonprofit law practice combining direct representation with policy advocacy and community education. I plan to stay connected to my Native heritage throughout my career, too. Specific legal issues affect tribal communities that need advocates who understand both federal Indian law and cultural context. My grandfather, Woodrow Wilson Keeble was the first Sioux to recieve the Medal of Honor. My uncle, Bryan Akipa received the highest national folk arts award. I want to honor that legacy through legal advocacy protecting Native families and communities. The ripple effects extend beyond individual success. Every family I help stay together, every person who gets treatment instead of incarceration – these outcomes multiply through communities. Children in stable homes become adults who help others. People in recovery become mentors themselves. Change happens one person at a time, but it spreads. Looking ahead, I see myself in courtrooms and community centers, policy meetings and pow wows. Bridging worlds that too often don't communicate with each other. Using my voice for people who haven't been heard and my skills for communities that have been underserved. This scholarship isn't just funding my education – it's investing in everyone I'll be able to help throughout my career. The boy who slept under bridges never imagined he'd become a lawyer. But that boy's experiences will make me a better advocate than I could have been any other way.

Leadership isn't something I learned from a textbook. It grew from sleeping under bridges and still showing up to serve meals at the food bank the next morning. When you have nothing, helping others becomes less about charity and more about recognizing that we're all trying to survive with dignity. During my seven years of homelessness, I volunteered at the same outreach centers where I sometimes ate. Other volunteers would ask why I kept coming back to help when I clearly needed help myself. Need exists on a spectrum, not in neat categories of helper and helped. Some days I had energy to give; other days I needed support. I remember one particularly cold night when I met Sarine, a young mother with two kids living in her car. She was exhausted and scared. I'd been homeless for three years by then, so I knew which shelters had space, which food banks opened early, and the unwritten rules that could make the difference between sleeping safely or not. We spent four hours talking while her kids slept in the backseat. I helped her apply for Medicaid, childcare resources, and shared practical survival knowledge. What struck me wasn't just her gratitude, but how helping her reminded me that I still had value to offer. Addiction and homelessness try to convince you that you're worthless. Service illuminates that lie. Firefighting taught me the same lesson, just with more fire tornados. Its not glamorous work. You're covered in ash, aching from packing heavy equipment for miles, and nervous the wind might shift unexpectedly. But at 3 AM, cutting firelines to keep someone's house from burning down, complaining is selfish. As crew point of contact, I became the guy everyone came to. My job was making sure information flowed clearly so that everyone knew where they needed to be. There was this awful fire season we worked eighteen straight days protecting communities in Colorado and Wyoming. A rookie named Marcus who kept screwing up from exhaustion, nearly got himself hurt. The crew boss wanted him gone, but a few of us convinced him to give Marcus another chance. I spent a lot of downtime showing him maintenance tricks and helping him to keep his stamina. Turns out he just needed some guidance. By the end of the season, Marcus was one of our strongest firefighters. He told me that he was going to leave until I mentored him. My mother taught me that helping others is like breathing - something you need or you start hurting. Even when chemo created debilitating pain, she'd still go out of her way to make us laugh or give me guidance. "The worst part of depression is not feeling depression," she'd tell me. "Its feeling like you shouldn't be feeling the way you do." College is like a burning mountain I'm trying to climb as the first person in my family to even attempt it. But everything I've learned about helping people is coming with me into legal studies. I want to be the person who understands broken systems from the inside and help others navigate them without losing their dignity. Since getting sober, I've worked with several people through early recovery, helping them find housing and jobs while keeping their spirit. Every interaction reminds me that being vulnerable takes gusto, whether you're asking for help or offering it. Real advocacy means recognizing that today's person in need might be tomorrows helper. Both roles deserve equal respect, and both teach us what it means to exist.

Growing up on Wind River Reservation in Wyoming, women in our community would just... vanish. Their families would search, call police, post flyers. But the outside world barely noticed. Then came September 2021. Suddenly everyone cared about a missing woman. Gabby Petito disappeared near Grand Teton National Park, maybe three hours from where I grew up. Her case exploded across social media, generating over 900 million interactions. The FBI mobilized immediately. News trucks lined up. Search teams deployed helicopters and diving equipment. But, while America obsessed over Gabby's story, dozens of Native women had vanished without similar attention or resources. Irene Gakwa, a Kenyan immigrant, had disappeared from Wyoming months earlier. Her case got a handful of news articles. Same state, same timeframe, completely different response. This wasn't a coincidence. It was a pattern I'd been seeing my whole life without understanding it. When I started digging into the numbers, they made me sick. In 2016, police reported 5,712 missing Native women to the national database. Only 116 made it into the Justice Department's federal system. Think about that for a second. In Wyoming alone, Natives are barely 2.4% of the population but 21% of missing persons. That math only works if the system is designed to ignore us. Taking legal studies courses finally explained it: jurisdictional nightmare. And it's literally killing Native women. When a Non-Native commits a crime on tribal land tribal courts can't touch them because of the 1978 Supreme Court case called *Oliphant v. Suquamish*. The justices decided tribal governments have zero authority over non-Indians, even for crimes on our own land. So tribal police call state authorities, who say it's federal jurisdiction. Federal prosecutors then drop investigations. Nobody gets prosecuted. Families get told to wait. Criminals learn they can hurt Native women and walk away clean. Federal prosecutors only handle 35% of violent crimes that tribal authorities refer to them. They prosecute 60% nationwide. The Major Crimes Act was supposed to protect us by making serious reservation crimes federal cases. Instead, it created a system where predators know the odds are in their favor. Growing up homeless taught me how fast people become invisible when systems decide you don't matter. If you're Native, poor, or dealing with addiction, society's already written you off. You're halfway to disappearing before anything happens. Understanding *Oliphant* changed everything for me. This wasn't just random tragedy. It was policy. Nine Supreme Court justices literally created legal immunity for people who hurt Native women on reservations. They made ignoring us the law of the land. There's been some progress recently with Savanna's Act and the Not Invisible Act, but implementation is still hit or miss depending on politics and funding. I want to be the lawyer my community should have had during all those years. Someone who gets both the legal maze and what it's like when institutions dismiss you. I'm planning to specialize in criminal jurisdiction reform, help families navigate this bureaucratic hell, and push for policy changes that close these deadly gaps. My grandfather Woodrow Keeble got the Medal of Honor because he wouldn't let his soldiers die when he could save them. I want to carry on that legacy by refusing to let Native women disappear into legal shadows when I have the tools to fight back. Every missing woman should get what Gabby Petito got: immediate response, unlimited resources, and a system that won't quit until she's found. That's not asking for special treatment. It's asking for equal justice. And if the system won't give it willingly, then lawyers like me need to make them.

Selflessness isn't something I learned from a textbook. It grew from sleeping under bridges and still showing up to serve meals at the food bank the next morning. When you have nothing, helping others becomes less about charity and more about recognizing that we're all trying to survive with dignity. During my seven years of homelessness, I volunteered at the same outreach centers where I sometimes ate. Other volunteers would ask why I kept coming back to help when I clearly needed help myself. Need exists on a spectrum, not in neat categories of helper and helped. Some days I had energy to give; other days I needed support. I remember one particularly cold night when I met Sarine, a young mother with two kids living in her car. She was exhausted and scared. I'd been homeless for three years by then, so I knew which shelters had space, which food banks opened early, and the unwritten rules that could make the difference between sleeping safely or not. We spent four hours talking while her kids slept in the backseat. I helped her apply for Medicaid, childcare resources, and shared practical survival knowledge. What struck me wasn't just her gratitude, but how helping her reminded me that I still had value to offer. Addiction and homelessness try to convince you that you're worthless. Service illuminates that lie. Firefighting taught me the same lesson, just with more fire tornados. Its not glamorous work. You're covered in ash, aching from packing heavy equipment for miles, and nervous the wind might shift unexpectedly. But at 3 AM, cutting firelines to keep someone's house from burning down, complaining is selfish. As crew point of contact, I became the guy everyone came to. My job was making sure information flowed clearly so that everyone knew where they needed to be. There was this awful fire season we worked eighteen straight days protecting communities in Colorado and Wyoming. A rookie named Marcus who kept screwing up from exhaustion, nearly got himself hurt. The crew boss wanted him gone, but a few of us convinced him to give Marcus another chance. I spent a lot of downtime showing him maintenance tricks and helping him to keep his stamina. Turns out he just needed some guidance. By the end of the season, Marcus was one of our strongest firefighters. He told me that he was going to leave until we stepped in. My mother taught me that helping others is like breathing - something you need or you start hurting. Even when chemo created debilitating pain, she'd still go out of her way to make us laugh or give me guidance. "The worst part of depression is not feeling depression," she'd tell me. "Its feeling like you shouldn't be feeling the way you do." College is like a burning mountain I'm trying to climb as the first person in my family to even attempt it. But everything I've learned about helping people is coming with me into legal studies. I want to be the person who understands broken systems from the inside and help others navigate them without losing their dignity. Since getting sober, I've worked with several people through early recovery, helping them find housing and jobs while keeping their spirit. Every interaction reminds me that being vulnerable takes gusto, whether you're asking for help or offering it. Real advocacy means recognizing that today's person in need might be tomorrows helper. Both roles deserve equal respect, and both teach us what it means to exist.

Depression runs in my family like a dark wound that festers through our lives. My mother, two brothers, and two sisters all fight this same battle. Growing up, I saw how it caused missed work, broken promises, and silent days spent in bed with curtains drawn. I didn't know then that I would face the same enemy. My depression comes from two sources: the genes passed down to me and the wounds from sexual abuse in my childhood. When my dad died from blood cancer when I was 15, getting out of bed became almost impossible. Food didn't taste. Friends sounded far away. Years later, watching my mother fight colon cancer before she died two years ago pushed me even deeper into that dark hole. When depression goes untreated, it doesn't stay dormant--the abyss takes root. In 2018, my mental health crashed completely. I lost my home and spent seven years on the streets, turning to opiates to numb the constant pain in my mind. Each morning I woke up with thoughts so heavy they felt like physical weights. Simple tasks like showering or making a phone call seemed as difficult as reaching a mountain summit. Depression sits on your shoulder, whispering lies, becoming all you can hear. It told me I was worthless and that no one would miss me if I disappeared. It convinced me that reaching out for help was pointless. During those years sleeping under bridges, these lies consumed me. My relationships suffered in ways I'm still trying to repair. I pushed away friends who tried to help. I missed family gatherings because the effort to talk felt impossible. Trust became harder, both trusting others and believing anyone could trust me or worse, that I could trust myself. Depression had taught me that connections only lead to pain, things are left unsaid and people leave. I was lost, trapped and bound--nothingness. Strangely, even in my deepest drear, I kept volunteering at food banks. Looking back, I see now that helping others was my mind's revolt against depression. For those brief hours, I could focus on someone else's hunger instead of my own. Today, I take medication that helps balance my brain's chemical imbalance. The difference is like sitting in the morning dew of a serene meadow's clearing after years slowly trudging through mud. Thoughts that once entangibly spiraled out of control now stay still--manageable. Feelings that once overwhelmed me now rise and fall without drowning me. But pills aren't magic--they're just first-line tools that give me a chance to begin tilling the garden of my life. Depression has taught me things I couldn't learn any other way: - I can see pain in others that's most often missed - Small kindnesses matter more than grand gestures - Recovery isn't a right but a daily choice - The systems meant to help often fail those who need them most These insights drive my goals now. I want to be the first in my family to finish college and eventually become a lawyer. Not just any lawyer, but one who helps people struggling with mental health issues that push them toward homelessness or addiction. I want to be the person who understands both the legal system and the mental battles my clients are fighting. When you've felt invisible due to mental illness, you notice others who are overlooked. I hear the whispers of depression in angry outbursts and missed appointments. I recognize when someone is fighting the same uphill battle I fought. I know when they are crippled by inaction, internally pleading for release. This understanding isn't something you learn from books; it comes from surviving your own self distruction. My story with depression isn't over. Like my family members, I may always need medication, therapy and extra support. But now depression is something I walk in tandem with rather than something that carries me. The same sensitivity that makes me vulnerable to depression also lets me connect deeply with others who suffer. In this way, what once felt like shackles of supreme isolation has become--with time, treatment, and tremendous effort--boundless compassion.

My decision to pursue higher education emerged from witnessing, and living, the consequences of inadequate legal representation for vulnerable populations. After losing both parents to cancer and subsequently experiencing seven years of homelessness and addiction beginning in late 2018, I navigated systems that repeatedly failed those most in need. During this journey, I discovered a profound truth: effective advocacy requires both professional credentials and authentic lived experience, a combination rarely found in legal practice but desperately needed by marginalized communities. I seek higher education not as an escape from my past, but as a means to transform it into meaningful advocacy. A degree in Legal Studies will empower me to represent children in foster care, families facing housing insecurity, and individuals in recovery; groups whose challenges I understand intimately. As a Native American who has experienced poverty, homelessness, and the loss of family support, I recognize how higher education can disrupt intergenerational cycles of disadvantage. Becoming the first in my family to earn a college degree represents more than personal advancement; it establishes a foundation for creating systemic change in legal systems I've navigated from both sides. My preparation for college as a first-generation student has been forged through five interconnected pathways: First, I developed foundational skills through structured service experiences. My time with AmeriCorps NCCC in 2011-2012 cultivated disciplined teamwork and project management capabilities. These skills were further refined through subsequent roles as a wildland firefighter with federal agencies, where I learned to maintain focus and effectiveness under challenging conditions—an aptitude directly transferable to academic demands. Second, I've maintained intellectual engagement despite difficult circumstances. Even while homeless, I utilized public libraries for educational resources and self-directed learning. This persistent commitment to knowledge acquisition preserved cognitive skills and academic readiness through periods when formal education seemed unattainable. Third, my recovery journey has developed exceptional resilience and self-discipline. Overcoming addiction required establishing consistent routines, setting incremental goals, and persisting through setbacks, skills directly applicable to college success. This experience taught me to approach challenges methodically and maintain determination when facing obstacles—abilities essential for first-generation students navigating unfamiliar academic terrain. Fourth, I've proactively built knowledge networks to compensate for lacking family guidance. Through connections with community organizations, recovery support groups, and professionals in legal advocacy, I've researched degree requirements, scholarship opportunities, and academic expectations. This self-directed navigation of educational systems has prepared me to advocate for my academic needs effectively. Fifth, my continued volunteering at food banks and homeless services even during personal hardship has developed cross-cultural communication abilities essential for academic and professional contexts. These experiences have prepared me to engage effectively with diverse perspectives in classroom discussions and campus communities. Though financial barriers remain significant without family support, I approach this challenge with the same determination that has carried me from homelessness to recovery. Higher education represents the bridge between my unique perspective and my capacity to create systemic change, transforming personal tragedy into meaningful advocacy for those whose voices often go unheard in our justice system.

During seven years of homelessness, I volunteered at the same food banks where I received meals, understanding that the line between helper and helped is often thinner than we imagine. This experience taught me that meaningful impact comes not from distant charity, but from authentic connection with the communities we serve. As I pursue my Bachelor's degree in Legal Studies, determined to become the first in my family to graduate college, my vision for positive impact centers on breaking cycles of adversity through legal advocacy while honoring the cultural wisdom that sustained me through my darkest years. My grandfather, Master Sergeant Woodrow Keeble, earned the Medal of Honor by single-handedly securing an enemy stronghold to protect his soldiers, surviving 90 pieces of grenade shrapnel in the process. His legacy of protecting others, combined with my mother's Sisseton Wahpeton traditions, established my foundation for service. Even while sleeping under bridges and through the darkest parts of my life, I maintained this commitment to community, logging over 4,000 volunteer hours with organizations like Americorps NCCC, the U.S. Forest Service as a Type-II Wildland Firefighter, and local outreach centers. These experiences revealed how structured advocacy multiplies individual impact, creating ripple effects that extend far beyond single interactions. My path to positive impact focuses on three interconnected strategies that address systemic gaps I've navigated personally. First, I will specialize in legal advocacy for vulnerable children and families, particularly those in foster care systems and facing homelessness. Having witnessed how bureaucratic complexity often prevents families from accessing resources, I understand the critical need for advocates who can navigate these systems while maintaining genuine empathy for clients' circumstances. My goal is to represent 100+ families annually, achieving measurable outcomes in housing stability, family reunification, and educational access. Second, I plan to develop policy reform initiatives targeting the intersection of addiction, homelessness, and family preservation. My lived experience with both addiction recovery and systemic failure provides unique insights into where current approaches fall short. I envision creating a legal advocacy model that integrates traditional Native practices with contemporary social services, drawing from the "Wiping of the Tears" ceremony I will participate in this July for my late mother, a traditional mourning process that demonstrates how cultural practices can facilitate healing and community support. Third, I will mentor others in recovery who are pursuing education and professional goals, particularly low income and Native students navigating higher education as first-generation college attendees. Understanding the isolation and practical barriers involved, I plan to establish a mentorship network connecting recovery communities with educational institutions, creating pathways for 50+ individuals annually to transition from survival to professional contribution. My vision extends beyond individual practice to systemic change. I plan to conduct legal clinics in underserved communities, particularly on reservations where access to legal advocacy remains limited. By age 40, I aim to have influenced policy reforms that improve outcomes for vulnerable families, established a sustainable mentorship program, and created legal precedents that protect those society often overlooks. The cultural values my mother instilled, community responsibility, resilience through ceremony, and the understanding that our individual healing connects to collective wellbeing will guide every aspect of this work. My impact strategy recognizes that meaningful change occurs when we combine professional expertise with authentic understanding of the communities we serve, creating solutions that honor both contemporary needs and traditional wisdom. Through legal advocacy, policy reform, and community mentorship, I will transform personal adversity into professional purpose, ensuring that others facing similar challenges receive the representation and support that can redirect entire life trajectories toward hope and contribution.

I once handed out meals at the same shelter where I would later eat. Before becoming homeless in 2018, I worked with AmeriCorps NCCC and volunteered with groups like the US Forest Service and Habitat for Humanity. I didn't know then that I would soon need the same help I gave others. For seven years, I lived on the streets, fighting addiction while sleeping under bridges. I saw up close how our support systems often fail people. Even during these hard times, I kept volunteering at food banks. Why? Because helping others gave me purpose when I had nothing else. What I learned on both sides of the serving table was powerful: real understanding comes from living through struggles, not just reading about them. While giving out food at a shelter, I could honestly say, "I know what you're going through because I'm going through it too." My family's struggles shaped me too. My father died from blood cancer when I was 15. My Native American mother, who raised me alone without a college education, passed away two years ago after fighting colon cancer. Watching them navigate a complex healthcare system without enough support showed me how badly families need someone on their side. After hitting bottom, I chose to enter detox and rehab. Getting clean meant facing not just drug dependence but also childhood trauma and abuse. Through recovery programs and church groups, I found my way to sobriety and stable housing. The skills I gained through this journey are ones no classroom teaches: - Problem-solving when basic needs aren't met - Communicating across social divides - Building trust with people who've been let down repeatedly - Finding resources when systems say "no" Now sober and housed, I'm working to be the first in my family to finish college. My goal is clear: earn a Legal Studies degree and become an attorney for people like those I've met along my journey - kids in foster care, families facing eviction, and people struggling with addiction. With my education, I plan to help my community in specific ways: 1. Offer free legal help to people who can't afford it 2. Create a mentor program for others in recovery who want to go to school 3. Work with local shelters to improve how they connect people to services 4. Use my voice and experience to push for better laws that actually help people in crisis What makes me different from other applicants? I've been on both sides - the helper and the helped. I know that the line between the two isn't as clear as people think. My Native American background teaches me that healing happens when we work together, not alone. I don't just want this education to improve my own life. I want to use what I learn to create change that ripples through my community. When someone who's been homeless becomes a lawyer who fights homelessness, that's the kind of full-circle story that inspires others to believe in second chances. My hometown gave me mine - now I want to give back. Macy Lytle

I want to build a legal advocacy bridge that transforms my lived experiences of homelessness, addiction, and recovery into powerful representation for marginalized communities. I lost both parents to cancer—my father to a rare blood cancer when I was 15 and my mother to colon cancer just two years ago while I spiraled into seven years of homelessness and opiate addiction. During this darkest chapter, I witnessed how vulnerable populations encountered a legal system that often lacked authentic understanding of their circumstances. As a person born to a single Native American mother, navigating these systems without resources or family support, I experienced firsthand the devastating impact of inadequate representation. My commitment to service began long before these hardships. I served with AmeriCorps NCCC, followed by years of wildland firefighting with the US Forest Service, National Parks Service, and Bureau of Land Management. Yet remarkably, even after becoming homeless in 2018—sleeping under bridges and battling addiction—I maintained this commitment by volunteering at food banks and homeless service organizations. These experiences revealed a profound truth: effective advocacy requires both professional credentials and authentic lived experience. My blueprint for building this advocacy bridge has three foundational pillars: First, I will establish a legal practice specifically addressing the intersections of child welfare, housing insecurity, and addiction recovery—areas where I've personally witnessed critical gaps in representation. By incorporating trauma-informed approaches and cultural sensitivity, I'll create legal advocacy that addresses both immediate needs and underlying systemic issues. Second, I will build mentorship pathways for others in recovery pursuing education and professional development. By demonstrating that those who have navigated systemic barriers can return as qualified advocates, I aim to inspire a new generation of legal professionals with authentic understanding of vulnerable communities. Third, I will develop community partnerships for policy reform, leveraging both professional expertise and lived experience to advocate for evidence-based changes in systems I once navigated as a vulnerable person. The impact of this work will ripple through communities often left without adequate representation. Children in foster care will have an advocate who understands the impact of family disruption. Families facing homelessness will have representation informed by actual experience with housing insecurity. Individuals in recovery will have support from someone who's walked their path. Financial barriers remain my primary obstacle to launching this vision. Without family support following my parents' deaths, I require scholarship assistance to become the first in my family to earn a college degree. Yet my journey from homelessness to recovery has equipped me with the resilience to overcome challenges when provided opportunity. With your investment in my education, I can build this advocacy bridge—transforming personal tragedy into meaningful service that creates pathways to justice for those whose voices often go unheard. Macy Lytle

Cancer has devastated my family, claiming both my parents and fundamentally altering the trajectory of my life. Two years ago, my mother succumbed to colon cancer in her late 60s. What began as stage 2 cancer progressed rapidly to stage 4 when it spread to her lymph nodes. I watched helplessly as chemotherapy caused her unbearable pain, memory loss, and cognitive decline from electrolyte imbalances. Despite doctors predicting weeks, she passed away just days after discontinuing treatment. This loss echoed an earlier tragedy—my father's death from a rare blood cancer when I was only 15, following a five-year battle. He was just 53. These successive losses stripped away my foundation at critical developmental stages. As a Native American from a low-income, single-parent household already navigating significant challenges, losing both parents' unconditional support left me profoundly vulnerable. The grief and instability eventually overwhelmed my coping mechanisms, leading to a seven-year period of homelessness and opiate addiction—an attempt to escape the pain of such devastating losses. Through this darkness, cancer taught me three crucial lessons that now guide my life. First, I learned about systemic fragility—how quickly circumstances can change and how support systems often fail those most vulnerable. Living on the streets after losing my family to cancer, I witnessed these failures firsthand, strengthening my resolve to address them professionally. Second, I discovered the healing power of service. Even during my darkest periods of addiction and homelessness, I continued volunteering at food banks and youth programs—perhaps because cancer had shown me how deeply human connection matters during suffering. This continued commitment to others preserved my essential humanity when all other identities were compromised. Finally, my mother's courage during her cancer battle eventually inspired my own recovery journey. Her determination to fight despite overwhelming odds gave me strength to enter detox and rehabilitation. Through recovery programs, I achieved sobriety and secured stable housing—transforming my relationship with my past. The experiences that once felt like only sources of shame became the foundation for genuine empathy and insight. Today, I stand at a crossroads. I'm determined to become the first in my family to earn a college degree—pursuing Legal Studies to eventually advocate for vulnerable children and families. However, without family support or sufficient resources, I require financial assistance to realize this dream. Cancer's impact extends far beyond my parents' deaths—it has shaped my understanding of both suffering and resilience. Through this devastating experience, I've discovered my purpose: to transform personal tragedy into meaningful advocacy. With a scholarship, I can honor my parents' memory by representing those whose voices often go unheard in our justice system.

Habitat Restoration The morning air crackled with anticipation as I raised my arm and signaled to the twenty volunteers positioned along the fireline. "Begin the lines." With these words, our prescribed burn began, sending carefully controlled flames through the understory of an ancient longleaf pine forest—and with it, renewed hope for the Red-cockaded Woodpecker teetering on extinction's edge. As Fire Line Coordinator for the Bureau of Land Management's Habitat Restoration Project along the Eastern Seaboard, I transformed my passion for wildlife conservation into tangible action between 2014 and 2016. My most significant contribution was organizing and integrating over 200 volunteers into our prescribed burn operations, developing their skills from novices with environmental enthusiasm into capable conservation practitioners. Together, we managed prescribed burns across 20,000 acres of critical habitat, contributing directly to the downlisting of the Red-cockaded Woodpecker from "endangered" to "threatened"—a victory decades in the making. The science behind our work was precise: these woodpeckers evolved with frequent, low-intensity fires that maintained the open pine savannas they require for survival. Modern fire suppression had inadvertently pushed them toward extinction by allowing forests to grow too dense. My role included training volunteers in creating effective firelines—defensive boundaries that contained our burns—while working alongside our crew boss to analyze weather patterns that determined safe burning conditions. One project stands out prominently in my memory. We were tasked with a complex burn near a cluster of active woodpecker nesting cavities. The operation required exceptional coordination as we needed to clear the understory without damaging the living pine trees containing their laboriously constructed homes. I divided volunteers into specialized teams, each with clear responsibilities and experienced mentors. When unexpected wind shifts threatened our operation midway through, I quickly reorganized our resources, establishing new containment lines and adjusting our ignition pattern. The ability to remain calm while redirecting multiple teams demonstrated how leadership under pressure transforms challenging circumstances into successful outcomes. I've come to understand that leadership through service means creating conditions where others can succeed. The volunteer who initially struggles to understand fire behavior becomes the one who later trains newcomers. The uncertain participant grows into a confident team leader. By establishing a culture where knowledge was freely shared and questions openly welcomed, we built more than habitat—we built community. The Red-cockaded Woodpecker's improved status represents nature's validation of our approach. Today, I can still hear their distinctive tap-tap-tapping in restored forests, I'm reminded that volunteering isn't simply giving time—it's investing in possibilities. Through organized, purposeful service, we didn't just change a landscape; we changed the trajectory of an entire species, proving that dedicated volunteers led with vision can indeed bend the arc of nature toward recovery and resilience. Macy Lytle

My Journey Beyond Homelessness "We've seen you two times this month," the emergency room doctor said, after my second overdose. "You won't survive another winter on the streets." Seven years into homelessness and opiate addiction, his words barely registered—death seemed an abstract concept compared to the immediate agony of withdrawal and the constant struggle for survival. That night, huddled beneath an overpass as temperature dropped below freezing, I confronted a devastating realization: I had reached rock bottom, only to discover rock bottom had a basement. My struggle began in childhood. Born to a low-income Native American single mother, I experienced intermittent homelessness throughout my youth. My education was fractured as we moved between a car, and temporary accommodations. Despite staying with friends' families whenever possible to maintain educational continuity, my academic performance suffered from inconsistent attendance and the invisible burden of instability. Home brought additional trauma—abuse and molestation that created wounds I carried silently for years. Without addressing this pain or developing healthy coping mechanisms, I turned to substances after high school, seeking relief from psychological suffering I lacked tools to process. What began as occasional use quickly became dependency, then all-consuming addiction. Before I could recognize what was happening, I joined America's chronically homeless, my humanity increasingly invisible to the world around me. The statistics for someone in my position were grim. Research indicates fewer than one in five chronically homeless individuals with substance use disorders achieve sustainable recovery without substantial support systems. Yet something shifted after that doctor's warning—not immediate transformation, but the first painful acknowledgment that continuing this path meant certain death. Three days later, I took the hardest step of my life: walking into a church-based detox program with nothing but the clothes I wore and no family support. Rehabilitation required confronting not just physical dependency but the childhood traumas I'd spent years numbing. Recovery demanded complete rebuilding of identity, discovering strengths buried beneath survival mode. Each day sober represented victory against overwhelming odds; each week stable built momentum toward transformation. Rising above homelessness and addiction happened through small, sustained choices rather than dramatic moments. When I secured housing after seven years without a permanent address, I stood alone in my tiny studio apartment, overcome by the profound miracle of walls that belonged to me and a key that represented transformation. That key now hangs framed on my wall—reminder of how far I've traveled from the person once convinced death was preferable to continuing. Throughout recovery, I discovered that helping others accelerated my healing. Even during homelessness, I volunteered at food banks when possible. Through AmeriCorps NCCC and programs for homeless youth, I channeled painful experiences into meaningful service. Guiding others through systems I once navigated from underneath gave purpose to my suffering. Today, I stand at a new threshold—pursuing legal education to advocate for vulnerable populations facing circumstances similar to my past. The challenges remain significant, particularly financial barriers as a low-income student without family support. Yet having risen above seven years of homelessness and addiction, I face these obstacles with hard-earned resilience and determination to transform lived experience into professional purpose serving those society often renders invisible.