My name is Madilyn, but all of my friends call me Finley. The name originated from a TV show and I think that explains a lot about me. I’m a high school senior planning to study Motion Pictures Production in college and a storyteller at heart. I have always been a writer, a filmmaker, and a creator who believes in the power of stories to heal. Some of the stories I’ve lived, though, have shaped me more than any one I could write. Mental illness has touched my life in both quiet and overwhelming ways, shaping who I am, what I value, and the kind of future I hope to build. I was only 12 when my father passed away. In the aftermath, our house fell under a shadow that many people couldn’t see. My mom was suddenly parenting alone while grieving deeply. I became “the strong one,” managing meals, homework, and emotional support for my younger sister while swallowing my own grief. I didn’t realize then that I was falling apart slowly and silently. I just knew I didn’t feel like a kid anymore. Years later, I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, autonomic dysfunction, and Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome with chronic pain. Each comes with challenges, but nothing has tested me more than the mental health spiral that followed. Chronic illness often feels invisible, along with depression. I didn’t know how to ask for help. I didn’t know I could. I thought breaking down meant I was weak. Now, I know that asking for help is its own kind of bravery. My boyfriend also struggles with depression, and walking with him through that journey has changed how I see the world. It has made me more empathetic, more intentional, and more grounded. Loving someone through mental illness while navigating your own isn’t easy, but it’s taught me that healing is never linear, and love is often the most powerful medicine. Living with mental illness in myself and my family has shaped the way I move through the world. Firstly, I’m fiercely passionate about mental health advocacy. I create YouTube videos and write blog posts that help people feel seen and less alone. I also direct short films about trauma, grief, and survival. I believe that when we talk openly about pain, we take away its power to isolate. My dream is to create art that says, “I get it. You’re not alone.” Financially, my family has struggled since my dad’s death, and chronic illness has added extra burdens. College is something I have fought very hard for, not just academically, but emotionally as well. Winning this scholarship would relieve some of that burden and help me continue creating spaces where stories about mental health are both shared and celebrated. Mental illness has shaped me, yes, but it hasn’t broken me. I’m still here. I’m still creating. I’m still hoping. And I know that even in the quietest struggles, there is strength.

My name is Madilyn, but all of my friends call me Finley. The name originated from a TV show which I think explains a lot about me. I’m a teenage girl with big dreams and a soft heart. I’m a filmmaker, writer, mental health advocate, and soon-to-be student majoring in Motion Pictures Production to Belmont University. Ever since I was little, I have loved stories – both watching them and creating them. But as I’ve grown, I’ve realized that stories aren’t just entertainment. They’re lifelines. I want to spend my life creating them, not just for escape, but for impact. As a girl who’s lived through grief, chronic illness, and the weight of invisible battles, I’ve come to understand that the world doesn’t always make space for softness, especially not in girls. We’re taught to shrink ourselves, be palatable, and play small. But I refuse. I believe that softness is not weakness. In fact, it’s where the fiercest kind of power lives: in empathy, in creativity, and in holding space for others and ourselves. I plan to use my career in filmmaking and media to challenge stereotypes, elevate underrepresented voices, and tell stories that matter. I want to direct films that explore the complexity of girlhood, the strength in vulnerability, and the quiet power of women who rise, again and again, even when the world tells them not to. My biggest dream is to create a production company led by women and dedicated to producing films by and about girls and women from diverse backgrounds, especially those who have historically been silenced or erased. In everything I do, I strive to make people feel less alone. Whether I’m directing a short film about mental health, writing blog posts about self-worth and improvement, or just being the friend who remembers your coffee order and your sister’s name, I want to be the kind of person who sees others deeply. I believe that the best way to uplift women is by listening to their stories and fighting alongside them. I’ve faced my share of challenges: growing up without my dad, navigating Depression and Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, carrying financial burdens, and trying to build a future that can feel so far away. Thankfully, through all of that, my experiences have made me more determined and more resilient. They have made me more sure of the fact that when women support each other, we can create unstoppable change. This scholarship would help lift a bit of that financial weight and allow me to focus more energy on what matters: building a future where women are free to be ambitious, loud, gentle, bold, emotional, brilliant, and heard. I want to build a world where they are free to be themselves. I don’t want to succeed for money or fame, I want to succeed for others. I want to show the girls coming after me that their stories matter. That they matter. Because when one girl stands tall, she makes it easier for the next one to rise, too.

When I was twelve, my dad passed away. He was kind, passionate, and full of stories. He has always dreamed of being an actor. Losing him was like losing the sun. Suddenly, everything I had known and loved dimmed. But instead of falling apart, I did what many kids in grief do: I became the adult. I took care of my younger sister, tried to protect my mom as she tried to carry double the weight, and buried my own pain so no one else would have to feel it. But grief doesn’t vanish when ignored. It festers. It hides behind perfectionism, people-pleasing, anxiety attacks, and long nights spent wondering why everything feels so heavy. By the time I reached high school, I was struggling with Depression, Anxiety, chronic pain from Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, and a heart condition. I often found myself swinging between hyper-focused ambition and total burnout. I lived in a body that didn’t always cooperate and a mind that wouldn’t slow down. And yet, it took me years to realize I wasn’t okay. Mental health wasn’t a topic I felt safe talking about until I started seeing others speak up, had friends share their stories, and until I met my boyfriend, who battles depression, and realized how important it is to hold space for people, not just “fix” them. Now, I believe silence is one of the most dangerous things we’re taught. I’m choosing to fight it with everything I create. My experiences with mental health have shaped everything about who I am and who I want to become. I’m going to college for Motion Pictures Production to make movies that actually mean something. Films saved me as a kid. They gave me an escape. They also gave me a mirror. They made me feel seen when I didn’t have the words to explain how I felt. Now, I want to create stories that do the same for others: stories that explore grief, healing, trauma, and hope. I want to start a production company that prioritizes authenticity and creates films by and for those with lived experiences of mental illness, disability, and marginalization. In addition to filmmaking, I also share content online that advocates for mental health, self-compassion, and gentleness in a loud world. I run a blog for teen girls, create YouTube videos about chronic illness and healing, and connect with people all over the world who are also dedicated to creating safe spaces for people who need to feel less alone. Relationships have taken on a new depth for me since learning to live with mental illness. I don’t just want to be there for people, I want to really see them. I try to remember the little things: their birthday, favorite video game, their sibling’s name, even their allergies. Because in a world where people often feel invisible, I believe that noticing someone is a radical act of love. If you ask me what I want most in life, I won’t say fame or money. I want to be the kind of person who makes others feel safe. I want to light up a room, not because I’m the loudest, but because people feel like they can breathe when I’m there. I know I can’t fix the mental health crisis alone, but I also know that silence fuels stigma. I believe that storytelling fights it. If I can write a film that makes someone feel less alone or share a post that convinces someone to finally ask for help, I have done something that matters. This scholarship would help ease the financial burden of pursuing a creative education with a chronic illness. More than that, it would be an investment in someone who is dedicated to using her voice and her art to elevate mental health awareness and advocate for change. I believe that every person carries a little bit of light inside them. The more we speak up and remind people that they’re not broken, they’re just human, the brighter that light becomes. And slowly and beautifully, the darkness fades.

The first time I heard “Defying Gravity,” I was twelve years old and going through the darkest chapter of my life. My dad had just passed away, and everything that once felt stable suddenly unraveled. I didn’t feel brave. I felt lost. But then I heard Elphaba’s voice—raw, strong, aching to be understood. “Something has changed within me / Something is not the same…” And just like that, I felt seen. Wicked isn’t just a musical to me. It’s a mirror that has helped me better understand myself. Elphaba’s journey taught me that it’s okay to be different. In fact, sometimes the world needs us to be different. Her strength, despite the isolation and her refusal to compromise who she is just to be accepted, gave me the courage to keep going during moments when I wanted to disappear. “Defying Gravity” became my anthem for every time I needed to believe I could rise, even when I felt weighed down by grief and self-doubt. Glinda’s character, too, taught me that growth isn’t always loud. Her kindness and search for purpose reminded me that doing the right thing doesn’t always come easily, but it always matters. “For Good” feels like a song written for every person who’s ever changed me by simply standing beside me. As a teenager navigating chronic illness and big dreams, I carry Wicked’s messages with me every day. I want to be like Elphaba: not necessarily the most popular or the most perfect, but someone who dares to believe in the goodness of people, even when it’s hard. Someone who keeps fighting for a better world. Wicked has inspired me to pursue storytelling through film and theater to help other people feel seen, just like this show did for me. It reminds me that magic isn’t just something that happens onstage; it’s something we can create through courage, compassion, and being unapologetically ourselves.

There’s something beautiful about watching someone grow in public. You see their awkward beginnings and their uncertain in-betweens. When I was younger, I loved Sabrina Carpenter for Maya Hart. She sassy, quick-witted, and cool. She was honestly everything I wanted to be. As I got older, I saw how Sabrina herself was growing beyond that early role. I watched her navigate the music industry, face public scrutiny, explore different sounds, and create her own artistic identity from scratch. “Eyes Wide Open” was sweet, safe, and familiar. “Singular: Act I” felt like her stepping into something new. “emails i can’t send” was when I knew she’d fully arrived. Through it all, she’s been honest about change, not just with her sound or her image, but emotionally too. Her lyrics reflect a willingness to grow, unlearn, and speak up. It takes courage to shift directions in front of millions of eyes. It takes even more to do it with joy, confidence, and her signature sparkle. As someone who struggles with change, watching Sabrina evolve helped me reframe how I see transformation. It’s not failure, and it’s not an inconsistency. It’s bravery. Sabrina showed me that I’m allowed to change my mind. I’m allowed to outgrow people, dreams, styles, and even the version of myself I thought I had to stay loyal to. Growth isn’t something to hide, it’s something to celebrate. Her career reminds me that reinvention is a sign of strength, not weakness. It shows me that being authentic sometimes means becoming someone you never expected, but exactly who you were meant to be. Thanks to Sabrina, I’ve learned that growth is a lifelong process, and I’m learning to love every version of myself along the way.

The first time I heard Chappell Roan, I felt like I was seeing a version of myself I hadn’t met yet: someone louder, freer, and more unapologetically alive. As a naturally quiet person, I’ve always struggled with taking up space. I tend to listen more than speak and observe more than perform. Chappell’s music feels like a permission slip to be seen, to be heard, and to be as bold and expressive as I want to be. Songs like “Pink Pony Club” and “Good Hurt” aren’t just catchy or well-produced; they feel like journal entries turned into anthems full of raw emotion, theatrical flair, and a refusal to apologize for either. She’s not afraid to be loud, or vulnerable, or angry. That kind of fearless authenticity makes me feel a little braver, too. What I admire most about Chappell is her refusal to shrink in a world that often asks women, especially in entertainment, to tone themselves down. She’s a woman in the industry who doesn’t just not tolerate the nonsense women are put through, but also calls it out and carves her own path in glitter and grit. That matters to me as a young woman pursuing a career in film and media. I want to tell stories that challenge norms, spotlight underrepresented voices, and embrace the full spectrum of being human. Seeing someone like Chappell do that with so much confidence reminds me that it’s not just possible, it’s powerful. Chappell Roan’s impact on me goes beyond admiration. Her music plays in the background when I’m editing videos late at night, brainstorming scripts, or prepping for auditions. She makes me want to show up in my own work with the same mix of honesty, artistry, and joy. She reminds me that I don’t have to change who I am to belong. I just have to keep being me. I support her career because she’s building a movement around self-expression, honesty, and the courage to be “too much” in a world that praises women for being quiet and small. For girls like me, who are still learning how to take up space, she’s proof that there’s beauty in being bold.

The most meaningful community event I’ve ever participated in wasn’t a festival or a celebration. It was a protest. Linking Arms for Change held a peaceful gathering of thousands in Nashville after the Covenant School shooting. I remember stepping onto the streets near the Capitol and seeing it full of people echoing chants of grief, anger, and determination. We were not just there to mourn, we were there to demand something better. The protest stretched across blocks. People were lined up, hand in hand, forming a human chain that symbolized unity against gun violence. What struck me the most wasn’t just the number of people, but the diversity of who was there. I saw a father holding hands with his daughter, who was in a Covenant uniform, both silent and still. A young boy, who couldn’t have been older than six, ran in circles at a nearby park while his mother stood at the edge, crying and chanting the names of the victims. There were teenagers holding hand-drawn signs, elderly couples with folding chairs and walkers, teachers with clipboards, and students in standard school attire. People from every walk of life were there. All different, but all hurting in the same way. That moment changed me. It made me realize how deeply these tragedies cut into every corner of our communities. Gun violence doesn’t care about age, race, class, or background. But we care. We care enough to show up. We care enough to cry together. To hold hands with strangers. To make signs. To march. To demand that enough is enough. That collective care is what gives me hope. This protest was meaningful to me not just because of what we were standing against, but because of what we were standing for. We stood for safety. For a future where kids can go to school without wondering if they’ll make it home, for change that should’ve happened long ago, and must happen now, and for the right to grow up without fear. For the right to grow up at all. I want to see that moment turned into momentum. I want this community, and others like it, to take that energy and keep going. We need to support legislation for common-sense gun laws, invest in mental health care, and create safer environments for students and families. I want to see more students involved in activism and more spaces where youth voices are not just heard but valued. I want politicians to look at crowds like that protest and see not just numbers, but people. People who are tired of thoughts and prayers without action, and people who are ready for change. Events like Linking Arms for Change remind us that community isn’t just about geography. It’s about shared humanity. It's about being there for each other, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard, because that is when we need community the most. I am proud to have stood among those people that day. I’ll keep standing, speaking, and showing up for a future where no family has to grieve like so many already have. Being part of this movement has shown me the kind of difference people can make when they come together. I want to carry that lesson with me into college and beyond. This scholarship would help me get one step closer to building a future where unity and compassion are the rule, not the exception.

Growing up, I was the quiet kid. Not in the peaceful, shy, “Aww, she’s so well behaved!” kind of way, but in the frozen, panic-filled kind of way. I didn’t know how to explain why my voice caught in my throat while the substitute took attendance, or why I sometimes physically couldn’t raise my hand and speak to teachers even though I knew the answer. I just knew that trying to talk felt like trying to breathe underwater. I would open my mouth, and anxiety would fill my lungs like water. For years, I struggled with intense social anxiety, though I didn’t have the words for it until much later. In elementary school, I would rehearse what to say over and over in my head, but still fall silent when the moment came. I wasn't meaning to be rude or distant. I was terrified. Eventually, I was diagnosed with social anxiety and agoraphobia. The diagnosis was a relief in a way. It gave language to something I thought was just a flaw in me. I wasn’t broken, I was struggling. It meant that slowly but surely, I could work on healing. Even now, social anxiety shows up in my life in quiet but heavy ways. I overthink text messages and quickly panic when I have to speak in front of a class or order food. It’s an exhausting tug-of-war between wanting to connect and fearing I’ll mess up somehow and be judged. But despite how difficult it’s been, I have never stopped wanting to express myself. I just had to find my own way to do it. For me, that way is through filmmaking. Telling stories gives me a voice when my own feels too shaky. Through film, I can say all the things I have been too anxious to say out loud. I can speak about identity, grief, love, and belonging without the fear of tripping over my words. I’ve learned that art can speak even when I can’t. More importantly, I realized that I’m not alone in this. So many others carry the weight of anxiety, and I want them to feel seen, just like I needed to be. Pursuing a degree in Motion Pictures Production is important to me because it’s not just about a career. It’s about learning how to share stories that can change lives, including my own. I want to create films that help others feel understood, especially people dealing with mental health struggles or feeling like they don’t belong. College will give me the tools, community, and experience I need to grow as a filmmaker, but also as a person who is learning how to exist in the world without shrinking. I want to be part of creating spaces where quiet people feel safe speaking up, whether that's on a film set, in a dorm room, or through the screen. I may never be the loudest voice in the room. I may still struggle with anxiety in college. But I’m showing up anyway, and that’s what matters to me. I’m not driven because it’s easy, I’m driven because I know how much it means to be seen, to be heard, and to have someone believe in you even when your voice shakes. This scholarship would not just support my education, it would support my mission to help others feel less alone, one story at a time.

When I was twelve, my father died unexpectedly. He was my hero. He was a principal and an educator, but at heart, he was a theater actor with a laugh that filled every room and a heart that understood mine without needing to ask questions. His death shattered my world, but even more so, it shattered my sense of safety. My mom was overwhelmed, grieving while juggling jobs and bills, and I quickly stepped into the role of caretaker for myself and my little sister. I didn’t feel like a kid anymore. I didn't know it then, but I was experiencing the early signs of anxiety, depression, and burnout. I was just a child, but I was exhausted. I had to smile for others, get straight A’s, clean the house, walk my sister to school, and pretend I wasn’t breaking apart. I became a master of masking: hiding panic attacks behind fake stomachaches, crying in the bathroom between classes, and pretending I was fine when people asked if I needed anything. I believed asking for help meant burdening others. So I didn’t. Years later, the weight finally became too much. My mental health collapsed under the pressure I had ignored for too long. I stopped making art, something I once loved. I stopped dreaming. I told myself I didn’t deserve softness or joy, not until I earned it by being perfect and fixing everything. But slowly, I started to heal. Therapy gave me words for what I was feeling. Friends helped me feel seen and loved. I began spending time in nature, and film and photography became a new form of expression for me. It didn’t demand perfection. It only asked me to notice beauty, which is something I’d stopped allowing myself to do. Around the same time, I began to fully understand my identity. I’m bisexual, and while I’m proud of that now, it wasn’t always easy. Coming out, even just to myself, brought up fear, confusion, and doubt. Would people treat me differently? Would I still be accepted? I had worked so hard to be happy, would this start the process over again? Being part of the LGBTQIA+ community has brought both quiet grief and deep joy. But, most of all, it’s given me the courage to live honestly and to create space for others to do the same. That’s why I’m passionate about filmmaking. Storytelling helped me survive, and now I want to use it to help others feel seen and understood. I plan to major in Motion Pictures Production so I can create films that explore mental health, identity, grief, and resilience. I believe film is one of the most powerful tools we have to make the world more accepting, not just for the LGBTQ+ community, but for anyone who’s ever felt like they didn’t belong. As I finish high school, I finally feel like I’m becoming the version of myself that younger me needed. I’m learning to ask for help. I’m learning that softness is strength. And I’m dreaming again. I’m not just dreaming for myself, but for the people who will watch the stories I someday tell. The Elijah’s Helping Hand Scholarship would help me continue this journey toward college and toward becoming a filmmaker who creates change and connection. I will be someone who turns pain into purpose, helps others find light after loss, and believes that every story is worth telling.

For most of my childhood, I was raised in a two-parent household, with my dad being one of the most important people in my life. He took me to school every morning, cheered me on at my soccer games, and never failed to tell a funny story when I asked for one. When I was 12, his sudden passing completely changed my life. My mother, who had always been my source of strength, now had to take on not only the responsibilities of being a single parent but also the insurmountable grief of losing her husband. I quickly realized that my family would need more than just emotional support; it would need practical help as well. So, I became a parent to myself and my younger sister. I am the oldest daughter, so I have always played the “third parent” role. The loss of my dad meant that I was forced to take on even more of the household responsibilities, though. My mom was understandably overwhelmed by both the weight of raising us alone and the immense grief she was going through. I watched her struggle and knew that if things were going to get better, I needed to step up. I set aside my own grief, convincing myself that I had to be strong and handle everything on my own. I became a caretaker for my sister, helping her with homework, making her food, and putting her to bed at night. I even became a parental role in my own mother’s life. I made sure she was making safe decisions, had gifts on her birthday and Christmas, and was a therapist when she needed one. I didn’t allow myself the time to process my own emotions because there just wasn’t room for that. My main focus was keeping everything running smoothly, making sure my sister and I were okay, and making sure my mom had one less thing to worry about. In the next few years, I developed a sense of independence that was unshakable. I became so used to doing everything by myself that I didn’t realize I was isolating myself in the process. The experience of carrying so much on my own made me feel like I was the only one who could get things done. Friends and family would offer help, but I would never accept it. It wasn’t until much later that I realized I didn’t have to do everything by myself. People wanted to help me, and it was okay to lean on others. I realized that asking for help didn’t make me weak or less capable. It made me human. This lesson was one of the most profound realizations I’ve ever had. I finally understood that it’s okay to rely on others and that people care about you enough to lend a hand when things feel overwhelming. Learning to ask for help has become an important part of my growth and healing process. Life’s struggles are often much easier to navigate when you have someone there for you. As I prepare for college, I carry the lessons of perseverance, self-sufficiency, and the importance of asking for help with me. I know these next few years will be difficult, but I also know that I don’t have to handle them alone. These experiences have shaped who I am and strengthened my determination. I know that I’m capable of succeeding, but I also know that I don’t have to go through it alone.

At the end of 2019, I sat in my local theater and cried as the credits of Greta Gerwig’s Little Women rolled. It felt like someone had put my soul on screen. I had read Louisa May Alcott’s novel before, but Gerwig’s adaptation and its warmth, tenderness, and quiet fury hit something deeper. It wasn’t just a period drama. It was a celebration of ambition, sisterhood, grief, and the aching push-pull between who we are and who the world tells us to be. I have always been a writer and a filmmaker at heart. I grew up telling stories, journaling my feelings, and filming skits with friends. But for a long time, I struggled to see a place for myself in the world of film. My ideas always felt too emotional or too “small.” Little Women showed me that stories rooted in emotion, girlhood, and love – not just romantic love, but creative love, familial love, and self-love – are not only powerful but essential. Jo March’s struggle to be taken seriously as a writer felt like my own. Amy’s frustration about ambition and artistry being dismissed felt like mine, too. Beth’s quiet resilience reminded me of the people I’ve lost, especially my father. He was an actor with big dreams he never got to fully chase. Watching this film reminded me that I carry his dream forward every time I pick up a pen or a camera. It reminded me that art can be both a tribute and a revolution. Since watching Little Women in 2019, I have committed more fully to filmmaking, not just as a career path but as a calling. I’m currently directing and producing a short film called “dread.”, which explores the emotional reality of school shootings from the perspective of students. It is rooted in real experiences, including my own trauma from surviving an attack in middle school. I want this film to raise awareness and start honest conversations, not through violence or shock but through empathy and truth. Greta Gerwig’s work showed me that gentleness can be revolutionary. Storytelling doesn’t have to scream to be heard. Most importantly, it showed me that women’s stories – girls’ stories – matter deeply. Little Women taught me to take myself seriously as a creator and to embrace the quiet power of vulnerability. This scholarship would help me continue my education in film, with me pursuing it in college this fall. I want to keep creating stories that help people feel seen and spark important conversations that lead to acceptance and change. Little Women reminded me that excellence doesn’t mean being the loudest in the room. It means being authentic. It means showing up, even when it’s hard. It means believing that your voice matters. I fully believe that. In the words of Jo March: “Women... they have minds, and they have souls, as well as just hearts. And they've got ambition, and they've got talent, as well as just beauty.” I plan to keep using mine to tell stories that matter.

When I was younger, I thought I understood what disability meant. I would see people using mobility aids and feel sorry for them, assuming their lives were filled only with struggle and sadness. I mean, the word “disability” etymologically stems from the prefix "dis-" meaning "apart" or "away" and "ability," showing a lack of power or capacity to do or act. I never imagined that I would one day become part of the disabled community or that it would become one of the most empowering and transformative aspects of my identity. I have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, a connective tissue disorder that affects my joints, heart, and skin and causes chronic pain. I’ve lived with the symptoms most of my life but never thought much of them. They were always brushed off as having “Growing pains” or a “low pain tolerance.” I didn’t receive a diagnosis until my symptoms spiraled in high school after a concussion. Before I began using mobility aids, I often ignored my pain, convinced that what I was experiencing was normal or not serious enough to matter. But when my condition worsened, I had to face the reality that my body was different – and that was okay. Becoming physically disabled changed how I see the world. I realized how inaccessible many places are, not just physically but socially. I’ve missed classes for medical appointments, struggled with teachers not understanding my needs, and felt the sting of being left out. But I’ve also found strength I never knew I had, learned how to advocate for myself, and learned how to speak up when something wasn’t fair or accessible. Most importantly, I learned that the disabled community is not filled with sadness and limitation. It is vibrant, diverse, and filled with people living rich, meaningful, and accepting lives. Becoming disabled in my teens meant I had to grieve the life I had before and the future I thought I’d have as well. But I also got the chance to rebuild. I am stronger, more compassionate, more understanding, and more driven. I want to use my experience to uplift others who feel unseen or unsupported. As someone pursuing a career in filmmaking and advocacy, I plan to bring disabled stories to the screen and into the conversation. Representation matters, and I want to help create media that doesn’t just include disabled characters but centers them with authenticity and respect. My experience has also inspired me to be a resource for others. Whether it’s helping a friend understand how to advocate for accommodations or simply being there to validate someone’s pain, I’ve learned that small acts of support can make a big difference. I want to continue to be that person for others. I want to be someone who shows that being disabled doesn’t mean being broken and that there is so much beauty in living a life that might look different from others. Being disabled has made me more empathetic, more resilient, and more determined. It has shown me how much work still needs to be done in accessibility, education, and representation. Most importantly, it has given me the motivation to be part of that change.

While I never personally battled cancer, I carry my story of survival through the most important man in my life: my father. He was an actor, a dreamer, and the person who taught me how to find light even when the world got too dark. He fought cancer bravely but ultimately passed away before achieving his dream of becoming a full-time entertainer. I was young, but I remember the sound of his voice when he talked about the stage. I remember how he lit up when rehearsing lines or telling stories from his days in community theatre, even when he was sick. Losing him changed the trajectory of my life. Cancer may have taken my dad, but it gave me a purpose. From a very young age, I found comfort in stories, whether it was acting them out, watching them on the big screen, or writing them myself. It became my way of holding on to him, processing loss, and eventually healing. Through filmmaking and storytelling, I learned how to use grief as fuel, transforming pain into something meaningful. Today, I’m a high school senior preparing to major in film and media production. My goal is to create stories that explore mental health, illness, and resilience. I want to create stories that make people feel seen, especially those who are fighting battles they didn’t choose. I want to make films that give young people hope and help them feel less alone in their pain. My current short film project, “dread,” tackles the heavy topic of school shootings and teen trauma. It’s raw and hard-hitting, but it’s also a testament to the strength of the youth. This is a battle none of us chose, but we have to fight it anyway. Everything I create comes back to my dad and to the experience of watching someone you love battle cancer. It’s given me perspective, grit, and the desire to use my creativity for something bigger than myself. This scholarship would help me continue my education and further amplify these kinds of stories. It would honor not only my father’s legacy but also the countless others who have faced cancer and come out with a deeper understanding of life and what truly matters. My father’s death gave me a reason to live. I may not be a cancer survivor, but I am the daughter of one. And in carrying that experience, I’ve found a calling – one rooted in empathy, storytelling, and the determination to make my time here count, just like he did.

To me, excellence isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing up every day with dedication, kindness, and willingness to make a difference. I try to live by that mindset in everything I do, whether it's through my creative work, my advocacy, or the way I engage with my community. Giving back isn’t just something I do but a part of who I am. For several years, I’ve worked at Barefoot Republic Camp, a camp dedicated to diversity and acceptance, where I’ve had the privilege of mentoring kids from all backgrounds. This experience taught me the importance of creating spaces where people feel safe, valued, and heard. Seeing the campers grow in confidence and embrace who they are always reminds me why community matters. I have also volunteered at places such as King's Daughters' School, which is a group institution for teens and adults with developmental and intellectual disabilities, and Need More Acres Farm, which was created by an incredible family in Kentucky to give food back to people in need. Through these experiences, I have learned that community is all about lifting each other up and making sure no one feels alone, no matter their differences. That same belief in the power of community fuels my work as a filmmaker. Right now, I’m writing and producing a short film called “dread.”, which focuses on school shootings from the students’ perspectives. Gun violence is a reality that too many young people have to think about, and I want to use storytelling to raise awareness and start conversations that lead to real change. Making this film has been one of the biggest challenges I’ve taken on due to logistics, budgeting, and even personal trauma, but every difficulty reminds me why this story needs to be told. Filmmaking is more than just a passion for me. It is a way to bring attention to important issues and give a voice to those who need it. Beyond filmmaking, I also make videos across multiple YouTube channels. I advocate for mental health and chronic illness awareness, using my platforms to encourage open conversations and share resources. I know firsthand how powerful it can be to hear someone say, “I see you. You’re not alone.” and whether through my work at camp, my films, or my advocacy, I want to be that voice for others. Excellence, to me, isn’t just about achieving personal goals. It’s about using our strengths to serve and uplift others to achieve their own. It’s about showing up, even when it’s hard, and putting our hearts into the things that matter. Harriett Russell Carr’s legacy is one of selfless service, and I hope to carry that same spirit forward in everything I do. By continuing to tell meaningful stories and advocate for important causes, I want to make a lasting impact on my community. That is what I strive for every day.

The credits rolled on The Amazing Spider-Man, and five-year-old me sat there, wide-eyed and amazed. It quickly became my favorite movie franchise and still is to this day. I didn’t understand most of what had just happened, but I did know one thing. I wanted to make movies. Something about the way the story unfolded on screen and the way it made me feel stuck with me. For years after, I saw filmmaking as a way to entertain and make people laugh. As I grew older, I realized its power went far beyond that. Movies shape the way we understand the world, and from then on, I knew I could use my voice to tell stories that matter. Today, I am still pursuing that dream but with a much deeper purpose: to create films that raise awareness about critical issues, including the devastating impact of gun violence. Right now, I am writing and producing a short film titled “dread.”, which explores the reality of school shootings from the emotional perspective of students. Gun violence has become an inescapable fear in schools, and too many young lives have been lost. While it has been covered countless times in media, most depictions get it wrong. I survived an armed attack at my middle school, and it’s something that sticks with me every day. I have used movies and TV to process this, but almost all that I have seen have one thing in common: the commercialization of violence and shock. Through “dread.”, I want to humanize this crisis and spark conversations about the urgent need for change without exploiting the horror and graphic nature for views and money. Filmmaking is my way of taking action and giving a voice to those affected in hopes of pushing for a safer future. Beyond filmmaking, I stay active in my community by using my platform to advocate for mental health awareness. I believe that change happens when we step up and use our voices to take action, even in the smallest ways. Whether it’s by discussing the reality of mental health issues in a YouTube video or creating a film that makes people think, I am committed to making a meaningful impact. Though my childhood dream of being a filmmaker has remained the same, the reason behind it has evolved. I no longer just want to just tell stories that entertain; I want to tell stories that make a difference. Gun violence is a crisis that has taken too many lives, including those of personal friends, children I have met throughout my time as a camp counselor, and Charles B. Brazelton. I refuse to stay silent. I will continue to use my creativity, ambition, and drive to bring attention to issues that matter and to push for change. Excellence, to me, means showing up every day with passion and purpose. It means taking what I loved as a child and using it to serve a greater good. This scholarship would allow me to continue that journey, to create more impactful work, and to honor the lives of those lost to gun violence. I am committed to making a difference, and I will never stop using my voice to fight for a safer world. I am still on the path I dreamed of years ago, but now I walk it with a greater sense of responsibility: to tell the stories that need to be told and to help build a future where tragedies like this no longer happen. In the words of my favorite movie franchise, “With great power comes great responsibility.”

The lights are flashing, cameras are clicking, and the air is humming with anticipation. I step onto the red carpet, my designer dress shimmering under the glare of a thousand spotlights. Voices murmur my name, and dozens of reporters are running over each other for a question, a quote, or even just a moment of my time. But as I stand there, taking it all in, none of it truly defines my success. The wealth, fame, and luxury are great, but that’s not what I’m looking for. My mind drifts beyond the glittering chaos to a single person, somewhere in the world, sitting in a darkened theater, watching my film unfold. Maybe they came in feeling lost and unseen. Maybe they’ve been stressed about work or a relationship. But in the glow of the screen, they find something: a reflection of themselves, a comfort, and a story that whispers, "You are not alone." That is the moment I know I have made it. That is success to me. Success is often measured in wealth, status, or some other worldly luxury, but to me, true success is about making an impact. It’s about fostering a sense of connection through storytelling. My journey toward success is not defined by a traditional path but by the ability to create meaningful experiences that resonate with others. From an early age, I found comfort in stories. Whether through film, literature, dance, or any other artistic medium, I was drawn to the way stories could evoke emotions and offer comfort to those who needed it. As I grew older, I realized that storytelling was not just a passion but a calling. I could use it to help others feel understood. Success, for me, lies in the ability to craft narratives that shine a light on unspoken struggles. I want my work to be a voice for those who feel unheard and a reminder that they are not alone in whatever they may experience. This belief is what drives me as I pursue filmmaking. Through my work, I want to break stigmas, challenge perspectives, and create things that foster empathy. Whether it is through a short film, a YouTube video, or a piece of writing, my goal remains the same: to tell stories that matter. I want to create spaces where people can see themselves reflected and find a sense of belonging. Achieving this vision requires more than just passion. It requires education, perseverance, and the right opportunities. This scholarship would be a crucial step in allowing me to further develop my craft, equipping me with the tools and knowledge necessary to bring my stories to life. With financial support, I would be able to dedicate myself even more to learning the technical aspects of filmmaking and collaborating with individuals who share my vision and goals. Beyond the technical side, this opportunity would also provide me with the space to grow as a storyteller. It would allow me to explore different narratives, conduct research on topics that need more awareness, and refine my ability to create media that has a lasting impact. This scholarship will not only support my education, but it will also support the endless amount of voices and stories I’m adamant about sharing. Success, to me, is not about personal gain, but about what I can give to others. If I can create something that makes even one person feel less alone, then I have achieved my goal. I am committed to using my skills and platform to foster understanding, compassion, and change. As I continue on this path, I remain dedicated to improving and pushing the boundaries of storytelling. I am so excited to take the next steps in my journey, knowing that each project brings me closer to my ultimate goal of making a difference.

Cancer is a word no family ever wants to hear, but it became a devastating reality for mine. My father was diagnosed with brain cancer at 53, and watching him battle the disease was one of the hardest experiences of my life. He wasn’t just my dad, he was my inspiration, my role model, and someone who filled every room with passion and creativity. He loved storytelling and acting. His dream was to make it as an actor and have a career in making people laugh. Stage 4 Glioblastoma Multiforme took that dream away before he ever had the chance. Losing him left an emptiness in my life that can never truly be filled, but it also gave me a purpose. His battle with cancer made me realize how little the world actually understands about it. People hear the word “cancer,” but they don’t always grasp what it means to watch someone you love slowly lose pieces of themselves. They don’t know what it’s like to see their body fight against them in ways they can’t control, no matter how hard they try. I have witnessed the physical, emotional, and financial toll this disease takes, not just on the person diagnosed but on the entire family. No one should have to face that battle alone. That is why I am committed to raising awareness about brain cancer. I have discovered my own way of honoring my father’s passion for storytelling: filmmaking. I believe that film can educate, spark conversations, and, most importantly, help people feel seen. I want to create films that shed light on the realities of cancer, not only from a medical perspective but also from the deeply personal side of it. I plan to use my platform to share the stories of those affected by brain cancer, honor their struggles, and ensure they are not forgotten. Beyond filmmaking, I try my hardest to support people facing similar battles. Whether it’s through spreading awareness on social media, sharing my dad’s story to help people understand the extent of the disease, or simply being there for friends and families going through similar hardships, I have made it my mission to turn my pain into something meaningful. I know that awareness is the first step toward change, and I want to be part of a generation that makes a difference, one that not only fights for better treatment options but also for better emotional and financial support for families affected by brain cancer. This scholarship would not only help ease the financial burden of my education but also allow me to continue pursuing my passion with purpose. My goal is to build a career in filmmaking that doesn’t just entertain but informs and inspires. I want to give a voice to those who feel unheard and to make sure that my father’s story – and the stories of so many others like him – live on. Brain cancer may have taken my father’s life, but it will never take away the impact he had on me. He had always dreamed of making it as an actor. While he never got that chance, I will carry his dream forward in my own way. Through my work, I hope I can honor his legacy, raise awareness, and ensure that those battling this disease are never overlooked. If awarded this scholarship, I will use my education and career to keep fighting for every family affected by brain cancer. And my dad.

Faith has always been a guiding force in my life, shaping my values and decisions. As an incoming student at Belmont University, a Christian institution that encourages spiritual growth alongside academic excellence, I will have the opportunity to strengthen my relationship with God while pursuing my passion for filmmaking and storytelling. My faith has been a source of strength in both personal and professional challenges, teaching me resilience, integrity, and the importance of using my talents to serve others. Growing up, I was drawn to the power of storytelling and its ability to connect people, inspire change, and bring awareness to important issues. However, pursuing a creative career often comes with uncertainty. There were times when I doubted my path, unsure of how I would succeed in an industry that can feel so overwhelming. It was during these moments of doubt that my faith provided me with clarity and reassurance. Proverbs 3:5-6 reminds me to trust in the Lord with all my heart and lean not on my own understanding. This verse has been an anchor in my life, reminding me that God has a plan for me and that I must trust in His timing. Faith has also shaped my approach to success. In today’s world, it can be easy to equate success with wealth, fame, or power, but my faith has taught me that true success is measured by kindness and service. I strive to create content that reflects these values, ensuring that my work uplifts, educates, and inspires. At Belmont University, I will be surrounded by faculty and peers who share this belief, and I’m sure it will reinforce my commitment to using my platform for good. As I continue my journey, I believe that my faith will play a crucial role in my career. The entertainment industry is competitive and often filled with moral challenges, but I know my faith will help me navigate these obstacles with integrity. It will keep me grounded, reminding me to prioritize ethics over convenience and to seek opportunities that align with my values. My faith will also serve as a source of perseverance when faced with rejections and failure, showing me that setbacks are not the end but rather a step toward growth. Beyond my personal success, I also hope to use my career to give back to the community. I have done a fair share of volunteer work with different organizations over my high school years and I plan to continue that into adulthood. I want to create films that address important social issues that are far too often stigmatized. Faith has taught me the importance of empathy and compassion, and I hope to reflect these principles in my work. My goal is to create stories that not only entertain but also provide hope and encouragement to those who need it most. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to get an education at Belmont University while deepening my commitment to faith-driven storytelling. It would serve as a testament to the belief that success and morality can coexist and that with faith, perseverance, and hard work, anything is possible. My journey is just beginning, but I am confident that with God’s guidance, I will be able to make a meaningful impact in both my career and the lives of others.

From the earliest cave paintings to the symphonies that fill concert halls, art and music have always been fundamental to the human experience. They are not just forms of entertainment, but essential means of expression that allow us to communicate, heal, and connect. As a filmmaker and an advocate for mental health and disability awareness, I have seen firsthand how art and music shape our world and bring light to even the darkest of places. My passion for creative storytelling began at a young age. I grew up making short films and immersing myself in the world of cinema, fascinated by the way a story could be told not just through words, but through color, movement, and sound. At its core, filmmaking is a blend of visual art and music. The right composition can elevate a scene, evoking emotions that words alone cannot convey. Whether through the haunting melodies of an out-of-tune pipe organ in a suspenseful moment or the hopeful notes in a triumphant scene, music has the power to guide an audience’s emotions and create a long-lasting impact. Art and music are not just personal outlets for expression; they are universal languages that encourage connection. In times of struggle, they provide comfort. In times of joy, they amplify celebration. One of the reasons I advocate for mental health awareness is because I know how deeply creativity influences emotional well-being. For many, painting, photography, film, or playing an instrument can be a way to process emotions that are otherwise difficult to articulate. Artistic expression can be a form of therapy as it offers an escape and a means of self-discovery. As I continue my filmmaking journey, I plan to use my work to tell stories that resonate, inspire, and challenge perspectives. I want to create films that not only entertain but also shed light on important social issues. Art reminds us of our shared humanity, breaking down barriers and giving a voice to those who may otherwise go unheard. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to further my education and refine my craft, equipping me with the tools to create films that make a difference. More importantly, it would reinforce the idea that art and music hold an irreplaceable role in society and are worth investing in. Without art of all kinds, the world would be a much emptier place lacking color, depth, and the emotional resonance that makes life so profoundly beautiful.

From a young age, I have been captivated by the power of storytelling. My father, an actor with dreams of making it big, encouraged a love of film and theater. Though he passed away before achieving his dreams, his passion lives on through me. I am pursuing filmmaking not just as a career, but as a way to create stories that challenge perspectives and offer comfort to those who feel unseen. My goal is to make an impact through storytelling that sheds light on difficult topics, particularly mental and physical health, subjects that are deeply personal to me. Film has the ability to transform lives, and I want to harness its power to promote understanding and empathy. Growing up, I often turned to movies for comfort, finding pieces of myself in characters who struggled yet always persevered. This experience shaped my desire to create films that offer the same reassurance to others. My current project, a short film titled “Dread.”, focuses on the harrowing reality of shootings from the victims' and survivors’ perspectives. By bringing attention to such a pressing issue, I hope to spark conversations that lead to change. Additionally, I plan to explore other topics such as trauma, grief, and resilience, aiming to create films that not only entertain but also educate and destigmatize. Beyond storytelling, I am passionate about fostering a more inclusive and supportive film industry. Too often, disabilities and mental health struggles are misrepresented or stigmatized on screen. Through my work, I aim to portray these experiences with authenticity and care, ensuring that audiences not only see these stories but truly feel them. I want to advocate for more diverse voices in the industry, providing opportunities for underrepresented creators to share their narratives as well. Whether through writing, directing, or acting, my commitment remains the same: to use film as a tool for awareness, healing, and change. My ambition and drive stem from both personal experiences and an unwavering belief in the power of art to inspire and heal. I am determined to carve out a space for myself in the film industry to create and tell stories that matter. I plan to pursue higher education in film and media production, equipping myself with the skills needed to bring my vision to life. Through coursework, hands-on experience, and collaboration with like-minded creatives, I will refine my skills and work on meaningful projects that will make a difference. With every project I take on, I move one step closer to honoring my father’s legacy and fulfilling my own dream of making a meaningful impact on the world. This scholarship would provide priceless support in achieving my dreams, helping me further my education, expand my reach, and bring my vision to life. By investing in my future, you would be supporting someone dedicated to making the world a more empathetic and understanding place, one film at a time.

The room smelled sterile, almost like iodine and fabric softener. My legs swung back and forth off the oversized chair and my fingers gripped the rough fabric as I stared at the unfamiliar woman across from me. Her voice was soft, but the questions she asked felt too big for someone my size. "How are you feeling today?" she asked. I didn’t know how to answer. My emotions felt too big for my small body. How could I explain the feelings inside of me when I barely understood them myself? I was seven years old, already carrying the weight of emotions I couldn’t name. My anger felt like fire, scorching everything in its path. No one knew how to handle me. I didn’t know how to handle me. Therapy was supposed to help, but at that moment, sitting in that too-big chair, I wasn’t sure anything could. From a young age, I knew that life would not be easy. I fought battles that seemed impossible, but each one shaped me into the person I am today. My struggles with mental health were relentless, testing my strength in ways I never expected, yet they also became the driving force behind my determination to not only survive but to thrive. By middle school, anxiety and depression had become my unwanted shadows, creeping into every aspect of my life. High school only intensified them. I felt like I was running an endless race, trying to keep up with expectations I could never quite meet. The pressure became suffocating, and eventually, I crumbled under its weight. Self-doubt and destructive coping mechanisms took over. I was drowning and I didn’t know how to ask for help. It wasn’t until I hit my lowest point that I realized I couldn’t keep doing this alone. A close friend encouraged me to seek help, and for the first time in my life, I allowed myself to lean on others. Therapy became my lifeline. I learned that mental health struggles don’t define me, how I choose to deal with them does. Slowly, I found healthier ways to cope. Journaling and exercise became part of my routine. More importantly, I learned to be gentle with myself and to accept that healing isn’t linear. My experiences led me to filmmaking, where I discovered the power of storytelling in making others feel seen. I want to create films that speak to people the way I once needed someone to speak to me. Recovery is not a destination, it’s a daily choice. I am committed to that choice every single day. I maintain a strong support system, stay engaged in therapy, and advocate for mental health awareness. Through my filmmaking aspirations, I want to create a platform where open conversations about mental health aren’t just accepted, they’re encouraged. This scholarship isn’t just about financial assistance. It’s about resilience. It’s about proving that despite everything, I am still here, still fighting, and still determined to turn my pain into purpose. If awarded, it wouldn’t just support my education, it would serve as a testament to the strength of everyone who has ever struggled and refused to give up. I am deeply grateful for the opportunity to apply and share my journey. No matter where life takes me, I will continue to fight, to grow, and to remind others that they are never alone in their battles.

I never imagined that something as basic as attending school would become a challenge, but when my chronic illness worsened, the reality of my limitations became undeniable. Sitting in hard classroom chairs for hours only worsened my already aching joints, classes lasting only an hour always ended short because of bouts of nausea, and keeping up with even the easiest tasks that come with in-person learning became almost impossible. I had to make the difficult decision to leave my school and transition to a virtual program. This was a choice that was necessary for my health but so isolating in ways I hadn’t expected. Leaving school wasn’t just about losing a physical classroom, it meant leaving behind a space where I felt truly accepted. I went to an art school that encouraged an extremely inclusive environment where everyone was accepted for who they were, regardless of how they identified. The LGBTQ+ community there was vibrant, supportive, and a huge source of strength for me. Already feeling isolated due to my illness, I now also felt like I had been taken away from the only people who made me feel seen. My journey quickly showed me just how connected physical and mental health are. Living with a chronic illness means not only constantly managing pain, fatigue, and mobility limitations, but also comes with the emotional toll of feeling different and struggling with the fear that my body might never allow me to live the life my mind has envisioned. On top of that, being bisexual and living in the South adds another layer of complexity. Like many other students, I’ve faced moments of feeling unseen and misunderstood. The stress of managing both my physical health and my sexuality in a world that often lacks understanding can often feel like too much to handle. Despite these challenges, I have learned that prioritizing my well-being is an act of self-empowerment. Taking care of my body by using mobility aids when I need them, advocating for myself and my needs, and learning to listen to my limits instead of pushing myself is not a sign of weakness, but one of strength. Prioritizing my mental health through therapy, creative outlets, and a strong support system has helped me build myself back up from the broken person struggling to even get out of bed in the mornings. My experience has also given me a deep passion for advocacy. I know first-hand how difficult it can be to feel like your needs are not fully understood or to battle internalized guilt over simply needing help. That’s why I hope to use my voice to raise awareness about the cross between disability, mental health, and LGBTQ+ identity. I am majoring in film to help create a world where people like me feel empowered to take control of their health, but more urgently, to feel seen, supported, and understood. The reality is that maintaining wellness as any student is a constant battle. That battle gets significantly harder if you identify or present differently than the norm, but it’s a battle worth fighting. My health matters because I matter. By prioritizing my well-being, I hope to not only build a future for myself but also encourage others to do the same. This scholarship represents more than just financial support. It is a recognition of the resilience that so many queer students show every day. With this opportunity, I can continue to invest in my health, my education, and my future as an advocate for change.

Losing my father changed my life in ways I could never imagine. He was more than just my dad, he was my role model and my biggest supporter. My father was an actor for the first half of his short life, always participating in community theater and pouring his heart into every role. He dreamed of one day making it big, but his journey was tragically cut short before he could see those dreams realized. He was my first real supporter when I said I wanted to follow the same path. The long nights of hearing him talk about his days performing Shakespeare fascinated me. He took me to countless shows which encouraged me to pursue my passion for storytelling. Later in life, my father became an educator: first a teacher, then an assistant principal. He made a profound impact on so many children’s lives that we still hear stories from his former students to this day. He was the type of person who never met a stranger. In some way, he became famous within our community, just like he had always dreamed of. In late 2019, my father was diagnosed with glioblastoma. Nicknamed “The Terminator”, it is the most aggressive form of brain cancer. The diagnostic process was shockingly quick, and his health seemed to decline even quicker. One moment, he was sharing stories and laughing with friends, and the next, he was struggling with the simplest tasks. Watching someone so vibrant and full of life deteriorate so rapidly was devastating. Despite everything that was happening to him, he remained brave and hopeful, showing us how to face the unthinkable with grace and courage. When he passed away, his absence rippled through every part of my life, affecting not just family dinners and holidays but also my ability to navigate friendships, school, and my plans for the future. I was grappling with grief that felt too overwhelming to handle. Yet, during this pain, I realized that my father’s passion for storytelling had left a permanent mark on me. His love for acting and voice-overs became my inspiration. I decided to honor his legacy by pursuing my own dreams, the ones he planted in me through countless nights spent discussing the magic of storytelling. The road hasn’t been easy by any means. Grief has a way of resurfacing when you least expect it, and there were moments when I doubted my ability to keep going. But I’ve worked hard to channel my pain into creativity, writing scripts and making films that explore themes of loss, resilience, and hope. Each project feels like a conversation with my dad and a way to share his influence with the world. This scholarship represents more than financial assistance – it’s an opportunity to continue a journey undoubtedly shaped by loss but fueled by ambition and hope. By supporting my education, it would help me honor my father’s legacy and work toward my goal of becoming a storyteller, just as he dreamed of doing. In every script I write and every role I play, I like to think a part of my father’s spirit lives on. I hope to use storytelling to not only entertain but also to remind people they are not alone in their struggles. I want to inspire people, just like my dad inspired me. Thank you for considering my application and for creating a scholarship that celebrates resilience while honoring the impact of loss.

According to the CDC, more than 1 in 5 children ages 13-18 experience a serious mental health disorder yet these struggles often remain unaddressed. As a student who has battled anxiety and depression from a young age, I can personally attest to the profound effects mental health can have on not only academic performance but also personal well-being. My journey has been marked with loss and trauma. I inherited anxiety and depression at an early young age, making it incredibly hard to form friendships. I spent much of my time in the counselor’s office during school hours. I was taught many skills, including how to know how someone was feeling based on uncanny cartoon faces, or what sub-genre of anger I was feeling based on a colorful wheel with a spinning arrow attached. While these tools were occasionally helpful, they often felt like superficial band-aids on deeper issues. Schools at that time seemed ill-equipped to truly understand the complexities of mental health, often reducing it to, “Let's all take one BIG deep breath, and then we’ll feel better.” This disconnect left many of us feeling misunderstood and isolated. Despite the superficial nature of these methods, I clung to the belief that, as I grew older and gained a better understanding of my struggles, there would be more effective resources available to me. Entering middle school, the challenges I faced only seemed to intensify. In just a few short months, my father passed away, Covid-19 had started, and I became the survivor of an armed attack against my school, all while still carrying the emotional weight of my childhood. Schools began online classes and with this, the mental health support seemed to lessen. All of a sudden, I was forced to isolate at a time when I needed connection and support the very most. After struggling significantly academically, I decided to reach out. Although I was met with sympathetic words and assurances that they understood my struggles, their responses fell short of offering any relief. Frustrated with this answer, I realized that the only way to truly receive support was to take matters into my own hands. While I do not work at a school, I work with children and started advocating to employ better emotional techniques in our curriculum. I asked friends and family what best helped them, and brought these findings to my board of bosses. I had meetings with them to explain the importance of emotional literacy, even at a young age. I not only sought to create a more supportive environment for the staff but to ensure that future students in our program would have access to the resources I so desperately needed at their age. I began telling my own story at events this year. I speak to educators, parents, and anyone else who will listen about the importance of mental health. I write scripts to inspire change. The one thing that has never let me down in filmmaking. I have written scripts about mental health, school shootings, the world of mental health facilities, and anything else that has made me feel alone in the past. Not only do I write to process these feelings, I write to let others know that they are not alone, and neither am I. I plan to continue this in college and long after I have graduated because I know sometimes living feels impossible and while many schools may take years to change, that we can help move that process along. If we all continue to advocate for ourselves, one day mental health will be a priority, not an afterthought.