People spend a surprising amount of time arguing that tomatoes are vegetables when they're actually fruits. It's a small argument, but it says something bigger: humans love a clean category, even when the thing in front of them refuses to fit one. I've spent most of my life being sorted into categories that didn't fit either: the only girl, the only Black student, the one assumed to be in the wrong room. Teria Onwuaduegbo studied mathematics at a time and in a field that tried to sort her the same way. This scholarship exists because she refused to let that sorting decide what she could reach for. I'm applying because I'm still refusing, too. I was the only girl in my high school's Cisco cybersecurity program, easy enough to categorize without learning my name: the only girl, the only Black student, and the empty seat nobody chose to sit next to. I was picked last for simulations and left out of every study group. I asked questions anyway. Four days before a state website design competition, with no formal training and a local business counting on me, I built a site from nothing but a blank screen and a deadline. What I built that week told me exactly what I wanted my career to be: UX/UI and product design, work that starts with someone else's problem and ends with something they can actually use. Since then, every step I've taken has been toward that goal. I'm an information science student shaping my coursework around design and research, and I've built a community service app that helps high schoolers find volunteer opportunities they'd actually want, instead of stumbling into them the way I did. I joined an xFoundry team building a mental health app focused on rebuilding social connection for college students managing their mental health alone, and that team became something I hadn't expected: the first real community of women striving toward STEM alongside me instead of around me. I want to keep building that. Not just apps, but spaces, so the next woman who walks into a room like that Cisco classroom finds people who already know her name. That goal has a name of its own: The Lantern Nest, a community mental health center I want to launch for women and children, pairing accessible mental health support with career coaching so no one has to choose between healing and getting by. It's the resource I needed back when I had none, and it's the same instinct that drives everything I build now: look for the gap nobody designed for and build the thing that closes it. Teria's story is proof that a short life can still leave behind a longer one in the women who keep going because she did. I don't know what she would have built if she'd had more time, but I know what I intend to build with mine: a career, and eventually a community, where being the only one in the room is never the whole story. This scholarship would help me keep building it, one step, one project, and one room at a time.

Growing up, my dad told me one thing, over and over, until it became the lens I see myself through: be an Obama girl. In our family, that means being okay with not fitting in, striving for excellence while staying empathetic, presenting yourself professionally without losing sight of the people behind you, and working to support yourself and those in need. I didn't understand how much I would need that lens until I was sitting in a room where no one wanted to learn my name. They didn't have to. I was the only girl in my high school's Cisco cybersecurity program, and by the third week, I was easy enough to categorize without a name: the only girl, the only Black student, and the empty seat nobody chose to sit next to. I was picked last for simulations, left out of the study groups, quiet through every break because there was no one to talk to. I asked questions anyway. The silence after I spoke never got any smaller. My dad was the one who caught how far that silence had followed me home and reminded me again of the phrase I'd grown up on. That was the shift I needed. I stopped asking whether I belonged in that room and started asking what I was going to do with the fact that I was already in it. Four days later, I got my answer. A state website design competition needed a site built for a local business, and I had no formal training to fall back on, just a blank screen and a deadline. What I built that week told me what I wanted to do with my life: use the same skills that got me through a room built without me in mind to build rooms for other people. That decision shapes everything I'm building now. I'm an Information Science student pursuing UX/UI design, and I've shaped my education around the exact gap I once fell into: young people struggling silently with no one designing a way to catch them. I'm currently building a community service app that helps high schoolers find volunteer opportunities they'd actually enjoy and working with an xFoundry team on a mental health app rebuilding social connection for college students managing their mental health alone. Both are early steps toward The Lantern Nest, a community mental health center I want to launch for women and children, pairing accessible mental health support with career coaching so no parent or child has to choose between healing and getting by. None of this came from comfort. It came from being underestimated and choosing to build something better instead of walking away. This scholarship exists because someone once turned a GED into an MBA and refused to let a hard start decide the ending; I'm still writing mine. This award would go directly toward keeping me in school and moving these projects forward, funding the semesters I still have left, the time I need to build out the Lantern Nest plan, and the room to keep choosing purpose over just getting by. I'm not asking for a shortcut. I'm asking for the resources to keep proving that the girl once left out of the room can build the room everyone else gets to belong in.

No one in that room ever learned my name. They didn't have to. I was easy enough to categorize without one: the only girl, the only Black student, and the empty seat no one chose to sit next to. I was the only girl in my high school Cisco cybersecurity program, the last one picked for simulations, the one no one reached out to compare notes with, and the one sitting quietly during every break. I asked questions and reached out anyway, and the silence after I spoke never got any smaller. That isolation didn't stay in the classroom. It followed me home as a quiet fear that I wasn't smart enough, that I would fail somewhere everyone would notice. My dad was the one who noticed I had gone quiet in a different way than usual. He reminded me of something he'd told me my whole life: be an Obama girl, meaning be okay with not fitting in, and keep showing up anyway. That was the shift I needed. I stopped asking whether I belonged in that room and started asking what I was going to do with the fact that I was already in it. That decision is the foundation of everything I am building now. I am an Information Science student pursuing UX/UI design, and I have shaped my education around the exact gap I once fell into: young people struggling silently with no one designing a way to catch them. I am currently building a community service app that makes it easier for high schoolers to find volunteer opportunities they will actually enjoy, instead of stumbling onto them the way I had to. I am also part of an xFoundry competition team designing a mental health app focused on rebuilding social connection for college students who are managing their mental health alone, the same isolation I once sat inside without a name for. Both projects are steps toward a larger goal: launching The Lantern Nest, a community mental health center built for women and children. Mental health care is one of the most overlooked spaces in an industry constantly building for speed and efficiency and rarely built at its core for the people who need it most. The Lantern Nest will offer accessible mental health support paired with career coaching and community resources, so no parent or child has to choose between healing and simply getting by. I want to build the resource I needed in that Cisco classroom: something that finds people before they have the words to ask for help. None of this came from comfort. It came from being underestimated in a room built without me in mind and choosing to build something better instead of walking away. This scholarship would let me keep building toward that goal without financial pressure slowing the momentum I have already put years into. It would mean more time spent refining the apps I am building now, more time preparing to launch The Lantern Nest, and less time worried about how to afford the years of school still standing between me and that future. I am not asking for a shortcut. I am asking for the resources to keep proving that the girl once left out of the room can build the room everyone else gets to belong in.

Growing up, my dad told me one thing, over and over, until it became the lens I see myself through: be an Obama girl. In our family, that phrase means being okay with not fitting in. It means striving for excellence while staying empathetic and working not only to support yourself but also to support those in need. I didn't know it yet, but that phrase was preparing me for a period of my life that would test every part of it. I was the only girl in my high school Cisco cybersecurity program and the only Black girl in the room. It was supposed to be the place where I solidified my interest in tech. Instead, it became the place where I learned what it felt like to be invisible. I was the last one picked for simulations, the one no one reached out to compare notes with, the one sitting quietly during every break. I tried. I asked questions, I reached out, and the silence after I spoke never got any smaller. That isolation didn't stay in the classroom. It followed me home, into a quiet kind of fear that lived in the back of my mind every day: fear that I wasn't smart enough, fear that I would fail somewhere everyone would notice, and fear that the thing I wanted most was never going to want me back. I didn't have a name for it then, just a constant tightness that made even small mistakes feel like proof I didn't belong. Some nights it was hard to separate feeling alone from feeling like something was actually wrong with me. My dad was the one who noticed I had gone quiet in a different way than usual. He didn't try to fix it all at once. He just reminded me, again, that I was an Obama girl and asked me to think about what that had always meant: not the absence of fear, but the decision to keep showing up inside it. That was the shift I needed. I stopped asking whether I belonged in that room and started asking what I was going to do with the fact that I was already in it. I won't pretend that fear disappeared overnight. Managing it became something I had to practice, the same way I practiced any other skill: naming what I was feeling instead of pushing it down, giving myself credit for showing up even on the hardest days, and slowly learning that one bad simulation or one silent lunch period wasn't a verdict on whether I belonged in tech. By the end of that program, I wasn't just surviving the isolation. I had built a steadier relationship with my own mind, one where fear could exist without running the whole show. That experience is part of why I care so deeply about mental health today, both my own and other people's. I make space for it in how I show up for my siblings, in the community service work I do with kids and college students navigating their own hard seasons, and in the UX/UI design work I hope to build a career on, work rooted in noticing what people need before they have the words to ask for it. The isolation I felt in that classroom taught me that mental health struggles are often invisible until someone is willing to look closer. I intend to keep being that person.

I can’t say I’ve always had the “going above and beyond” kind of spirit as a kid, but I can now. Growing up, I wasn't the greatest at sports or the most social, but I also wasn't the worst artistically or the least intellectual. I was how I felt—nothing special. Due to that feeling, I never tried anything because I feared failing. This was a problem I wrestled with for years, and I am still working through it. Despite not fully conquering my fear of failing just yet, taking the steps to do so has built a road where there was none before, all because of the one day of my life when I decided to step up my game. ​ My fear of failing became the source of my instinct to hit a wall and just sit there, wishing I had tried to climb over it. The fear of failure followed me from kindergarten to grade 9.th grade, and as you would imagine, it did not foster the best of emotions. I would constantly feel guilt, loneliness, hurt, frustration, and even rejection. But I never felt bitter or even envious of people who had what I was looking for. Instead, they served as examples of what I wanted to strive for and achieve in my future. ​ The habit of hitting a wall and crying lasted until COVID-19, when we were thrust into virtual schooling. That is when I realized that it's ok to fail; I’d have to try and fail over and over to earn the skills and experience I wanted to take with me throughout my life. I began to actively seek out opportunities for growth and development, pushing myself to step out of my comfort zone and take on new challenges. ​ I wanted to be more involved in my community, so I began recommending community projects people could do anywhere, at any time. I wanted to get into sports, so I began exercising and playing sports like badminton at home. I wanted to make friends, so I began talking and introducing myself to people I knew had the same morals and goals as me. All while still putting my education first and maintaining my grades. After the pandemic, everyone was thrust back into school. I was determined to put my newfound confidence to the test and achieve my dreams of having a social life, finding my hobbies, discovering my dream job, and still maintaining my academic success at the same time, and that’s exactly what I did. ​ In 10th grade, I stepped out of my comfort zone and applied for a Cisco Cybersecurity certification program. I understood that there were few women in STEM, but I did not realize I would face that reality so soon. Out of the 30 students accepted, there was only one girl, me. Stepping out of my comfort zone to then be put into a male-dominated environment made me believe I was insignificant and small-minded. Despite feeling these emotions, I pushed myself to feel comfortable and thrive. Although I did not earn a Cisco certification, I gained a desire to support women as they pursue their passions, despite uncomfortable working conditions. ​ At the same time, I became president of a volunteer club at my high school. Being president unexpectedly helped me overcome the challenges I was facing while in the Cisco program. I discovered my creative problem-solving skills by creating and executing service projects that members could do anytime and anywhere. I've been involved in the club since freshman year, and during COVID-19, I would suggest ways people could serve the community and earn service hours virtually. Once we returned to school, I was elected president, and I continued creating a plethora of service hour opportunities that benefited different parts of the community. For instance, people had a bunch of paper bags, so I created a project where we recycled them by cutting out shapes and letting kids color them to create Christmas decorations for nursing homes. Another time was when my mom wanted to throw away bags of yarn, so instead I asked members to make yarn bookmark kits at school so others could take the kits and make yarn bookmarks at home, which we donated to libraries. Even now, I use it to create fun and interactive lessons for my tutee, so she can continue to find joy in learning. ​ As a woman entering the field of STEM, I know my goals are tightly intertwined with pursuing my education. By earning my degree, I will not only become prosperous for myself but also to help society in hopes of inspiring individuals, especially women, to pursue their passions and make a difference in their communities. I also aim to continue feeding my desire to help others by becoming a leader in the community and specifically focusing on providing children with the opportunity to experience the joyous feeling of serving others and the importance of education. Giving to others has changed my goals, my skillsets, my experiences, and ultimately my life. I want to continue sharing my ideas and passion and lead with empathy and determination to empower people to support each other when entering STEM and to empower the community through creative problem solving and providing more opportunities for people to get involved in making a change. Because change can only happen if we support one another. ​ ​ ​

Do you know any kids that like brushing their teeth or eating their veggies? Most people don’t. Most people think of education and community service as burdens, like how kids think of brushing their teeth and eating their veggies. It's hard for people to see the benefits of community service and education because they are caught up in thinking about what we associate with education, like working hard and spending time on uninteresting subjects. I want to show people the benefits of education and that education doesn’t just mean going to school and learning how to read. It also means discovering and improving one's talents, skills, and knowledge. Even extracurricular activities are considered educational and beneficial because you get to learn and improve your talents, skills, and knowledge whether you're in soccer, book club, or drama. When it comes to book and paper learning, moving to schools where I was sometimes the only black girl in class, and being in a Cisco Cybersecurity program where I was the only girl in the class was an obstacle for me. I felt lonely, the course was fast-paced, and I didn’t even want to pursue Cybersecurity as a profession. Instead of dropping the class I adjusted my mindset and changed my study method to excel in the fast-paced male-dominated environment. Another obstacle that I struggled with for years was transportation. I could not play sports, join after-school clubs, or participate in volunteering events because I had transportation issues. It was frustrating and I felt like I was missing out on all the educational benefits of extracurricular activities like time management, teamwork, and creative problem-solving. Because of this I started playing sports at home and decided to create projects to help the community. I knew other kids had the same problem so I recommended service project ideas to a club I was in until I became president where I then started planning and leading projects that members could do during school or at home so that they could still help their communities despite time and transportation issues. Because of this, my club went from 28 members to 108 members all of whom love serving their community. The obstacles in my life led to educational experiences where I discovered my passion for computers, leading, and serving the community. Through community service, I found confidence, felt joy, and learned how to network, communicate, and collaborate with others. I want to encourage people to pursue education and community service by showing people that learning and serving isn’t a waste of time. They are the key to personal and communal growth, and we all find joy in growth.