My mental health has a significant impact on both my academic performance and my personal life, especially as a college student with autism, ADHD, and other special needs. College can be overwhelming for anyone, but for someone like me, the challenges are often magnified. Living on campus adds another layer of stress, with constant noise, social pressure, and sensory overload becoming part of everyday life. At times, it feels like I’m expected to adapt to a world that was not made for me—and that can be exhausting. Academically, I struggle most with time management, memory, and executive function. I often know what I need to do, but actually starting tasks and staying focused on them can be very difficult. Deadlines sneak up on me, and even when I study hard, I sometimes forget the material by the next day. This doesn’t mean I don’t care or that I’m not capable. It just means that my brain processes things differently. I try my best to keep up, but when I fall behind, the pressure builds and my mental health suffers. Depression and burnout can creep in quickly if I’m not careful. Socially, it can feel very isolating. Communication is hard. People often misread my tone or facial expressions, or they assume I’m rude or disinterested when I’m simply overwhelmed or unsure how to respond. Because of this, I don’t have many close friends, and that can take a toll on my mental health. Sometimes I wonder if I’m meant to be alone, even when I know I deserve connection and support like anyone else. To manage my mental health, I’ve developed several habits that help me stay grounded. Stimming is one of the most important tools I use. Whether it’s tapping, using fidget items, or listening to the same song on repeat, these behaviors help calm my nervous system when everything feels too loud or too fast. I also use grounding techniques, especially when I feel a meltdown or shutdown coming on. This can be something as simple as holding a cold object, focusing on my breathing, or listing things I can see and hear around me. I make it a priority to create a calm environment in my dorm room. This includes soft lighting, noise-canceling headphones, and a predictable routine. I also try to advocate for myself when I need accommodations or extra support, even though asking for help is hard. I remind myself that taking care of my mental health is not a weakness, but a necessity. While college is incredibly overwhelming at times, I’ve learned that I can succeed when I give myself grace and use the tools that work for me. My mental health journey is ongoing, but it has taught me to be more self-aware, patient, and resilient. I may need to do things differently, but that doesn’t mean I cannot thrive.

As someone who is autistic and lives with both ASD and ADHD, I have faced many challenges in how I relate to the world and how the world sees me. Growing up, there was always worry about how I would turn out, especially since I also have special needs and came from a low-income immigrant background. Still, my family and I made do with what we had, and I learned to adapt in a world that is not built for people like me. My journey has shaped me into someone who not only understands what it feels like to be left behind, but who also wants to prevent others from feeling that same loneliness. Because of my experiences, I try to be there for others who struggle with mental health. Whether they are neurodivergent like me or just need someone to listen, I do my best to offer patience and empathy. I may not always know the right thing to say, and social interactions can be difficult, but I know how it feels to be judged, misunderstood, or ignored. That understanding allows me to create a space where others feel seen and valued. Sometimes, just sitting with someone or validating their feelings can be more powerful than giving advice. In the future, I want to use my passion for film to help people like me feel less alone. My dream is to open a film studio that focuses on neurodivergent artists, where memory, timing, and networking are not obstacles but areas we support each other through. If that is not possible, I would love to become a university professor, guiding students who may feel lost or overlooked. My goal in either path is to create emotionally safe environments where people can grow without fear of being labeled weird or rude, just because they express themselves differently. I have been hurt by the way people sometimes treat me. They assume I am stupid or unfriendly when I am not. I try my best, even when making friends feels impossible. But these struggles have also given me a deep desire to help others who feel the same way. That is how I want to make a difference: with compassion, creativity, and care.

My experience with mental health has shaped almost every part of my life, especially my goals, relationships, and how I see the world. Living with autism has always made it hard for me to connect with others. I struggled with social cues, communication, and understanding what people expected from me. Because of that, I spent a lot of time alone. Most people did not want to be my friend, and that isolation led to feelings of deep sadness and depression. It hurt to see others forming bonds so easily while I stayed on the outside, even when I tried my best to fit in. For a long time, I believed something was wrong with me. That belief shaped how I saw myself and my place in the world. I became more guarded and quiet, and I learned to rely on myself for comfort and strength. It took time, but I slowly began to understand that my mind just works differently. That difference is not a flaw. It is a part of who I am. These experiences have made me more empathetic and more aware of how others might be struggling, even if it is not obvious. They have also shaped my goals. I want to create spaces in the world where people like me are not just accepted but supported and celebrated. Whether I achieve that through film or education, I want to give others what I needed growing up: kindness, patience, and understanding. Mental health is still something I work through every day, but it has taught me to listen more closely, feel more deeply, and care more fully. It shaped me not by breaking me, but by showing me where healing and change are most needed.

Growing up in a low-income immigrant family shaped every part of who I am today. My family came to this country with hope and determination, but very few resources. Money was always tight and every dollar mattered. Things became even harder when my dad left. My mom did her best to keep us going, and we learned how to make do with what we had. Life was never easy, but we kept moving forward. Being autistic and having both ASD and ADHD added another layer of difficulty to everything. My family worried a lot about how I would grow up and what my future would look like. I struggled with communication, memory, and focus. Building and keeping relationships has always been a challenge. People sometimes assume I am not trying or that I am not intelligent, but that is far from the truth. I try my best every single day. It hurts to be misunderstood or left behind, especially when I know how hard I work just to keep up. Even with all of these challenges, I found something that made me feel alive: film. Movies gave me a way to express myself when words felt too difficult. I could see myself in stories and imagine new worlds where people like me were not left out. Film became more than a passion. It became a goal. I want to open a film studio for neurodivergent people like myself, a place where our voices and talents are not overlooked. In the film industry, networking, timing, and memory are often everything, but those are also the areas where people like me struggle the most. I want to build a space where those challenges are understood and supported, not judged. If that dream does not come true, I still want to make a difference. I would love to be a university professor one day. Education changed my life, and I want to help others like me see that they have potential and value, even when the world tries to say otherwise. I want to be the kind of teacher who understands what it feels like to be different and makes space for that in the classroom. My background taught me to be resourceful, patient, and resilient. I have learned how to keep going even when it feels impossible. I have also learned how important it is to speak up for others who are going through similar struggles. My values are shaped by everything I went through: honesty, empathy, and perseverance. I know what it is like to be overlooked, and I never want to make anyone else feel that way. I may not have had many advantages growing up, but I had love, determination, and a deep desire to prove that I could still achieve something meaningful. I am still learning, still growing, but I believe in the future I want to build—not just for myself, but for others like me.

As a first-generation autistic Latina from a low-income immigrant family, my pursuit of higher education is not simply a personal goal, it's a commitment to those who have sacrificed everything so I could dream bigger. My parents came to this country with little more than hope and a relentless work ethic. They poured every ounce of their strength into giving me opportunities they never had. Though I am now in a single parent household, I carry their dreams with me, determined to transform them into something tangible. Not just for myself, but for all of us. Growing up in a household where money was always tight, I learned the value of every dollar. My mother worked long, physically demanding hours for minimum pay, often putting their own needs aside just to ensure I had school supplies, food on the table, and a warm place to sleep. Despite their sacrifices, the financial stress was constant, shaping many of my early experiences. These challenges didn’t weaken me; they built resilience, empathy, and a fire in me to change our story. In addition to financial struggles, I navigate the world through the lens of autism, specifically with ADHD and ASD. These diagnoses came with their own obstacles: sensory sensitivities, difficulty with executive functioning, and the exhausting process of masking in a world that often misunderstands neurodivergence. But instead of seeing my differences as limitations, I’ve come to view them as unique strengths. They’ve made me observant, empathetic, and determined to advocate not just for myself, but for others who feel unseen. Working while studying is not easy. I’ve taken on jobs that barely cover my expenses, often working late into the night just to afford basic necessities. Despite my efforts, it’s rarely enough. I’ve been actively searching for work-study opportunities that align with my academic goals, hoping to find roles that will not only support me financially but also help me grow professionally. The stress of juggling school and work, especially while managing my neurodivergence, is immense, but I keep going. I have to. Because I am not just doing this for me. I am pursuing higher education so I can finally break the cycle of poverty that has held my family back for generations. I want to build a stable, meaningful career that allows me to support my mother the way she's supported me. I dream of the day I can say, “You don’t have to work anymore—I’ve got us now.” Being a first-gen student is a tremendous responsibility, but it is also a privilege. I am proud of my identity, my background, and my neurodivergence. These parts of me, once seen as barriers, are now the foundation of my purpose. Education is my path not only to financial independence but to justice. For my family, my community, and my younger self who never stopped hoping for something better.

As someone from a low-income immigrant family, my journey has never been easy. Every step forward has meant pushing against the odds—financial hardship, cultural barriers, and the constant weight of being misunderstood. On top of that, I live with Autism Spectrum Disorder and ADHD, which makes navigating the world even more complicated. My dream is to become a filmmaker and open a film studio specifically designed for autistic creators like me. I want to change the way the world sees people like us, but more than that, I want to give people like me a space to thrive. This scholarship would not only lift a heavy burden off my shoulders, but it would also help me build the future I have fought so hard to believe in. Growing up, I was often ignored. People didn’t believe in me. Teachers, classmates, even some family members saw me as someone who would never lead, never create, and never succeed. I was labeled difficult, distracted, and different. They did not understand that I was not lacking potential. I was simply lacking support. I found peace in film and storytelling because it allowed me to express what I could not always say with words. Creating stories became my way of being seen, even when no one was really looking. Despite everything, I held onto my dream. I want to make films that tell stories from autistic and neurodivergent perspectives. I want to show what it feels like to exist in a world that is always too loud, too fast, and too confusing. I also want to show the beauty of thinking differently. I believe that film is not just a tool for entertainment but a powerful way to bring understanding and empathy into the world. One day, I want to create a film studio where autistic creators can work comfortably, share their visions, and be treated with dignity and respect. But dreams like this take resources. Coming from a struggling household, even paying for basic education is a challenge. There are many times I have wondered if I should give up my dream just to help pay bills or work full time to support my family. That is why this scholarship would mean so much to me. It would give me the chance to focus on my studies, improve my skills, and pursue opportunities in film without carrying the heavy weight of financial pressure. It would mean that someone believes in me, maybe for the first time in a real, meaningful way. I do not just want success for myself. I want to bring others with me. I want to return to under-resourced communities and provide access to film equipment, mentorship, and training for other autistic youth. I want to be the person I needed when I was younger. I want to be someone who sees potential, offers support, and says, "You matter. You can do this." This scholarship would be more than a financial gift. It would be a sign that my story matters. It would bring me one step closer to turning struggle into strength, and dreams into reality.

Growing up as a person with both Autism Spectrum Disorder and ADHD, I have experienced firsthand how isolating and overwhelming the world can be, especially in creative industries like film. There is so much noise, distraction, and confusion in environments that are not built for neurodivergent minds. Often, autistic individuals are left in the dust, overlooked, and unsupported. This is especially true in under-resourced communities, where access to artistic tools, mentorship, and inclusive spaces is already limited. My goal is to change that. One day, I want to open a film studio specifically designed for autistic people to thrive; a space that not only embraces neurodivergence but sees it as a creative strength. The studio I envision will serve as a sanctuary from the chaos of traditional film environments. It will be quiet, structured, and sensory-friendly, with spaces for people to take breaks and work at their own pace. The focus will not just be on making films but on building confidence, collaboration, and community. Too often, young people on the spectrum are told they are too much, not enough, or simply not suited for creative leadership. I want to provide a place where they are told the opposite. I want to say, “You belong here. Your voice matters. Your vision is powerful.” In many under-resourced communities, there is a deep lack of access to the tools and mentorship needed to break into film and visual arts. I believe that representation begins with opportunity. If young autistic artists are given the resources to create, they will tell stories that have never been seen or heard before. That is what the world needs more of—new perspectives, not polished conformity. I want to partner with schools, community centers, and local organizations to offer workshops, internships, and classes that introduce youth to storytelling, camera work, editing, and directing, all within an environment that respects and supports their needs. But more than just teaching skills, I want to create a culture of belonging. That starts by hiring neurodivergent staff, mentors, and leaders who can relate to the struggles of our youth. It includes listening to the voices of autistic creators at every level of decision-making. And it means investing in long-term growth, not just one-time projects. My dream is to build a pipeline from the classroom to the film set to the big screen, showing young autistic people that not only can they be part of the industry, but they can lead it. Art has the power to heal, inspire, and connect. For many autistic youth, it can also be a lifeline—a way to communicate when words fall short, a place to feel in control, and a tool to make sense of a noisy world. Through visual arts, and especially film, I plan to give back by creating a future where these young voices are seen, heard, and celebrated.

I was diagnosed with both Autism and ADHD when I was five years old. From that moment on, life became a challenge that I didn’t fully understand at the time. I didn’t know what it meant to be different, but I felt it every day. Despite getting extra help, many teachers still treated me like I was stupid or just being difficult. They didn’t see how hard I was trying. Some assumed I didn’t care, but in truth, I cared so much that every failure felt like the end of the world. School was one of the hardest parts of my life. I didn’t fit in, no matter how much I wanted to. Making friends was like trying to speak a language I hadn’t learned yet. Most of the time, I was either ignored or made fun of. Kids would laugh at how I talked or the things I was interested in. Some of them were cruel, and I carried those moments with me long after they happened. I wondered if I would ever find a place where I belonged. But somehow, I made it through. It was not easy. Every year brought new challenges, new misunderstandings, and more reasons to doubt myself. Still, something in me refused to give up despite my hatred for education. I held onto my passion for stories, for movies, and for creating. That love kept me going when nothing else did. And now, I’m studying film in college; a major I truly love. For the first time, I feel like I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. Even now, things are still hard. I still struggle with social situations. I still have to explain myself more than others do. But I’ve also become stronger. I see how the world treats people like me—how easy it is for us to be pushed aside, especially in industries like film, which I have taken notice of lately, is known for being exclusive and full of cliques (not just in the industry but in the classes too, especially with the women and cinemaphiles). That makes me want to fight even harder. I want to become someone who can open doors for others like me. I want to create a space where autistic people can work, create, and thrive without being judged or excluded. My dream is to start a studio that is truly autism-friendly. A place where differences are not just accepted but celebrated. A place where people are treated with respect, not suspicion. I want to prove that autistic people are not broken or lesser—we are brilliant in our own ways, and we deserve to be seen and heard. People have tried to take my future from me with their assumptions, their cruelty, and their ignorance. But I am still here. I am still dreaming. And I am determined to build a life I can be proud of—not just for myself, but for every autistic person who has ever felt like they didn’t belong. We do belong. I will make sure the world knows it.

Mental health has shaped every part of who I am. As a Latina, a first generation student, someone who was raised by a single mother, and a person living with autism and ADHD, my experience with mental health has been complicated but powerful. It has changed how I see the world, how I connect with people, and what I want to do with my future. Growing up, I often felt like I was not fully understood. I was told I was too much or not enough. Teachers and classmates did not know how to respond to someone like me. I was made fun of for the way I acted, the way I spoke, and how my brain worked. People doubted my abilities simply because I did things differently. These experiences made me feel isolated and ashamed. For a long time, I believed what they said. I thought maybe they were right. Maybe I was not capable. But over time, I began to see my mind as a strength, not a weakness. Therapy, support from a few kind mentors, and a lot of self reflection helped me understand that I am not broken. I just experience life in a unique way. My autism and ADHD give me a different perspective. I notice things others miss. I see stories everywhere. I feel deeply. And those things make me powerful, not less. My relationship with my mother also helped shape my beliefs. She worked hard to give me a chance at a better life. She did not always understand my mental health challenges, but she always believed in me. That belief became the foundation I needed to start believing in myself. Mental health has made me more empathetic and more determined. I understand what it feels like to be left out, to be underestimated, and to fight battles no one else can see. That understanding pushes me to create space for others who are often ignored. I want to build a future where people like me are not just seen but celebrated. That is why I want to start my own film studio one day. I want to tell stories that matter. Stories about people who are different, who struggle, who rise. Stories that reflect real lives and emotions, not just what is popular or easy to sell. I want to hire people who have been overlooked. I want to build a place where mental health is understood and supported. If not, I'd like to teach in the university sector, to make sure that the person sitting alone or doesn't know how to speak knows that they matter. My dream is not just about film. It is about justice. It is about giving a voice to the voiceless and power to the powerless. Every time someone told me I was not good enough, they added fuel to my fire. My experience with mental health has taught me resilience, compassion, and purpose. I am not where I want to be yet, but I know who I am. I am proud of my journey. And I am ready to turn my pain into something beautiful.

My favorite athlete to cheer for on Team USA is Katie Ledecky. She is one of the most accomplished swimmers in history and represents everything that is great about Olympic competition. Watching her swim is inspiring because of the way she pushes herself in every race. Her determination, discipline, and focus are unmatched. She does not just win races, she dominates them with a calm confidence that makes it clear how much hard work she has put in. Katie Ledecky has broken multiple world records and earned numerous gold medals, but what stands out even more is her character. She remains humble despite her success and is always quick to credit her coaches, teammates, and family. This shows her respect for the sport and the people around her. She competes with grace and handles both victory and challenge with maturity. Another reason I enjoy cheering for Katie is her consistency. From the London Olympics in 2012, where she surprised the world with a gold medal at just fifteen years old, to her continued success in recent years, she has stayed at the top of her sport. She never seems to lose focus, and that kind of drive is rare. Katie is also a role model outside the pool. She takes her education seriously and often encourages young people to dream big and work hard. She balances being a world-class athlete with being a thoughtful and grounded person. Cheering for Katie Ledecky feels easy because she represents the best of Team USA. She combines elite athletic ability with admirable values. Every time she dives into the pool, she brings a sense of hope and excitement that makes watching her an unforgettable experience. She inspires not only swimmers but anyone striving to be their best.

I first came across Sabrina Carpenter when I saw her on "Girl Meets World". To be honest, I wasn’t a fan of the show. I was a fan of the original "Boy Meets World" and it just didn’t click with me... but something about Sabrina stood out. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. It wasn’t until years later that I stumbled upon her music, and that’s when everything changed. In a world where pop music often feels formulaic and overproduced, Sabrina Carpenter is genuinely refreshing. She brings a unique charm and vintage aesthetic that sets her apart from many of her peers. From her fashion sense to her music videos, there's a throwback elegance mixed with modern confidence that feels effortlessly cool. Her voice has both warmth and strength, and she knows how to make her lyrics playful, personal, and emotionally honest all at once. What I really admire is how she’s grown as an artist. Each album shows more depth, more creative risks, and a stronger sense of identity. Songs like “Espresso” and “Juno” are incredibly fun, but they also reveal her cleverness as a songwriter. You can tell she’s in control of her narrative and unafraid to blend humor, vulnerability, and empowerment in her music. Sabrina Carpenter’s career has impacted me by reminding me that there’s still room in the mainstream for authenticity and artistry. She doesn’t follow trends- she sets them in her own way. Her work inspires me to embrace individuality and to find joy in the unexpected. Whether it's through her lyrics, her visuals, or just the energy she brings to her performances, she continues to carve out a space that feels genuine and exciting. I’m proud to be a fan of someone who’s not afraid to be different.

As a longtime fan of The Wizard of Oz—both the original books by L. Frank Baum and the iconic 1939 technicolor film from MGM—I was instantly drawn to Wicked for how it reimagines a world I’ve always loved. What makes Wicked so compelling isn’t just its dazzling spectacle or unforgettable music, but the way it deepens the familiar characters and themes, particularly around identity, perception, and the cost of being different. At its core, Wicked challenges the binary of good versus evil that The Wizard of Oz once painted in broad strokes. By centering the story around Elphaba—the so-called Wicked Witch of the West—it invites us to rethink everything we thought we knew. She’s not a villain, but a misunderstood, intelligent, and passionate young woman whose green skin and strong will make her an outsider. Her journey resonates because it’s about discovering who you are beneath the labels society imposes on you. The costumes and set design bring a fresh, fantastical energy to the world of Oz, blending steampunk, fantasy, and early 20th-century influences to create something visually stunning yet rooted in the original’s charm. It’s both nostalgic and entirely new—a difficult balance that Wicked pulls off beautifully. What I love most is how Wicked doesn’t erase the magic of Oz—it adds layers to it. It asks hard questions about power, justice, and truth while still delivering unforgettable melodies and theatrical wonder. It’s a story that says being different isn’t a curse—it’s a strength. And for anyone who ever felt out of place or misjudged, Wicked offers something powerful: the chance to see yourself in a so-called witch who was never wicked at all.

Growing up, arts education was more than just an extracurricular activity—it became a lifeline for self-expression, discovery, and growth. I was never the kind of person who stuck to one specific medium. Instead, I explored everything I could get my hands on: animation, film, acting, and traditional painting. Each art form opened up a new lens through which I could understand the world and myself. These creative outlets helped me build confidence, connect with others, and shape the person I am today. As a kid who was diagnosed with autism, I often found it hard to articulate my thoughts verbally. I was sensitive, curious, and always a little lost in my own imagination. When I began experimenting with visual arts, I realized I could speak through images, movement, and color in ways that words sometimes couldn’t capture. Painting taught me patience and how to find beauty in imperfection. Animation introduced me to storytelling and how still images could come to life. Film gave me a love for narrative, pacing, and perspective, while acting helped me understand emotions—both mine and others’—on a deeper level. Through these experiences, I started to see creativity not just as a hobby, but as a language. One person who played a huge role in my artistic journey was my middle school after-school counselor. He wasn’t just the person who supervised us—he actively taught us drawing and animation, and he made those afternoons the highlight of my week. He was super chill, always encouraging, and genuinely believed in every student’s creative potential. What made him so impactful wasn’t just his artistic skill, but his attitude. He never made art feel intimidating or “exclusive.” Instead, he created a space where we could try, fail, and grow. His belief in me, even when my lines were wobbly or my characters off-model, gave me the push I needed to keep going. I also partly give thanks to Bob Ross, whom I discovered on YouTube one day and never stopped painting. He inspired me to know that it doesn't take a genius to do it, and that anyone can paint. I don’t think I realized it at the time, but those early experiences of being supported in a creative environment left a permanent mark on me. They taught me that my voice mattered, that art could be messy and emotional and still meaningful. That counselor helped me see that pursuing art wasn’t about being perfect—it was about being honest and finding joy in the process. Today, I still carry those lessons with me. Whether I’m working on a short film, sketching, or experimenting with new media, I approach each project with the same curiosity and excitement I had as a kid. Arts education didn’t just teach me techniques—it taught me how to think differently, how to express myself, and how to stay connected to my inner voice. For that, I’ll always be grateful.

Ever since I first picked up a camera, I saw more than just a tool—I saw a voice. As a Film Production major at Arizona State University, I’ve come to understand that storytelling through film is more than art; it’s a means of connection, empathy, and change. My ultimate goal is to become a director and to open my own studio—one that provides opportunities specifically for neurodivergent individuals like myself. This isn’t just a career dream. It’s personal, necessary, and deeply rooted in the experiences I’ve lived as someone with Asperger’s and ADHD. Growing up, I was often misunderstood. Teachers, peers—even family at times—mistook my differences for laziness, weirdness, or disinterest. I wasn’t the loudest kid in class. I wasn’t the most social. I had trouble with eye contact, group work, and sitting still, and I struggled to articulate my thoughts in the way that neurotypical people expect. But I felt things deeply. I observed everything. I imagined entire worlds during class and replayed moments over and over, thinking about how I would capture them on screen if given the chance. My love of film started as an escape but quickly became a lifeline. Movies offered me an emotional vocabulary I couldn’t always express with words. When I watched the work of directors like Steven Spielberg, Vincente Minelli, Michael Curtiz, and Damien Chazelle, I saw pieces of myself. Their films embrace the strange, the surreal, and the deeply human—something I want to do in my own way. But I don’t just want to make films for my own voice—I want to help others like me find theirs. There are so many creative, passionate, and insightful neurodivergent people who are pushed to the margins because they don’t fit the mold of how society expects people to think, speak, or work. I know how hard it is to be in a group where your ideas are dismissed before they’re even understood, or when your need for quiet is interpreted as being uncooperative. I want to build a production studio that becomes a haven for this kind of untapped brilliance. A place where “different” isn’t a deficit, but a driving force for innovation. To be clear, I know this won’t be easy. The film industry is notoriously competitive, even for the most well-connected and resourced individuals. I come from modest means, and I don’t have a network in the industry. What I do have is persistence, creativity, and a story that I know matters. With the support of this scholarship, I can continue my education without the added weight of financial strain, and more importantly, I can stay focused on growing into the kind of filmmaker who creates space for others—not just myself. While directing is my first love, I’m also drawn to academia. If for any reason my path as a filmmaker doesn’t go as planned—or even if it does—I would love to teach film history at the university level. I think there is an immense value in helping students understand where cinema came from, how it evolved, and how it reflects the cultures that produced it. Film isn’t just entertainment—it’s political, philosophical, and deeply personal. I’d want to show students how to look at a movie not just for what it shows, but for what it says and how it says it. And I think my experience as someone who processes the world differently would bring a fresh perspective to that conversation. When you’re neurodivergent, you spend much of your life being told what you can’t do. “You’re not focused enough for college.” “You’re too awkward for leadership.” “You’re too sensitive for a cutthroat industry.” I’ve heard all of this. And yet, here I am—at one of the top public universities in the country, pursuing one of the most collaborative and competitive majors. That alone is a form of resistance. But I want to do more than just survive. I want to thrive. I want to graduate not just with a degree, but with a body of work that shows what someone like me can accomplish when given the space and support to succeed. Receiving this scholarship would do more than reduce the financial burden of tuition and equipment costs—it would validate a journey that has so often felt invisible. It would be a signal that someone out there sees value in a voice like mine. That kind of recognition, especially for someone who has spent so much time feeling overlooked, can be life-changing. It would allow me to focus on developing my craft, collaborating with peers, and creating films that explore identity, isolation, imagination, and hope—all from a neurodivergent lens. In the future, I plan to intern at studios that align with inclusive values, build a strong reel of short films and documentaries, and eventually launch a small indie production company that hires neurodivergent writers, cinematographers, editors, and artists. I want to mentor young people who feel like they don’t belong anywhere else, and show them that their quirks, their hyperfixations, and even their social challenges are not only acceptable—but valuable in storytelling. My long-term vision is for my studio to be known not just for the art it produces, but for the culture it fosters—one of empathy, patience, and innovation. A place where people are not expected to mask who they are to be considered “professional.” I know this sounds ambitious, but I believe the best art comes from people who are finally allowed to be themselves. I often say that being different isn’t what held me back—being misunderstood did. This scholarship is a chance to rewrite that narrative. It’s an opportunity to invest in someone who doesn’t always fit in but who has something deeply meaningful to offer. I want to show that being neurodivergent isn’t a limitation—it’s a different way of seeing, thinking, and feeling. And in film, that difference can be everything. Thank you for considering me. With your support, I won’t just graduate—I’ll help open the doors for others like me to dream, create, and be seen.

Growing up with ADHD and Asperger’s has shaped every part of my life—especially my relationship with education. It’s not an easy mix to live with, especially in a traditional school environment. My mind works differently, and often that meant teachers didn’t understand me. I wasn’t the kid who acted out, but I struggled with focus, with processing things the way others did, and with how people perceived me. Many teachers thought I wasn’t trying, but the truth is, I’ve always been trying—trying harder than anyone realized. I want a better future for myself and for my family, and that’s been my biggest motivation, even when things felt impossible. I come from a first-generation family where college was never a given. My immigrant parents worked hard to give me opportunities they never had, and I’ve always felt a responsibility to do something meaningful with that. But navigating higher education with ADHD and Asperger’s comes with unique challenges. I have to work twice as hard to stay focused, to manage time, and to keep my anxiety in check. I’m not asking for pity—I’m just being real about the journey. Despite the challenges, I’ve never stopped pushing forward, because I believe in where I’m going. Right now, I’m pursuing a degree in film production. To some people, that might not sound practical, but for me, storytelling is everything. Film gives people like me a voice. It allows us to show the world how we see and feel things, in ways that words sometimes can't. One of my biggest dreams is to open a production studio specifically for neurodivergent creators—people with ADHD, autism, dyslexia, and other learning differences. Our perspectives matter, and I want to build a space where we can create without limits or judgment. I know ADHD and Asperger’s are common learning disabilities, but that doesn’t make the journey easier—or the fight less real. What makes me a good candidate for this scholarship is not just my diagnosis, but what I’ve chosen to do with it. I’ve turned struggle into motivation. I’ve learned to advocate for myself, even when it’s uncomfortable. I’ve kept moving forward, even when I felt like giving up. I’ve learned how to channel my hyperfocus into creativity, and my sensitivity into storytelling that connects with people. I’ve taken the very things that once held me back and turned them into strengths. This scholarship would be more than just financial help—it would be a vote of confidence in someone who’s always been told they don’t quite fit the mold. I’m ready to break that mold. I want to prove that being different isn’t a weakness; it’s a superpower. I’m not just doing this for me—I’m doing it for every kid who feels misunderstood, who learns differently, and who dreams big anyway. Thank you for considering me.

Transferring to Arizona State University as a film student was supposed to be a new beginning — and in many ways, it has been. The campus is vibrant, the classes are interesting, and the sunshine, though unbearable at times, feels refreshing. But I’d be lying if I said it’s been easy. Making friends, finding collaborators, and simply feeling understood have all been incredibly hard. I’m autistic and have ADHD, and because of that, people often assume I’m not smart enough, or too slow to keep up. It hurts — not just because they’re wrong, but because they don’t even give me a chance. It usually happens more often than not, the same old, same old for me. Still, I’m here. I didn’t come this far just to be dismissed. I came to tell stories. I came to make people laugh, cry, dream, and escape — even if only for a little while. I want to make films that give people a break from the heaviness of the world. Too many blockbusters feel hollow. Too many indie films try to be ironic or edgy. Where’s the warmth? Where’s the joy? Where’s the soul? That’s what I want to bring. And more importantly, I want to bring people like me along with me. Someday, I dream of opening a film studio built by and for neurodivergent creatives — a place where autistic and ADHD storytellers, editors, musicians, animators, and writers can collaborate without being underestimated or left out. There’s so much hidden talent among us — but the industry rarely gives us a chance. I want to change that. I want to build a space where our quirks are assets, not liabilities. A space where no one is made to feel like a burden for needing a little extra time, or for thinking differently. If not, I'd like to teach at a university level and share a little bit of that filmmaking joy. Because the truth is, being autistic isn’t just a challenge — it’s also a gift. My brain notices details others miss. I feel things deeply. I see connections and patterns that help me tell stories in unique, emotional, and often whimsical ways. My ADHD gives me a spark — a wild imagination and a constant hunger to create. It can be overwhelming, yes, but it also fuels my passion for film. Right now, I’m still figuring things out. I still sit alone sometimes, wondering why it’s so hard to just belong. But film has always been my safe place — and now, it’s becoming my voice. I want to make movies that matter, movies that make people feel a little less alone, because that’s what I’ve always needed. And even if I don’t have a big circle yet, I know that one day I’ll find — or build — the community I’ve been looking for. So if you ask me who I am, I’ll say this: I’m a storyteller with a different rhythm. I’m someone who’s been counted out, but refuses to be quiet. I’m someone who still believes in joy. And one day, I’ll help others like me find their voice too. https://youtu.be/NdoP1MBN8rM?si=e6rFyZWm1K98l1Vx

My faith has quietly but deeply shaped the way I lead and connect with others. It isn’t loud or always obvious, but it has been a steady guide in moments of uncertainty, especially when I’ve struggled with focus, social expectations, or feeling different because of my autism and ADHD. Where I might have once seen those things as setbacks, my faith has taught me that every part of me was made with intention—and that even my challenges can be used for good. That belief has helped me step into leadership with more purpose and confidence. One moment that stands out to me happened during a group project in school. Our team was falling apart—people were arguing, losing interest, and falling behind. Normally, I would have stayed quiet or let someone else take charge. But I felt something inside push me to speak up. I remembered a verse that says, “Encourage one another and build each other up” (1 Thessalonians 5:11). So I tried to do that. I didn’t come in as a boss or expert. Instead, I checked in with people one-on-one. I encouraged them, asked how I could help, and shared some of my own struggles too. At first, it felt awkward. My thoughts come quickly, and sometimes I talk in ways that others don’t immediately understand. But I stayed patient—and so did they. Slowly, people opened up. We began to work better together. I wasn’t just leading through tasks; I was leading through empathy, honesty, and encouragement. I didn’t have to be the loudest voice in the room—I just had to be a steady one. And that’s something I think my faith helped me see: that leadership doesn’t always mean standing in front, it can also mean walking beside. That experience changed how I view my future. I used to think that leadership was for people who were naturally confident or had everything "together." But now I believe that real leadership is about lifting others up, especially when you understand what it’s like to struggle. My faith reminds me that I have value, even when my brain works differently. It reminds me that compassion, not perfection, is what makes a leader. Moving forward, I want to lead in ways that create space for others to feel safe, understood, and capable—especially those who feel different or overlooked. I want to use my voice, not because it’s the loudest, but because it’s honest. I believe that faith, when lived out quietly but sincerely, has the power to build bridges between people. And if I can help even one person feel seen and encouraged, that will be leadership worth growing into.

I create because I have to. Art is my language when words fail, and in a world that often overlooks people like me—people with ADHD and Autism—it’s how I remind myself, and others, that I am here, and I matter. My mind moves fast, jumps around, builds entire worlds while others are still reading the first line of the script. That doesn’t make me slow or broken—it makes me different. And in art, different is powerful. Growing up, I was often misunderstood. Group projects were nightmares because no one wanted to work with me. People assumed I was too “difficult,” too “distracted,” or just not capable. But what they missed is that my neurodivergence is also my superpower. I see connections others don’t. I feel stories deeply. I notice the rhythm in silence and the drama in stillness. That’s why I’m drawn to storytelling across genres—action, drama, horror—and why I’ll never stop creating. Each project I dream up is a chance to prove that I’m not “less than.” I’m more. I'm more passionate, more imaginative, more driven. One of my dream projects is a return to the golden age of movie musicals, the kind of elegant, heartfelt storytelling that you saw in films like "An American in Paris" or "White Christmas". Today’s musicals are often loud and over-produced, like there is so much going on that it seems that the filmmakers forgot how to slow down. Mine would be quiet in its strength, rich in emotion, simple yet artistically profound. Think real sets, timeless music, and choreography that tells a story instead of just showing off. I want to create a film that reminds people of the beauty of restraint and the magic of melody—a love letter to cinema’s past, through a modern lens. Even with advancements in AI, digital tools, and automatic generators, I believe the human spirit is what gives art its soul. Technology can assist, but it can’t feel. I can feel. And I will pour that emotion into every frame, every character, every line. My autism and ADHD don’t hold me back—they give me a perspective that is rare, raw, and deeply needed in today’s creative world. This is my why: to tell stories that prove people like me belong in the spotlight too.

Not long ago, I went on a tour of a camera and film equipment warehouse with my film school. On paper, it should have been a dream—surrounded by the tools of the craft I love, in a space humming with creative potential. But in reality, the day felt like walking through a room full of conversations that had already started without me. I was the only new person in the group, and despite my excitement to be there, I struggled deeply with how invisible I felt. The weight of being different—of feeling different—pressed down on me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I’m autistic and I have ADHD. These aren’t just clinical terms; they shape how I interact with the world. They mean that social cues don’t always come naturally to me, and that while my mind can be wildly creative, it also needs structure and understanding. In group settings, especially ones where people already know each other, I can feel like an outsider watching a film I wasn’t cast in. That day, I tried to talk with others, to ask questions, to connect. But the sense of fraternity among the others—the casual shorthand, the inside jokes—was a barrier I couldn’t break through. My words felt like they hovered in the air and then disappeared. I went home that day deeply sad, and more than anything, tired. Not from the walking or the learning, but from trying so hard to belong. I questioned whether I had a place in this world that I love—film—and whether people like me were allowed to be a part of it. I had never cried so hard that night. But in the weeks since, I’ve realized that day was also a turning point. It didn’t just expose my challenges; it highlighted my strength. I showed up. I stayed present, even when it hurt. That matters. This experience has shaped how I understand myself—not as someone who is broken or less than, but as someone whose path will look different. I’ve learned to be gentler with myself, to celebrate effort over outcome. It also taught me that the creative world, as inspiring as it is, still has a long way to go in embracing neurodiversity. And maybe part of my purpose is to help change that. In my community, I now see how easily people can fall through the cracks—how important it is to look out for the quiet ones, the ones trying but struggling. I’ve become more mindful of how I treat newcomers, and I hope that one day I can create spaces—on set, in classrooms, in life—where someone like me doesn’t feel so alone. Autism is not a flaw. It’s a different way of experiencing the world. And while that tour was hard, it reminded me that being different doesn’t make me less capable of belonging—it just means I may have to build my own kind of community.

A lot of times, I feel in a weird place regarding what I am, knowing of my Latino roots, but truly an American at heart. Both of my parents were born in Guatemala and came to the United States seeking a better future as her citizens. Their courage and sacrifices have deeply shaped how I see the world—not only through the lens of our shared culture, but also through the challenges of navigating it with Asperger’s syndrome and ADHD. In many ways, I’ve always felt like I live between worlds. At home, I’m surrounded by the warmth of my family’s heritage—Spanish music, traditional foods, and stories from the small villages my parents grew up in. This cultural richness has given me a deep respect for resilience, humility, and hard work. But outside that circle, life has been more complicated. Living with autism and ADHD means my brain works differently. I notice details others miss, I think deeply and creatively, and I often see connections that surprise people. But the world isn’t always kind to those who don’t fit the mold. I’ve been misjudged more times than I can count—people assume I’m unintelligent, or worse, that I have nothing to offer. It’s heartbreaking to feel invisible, or like people look through me rather than at me. This happens even now, and it doesn’t get easier. Despite this, I’ve never stopped dreaming. I want to open my own film studio one day—a place where voices like mine can be heard and celebrated. I believe stories have power, and that through film, we can change how people see those who are different. As a second path, I’ve also considered teaching at the university level. Sharing knowledge, guiding others, and helping students find their voices sounds just as rewarding. My background—both culturally and neurologically—has taught me to be patient, observant, and empathetic. I know what it feels like to be overlooked, and I never want others to experience that pain. If anything, my experiences have helped me see the world with more depth and compassion than many give me credit for. Being Hispanic and neurodivergent hasn’t made life easy. But it has made me strong, thoughtful, and driven. I’m not here to be pitied—I’m here to create, to teach, and to lead. And one day, I hope the world will stop looking past people like me and finally start seeing the value we bring.

Art has always been more than just a hobby for me—it's a lifeline. Living with both Autism and ADHD means my mind is constantly buzzing with thoughts, sensations, and emotions that I often struggle to express with words. Sometimes, it feels like my brain speaks a language no one else understands. That’s where art comes in. Even if my drawings or doodles don’t look like much to others, to me they’re entire stories, feelings, or moments captured in color and line. Growing up autistic, I learned early on that people don’t always have the patience to understand me. Conversations can be overwhelming—too fast, too loud, or just confusing—and I can see when others get uncomfortable. It's isolating, and honestly, it hurts. People often don't want to deal with what they don't understand, and I end up feeling invisible, like I'm on the outside looking in. But when I create art, I'm not just visible—I’m real, present, and heard in a way that doesn't require perfect words or eye contact or “acting normal.” Art helps me cope in a world that often feels too chaotic and too lonely. With ADHD, my thoughts jump around constantly, making it hard to focus or stay still. But when I'm drawing, everything slows down. I get lost in it—in a good way. It gives my busy brain something to hold onto, something grounding. Even when my art isn’t “good” by conventional standards, it gives me a sense of peace, like I’m pouring all the tangled thoughts and emotions out onto the page, letting them live outside of me for a while. Movies and films are another big part of what fuels my art. When I watch a film, I don’t just see it—I feel it (or I get too emotionally attached). Every emotion, every character’s journey—it all soaks into me. And afterward, I have this urge to draw something—anything—that captures even a fraction of what I felt. It's like I'm building a bridge between the world inside me and the one outside, where others might finally see and feel what I do. Even on my hardest days, when I feel like no one sees me or wants to understand, art reminds me that I matter. My art may not hang in galleries, but it saves me, time and time again. It's my voice, my therapy, and sometimes, my only friend. And that’s enough to keep me going.

I am pursuing a career in film because of my passion for storytelling and the transformative power of visual art. From a young age, I have been captivated by the way film can evoke emotions, communicate complex ideas, and connect people across cultures. Whether through acting, directing, or filmmaking, I am drawn to the ability to create experiences that leave a lasting impact on audiences. My ultimate goal is to open my own independent studio, where I can nurture creativity and produce films that challenge traditional narratives. I also aspire to teach at a college level, sharing my knowledge and experience with aspiring filmmakers. I believe in the importance of mentoring the next generation of storytellers and helping them find their voice within this dynamic industry. So far, I have made a few short films, which allowed me to hone my skills in directing, scriptwriting, and editing. Unfortunately, due to financial constraints, my college was unable to support these projects as fully as I had hoped, which was disappointing but also a valuable lesson in resilience and resourcefulness. Despite this, I am proud of the work I’ve accomplished and the lessons I’ve learned along the way. In the future, I’m eager to continue creating my own projects, including a one-woman show, to explore new ways to engage with audiences and push the boundaries of my craft. Through perseverance, creativity, and a commitment to my vision, I am excited to continue my journey in the film industry and contribute meaningful work to the world.

Success is a concept that varies deeply from person to person, but for me, success isn’t simply about fame, fortune, or external validation—it’s about creating meaningful, authentic art while also breaking barriers that have long held people like me back. As someone with Asperger’s Syndrome and ADHD, I’ve faced doubt, ridicule, and misunderstanding throughout my life. Yet, my vision for success has always been clear: to become a successful director, producer, or maybe even an actor or dancer, following the legacy of Old Hollywood’s golden era, and to run an independent film studio that competes with the powerful forces of Hollywood. Achieving this goal would not only fulfill my personal aspirations but also serve as a powerful statement that individuals like me—those often overlooked and underestimated—can succeed in a world that tends to favor conformity. Growing up with Asperger’s and ADHD, I often found it difficult to relate to others or to navigate the traditional paths laid out for me by society. I was frequently dismissed for my different way of thinking, my unique perspectives, and my intense passion for creative pursuits. But these same traits—often labeled as “flaws” or “disorders” by those who didn’t understand—are what fuel my creative process today. For me, success isn’t about adhering to a conventional mold; it’s about pushing the boundaries of what’s possible in film and entertainment, while staying true to my authentic self. Being a successful director or producer, particularly in the world of independent film, means having the freedom to tell stories that matter, stories that reflect a wide array of experiences and perspectives. While success in film often brings with it a personal sense of accomplishment, my larger goal is to build an independent film studio that stands in direct competition with Hollywood’s entrenched power structures. Hollywood has long been a gatekeeper of who gets to tell stories, who gets to lead, and who gets the resources to bring their ideas to life. My aspiration is to create an alternative, a studio that gives filmmakers like me the opportunity to break free from the constraints of mainstream media and develop unique, diverse, and forward-thinking projects. For years, the mainstream industry has been dominated by a small group of powerful players who decide what narratives get told and who gets to tell them. But independent filmmaking has the potential to change this. By running my own studio, I aim to create a space where stories that deviate from the norm—stories about neurodivergence, stories about alternative perspectives, stories that challenge preconceived notions—can not only be told but celebrated. Perhaps the most important aspect of my definition of success is proving that people like me—those with Asperger’s and ADHD—can thrive in an industry that often seems built for those who are able to conform. Throughout my life, I’ve been dismissed or made fun of for my differences. I’ve been told that I would never fit into traditional professional environments, that my quirks would hold me back, or that my focus on niche artistic pursuits would never make me successful. These messages, however, have only served to fuel my drive. Success, for me, is proving all of those who doubted me wrong. It’s about showing the world that my neurological differences are not a hindrance but a source of strength. These qualities, often seen as barriers, are the very traits that can make me a successful filmmaker and studio owner. By achieving my goals, I can demonstrate that individuals like me can thrive in any field, no matter how high the odds are stacked against us. This opportunity is a crucial stepping stone on the path toward my vision of success. Whether it’s through an academic program, a film fellowship, or a mentorship, this opportunity will provide me with the tools, resources, and network to learn from industry leaders, hone my craft, and start building the foundation for my independent studio. Equally important, being in an environment that recognizes and values diverse perspectives—especially neurodivergent ones—will allow me to grow in ways that traditional paths never could. I believe that when we embrace our differences, we unlock new levels of creativity and problem-solving. Together, we can redefine what success looks like in the world of film. In the end, success for me is not simply about achieving personal milestones—it’s about changing the narrative and creating a more inclusive, diverse, and innovative film industry. I want to prove that people like me—those with Asperger’s, ADHD, and other neurodivergent experiences—are capable of making it in an industry that’s traditionally been less welcoming to people who think differently. Success, in this context, is about proving that our differences are not barriers to success, but stepping stones toward something greater.

Growing up in an immigrant family where neither of my parents had the opportunity to pursue higher education, the desire to be the first in my family to attend and graduate from college has always been deeply personal and rooted in a sense of responsibility. My parents worked tirelessly to provide for our family, yet the limitations of their education meant they were often confined to low-wage jobs with little room for advancement. While they always emphasized the importance of hard work, they also shared their regrets about not having had access to the education that could have changed their lives. These conversations left a lasting impression on me and became a powerful motivator to break the cycle of limited opportunities. From a young age, I understood that education was the key to a better life—not just for me, but for my entire family. Watching my parents sacrifice so much for my siblings and me, I knew that in order to repay their sacrifices, I needed to give them something they had always dreamed of: the success that education could offer. My background has shaped my career goals in profound ways. I've witnessed firsthand the barriers that come with limited educational opportunities, and I am determined to overcome those obstacles and create new paths for myself and future generations of my family. Even if we had to work to collect the mere scraps to save for tuition. The desire to be the first to graduate from college isn't just about personal achievement; it’s about creating a legacy of education and empowering my younger siblings and cousins to dream bigger and aim higher. I want them to see that it’s possible to break through the challenges of being from an immigrant background, and that higher education is not just for others, but for us too. I’m passionate about pursuing a career where I can make an impact, perhaps in social work, education, or a field that allows me to advocate for others who face similar struggles. My parents’ sacrifices have ignited in me a drive to make the most of the opportunities I have and to ensure that my higher education journey is not just about me—it’s about lifting up my family and community. By earning a college degree, I aim to provide a better life for my family, to honor their sacrifices, and to inspire those around me to pursue their own educational dreams, no matter how difficult the journey may seem.

My autism diagnosis has been a significant turning point in my life, bringing both challenges and insights. It helped me understand some of the things that I’d struggled with for years, like difficulty focusing in school, problems with making friends, and feelings of isolation. In many ways, it’s been a relief to have an explanation for why I process the world differently, but it’s also come with its own set of obstacles. In school, my focus has always been an issue. It’s not that I don’t care about the material, but sometimes my brain gets easily distracted or overwhelmed by sensory input. The classroom environment, with its noise, light, and constant movement, can feel like a whirlwind, making it hard to concentrate on the lesson. To be very honest, it is usually the subjects like math or science I t4end to daydream during, as I have usually gotten a lack of help from both subjects during my time in school (Mostly math). Even though I work hard to stay engaged, I often need extra time or quiet spaces to process information. Some teachers have been supportive, while most others haven’t always understood or been patient with my needs, which has been discouraging at times. Making friends has also been a major challenge. I struggle with social cues and small talk, which makes it hard to connect with others in a way that feels natural to them. I can come off as awkward or distant, even though I genuinely want to make connections. It’s difficult not to feel sad or frustrated by how people treat me because of these differences. There have been moments when I’ve been excluded or misunderstood, which has hurt, but I’ve learned to carry on. I’ve come to realize that my worth isn’t defined by how others see me, and while it’s still tough at times, I’m finding ways to cope and stay true to myself. Overall, my autism diagnosis has shaped my educational journey in ways I never expected. It’s helped me learn more about my needs and how to advocate for myself. Even though the path hasn’t always been easy, I’ve developed a stronger sense of resilience. I know now that my differences don’t make me less capable—they just make me unique, and I’m learning to embrace that. I hope that someday in the future, people will be more open to accepting us for who we are, quirks and all.

A section from "Meditations" (written between 170 and 180 AD) by Marcus Aurelius, Book 2, Section 1: "When you wake up in the morning, tell yourself: The people I deal with today will be meddling, ungrateful, arrogant, deceitful, envious, and surly. They are like this because they can’t tell good from evil. But I have seen the nature of good and the nature of evil, and I know that the wrongdoer has a nature that is not in harmony with the whole of the universe. So I must be kind and gracious, for it is in my nature to do so, and I must not be disturbed by their actions, for I know that their behavior is beyond my control." - In this passage, Marcus Aurelius articulates a central principle of Stoic thought: the idea that, while we cannot control the behavior of others, we can control our own reactions. His reflection emphasizes the inherent imperfection of humanity, as well as the importance of rational detachment in the face of adversity. The passage is not a call for resignation or passive acceptance, but rather a deliberate practice of understanding human flaws, cultivating compassion, and reinforcing personal integrity. Aurelius begins by reminding himself that the individuals he will encounter throughout his day may be "meddling, ungrateful, arrogant, deceitful, envious, and surly." These negative traits are framed as inherent to human nature, arising from a fundamental inability to discern "good" from "evil" — an inability that marks the distinction between the wise and the ignorant. Here, Aurelius is not making a moral judgment about specific individuals but highlighting a more universal condition: that people often act out of ignorance or confusion about what is truly virtuous or aligned with the greater good. The underlying meaning of this observation is crucial for understanding the Stoic approach to interpersonal relations. Instead of focusing on the negative qualities of others, Aurelius turns inward, reaffirming his own capacity for rational and virtuous action. He acknowledges that he is not exempt from error, but his commitment to aligning with what is "good" gives him the strength to rise above the inevitable imperfections of others. The Stoic ideal is not to be consumed by anger, frustration, or resentment when others act in ways that are disruptive or selfish. Rather, it is to recognize that such behavior arises from ignorance or misalignment with the natural order. Importantly, Aurelius also emphasizes that our reactions to others are within our control. He writes, "I must be kind and gracious, for it is in my nature to do so." This is a reflection of Stoic ethics, which place great emphasis on cultivating inner virtues that align with nature — specifically, the virtues of wisdom, justice, courage, and temperance. For Aurelius, kindness is not just a superficial gesture but a deeper expression of one's rational alignment with the greater good. It becomes a way of transcending the pettiness of others and affirming one's own integrity and purpose. The choice to respond with kindness, even in the face of adversity, is an exercise in rational autonomy, grounded in an understanding of the nature of humanity and the universe. Lastly, Aurelius advises himself not to be disturbed by the actions of others. This advice underscores a key Stoic tenet: emotional tranquility arises not from controlling external circumstances but from mastering one's internal responses. By accepting that others’ behavior is beyond his control, he frees himself from the emotional turmoil that typically accompanies interpersonal conflict. This detachment is not indifference or coldness but rather a recognition that peace of mind comes from focusing on what is within one’s power — namely, the cultivation of one's own virtue. In conclusion, Marcus Aurelius offers a profound reflection on how one can navigate the imperfections of human nature with rational detachment, compassion, and inner strength. His advice is not to be passive in the face of adversity, but rather to approach it with a calm understanding of both the limits of human behavior and the power of personal integrity. The passage serves as a reminder that, although we cannot change others, we have the power to choose how we respond — and that, in itself, is a path to wisdom and tranquility.

In today’s fast-paced, digitally-driven world, one of the things I most want to build is meaningful, lasting friendships. It feels like forming genuine connections has become more challenging over the years. While technology has made communication easier, it can also create barriers to real, in-person interactions. Social media often portrays a sense of connection, but it can feel shallow, and many people, myself included, are left longing for deeper bonds. I want to cultivate a network of friends with whom I can share not only my successes but also my struggles—people who will inspire me to grow and who I can support in return. For me, this means being intentional about making time for face-to-face interactions, even when it’s easier to stay in the comfort of my own routine. I want to invest in friendships the same way I would in a project I’m passionate about, putting in effort, showing up consistently, and listening deeply. Building these relationships will require patience and vulnerability. It will mean opening up about my own fears, dreams, and insecurities—something that can be difficult in an age where we are taught to project an idealized version of ourselves. But I know that by being real and authentic, I can foster connections based on trust, understanding, and shared values. This effort to build relationships goes beyond just myself—it’s about creating a sense of community. When I’m surrounded by people who encourage me and share their wisdom, I become a better version of myself. And as I become more open and present in my friendships, I hope to inspire others to do the same. In turn, this creates a network of people who are motivated not just to look out for themselves but to lift up those around them as well. On a broader scale, the more we invest in building genuine relationships, the more resilient our communities become. Relationships are the foundation of emotional well-being, and when we connect authentically, we break down isolation and build support systems that can help us navigate life’s challenges. In a world that sometimes feels increasingly fragmented, I believe the act of truly connecting with others can have a profound impact on both our personal lives and the communities we are a part of. By prioritizing real friendships, I am not just working to enrich my own life, but to contribute to a more empathetic, compassionate, and united world.