Love's gonna get you killed But pride's gonna be the death of you, and you and me And you, and you, and you and me And you, and you, and you and me And you, and you, and- Me, I wasn't taught to share, but care In another life, I surely was there Me, I wasn't taught to share, but care I care, I care -Kendrick Lamar, "PRIDE." Kendrick Lamar’s line, “Love’s gonna get you killed / but pride’s gonna be the death of you and you and you and me and you,” speaks to the complex and painful tension between love and pride. This lyric explores how love requires vulnerability and risk, which can lead to hurt, while pride acts as a destructive force that isolates not only individuals but entire communities. In this way, Kendrick challenges us to recognize that although love may cause pain, pride is ultimately the more dangerous choice because it kills connection and growth. His message asks us to consider what it means to open ourselves up to others despite the risk and to understand how pride can prevent genuine relationships from forming. When Kendrick says, “Love’s gonna get you killed,” he isn’t talking about love in the fairy tale sense. Instead, he highlights how loving others means opening yourself up to pain. Vulnerability is part of loving — and loving deeply can hurt because it exposes you to disappointment, loss, and rejection. This struggle is a recurring theme in Kendrick’s work, such as in the song “YOU” and his album To Pimp a Butterfly, where he reflects on the complications of love and self-acceptance. In “YOU,” Kendrick discusses the inner battle of loving oneself and others in an environment filled with distrust and pain. The pain that comes with love is real and sometimes overwhelming, but it is also necessary for forming meaningful relationships and building strong communities. Without this willingness to be vulnerable, human connection loses its depth and meaning. On the other hand, Kendrick warns that “pride’s gonna be the death of you and you and you and me and you.” Pride here is more than just confidence or self-respect. It represents ego, stubbornness, and a refusal to be vulnerable. Pride becomes a shield that protects a person from the risks of love but also traps them in isolation. The repetition of “you and you and you and me and you” makes it clear that pride’s harm is not limited to one person; it spreads and damages everyone involved. When someone lets pride keep them from loving or accepting love, they contribute to a cycle of pain and separation that harms entire communities. Pride keeps people from connecting and healing. It causes walls to rise between people, stopping empathy and understanding from growing. This destruction of connection leads to loneliness and, on a larger scale, social fragmentation. This lyric also reflects a broader human struggle between the desire to be open and the fear of being hurt. Pride is often seen as a way to protect ourselves from emotional pain by building defenses or refusing to admit mistakes. However, Kendrick’s line challenges us to think about how pride, while seeming protective, can actually be more damaging than the pain love causes. It stops us from forming the bonds that help us grow and heal. In my own life and the lives of people I know, pride has gotten in the way of genuine connection many times. Whether it’s feeling “better than” someone else or refusing to admit when we’re wrong, pride blocks growth and understanding. Overcoming pride takes resilience — the strength to admit vulnerability and to risk hurt in order to experience true connection. It is not an easy path, but it is necessary for both personal growth and community healing. Ultimately, Kendrick’s message is a call for humility and openness. He reminds us that love may hurt, but it is the foundation of healing and community. Pride, though it might feel like protection, is a poison that kills relationships and isolates people. The line urges us to be willing to take the risks love requires because that willingness is what allows us to grow and connect deeply with others. It is a reminder that healing and unity come not from protecting ourselves behind walls but from breaking them down. Kendrick’s lyric calls for a courageous embrace of vulnerability as a way to overcome the pain and fear that keep us apart. In a world where pain and fear often push people to hide behind pride, Kendrick’s lyric offers hope. It asks us to break cycles of isolation and choose love, even when it is difficult. That is the path toward personal growth and collective healing. Love might get you hurt, but pride is the death of us all. It is a powerful reminder that while pain is inevitable in life, closing ourselves off from love leads to a much deeper and longer-lasting kind of suffering. Choosing love is choosing life, community, and healing — even if it means risking being hurt along the way.

I have always believed that you don’t have to be loud to make an impact. Sometimes, the quietest people carry the fiercest convictions. My life hasn’t followed a straight line. ADHD and ASD make sure of that—my brain is often a kaleidoscope, spinning through ideas, emotions, ambitions. Some days, I burn bright; others, I flicker. But I always care. I always come back. What’s guided me most isn’t just intelligence or ambition—it’s empathy. And while people love to say “empathy is a strength,” let’s be real: being deeply attuned to other people’s pain can be exhausting. It’s like having a heart that hears in surround sound. I’ve watched classmates fall through the cracks because they didn’t have the right paperwork or didn’t speak the right way in class. I’ve seen students get judged for being tired, when in reality they were hungry. I’ve felt that myself. And I’ve kept going anyway. I want to change the world—not in a cheesy way, but in the daily, grind-it-out way. One person at a time. I want to work at the intersection of mental health, education, and equity, building systems that see students like me and students like Kalia. I want to create spaces where young people don’t have to “overcome” their identities to be treated with dignity. But let’s talk about money. I cannot afford an $80,000-per-year liberal arts college. My family doesn’t have that kind of money lying around in a trust fund. They’ve got trust, and they’ve got love—but FAFSA doesn’t accept those as currency. And even though I’ve worked my tail off—excelling in school, doing community service, exploring leadership—I’m stuck in this weird middle space where I’m “not poor enough” for the most aid, but absolutely not rich enough to make it work without debt. So I’m being strategic. I’m applying to scholarships like this one because I know what I can do with support. Give me a little, and I’ll build a lot. I’ve already been that person in my school who helps younger students apply to summer programs, advocates for changes in how teachers approach neurodivergent learners, and shows up for every community service event—even when I’m struggling myself. I’ve faced a lot of internal storms, but I’ve never let them wash away my sense of purpose. And like Kalia, I don’t believe in half-stepping through life. I want to give everything I’ve got. I want to be the kind of person people can count on—someone who encourages others, builds community, and brings joy, even in hard times. (Also, I love sunsets too. And I believe in the healing power of music and movement, especially when life feels heavy.) This scholarship would help me keep pushing. It would mean one less financial roadblock, and one more sign that the world hasn’t given up on students like me. I’m not just chasing a degree—I’m chasing a vision of a better world. A world where kindness and ambition aren’t opposites. A world where excellence isn’t just about grades, but about grit. Thank you for considering me. I promise I won’t waste the opportunity. I’m not here to just live—I’m here to live with purpose. To love deeply. To laugh loudly. And to learn, always.

She Didn’t Let Me Fall I had this one teacher sophomore year who changed everything for me. Not just the way I saw school—but how I saw myself, other people, and what it means to care. She didn’t walk into class like, “Here’s a packet, figure it out.” She was always asking: How do I help these students actually learn? Not memorize. Not perform. Learn. And she realized something before anyone else did: a lot of students weren’t learning because they were hungry. They didn’t eat lunch. She was like, How am I supposed to teach a kid who hasn’t eaten all day? How can I expect them to care about English when their stomach’s empty? So she fought to get the school to do something. And that wasn’t even in her job description. And then, students were showing up to her honors English class without solid English skills. Instead of blaming them or letting them fall behind, she pivoted. She started teaching foundational material—stuff most people would’ve considered “too easy.” But she saw the truth: they didn’t need judgment. They needed someone to meet them where they were. And she met me where I was, too. At that time, I was going through a rough patch—my motivation was all over the place, my mood was up and down, and I was falling behind. But she didn’t give up on me. She talked to my parents. Told them how smart I was. Told me, “Marco, you could teach this class. I’m not letting you fail—not if you know this stuff.” She didn’t just see me as a struggling student. She saw me as someone who had potential—even when I didn’t see it myself. She noticed how I could move between groups, change my tone to connect with different kinds of people, and adapt in ways I hadn’t even realized. She called it a gift. And suddenly, I believed her. She let me stay in her room after school, just to sit. Just to exist in peace. I didn’t want to go home—I was overwhelmed, exhausted, trying to keep up with everything. Her classroom became a safe space. Sometimes, she was the only reason I got up in the morning. Because I knew someone would be there. That’s what real education is. She didn’t last long at the school—people like her rarely do. But the impact? Everyone felt it. When she left, students were furious. Not because they’d miss her worksheets—but because they’d miss her. She gave detailed, individualized feedback on our writing until her last day. She cared right up to the end. And that changed me. She showed me what it means to be bold in a broken system. To care when it’s easier not to. To lift someone up when they’re about to fall through the cracks. I want to carry that forward in my own life. To be that kind of person. Because of her, I know that being smart isn’t about getting perfect grades—it’s about having the courage to show up for people. To teach with heart. To lead with empathy. To see the person in front of you and say, I’m not letting you fall.

My greatest contribution to the future of mental health care is my empathy—an empathy that doesn’t just feel, but listens, notices, and holds space. As someone who has experienced the internal chaos of ADHD, ASD, MDD, GAD and SPD, I know how deeply people need to be understood, not just diagnosed. Empathy isn’t just about being kind. It’s about seeing the humanity underneath someone’s silence, confusion, or overwhelm. It’s about sitting with discomfort—your own and others’—without needing to “fix” it right away. In a world where support often comes with a price tag, gatekeeping, or long waitlists, I dream of a mental health landscape that centers peer-led support, culturally competent care, and radical accessibility. I want to build or contribute to systems where people can show up as they are—not as a diagnosis, not as a statistic, but as full human beings. Empathy can’t erase every systemic barrier, but it can open doors, soften walls, and remind people they aren’t alone. I bring empathy not just as a feeling, but as a skill I’ve sharpened through pain, reflection, and deep listening. And I believe it’s the key to building a more inclusive and healing world.

“I used to think I was smart / but you made me look so naïve” — Olivia Rodrigo, Vampire Adolescence, at its core, is a wild, bewildering theatre of self-invention. Every week, it feels like you’re a new character trying to find the right costume—switching between hope and cynicism, confidence and confusion. Olivia Rodrigo’s lyric from “Vampire” hits a nerve because it perfectly captures that specific kind of heartbreak: not just losing someone, but losing the version of yourself you thought you knew. When I first heard this line—“I used to think I was smart, but you made me look so naïve”—I felt it in my gut. Not the kind of gut-punch you get from a jump scare, but the slow, creeping ache of realizing you’ve been seeing the world through the wrong lens. That lyric doesn’t just sting; it spirals. It represents what it’s like to be young and trust your instincts, only to find out you’ve been misreading everything. That kind of betrayal—by others or by yourself—isn’t just sad. It’s disorienting. For me, navigating adolescence with ADHD and ASD adds a few extra layers to this lyric’s meaning. My brain is always shifting channels—one minute I’m passionate and ready to take on the world, the next I’m doubting whether I have the energy to even try. I have mood swings, spirals, and a mind that refuses to sit still. Sometimes, I get incredibly fixated on someone or something, convinced it’s my future or my identity. And when that falls apart? It’s not just disappointment—it’s like the whole foundation shakes. It’s not “oh no, I lost this thing.” It’s “who even am I without it?” That’s what makes this lyric so real. It isn’t just about getting hurt by someone else. It’s about the internal crash that follows. You thought you were self-aware. You thought you were protected. But now you feel exposed. Like Rodrigo, I’ve had those moments of spiraling: wondering if my feelings were just a punchline to someone else’s story, and beating myself up for not seeing it sooner. But here’s the other side of it. Getting “made to look naïve” isn’t a sign that you’re weak—it’s a sign that you cared. You trusted. You were open. And that, weirdly, is one of the bravest things you can do as a teenager. Especially in a world that rewards detachment and snark, choosing to feel things fully is rebellious. It’s radical. Rodrigo’s lyric might sound defeated, but I think it actually shows strength. She's telling the truth—even when it’s ugly. I’ve started to see my own emotional intensity not as a flaw, but as a kind of compass. Every mistake, every heartbreak, every cringey spiral has helped me figure out who I am—not who I was trying to be. And yeah, maybe I was naïve. But at least I was real.