When I was in elementary school, I was diagnosed with ADHD. I was the kid who blurted out answers before raising my hand; intellectually advanced, yet denied enrollment in Gifted and Talented Education classes because of my behavior. I was described as loud, impulsive, and “too much” at parent-teacher conferences. One teacher even told me “school isn’t for you.” For a long time, I believed her. When I transferred schools, something shifted. For the first time, I had educators who met me where I was. They understood that my restlessness was a strength to be channelled. They offered structure, patience, and confidence in my ability. I found hope. A hope that empowered me to pursue all of my dreams. Now I am finishing my Master of Social Work (MSW) degree, as a first-generation college and graduate student, a single mother, a breastfeeding parent, and a commuter traveling over 12 hours weekly from Orange County to Los Angeles. With each accolade and achievement, I prove that people with ADHD can succeed. For me, living with ADHD means that executive functioning skills like planning, prioritizing, managing time across competing demands require significant and exhausting mental endurance. Understanding this, I registered with my university's Office of Student Accessibility Services (OSAS) and pursued every accommodation available to me. Yet, despite my documented disability, I was never granted priority registration. It was the one accommodation that would have made the most difference, and I was denied. Without it, I could not coordinate class schedules around my daughter's childcare needs, my pumping schedule, or the reality of my long commute. I had to build my life around a system not built with me in mind. I believe Dylan would understand my journey. He navigated Neurofibromatosis, learning disabilities, surgeries, and a world that does not always make space for people like us. Like Dylan, I refused to let my diagnosis define me and I showed up. I have earned between 96 and 100 percent on major assignments in advanced clinical coursework. I was awarded a $25,000 Public Behavioral Health stipend for the 2024–2025 academic year, and again for 2025–2026, totaling $50,000 in recognition of my commitment to serving underserved communities. I am in leadership for Latinx Social Work Caucus, where I support mentorship and community-building among fellow social work students. In my first-year clinical internship at Garden Grove Unified School District and my second-year placement at a city Senior Center, I provided individual and group therapy, case management, and support services to vulnerable populations, developing my trauma-informed care, crisis intervention, and systems-level advocacy skills. Lived experience guides how I show up in social work. Growing up with ADHD, I learned firsthand what it means to be underestimated, to fall through the cracks of systems that were not designed for you. As a Latina, a first-generation student, a single mother, and a person with a disability, I have experienced situations my future clients may bring to therapy. This lived experience and first hand understanding is both a testimony and one of my greatest clinical strengths. I seek to obtain licensure as a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) and provide trauma-informed therapy to Latino families and individuals impacted by systemic trauma, poverty, and marginalization. I am passionate about advocating for more equitable institutional structures; the kind that would have granted a breastfeeding graduate student with documented ADHD the priority registration she needed. Dylan understood that spreading a message of possibility to others with disabilities was a priority. I too carry this mission.

Access to education is often framed as a matter of effort or ambition. However, my life taught me that opportunity is just as critical. As a first-generation college student, a single parent, Latina pursuing her Master of Social Work degree at the University of Southern California, the adversity I face is a persistent daily reality shaped by systemic barriers, financial vulnerability, and caregiving responsibilities. Despite these challenges, I remained committed to my education and to serving others; I intimately understand how transformative support can be when extended during times you feel invisible or discarded. A defining adversities I faced occurred during grad school, when the rapid re-housing program that helped subsidize my rent ended unexpectedly. Overnight, my daughter and I were left unhoused; shortly after exiting a homeless shelter the previous year. At the same time, I was balancing a rigorous academic workload, an unpaid clinical internship, part-time work, and childcare. Walking away from my degree was not an option, because if I did, I would have been stuck with $60,000 in debt with no degree to show for it. Nevertheless, continuing felt overwhelming. I was navigating grief, financial stress, and fear about my uncertain future, while still showing up for clients in underserved communities through my internship as a therapist at an elementary school. What allowed me to persevere was being adaptable and relying on my community. I sought out every available resource: scholarships, stipends, public assistance programs, and academic accommodations, and even a go fund me. I braided these resources together to meet our basic needs, all while continuing to volunteer and advocate for others facing similar challenges. I learned how to set my pride aside and ask for help. I learned how to reframe adversity not as evidence of structural inequity, and my unapologetic perseverance. Rather than allowing these experiences to derail me, I took the negative labels people tried to place on me and redefined them as positive. These struggles affirmed my decision to pursue social work and deepened my commitment to serving marginalized populations; because people deserve clinicians with empathy, lived experience, and cultural humility. Adversity has shaped me into a leader who understands that resilience is not about “doing it all alone,” but about building systems of support and extending them forward. My lived experience informs my work, particularly with BIPOC communities navigating trauma, housing instability, and mental health challenges. I approach this work with both compassion and urgency, knowing how easily someone’s potential can be stifled without access to resources. To anyone facing similar circumstances, my advice is this: your struggle does not diminish your worth or your potential. Seek out support relentlessly, even when it feels uncomfortable. Advocate for yourself the way you would advocate for someone you love. Most importantly, do not internalize barriers that were never meant for you to overcome alone. Lastly, education is a powerful tool for liberation.

“You make me feel like I matter.” She said softly as my abuelita welcomed her in. Even with little in the fridge, she made space at the table. She showed me service is an act of care that anyone can do; even if they don’t have much themselves. I learned early on to lead a life of community care; to share my last meal with someone who has less. As a first-generation graduate student and single mom pursuing a Master of Social Work, giving back is woven into everything I do. Currently, I volunteer to provide bilingual therapy, group counseling, crisis intervention, and case management to individuals and families navigating trauma, grief, housing instability, and systemic inequities. I serve children in schools and older adults at senior centers. Many of my clients are encountering helping systems for the first time; or returning after being failed by them. I prioritize trust, cultural humility, and consistency, with the awareness of how systems can strip people of their humanity. I am also Mentorship Co-Chair in the Latinx Social Work Caucus, where I build support structures for first-generation and system impacted students navigating higher education. I create spaces where students can access resources, share survival strategies, and feel less alone in environments not built with them in mind. Earlier in my academic journey at UCLA, I served as a Peer Counselor and advocate through the Student Retention Center, for a caseload of over 75 college academic action and dismissed undergraduates. My work contributed to securing over $110,000 in grant funding to support student access, basic needs, and retention initiatives. Moreover, I served as a College Access Counselor for over 200 low-income, first-generation college students, helping them complete college and financial aid applications, identify scholarships, and overcome structural barriers. These non-profit experiences taught me service can mean helping others by speaking in meetings, writing proposals, and pushing institutions to invest in our most vulnerable and overlooked communities. I also give back by telling the truth. Through writing and public advocacy, I’ve shared my lived experience navigating higher education, motherhood, and systemic barriers to spark change. My work has been published in outlets such as EdSource, where I wrote vulnerably about the realities facing student parents and low-income families. I have also spoke before the OC Board of Supervisors advocating for Rapid Rehousing reform, following my own struggles with being homeless. Publicly sharing my story was uncomfortable, but necessary. Additionally, I published an Op-Ed through the Voice of OC advocating for sanctuary policies to keep children and families safe. Through these experiences, I have learned that visibility can be a form of service. It opens doors for policy conversations, funding, and institutional accountability. I plan to continue serving at both the micro and macro levels. I intend to pursue clinical licensure and work in trauma-informed, community-based settings serving women, children, and families impacted by violence, poverty, and intergenerational trauma. Long term, I hope to develop programs and advocate for policies that prioritize prevention, housing stability, and accessible mental health care. I give back due to my own lived experience. I know how it feels to be supported in moments where you feel hopeless and unworthy. I believe acts of care are most meaningful when they are offered without expectation; as that is how my dignity felt most preserved when being on the receiving end. I am called to be that support for others. My devotion to service forever changed my education, leadership, political advocacy, parenting style, career, and dreams. Like Priscilla Shireen Luke, I hope to spread compassion and hope among my family, peers, and community.

Supporting others through their mental health journeys is a personal commitment derived from lived experiences and professional calling. My dedication to service is evident throughout my academic, professional, and philanthropic experiences. As a Master of Social Work student pursuing a career in behavioral health, I have had the opportunity to support individuals across the lifespan who are navigating anxiety, depression, trauma, grief, and systemic stressors that directly impact mental well-being. Through my clinical training, I have supported individuals by providing emotional validation, psychoeducation, and connection to mental health resources—serving as a bridge for those who feel discouraged or intimidated by formal systems of care. Many of the individuals I work with come from BIPOC and underserved communities where stigma, cultural barriers, and limited access to services make it difficult to seek help. By meeting people where they are, offering culturally responsive support, and normalizing conversations around mental health, I strive to create spaces where individuals feel seen, respected, and empowered. My studies in social work strengthen my understanding of how mental health intersects with housing instability, financial stress, caregiving responsibilities, and physical health. This perspective reinforces my belief that effective healthcare must address emotional well-being alongside clinical needs. As a future licensed clinical social worker, I plan to continue advocating for trauma-informed, accessible mental health care within community-based and healthcare settings. I am particularly committed to supporting individuals who have historically been excluded from care by expanding outreach, reducing stigma, and collaborating with interdisciplinary teams to ensure mental health is treated as an essential component of overall health. Ultimately, my goal is to provide direct support and to help shift the culture around mental health. This scholarship would support my continued education and my ability to serve as both a healthcare professional and a compassionate advocate for mental well-being in my community.

Before I entered a therapy room as a clinician, I experienced it as someone navigating stigma, silence, and identity within Latinx spaces where mental health and queerness were rarely affirmed. Those experiences now shape my work as a future clinical social worker serving disenfranchised communities. My name is Marilynda, and I am a Master of Social Work student committed to advancing equitable, culturally responsive mental health care. I am a first-generation Latina, a pansexual woman, and a single mother from a low-income background, whose beliefs, activism, and career aspirations are grounded in lived experience. Because I’ve navigated many of the same systemic barriers my clients face, I am able to understand the complexities of their lives and adapt evidence-based practices in culturally affirming, flexible ways that meet clients where they are. Growing up in Latinx communities, I witnessed how trauma, poverty, family instability, and untreated mental health needs were compounded by stigma, silence, and homophobia. Mental health was often minimized or addressed only in moments of crisis. Moreover, LGBTQIA+ identities were frequently met with rejection or moral judgment. As someone who is pansexual, I understand firsthand how isolating it can be to navigate identity in spaces where queerness is stigmatized and emotional distress is framed as personal weakness rather than a response to systemic harm. These experiences taught me mental health is a clinical, cultural, and social justice issue. Representation is critical to effective care. Nationally, only about 6–7% of mental health providers identify as Latinx, and an even smaller percentage are Spanish-speaking or bilingual, despite Latinx individuals comprising nearly 19% of the U.S. population, and 40% of the population where I live in California. These disparities contribute to mistrust, disengagement from services, and unmet mental health needs—realities I have witnessed repeatedly in both my community and my professional training. My first internship was at an elementary school designated as a community school, where I served predominantly low-income Latinx students, including children from immigrant and mixed-status families. Working closely with students and caregivers exposed me to the profound mental health impacts of fear, instability, and policy-driven trauma. This experience pushed me to practice what I preach beyond the therapy room. In response, I authored and published an op-ed in Voice of OC, advocating for sanctuary policies and highlighting how children’s mental health and academic success are directly tied to safety, stability, and family unity. This work reinforced my belief that ethical mental health practice includes public advocacy when systems themselves are harming communities. My second internship is at a senior center, where I provide bilingual individual therapy, facilitate groups and workshops, and support community-based events for older adults. In this role, I work with clients navigating grief and loss, depression, isolation, trauma, and major life transitions. Serving elders has deepened my understanding of how mental health needs evolve across the lifespan and how culturally responsive, language-accessible care remains essential at every stage of life. In addition to direct practice, I am actively involved in the Latinx Social Work Caucus, where I support mentorship initiatives, contribute to community-building efforts, and advocate for culturally responsive education and representation within social work spaces. These leadership experiences have strengthened my commitment to collective healing and systemic change. My long-term goal is to obtain my clinical licensure and provide accessible, language-affirming mental health care to Latinx, BIPOC, parents, and LGBTQIA+ individuals navigating complex trauma and systemic oppression. I am committed to building mental health systems where marginalized communities feel both understood and supported, and where healing is reinforced through advocacy, policy, and community-based care that empowers individuals to become agents of change.

1: I grew up with an ACE score of 9 out of 10—a number that still stings because it reflects a childhood no one should have to survive. My experiences of abuse, instability, and witnessing violence shaped everything about who I became. And even after graduating from UCLA, the consequences followed me. I fell into the very cycles I now help my clients break: addiction, poverty, and homelessness. After COVID, I found myself unhoused, single, pregnant, and over $100,000 in debt. Going back to school is my act of resistance against a system that wasn’t made for a first generation college student, Latina daughter of low income immigrants, and survivor of generational trauma. I grew up watching loved ones battle schizophrenia, domestic violence, substance use, and grief; often in silence and without culturally responsive care. Through these experiences, I learned therapy must be a place where people feel safe to speak share their story, and be empowered to rewrite the narrative. My work with BIPOC families, older adults, survivors of intimate partner violence, and individuals experiencing homelessness taught me that lived experience, empathy, and evidence-based care, is effective. It is my honor and privilege to serve my community’s most vulnerable and disenfranchised. 2: My experiences navigating medi-cal, coordinated entry systems, rapid rehousing, homeless shelters, and county resources personally and professionally has led me to fight for the expansion of community-embedded, culturally responsive mental health services that are financially accessible and designed in partnership with the communities they serve. By reshaping the system to prioritize equity, we create pathways to wellness for those who have historically been excluded: BIPOC communities, low-income families, and individuals without stable housing or insurance. Having worked in schools, senior centers, group homes, community programs, and also been a recipient, I’ve seen how barriers such as language, cost, stigma, immigration fears, and lack of transportation prevent people from receiving help. For many, therapy needs to meet them where they are—not navigating siloed systems, long waitlists, or culturally unfamiliar settings. Real change would look like investing in multilingual, trauma-informed providers and expanding walk-in or mobile mental health services. It means making sure insurance doesn’t become a barrier and bringing mental health support into places people already trust: schools, shelters, senior centers, and community programs. When services are offered by providers who reflect the community they serve, people are more likely to reach out, feel safe, and continue the healing process. 3: As someone who receives teletherapy, I’ll admit it’s not my favorite—I miss sitting face-to-face with another human being. But it makes care accessible for me. With a 12-hour weekly commute and days where I don’t have gas money, I don’t always have time or resources for in-person sessions. I also appreciate the option to switch between telehealth and in-person care when needed. In my work at the senior center, telehealth can be helpful for quick phone check-ins, but many older adults struggle with zoom. For those with limited mobility or no transportation, though, virtual sessions still remove major barriers. Moreover, Teletherapy can also assist clients to find therapists who share their language or cultural background even if they live far away. Despite benefits, teletherapy has real challenges for communities facing structural inequities. Many clients lack privacy, stable Wi-Fi, or comfort speaking openly at home. Others, especially seniors, struggle with digital literacy. For teletherapy to work for everyone, we must help clients use the technology, offer hybrid models, and ensure multilingual platforms with accessibility features. Teletherapy needs to meet people where they are; through text-based support, video sessions, or community spaces that offer privacy and devices.

There was a giant octopus surfing the crowd as David Guetta spinned tracks I heard on the radio and new ones I’d never heard before. Before this event, I’d never heard of a concept like PLUR; that way of meeting people in a resting place of love and understanding. It was there, at my first rave—under a midnight inked sky illuminated by a caterpillar exhaling magic that pulsed with the bass from an enchanted hookah—that a beautiful girl with gemstones decorating her eyes locked eyes with me and raised two fingers. I looked at her puzzled and with her eyes she gestured to me to do the same, so I made a peace sign too. Our fingertips gently touched. It felt like some sort of joint promise to hold space without judgment. We completed a heart together, sharing warmth, tenderness, and an open heart. Then our palms met, and it clicked for me that even as strangers we are one part of something bigger than ourselves. When our hands finally clasped together we shared a mutual acknowledgement of each other's uniqueness and honoring of difference. With no Kandi to trade in return, I was surprised when she slid the handmade, heartfelt, and glowing “My First Rave” bracelet onto my wrist. It was at that moment I realized the exchange was never about the bracelet, but the connection. Though I am a single mom now and don’t have the privilege of dancing amongst friends in an electrified wonderland as often, the spirit of PLUR lives within me and seeps into all aspects of my life. Peace exists when I am engaging my clients at the senior center and vulnerable adults in somatic and mindfulness based exercises, breathing together in unison to find a safe haven in our minds. Love exist when I made sacrifices for my daughter like when I pump during my 12 hour weekly commute or when I turn a 10x10 storage unit into a beautiful home for her to grow while I am working towards my degree. Unity exists when I advocate for Rapid Rehousing housing policy changes, using my lived experience to propose adjustments to the OC Board of Supervisors—understanding that even if it’s too late for me, others can still be helped, and we all deserve that support. Respect exists when I use my voice in public platforms, such as the op-ed I wrote for Voice of OC, to champion sanctuary policies that safeguard undocumented and mixed-status children and families. My introduction to EDM and PLUR came from my uncle, who lives with schizophrenia and danced exactly like that “Spiderman goes with everything” meme that took over the internet in 2014—always blasting classics like Stereo Love, Better Off Alone, and Sandstorm. Before I even knew EDM was a genre, I was already living in the world of Eurohouse and Trance—a privilege, really. And even though rave culture keeps reinventing itself—with kids getting “sprouted” and new traditions popping up—the spirit of PLUR still pulses through. What remains unchanged is the way PLUR continues to guide me: as a mother, a social worker, a student, and a community advocate. It reminds me that connection can be created anywhere—on a dance floor, in a counseling room, or in a policy meeting where I’m fighting for families like mine. The bracelet from my first rave may have faded, but its message hasn’t. I carry that moment, that girl, and that feeling with me still: that peace, love, unity, and respect aren’t just values of a scene—they’re a way of life.

In my experience, when you are clawing your way out of the hardest parts of your life, trying to persevere as a non-traditional student, there will always be people who try to drag you back down. When I reached out for help, I often heard dismissive responses from those I expected support from. When I informed USC that losing my rapid rehousing subsidy due to enrolling in school placed me at risk of homelessness and jeopardized my scholarships, I was told, “You can always take a leave of absence.” My Rapid Rehousing caseworker asked, “Would you consider dropping out?” when I was only $6,200 short. That gap existed because my Grad PLUS loan—listed in my financial aid package—was unexpectedly denied, leaving me without the planned funds. Consequently, I suddenly faced the full cost of rent and an unforeseen tuition bill when that aid vanished after the add/drop deadline. I created a GoFundMe and began selling my belongings. With my enrollment and housing at risk, I requested help from the Dean. However, I was redirected repeatedly without concrete help, despite asking about emergency funds, student equity/HSI funds, scholarships, grants, or any resources that could keep me housed and enrolled. Outside school, I faced similar messages. When my caseworker ended my subsidy, I was told, “You can’t live here anymore because getting your master’s isn’t a good reason to not work,” even though working full time barely covered rent not including my infant daughter’s needs. When I asked my child’s father about custody so I could start school, he said, “If you think anyone is going to want you or that you’re going to achieve anything in life with that baby, you’re delusional.” Despite these voices, I applied to grad school with more than $100,000 in debt and pregnant, with no partner and no certainty about how I’d make it through. All I had was tenacity. I never entered education from a place of comfort or security; I chose it in the midst of fear, survival, and an unshakeable conviction that my life, and my daughter’s, could be different. I am a first-generation college student, single mother, and daughter of immigrants pursuing a Master of Social Work. Aside from my intersectional identities, I am a non-traditional student because I come to this field a survivor in recovery. I have attended NA, engaged in EMDR, Narrative-Based Therapy, Somatic and Expressive Arts therapies, and have been a resident of rehabilitation and sober living programs. I also lived in a pregnant women’s shelter where I was required to clean only four days after a C-section—unmedicated. I understand what it feels like to be dismissed, belittled, and treated as undeserving—to have people decide your dreams are “irrational” or that you “probably won’t” make it. I also differ from peers because I am 30 years old, navigating school as a single mother living in a 10x10 storage shed while many classmates are 22 or 23 and attend school without caregiving responsibilities. These lived experiences lay the foundation of why I’m committed to this work. Andrea Worden believed success was not measured by polished resumes or linear trajectories. If this journey has taught me anything, it’s that the pain we inherit or experience is never our fault, but the responsibility to build something better—to heal, grow, and move forward—rests with us. No one else can take those steps for you. I make this decision, to persevere, daily. Instead of sitting and feeling sorry for myself, I sit with the hard things in therapy and do the work to heal. I breastfeed my daughter in the dark while typing essays on my phone. I pump breastmilk during class—unapologetically—because I refuse to miss lecture and am equally committed to nourishing my daughter. I commute 12 hours weekly, listening to my readings on Speechify so I don’t fall behind. I enroll in every supportive program available, like the Home Visiting Program, and I spend hours in food pantry lines to make sure my daughter has fresh produce. I work a part-time job, and on top of that, treat scholarship applications like a second full-time job—persevering even after 68 denied applications because I believe one will come through. Rather than withdrawing, I lean further into my role as a social work intern—moving with compassion and a deep investment in others. Through my internships at Garden Grove Unified School District and the H. Louis Lake Senior Center, I’ve worked with clients whose lives often mirror my own—people navigating instability, loss, and survival within systems that fail them. I have also expanded into policy work, speaking at an Orange County Board meeting to advocate for Rapid Rehousing reform and writing an article for Voice of OC advocating for sanctuary policies in schools. Kindness is of utmost importance because I know what it’s like to receive degrading and dehumanizing messages. I have become someone people feel safe turning to for guidance. When my mom was injured this year, I helped her advocate in the hospital, and now that she has returned to work, I drive her each morning without expecting anything in return. With gratitude for the trust people place in me, I help family and community members navigate healthcare systems and access support. Even when professional limits exist, such as the day a homeless woman stood outside our center, I still brought her food, water, and resources because compassion should not stop at eligibility criteria. Andrea Worden had an extraordinary ability to recognize potential beyond appearances. She believed people shouldn’t be defined by what they lack, but by who they are becoming. That philosophy guides my future vision. As a clinician and advocate, I aim to lift individuals whose strength often goes unrecognized; whose success is not reflected on paper. I seek to work with populations impacted by trauma, homelessness, and systemic inequity because I understand how transformative it can be when someone believes in you—fully and without conditions. My MSW will allow me to carry these values forward and uplift others.

Even when I’m exhausted from commuting over 12 hours each week, uncertain how I will pay for school after bankruptcy, or afraid I will not be able to buy my daughter a Christmas present after not being selected for Angel Tree, I surrender to recovery daily and pray: “Take my will and my life, guide me in my recovery, show me how to live.” I’ve prayed those words at midnight, rocking my daughter to sleep in the storage shed we call home; on long commutes where breastmilk filled bottles while I joined hour-long prayer calls with my sober sisters from 3rd step ministry; and in quiet moments between classes, when doubt crept in and I questioned whether I was making the right choice. Recovery is an active decision to keep studying despite circumstances. It’s calling my sponsor when I am afraid I may have to drop out of school because I cannot secure a loan to cover a $6,700 gap. It’s choosing a late-night meeting over a party. It’s asking for help caring for my daughter when I feel overwhelmed, even if shame tells me not to. My daughter is named Serenity, after that life-saving prayer: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…” She’s beauty God carved from devastation. Motherhood, Narcotics Anonymous, and service are my purposes in recovery. I stay clean not just to survive, but to give to the community that taught me how to live a life I am proud of today.

Growing up in a community where trauma was normalized and therapy was dismissed, I learned early to hold everything in. It wasn’t until graduate school that I truly understood how inaccessible mental health care is. Therapy is expensive, waitlists are long, and culturally responsive care is rare. Nevertheless, I learned healing also happens in community, when people feel seen and supported. As a first-generation student, Latina, and single mother, I know the struggle of prioritizing mental health while fighting to meet basic needs. Earlier this year, while I was unhoused, breastfeeding, and completing my internship hours, paying for and accessing therapy was unrealistic. That experience shaped my commitment to expanding affordable mental healthcare. I hope to contribute by supporting sliding-scale and low-fee community counseling models that offer immediate support without long delays. I plan to continue my involvement in policy advocacy. This year, I spoke with the County Board of Supervisors about increasing mental health resources for vulnerable families; reminding me that change also happens in policy rooms that often overlook lived experience. Long-term, I will create mental health spaces that honor culture, art, and ancestral practices, including an accessible wellness retreat rooted in Indigenous healing and creative expression. As part of that vision, I also hope to create a mental health scholarship so low-income individuals can attend these healing spaces at no cost. I want mental health care to be a birthright, not a privilege, and I hope to help build the kind of support my younger self needed.

There is a girl I used to be who still lives quietly inside me. A girl with an adverse childhood experiences score of nine, who learned too early to shrink herself, to scan every room for danger, to hold her breath instead of ask for help. Out of instinct she survived. For years I tried to forget her. However, she became my greatest teacher. I am a first-generation college student, Latina, a single mother, and a graduate student pursuing my Master of Social Work at the University of Southern California. Everything I do is with my daughter, Serenity, in mind. I fight every day to build a life where she feels safe, heard, and free to become who she chooses to be. Being her mom fuels my purpose. Motherhood reminds me that generational healing is an intentional practice. My path to becoming a licensed clinical social worker is personal. I am specializing in Adult Mental Health and Wellness because I know what trauma looks like in the body, in the home, and in the silence that follows. Through my internship at the Garden Grove Senior Center, I provide counseling, facilitate groups, and help older adults navigate grief, depression, and the weight of unmet needs. My clients remind me that healing is possible at any age. I am constantly inspired by women—by their strength, their softness, their resourcefulness, tenacity, and grace when rising above their circumstances. I want to be the kind of woman who inspires other women the way so many have inspired me. I want my daughter to grow up watching her mother advocate, create, and lead so she knows that she can, too. My identity as a single mother is the reason I push harder, dream louder, and refuse to shrink myself. Beyond clinical work, I am committed to community advocacy. I have spoken before the Orange County Board of Supervisors and been published in Voice of OC, using my voice to advocate for undocumented and mixed-status families who often remain invisible in policy conversations. At USC, I serve on the leadership board of the Latinx Social Work Caucus, building comunidad, mentorship, and cultural belonging for first-generation students navigating systems that were not built for us. But my long-term dream reaches even further. I want to create a women’s wellness retreat grounded in Indigenous and culturally rooted healing practices—a sacred space where women can reconnect with themselves, their ancestors, and each other. I imagine circles of women engaging in ceremony, meditation, womb healing, danza, ancestral rituals, herbal medicine, breathwork, grounding practices, and community storytelling. A place where women release what was never theirs to carry and reclaim what was always meant for them. A place I desperately needed growing up. A space I learned to build from scratch. This is not just a career goal—it is a promise to the girl I used to be and to the woman I am raising. The girl I used to be survived. The woman I am becoming is building a sanctuary where women no longer have to.

My story begins long before graduate school. I grew up with an ACE score of 9 out of 10. This number still stings when I say it out loud because it reflects a childhood no child should have to survive. Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) are traumatic or stressful events that occur before age 18, such as abuse, neglect, witnessing domestic violence, or growing up with instability. Research shows that the higher the ACE score, the higher the likelihood of negative long-term outcomes. But even with all those risks, I learned trauma is not definitive. As a first-generation college student, Latina, and single mother, I carry pride and responsibility in my role as a Master of Social Work candidate at the University of Southern California. For me, pursuing this degree is my commitment to rewriting the life trajectory myself and my daughter, Serenity. If my ACE score was nine, I am determined to ensure hers is zero. That intention shapes every decision I make as a mother, student, and social worker. I chose the Adult Mental Health and Wellness track because I want to support communities that feel like home to me: Latinx families, survivors of domestic violence, individuals experiencing homelessness or substance use disorders, and older adults facing isolation. In my internship at a Senior Center, I provide individual counseling, facilitate groups, and help older adults access critical resources like food, transportation, and social connection. The privilege of sitting with someone in their hardest moments and offering compassion, a kind of care I didn’t always receive growing up, is something I don’t take for granted. Outside of clinical work, I am committed to community advocacy. I have done policy advocacy before the Orange County Board of Supervisors and have been published in Voice of OC, where I lifted the stories of undocumented and mixed-status families and advocated for sanctuary policies during a time when fear, xenophobia, and political tensions were at a peak. My lived experience fuels my voice; I advocate because I know what it’s like to be unheard. I also serve on the executive board of the Latinx Social Work Caucus at USC, where I spearhead mentorship programs for first-generation students and help build comunidad—spaces where Latinx students feel seen, supported, and reminded that they belong at USC. Still, even with all I’ve accomplished, student debt is a real weight. As a single mother navigating 8.08% high-interest federal loans, rent, childcare, 72 mile round trip commute, and high Orange County rent, every dollar matters. This scholarship would relieve enormous financial pressure. With the money I save by paying down my student loans, I will give my daughter every opportunity I never had. I will finally be able to contribute to her 529 education plan, with the goal that she can one day graduate college completely loan-free. I will use the savings to ensure she can join sports, clubs, art programs, and enrichment opportunities— things I desperately wanted growing up but were never accessible unless they were offered by my public school. These opportunities aren’t “extras.” They’re protective factors. They help break generational cycles. My long-term goal is to become a licensed clinical social worker and eventually create community-based programs that empower families facing trauma, poverty, and instability. Reducing my student loan burden will allow me to focus more on service. I am building a different future for my daughter and my community, and I would be honored to carry the legacy of the Charles Cheesman Student Debt Reduction Scholarship—and one day, when I am able, to pay that generosity forward by creating a scholarship of my own.

As a first-generation college student pursuing my MSW at University of Southern California, my purpose is to help children and families from disenfranchised backgrounds navigate adversity with compassion, patience, and hope. Post MSW, I will earn my PPSC so I can support children within Pre-K through 12th grade settings. I am committed to building my career serving children, youth, and families through culturally relevant, inclusive, and strengths-based care that honors intersectional backgrounds. My passion for this work stems from personal experience: several of my family members have cognitive and developmental delays and physical disabilities.Their experiences and my love for them fuel the empathy and dignity I bring to my clients. During my internship at Garden Grove Unified School District, I served 4 elementary schools, providing individual counseling, group therapy, and case management for children with a range of developmental and behavioral challenges. I helped them build emotional regulation, social skills, and confidence by collaborating with teachers, speech therapists, and school psychologists, and contributing in IEP meetings. These experiences showed me the power of teamwork and how each professional helps a child feel seen and supported. If I had the privilege of working with a child like Rebecca, I would approach her care through a trauma-informed, strengths-based, and family-centered lens. My first goal would be to build trust by observing her nonverbal cues, celebrating her preferences, and learning her unique ways of expression. I would work closely with her team to integrate visual aids, sensory tools, and alternative communication systems so she has multiple ways to connect. I would also incorporate somatic and expressive arts techniques to help her regulate and express emotions through movement, rhythm, and creative play. I believe learning and growth happen when professionals move at the child’s pace, follow their interests, and use modified methods that honor their communication style while approaching their world with curiosity and respect. I see family collaboration as the heart of a child’s growth and progress. Caregivers know their children best, and I believe they should always be treated as equal partners. I would maintain open communication with families, invite input when setting goals, and celebrate wins together. When families are heard and supported, children feel safe and confident. Beyond my internship, I’ve supported children and youth with diverse learning and developmental needs. As a preschool teacher through UCLA Lab School, I worked in the Mini iSteam Lab, supporting the ABA team in implementing visual aids and sensory tools to foster classroom inclusion. I also assisted with bilingual instruction in dual immersion classes and oversaw lunchtime play for students with special needs. As an after-school site lead with Strategic Kids and a high school counselor at Nicholas Academic Centers, I adapted programming for students, including those with learning differences, and supported immigrant and low-income families. My work as a residential counselor in a group home for teen boys taught me emotional support and stability, reinforcing the importance of patience, boundaries, and unconditional care. As a single parent, I faced financial and housing challenges. Earlier this year, I lost a housing subsidy, leaving my daughter and me unhoused while in school. I never gave up. I continued showing up for my studies and fieldwork, determined to model resilience for my daughter and the families I serve. Despite receiving stipends and scholarships, these funds do not fully meet our needs. I took out $31,500 in student loans and expect to borrow an additional $10,000 next semester for tuition. This scholarship will provide financial relief and allow me to advance toward my goal of serving children, youth, and families through inclusive, compassionate, and equity-driven care.

I grew up watching Girl Meets World, and Maya Hart was the first character who felt like a friend. She was funny, stubborn, and always trying to figure out who she was. That’s how I first discovered Sabrina Carpenter, and even now, I see pieces of myself in her. Watching her grow from Disney to the confident artist she is today feels like growing up alongside her. Her song “Because I Liked a Boy” has a line that sticks with me: “God, what will they say next?” It captures that feeling of being misunderstood, especially as a young woman trying to find her voice. I’ve felt that too...learning to tune out the noise and stay true to who I am. What I love most about Sabrina is that she has never stopped evolving. Her career mirrors my own growth, from figuring things out as a kid to finding confidence to realize my full potential as an adult. She reminds me that you can be playful, powerful, and imperfect all at once. Sabrina’s journey connects my childhood to who I am now. She taught me that we don’t have to have everything figured out to shine, we just have to keep growing.

When my daughter was three months old, I sat in the corner of a homeless shelter, breastfeeding her while speaking into my phone’s voice-to-text feature to finish my Master of Social Work graduate school applications. She cooed softly between words as my laptop rested on a stack of "governemnt diapers." I was terrified. Not of failing school, but of being forced to leave the shelter before I was approved for the rapid rehousing subsidy I had applied for. Each keystroke was a prayer that our next home would not be another temporary one. Education grounded me in this season of uncertainty. I had filed for bankruptcy the year before, not because of irresponsibility, but because survival as a single mother came at the expense of credit. When I was later almost dismissed from USC over a $6,000 balance — a tiny fraction of my $110,000 tuition — I felt the familiar sting of injustice. I had come so far, yet the system seemed ready to close its doors over an amount that stood between me and the stability I fought for. Despite everything, I kept going. Between midterms, fieldwork, and motherhood, I carry not just my own dreams but the weight of proving that poverty should not silence potential. I now intern with older adults at a Senior Center, facilitating indivividual counseling, planning macro level events to foster connection, and leading grief groups and empowerment workshops. With each client I serve, I am transforming the very pain I once lived through into healing for others. This scholarship will be a lifeline for me. It means groceries instead of getting into more debt, childcare so I can work on my upcoming final exams instead of impossible choices, and peace in that I can buy my daughter a small cake for her birthday; something that feels impossible with the government shutdown happening right now. This scholarship is a token of support that for me is the difference between surviving and continuing the mission I began that night in the shelter: to create a better future not just for my daughter, but for every family who’s ever felt forgotten in the struggle. My advantage is not privilege. Rather, my advantage is perspective. When serving clients from backgrounds as me, I can enter spaces with understanding and humility. I am guided with the knowledge of how these systems can help and also be harmful. And I come with the power of self disclosure where appropriate. Ultimately, I possess an unwavering belief that hardship is what fuels hope, and hope is the catalyst for change. In any and every future endeavor I choose, I will use my lived experiences to be an agent of change for my family, community, and those without a voice.

I don’t love math because I enjoy doing it...I love math because of what it taught me. Math was something I struggled with for years, and honestly, I used to hate it. But working through it taught me discipline, patience, and how to deal with not being perfect. It reminded me that it’s okay to mess up and keep trying anyway. I love math because it reminds me of the nights a friend would sit beside me, helping me study, while my grandma, an immigrant who only speaks Spanish, cheered me on even though she couldn’t help with the problems. Math was a way I connected with my great grandmother, who I had the privilege to meet while she was still alive, and I used to make worksheets for her to help train her brain. Math also humbled me during my time at UCLA, when I got my first ever C in college. And now, as a Master of Social Work student, I realize how much it shaped me. I never saw the point of things like geometry, and though I don’t use it daily, it kicks in when I’m playing pool with the seniors at my clinical internship and trying to calculate the right angle for a shot. It shows up again when I’m carefully counting how many seniors are registered for lunch and how many are still on the waitlist, making sure everyone gets served. Math even sneaks into the small details: budgeting group supplies, timing sessions, or tracking client attendance for reports. In social work, progress isn’t neat or predictable; kind of like math. You try different approaches, make mistakes, and keep going until something finally makes sense. Math taught me that growth comes from patience and persistence. These are lessons I now carry into my work toward becoming a licensed clinical social worker, one equation, one client, and one breakthrough at a time.

When I entered the homeless shelter, I was in $100,000 of debt, pregnant, and alone. Despite only seeing closed doors for my first 5 months of pregnancy, getting to a safe place left a glimmer of hope and led me to build a relationship with God. Faith helped me believe my situation was temporary, giving me strength to rebuild. Months later, I filed for bankruptcy and applied to numerous programs, jobs, and opportunities to get my life back on track for the future and stability of my daughter. When faith started running low, prayer and persistence led to me getting into a rapid-rehousing program. This subsidy was the safe haven I needed to start processing my trauma and apply to graduate school. God’s love was shaping something greater than I could see, because shortly thereafter, my dream school sent me a letter of acceptance. That faith became my foundation as I continued graduate school at the University of Southern California. Determined, I set on a mission to become a licensed clinical therapist, serving adults and families facing homelessness, trauma, addiction, and poverty, realities I had lived. But in Fall 2024, during midterms, I received devastating news: because of my prior bankruptcy, my loan application had been denied. Without those funds, I would be forced to drop out, lose my scholarships, and owe debt, approximately $60,000, I couldn’t repay. I also lost my housing subsidy for being a student instead of working. I felt like my world was collapsing again. If I dropped out I would be back to square one. I prayed, reminding myself that the same God who carried me from a shelter to graduate school could make a way again. I sold my belongings, started a GoFundMe, and shared my story with humility. I prayed over every donation, every message of encouragement. Slowly, miracles unfolded. Strangers shared my campaign, classmates offered help, and friends prayed with me. Piece by piece, God provided exactly what I needed to stay enrolled. Through that experience, I learned that faith is something that requires active participation, not just when times are tough. In choosing trust and obedience, my life would work out exactly as it is intended. It is the very struggle of commuting 10 hours weekly, breastfeeding my daughter to sleep while writing an essay, and scrounging up every resource I can to cover tuition that prepares me for my God intended purpose. Today, I serve older adults and families through my clinical internship, using trauma-informed care to help clients rediscover their strength. My faith allows me to hold space for their pain while helping them find hope in their stories. When I speak with clients who feel forgotten or defeated, I help them feel empowered, and when appropriate, guide them to find hope for their future in a way that is spiritually meaningful to them. While those trials are over, I still face new challenges. Before, I wondered why my life had been so hard and how God could be so cruel. But it is my very experiences and doubt that strengthened my faith and taught me to trust that God’s timing is perfect. In my professional practice, I honor each client’s unique beliefs and integrate spirituality when the client initiates it. I maintain a non-secular, client-centered approach and, when a client brings a faith of their own understanding, I help them draw on that strength for healing. Overall, faith became my bridge to healing, growth, and leadership. And I am called to help others find the courage to believe in restoration, even when circumstances tell them otherwise.

The Not Really Strangers Challenge Love Island has tested loyalty, temptation, and attraction — but what if it tested vulnerability? Inspired by the card game We’re Not Really Strangers, my challenge, “The Not Really Strangers Challenge,” invites Islanders to drop their guard, open up, and connect on a deeper level. Because the real spark doesn’t come from flirting — it comes from honesty. Objective: To strengthen emotional intelligence, mental health awareness, and genuine connection in the villa through open, meaningful conversations. Setup: Islanders gather around the firepit. In the center sits a glossy red deck labeled Not Really Strangers: Love Island Edition. Facilitating the night’s challenge is Jada Pinkett Smith or another member of the Smith family, known for fostering real, healing conversations that inspire growth and empathy. The deck includes three levels, mirroring the original game: 1) Perception: First impressions and assumptions “What energy do you think I bring into a relationship?” “What’s something you first noticed about me — and why?” 2) Connection: Emotions and shared experiences “What’s something you’re currently healing from?” “When was the last time you felt truly seen?” 3) Reflection: Vulnerability and growth “What fear do you have when it comes to love?” “What lesson has heartbreak taught you about yourself?” Interactive Twists: Before the challenge begins, each Islander writes a private confession on a small pink card, starting with “I’m scared that…” or “I wish someone understood that…” All cards go into a clear Heart Bowl. Throughout the game, Jada draws one card at random and reads it aloud. The Islanders must guess who wrote it, sparking emotional and sometimes surprising discussions. When the real author reveals themselves, they briefly explain their story — turning private fears into shared understanding. After several rounds of questions, Jada introduces a Card Swap Round. Islanders exchange the question card they just answered with someone across the circle and reflect together on how their answers relate — building empathy between unlikely pairs. Every few rounds, Jada draws a Wild Card to add warmth and spontaneity, such as: “Give someone a compliment they don’t know they need.” “Apologize to someone in the villa — for anything, big or small.” “Share a lyric that describes your current mood.” To close the night, each Islander receives a small mirror engraved with “You are not your past.” One by one, they complete a sentence aloud: “I forgive myself for…” “I’m proud of myself for…” “I’m still learning to…” Conclusion: The Not Really Strangers Challenge blends Love Island’s signature excitement with emotional authenticity. It normalizes talking about mental health, trust, and healing. It shows that strength comes from openness. With guidance from the Smith family, this challenge would remind viewers that vulnerability is magnetic, and that love starts when you let yourself be seen. Because in love, just like in life, we’re not really strangers.

It was 2:48am when I quietly zipped the last bag and tiptoed toward the front door. The only sound was the soft breathing of my younger siblings, ages five and three, still fast asleep as I guided them into the car. I was twelve years old, clutching a piece of paper covered in phone numbers I had copied from the laundromat bulletin board earlier that day; strangers offering rooms for rent, a chance at safety. Courage, sometimes, is helping your loved one find the strength to close a chapter. Selflessness means showing up for others even when it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do. It’s about making an active decision to protect, to serve, and to love. As a Master of Social Work student, I carry my spirit of service into every space I enter. For instance, I volunteer 24 hours per week at a Senior Center, allowing me to work with older adults navigating grief, loneliness, and mental health challenges. Many are low-income and Spanish or Vietnamese speaking immigrants; people whose stories mirror those of my own family. In one group I’ve planned and facilitated, Time of Remembrance, clients share culture and memories of loved ones they’ve lost. I’ve seen how empathy, validation, and offering community connection, can help people feel at ease and cared for. There is power in being present for others. Beyond the senior center, I’ve worked to create community among my peers. As a board member and co-mentorship chair for the Latinx Social Work Caucus at USC, I helped develop a mentorship program that connects first-generation graduate students with upperclass mentors who understand their struggles. I remember being that overwhelmed student, unsure how to balance school, parenting, and finances. In response, I built the kind of program I once needed. Earlier this year, I stood before the Orange County Board of Supervisors to share my experiences with rapid rehousing and the challenges faced by single parents navigating homelessness. Speaking publicly about such a vulnerable chapter of my life was uncomfortable. It required a level of self-disclosure that made me tremble at the microphone. But I knew my story could help others who didn’t have the same opportunity or platform to speak. I may never meet the families who will benefit from improved housing policies or expanded support programs, but I trust that change will ripple outward because I chose to use my voice. Similarly, I wrote an op-ed for Voice of OC advocating for sanctuary policies in Orange County, emphasizing how compassion and inclusion strengthen communities. Advocacy, for me, is an act of service. Advocacy is how I transform my own pain into collective progress. My story helps give voice to disenfranchised communities. There were moments when helping others meant putting my own needs on hold: staying up late to help review classmates’ essays, helping another single mom move, or comforting clients even when I felt emotionally drained. I’ve learned that compassion expands when you give it away. In the same way, Michael Rudometkin’s legacy and life reminds us that fulfillment is found in kindness, connection, and purpose. I hope to continue that legacy by using my voice and education to serve those who are often overlooked: immigrants, parents, domestic violence survivors, people in substance use treatment, and elders. Everyone deserves dignity and care. And selflessness is the thread that weaves through every fiber of my being, carrying me through motherhood, higher education, and community service. And it will continue to guide me as I dedicate my life to helping others.

In March 2023, I found myself trembling in a dingy Walgreens bathroom, a positive pregnancy test in hand. I was homeless, $100,000 in debt, and had a sinking feeling that the father would want no part in this journey. At that moment, when the two lines appeared, I made a silent promise: my daughter would not grow up in the same conditions I did. Coming from an impoverished community, I knew firsthand how unstable housing, financial stress, and trauma can leave lasting imprints on a child’s development. I was determined to break that cycle. But navigating single motherhood, financial instability, and graduate school has tested me. I often complete assignments while breastfeeding my daughter, using voice-to-text because a computer screen distracts her during feeds. Many nights I juggle coursework, diaper changes, and soothing her back to sleep, surviving on less than six hours of rest. As the sole provider, every hour of my day is carefully structured around caregiving, commuting, and classes. Affordable childcare is limited to my county, requiring a 3-4 hour daily commute to attend my program. Moving closer isn’t an option; it would risk homelessness again. Despite challenges, I wake up every morning singing to my daughter. I want her to remember our struggle as a story of resilience. Over the past year, I have eliminated all debt, got a car paid in full, and secured stable housing. Of all my accomplishments, I am most proud of being able to breastfeed my daughter even now that she is 23 months. Each challenge reminds me why I chose this path: to be the kind of social worker I once needed. At my current internship at a Senior Center, I facilitate bilingual psychoeducational groups for older adults on topics like grief, financial wellness, and chronic illness management. I also engage clients in individual therapy, case management, and information and referral. I’ve developed evidence-informed interventions that integrate trauma-informed care, mindfulness, cultural relevance, and community connection. Through this role, I’ve become confident in my ability to assess, intervene, and build therapeutic rapport with diverse clients. These skills only reaffirm my calling to clinical social work. Previously, I completed an internship with Garden Grove Unified School District, providing individual and group counseling for elementary students navigating trauma, academic stress, and family challenges. Working in school-based mental health gave me the foundation to understand how early intervention can prevent long-term suffering, especially among children from low-income and immigrant families. Now, as a Masters student at the University of Southern California, I continue bridging healthcare and social justice, focusing on the intersection of mental health, chronic illness, and cultural stigma. My goal is to obtain my LCSW and expand access to bilingual and culturally relevant behavioral health care for families who have historically been excluded from systems of care. I hope to use my education and lived experience to create spaces of safety and healing, proving compassion and resilience are powerful forms of medicine. Ultimately, I hope to impact the world by reimagining what healing looks like for disenfranchised communities. My dream is to one day open a women’s wellness retreat that blends evidence-based therapy with art, sound baths, and culturally rooted healing practices; a sanctuary where mothers, survivors, and caregivers can rest, reflect, and rebuild. I also aspire to conduct research that highlights the power of resilience among single mothers and present my findings on a TED Talk stage, giving voice to stories often left out of academia and policy conversations. I want my daughter to see that her mother’s determination created a movement toward collective healing.

Although I have never had the privilege of seeing Taylor Swift perform in person, watching her live performances online has made me a true Swiftie and brought me strength from her messages. When she performed “Wildest Dreams” on The Eras Tour, it felt like she was telling my story back to me. The way she stood there, graceful and strong, reminded me of everything I had to endure over the past few years. I became a single mom. I was never in a relationship with my daughter’s father, but during my pregnancy, he was dating other women and taking them on vacations. He told me he’d be there, but his actions said otherwise. So when Taylor sings, “No one has to know what we do,” it hits that feeling of being hidden. The line “Say you’ll remember me” became something I whispered to myself, but not about him. Instead, about my daughter. I hope she’s remembered in all her beauty, even by the father who chose not to stay. Like Taylor says, “Nothing lasts forever,” and I’ve learned that sometimes love or parents just don’t. Still, what I love most about Taylor’s performances is how she finds strength in the pain. On her new album, “The Life of a Showgirl,” she sings, “Sequins are forever, and now I know the life of a showgirl, babe.” That lyric reminds me that even when the spotlight fades, my light doesn’t. I’m still glimmering and shining bright, for myself, and for my daughter.

My rock bottom wasn’t the typical stint in jail or long hospital stay that people typically imagine. Instead of a sudden harsh collapse, my downfall came slowly. It was a gradual erosion of my safety nets, self worth, and stability. It looked like a heavy postpartum depression I never sought a diagnosis for, a bankruptcy and repossession from months of trying to afford my basic needs as a single mom with full time custody and financial responsibility, and crying in my car between classes while wondering how I was supposed to navigate being a full-time graduate student and a full-time mom. When darkness tries to pull me back in, it looks like insomnia that leaves me staring at the sticker covered ceiling in the small 10x10 storage unit I call home at 2:00am. Like repeated memories and flashbacks of domestic violence I thought I moved on from. Panic attacks in the grocery store, struggling to hold back tears while my two year old tugs at my sleeve. When mental health challenges try to reel me, I am struck with the exhaustion of trying to navigate systems that punish survivors for choosing education over full-time work, kicked out of a rapid rehousing program that I was on the waitlist for over a year; leaving me unhoused in the middle of midterms and almost dropping out of school. In all of this, I felt a sort of magnet composed of unhealthy coping. When I think about what recovery from that devastation has looked like for me, I remember the moments when I turned to substances to numb the pain; not because I wanted to give up, but because I didn’t yet have the tools to face the trauma. For me, recovery is learning how to breathe through the storm with grounding techniques like 5-4-3-2-1. Recovery is journaling late at night when my thoughts feel heavier than my body. Recovery is walking into NA meetings and sitting in a circle of strangers who in time became my family; hearing “one day at a time” and believing it. Recovery is meeting regularly with my sponsor, who reminds me that sometimes love looks like accountability. Recovery is choosing every day to be present for my daughter, even when grief and depression circle me like vultures waiting for me to give in. I used to feel ashamed of my scars, wanting to erase that history. To separate myself from that girl who made such humiliating choices for her survival. However, I’ve learned that recovery means embracing those experiences as part of my foundation. I am not defined by trauma, substance use, and instability. I am a survivor. And I am taking the hard lessons I learned to help others walk through moments others try to look away from. Society wants to cover up and avoid people in these situations because it is too ugly to bear, too embarrassing, a signal that a person is faulty. But I know firsthand that is untrue and I dedicate my life to showing that to the world. I fulfill that mission in my role as a Master of Social Work at a top ranked university, USC, who provides bilingual counseling to older adults. I sit with grieving families and teach them the same coping skills that keep me standing. I am training to become a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) so I can create spaces for survivors shaped by the real needs of the community. Needs I understand because I am part of it. I’ve lived it. My vision is a community wellness center and retreat that combines therapy, peer mentorship, culturally relevant practices, art therapy, and practical life skills like financial literacy and parenting support. I want to create the kind of space I once searched for—a place where people can be honest and unapologetic about the weight they carry and begin to find ways to lay it down. I stay committed to my recovery by practicing what I teach. I attend therapy, journal, and practice mindfulness. I attend NA meetings, check in with my sponsor, and remind myself that sobriety is a daily practice. I tell myself growth is not linear. Ebbs and flows are normal. I surround myself with accountability, whether in my MSW program, recovery community, or my daughter, who is my daily reminder that cycles can be broken. Like Ella, I am stubbornly determined. I’ve wrestled with depression, substance use, housing instability, single parenthood, challenges only exacerbated by social stigma. And although my recovery is imperfect, I remain consistent. I show up for myself and my daughter daily. I am living proof recovery is possible, and recovery is not mine alone. And I am called to share it with others.

“Take my will and my life, guide me in my recovery, show me how to live.” The third step prayer is one I’ve recited countless times. At midnight rocking my daughter to sleep in the storage shed we call home. On my 1.5 hour commute as I pumped breastmilk. On my brief walks in between classes. It reminds me that, beyond my hardships, there is a higher power out there with a plan for me. When I began graduate school at USC, I thought I’d finally found stability. After years of homelessness, addiction, and bankruptcy, I found myself living in an apartment through rapid rehousing, raising my daughter as a single parent, and growing in faith. But within months, I lost that housing. I was disqualified because I chose to pursue school instead of working full time. Consequently, I nearly had to drop out of school. I found myself once again without a home. The weight of despair pressed in. And the temptation to return to old coping habits was looming. There were seasons when my faith felt distant. I wondered if God existed, questioning why suffering kept finding its way back to me. Juxtaposed in my mind was belief and doubt. Even in that ambivalence, I found myself returning to NA meetings and group prayer calls, consistently reminded I am not alone. Wrestling with those thoughts only deepened my belief. I choose faith daily, with the hard-earned knowledge that grace can still find me in the thick of it. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I can not change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference” I first heard the Serenity Prayer in 2022 at my very first NA meeting, after years of using. Acceptance, courage, and wisdom, became the backbone of my recovery. My compass when doubt crept in. When my daughter was born, I named her Serenity Rayne. Her middle name, Rayne, carries a double meaning: “Ray” is a tribute to my grandmother, Luz, whose name means light in Spanish, and who has always been a guiding light for me. And “Rayne” reminds me that even in the storm of my past, she was the ray of light sent from God, a path of grace and hope that broke through the rain of my life. She is living proof of God’s promise: beauty can rise from even the most devastating catastrophes. Being a single mother deepened my faith and resilience in unexpected ways. With full custody and full financial responsibility, every decision I make is guided by prayer and hope. l use faith to help me maintain my sanity. To balance between the tough choices I make to survive and provide stability for my daughter. Unfortunately, there are no weekends off or second incomes to fall back on. It's all reliant on just me, and the strength faith provides. Even in my doubts, I am repeatedly proven He is with me. I hope to teach my daughter that even in hardship, God always makes a way. Motherhood is not separate from my recovery or my education. It is the reason I fight for both. My experiences with mental health challenges include depression, trauma, and substance. Those experiences forever shape how I see the world. They taught me that silence is deadly and vulnerability is healing. They showed not to pretend to have it all together, but to lean into honesty, prayer, and accountability. And they gave me compassion for others; I know what it feels like to sit in darkness wondering if there is any hope I will survive. In NA, I learned recovery is imperfect and faith is about choosing to believe despite doubts. I built routines that anchored me: morning prayer before my daughter wakes, step work with my sponsor, and group calls where women share scripture and their struggles openly. Hearing someone else share their truth reminds me I’m not alone. My mental health recovery is integrated in my spiritual recovery, and faith is at the center of my future. Matthew 4:19 says, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” Those words resonate with me and mirror the life I seek to build. God has lifted me from despair, not so I could stand alone, but so that I could cast my net wider. So I can reach others who feel unseen. My purpose is to remind the broken and disenfranchised that they are not forgotten. As a Master of Social Work student interning at a senior center, I walk beside clients in their own battles: grief, mental illness, addiction, and loss. Many are reluctant to share their pain. This silence, minimizing needs, echoes the same silence I used to live with. I look forward to continuing listening with compassion, encouraging resilience, and creating safe spaces for healing. My cultural background, my faith, and my recovery allow me to meet clients where they are in the present moment. Whether that means a grounding exercise for anxiety, or simply the reassurance that they are not alone, I am there to hold that space for them just as others did for me. Motherhood, recovery, and faith intersect in every part of my calling. Each day I wake up and choose to fight for stability not only for myself, but for my beautiful daughter who depends on me. My prayer is that she grows up seeing faith as a source of strength, and a voice that carries her forward to the exact place she is meant to be. And just as my grandmother Luz was a guiding light for me, I pray that Serenity grows up knowing she is both a ray of light and a vessel of God’s love for others. My aspiration is to become a Licensed Clinical Social Worker and open a practice that integrates therapy, peer support, and spiritual care. I envision launching a women’s wellness retreat for individuals in recovery, trauma survivors, and single mothers, with scholarships to ensure access. Through this annual retreat, I imagine blending therapy with art, cultural healing, and community. There will be spaces for children, so mothers never have to choose between care for themselves and care for their families. To be a fisher of men means to me to extend my net so wide that no one feels ashamed or undeserving of healing. I am carefully weaving this net from faith, clinical skills, cultural understanding, and lived experience. With every person I walk beside, I’m reminded I cannot hold healing alone. Healing is something I must share.

In thinking about the kind of legacy I want to leave, my daughter is at the forefront. I think about her watching me work late at night, writing papers as she is breastfeeding. While my daughter may be too young to remember this, I think about what it means for her to see her mother—a first-generation college student—pursue graduate education in social work. I consider how she will come to know that cycles of trauma, poverty, and silence can be broken. Resilience is the thread running through my story, and it’s what anchors my path toward a career in mental healthcare. As a Master of Social Work student at the University of Southern California, I am training to become a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW). My passion is mental healthcare, especially for communities that have historically been overlooked—immigrants, low-income families, substance use recovery, and survivors of trauma. Too often, healthcare is discussed only in terms of physical illness, while wounds of the mind and spirit are ignored. Yet, I know firsthand that mental health is healthcare. Depression, trauma, and substance use ripple through families and communities, leaving scars as deep as any disease. I grew up in a Latino household where mental illness was rarely named; where survival often took precedence over healing. I’m the first in my family to pursue a degree, and with that comes the chance to provide care that speaks to culture, language, and lived experience. In my current internship at a senior center, I sit with older adults navigating grief, chronic illness, and isolation. I listen as they describe chest pains they’ve ignored, or the sorrow of losing friends, and I know my role is not only to provide counseling but also to bridge the gap between mental health and medical care. The U.S. healthcare system often leaves people like my abuelita—who avoided hospitals for fear of bills—without care until it’s too late. Watching her suffer from untreated health issues, and later experiencing gestational hypertension during my own pregnancy, reminded me that prevention and early intervention matter. My vision is to provide integrated mental health services within community healthcare settings, so that people do not have to choose between their physical well-being and their emotional survival. And so they are emotionally equipped to make healthy decisions for their lives and future. I also see my work as part of a broader fight for justice. Just as Catrina Celestine Aquilino believed justice should be accessible, I believe healthcare should be accessible—mental healthcare most of all. A lot of the time, mental health challenges compound physical health challenges and hinder people from going to the doctor. This, combined with financial strains, leads many untreated. The right to therapy, medication, and support should not depend on whether you can afford it, speak the language, or live in the “right” neighborhood. My ambition is to open a community-based wellness center that offers bilingual therapy, peer mentorship, and practical resources like financial literacy and parenting support, blending law, advocacy, and healthcare to address the root causes of suffering. To me, making a positive impact means ensuring that no one feels as invisible as I once did when facing trauma and instability. It means using my education, my recovery, and my lived experience to remind others that they are worthy of healing and dignity. I would be honored to receive this scholarship, not only as financial support but as a continuation of Catrina’s legacy: to cast my circle beyond myself, beyond my daughter, and into the wider community that needs a voice, a healer, and an advocate.

When most people think of the heart, they think of love; the smell of Valentine’s Day roses or the sound of a heartbeat on an ultrasound. For me, the word heart reminds me of my abuelita: of watching her hesitate to go to the hospital when she felt pain because she didn’t have insurance, and of realizing how broken our healthcare system can be. Instead of peace of mind, we lived with fear of bills, bad news, or what would happen if she didn’t get the care she needed. Heart disease didn’t just affect her body; it shaped our family. I saw how her symptoms brought daily stress, but also how silence made things worse. In our culture, especially among Latinos, it’s common to stay quiet about health problems, to not “burden” others, or to wait until it’s too late. I learned how dangerous that can be. I realized it’s better to talk about it, share concerns with family and friends, and seek care early rather than hide symptoms out of fear or pride. Keeping heart problems a secret doesn’t protect our loved ones; it delays healing. The impact of heart disease in Latino communities is alarming. According to the American Heart Association, Latinos are at higher risk for obesity and diabetes, and about 1 in 5 Hispanic adults has high blood pressure, yet many don’t even know it. Growing up, I saw diet play into this. Our family gatherings always included traditional foods– tamales, champurrado, and capirotada–rich in flavor but often high in fat, sodium, and sugar. Food, though a source of love and culture, can also contribute to illness if we don’t balance it with healthier habits. Watching my abuelita taught me that we can honor our traditions while also making healthy changes. That lesson became personal when I developed gestational hypertension during pregnancy. Hearing about my high blood pressure was frightening, not just for me, but for my baby. It was a warning that I can’t ignore risks that run in my family. My abuelita’s suffering is a serious lesson to make healthier choices now so I can live long enough to watch my daughter grow. And so she doesn’t have to carry the same worries I once carried. These experiences shaped my perspective and goals, showing me the urgent need for culturally responsive education and accessible healthcare for communities like mine. They also fuel my commitment as an MSW student to be an advocate—for clients, families, and especially for those who hesitate to seek help because of cost, language barriers, or stigma. ​​I am currently pursuing my MSW at USC, and my internship is at a senior center where I counsel and support older adults. My grandmother’s story lives in conversations with clients wracked by loss, illness, or memory. My lived experience and culture allow me to approach clients differently, with respect, humility, and awareness of how fear, stigma, and language can block pathways to care. I understand the weight of silence and the importance of being a provider my clients feel safe talking to. Our stories can hold trauma, risk, and illness without dictating the ending, and it’s my mission to provide space to work through these challenges alongside clients. Though I am not the one living with heart disease in the traditional sense, the legacy of my abuelita and my own health warning shaped my purpose. I would be grateful and honored for this scholarship to support my education and amplify my heart's mission: to meet clients where they are, honor their cultural narratives, and ensure that care doesn’t demand silence.

Strength Through Service: My Path to Clinical Leadership My career goal is to become a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) specializing in adult mental health and wellness, with a focus on trauma-informed care for underserved communities. I aspire to open a sliding-scale private practice that accepts Medi-Cal and eventually establish a nonprofit women’s wellness retreat offering culturally responsive, holistic services. This scholarship would reduce the financial strain of tuition, childcare, and transportation, allowing me to focus fully on my education, internship, and clinical training. My journey reflects resilience and leadership. As a single mother and first-generation college student, I have balanced parenthood, financial hardship, and full-time graduate studies while maintaining a 4.0 GPA. At USC, I serve on the board of the Latinx Social Work Caucus, where I co-create spaces of community support through innovation of the Mentorship program. I have advocated before the Orange County Board of Supervisors about housing barriers for student parents and authored an op-ed in Voice of OC calling for sanctuary policies for immigrant families. Clinically, I have provided bilingual therapy and case management to children and older adults, incorporating culturally relevant programming like Día de los Muertos ofrenda-making to support grief processing. These experiences highlight my strengths in advocacy, leadership, and culturally responsive care. With this award, I can continue advancing toward my professional goals while contributing to a healthier, more equitable future for Southern California communities. Healthcare Leadership as a Path to Justice ACHE of Southern California is dedicated to advancing healthcare leadership, improving access, and fostering diversity and inclusion in the field. My goals align with this mission by addressing the urgent need for culturally responsive, affordable mental health care. As a Latina, first-generation graduate student, and single mother, I understand the barriers many patients face when navigating fragmented systems. I aim to bridge those gaps by creating spaces of care that affirm dignity and identity. My vision of a sliding-scale practice and nonprofit wellness retreat directly supports equitable access to care while uplifting diverse communities often left behind in healthcare conversations. I am committed to leadership that combines clinical practice, advocacy, and policy change. Through my roles with the Latinx Social Work Caucus and Parent Voices California, I have engaged in grassroots organizing around childcare and housing access. Clinically, I integrate bilingual services, trauma-informed therapy, and creative arts into treatment, ensuring interventions are both effective and culturally relevant. In recognition of my dedication to service and advocacy, I was honored with the NASW Consuelo W. Gosnell Memorial Scholarship and the California Social Work Archives Madeleine Stoner & Ralph Fertig Scholar Award. These recognitions affirm my commitment to advancing equity in mental health and inspire me to continue leading with purpose. In alignment with ACHE of SoCal, I believe that healthcare leaders must be both compassionate practitioners and advocates for systemic reform. By investing in my education, this scholarship would help me embody that vision for disenfranchised communities in Southern California.

Living with ADHD almost all facets of my academic journey. As a first-generation Latina graduate student, single mother, and trauma survivor, the obstacles I face are often magnified by mental health challenges. ADHD makes it harder for me to stay organized, manage time, and sustain focus, especially while balancing coursework, internship hours, work, advocacy, commuting from OC to LA, and parenting my toddler. At times, it can feel overwhelming. My assignments pile up, my commute steals hours from my day, and fatigue makes concentration even harder. Still, ADHD has also taught me resilience, adaptability, and creativity in finding strategies that work for me. The road to learning how to prioritize my mental health was not linear. It was difficult, filled with trial and error. But today, I have systems in place that help me thrive. I use a Passion Planner to organize my tasks, track gratitude, and break down my days hour by hour so I can effectively allocate time to school, internship, parenting, work, and self-care. I also recently reconnected with my psychiatrist; because I was breastfeeding before, I had to pause medication, but now I can safely incorporate it again as part of my treatment. At USC, I receive accommodations through the Office of Student Accessibility Services, which gives me extra time and flexibility to perform at my best. These supports have been essential in helping me sustain my 4.0 GPA in my Master of Social Work program while caring for my daughter. My mental health also affects my personal life. Parenting with ADHD means I have to be intentional about routines, managing sensory overload, and carving out rest. I practice self-compassion when things don’t go perfectly. I attend therapy, lean on support groups, and use mindfulness and creative outlets like art, dance, and writing to regulate my emotions. Most importantly, I’ve learned to ask for help, whether from mentors, community organizations, or fellow mothers who understand the challenges I face. Prioritizing my mental health is imperative for my success, for my daughter’s wellbeing, and to provide quality care to the communities I serve. When I am intentional about my well-being, I show up as a more present mother, a more effective student, and a more empathetic clinician. I want my daughter to grow up knowing that mental health is something to nurture with pride, not shame. Looking forward, my career goal is to become a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW). I want to help others navigate their mental health and, if they are neurodivergent like me, to discover creative, sustainable ways of living that they can feel proud of. I plan to combine clinical skills with empathy informed by my lived experience. I hope to make mental health services more accessible, inclusive, and affirming. My journey shows that all people have potential and with the right systems, support, and perseverance, they can succeed.

In March 2023, I found myself trembling in a Walgreens bathroom, staring at a positive pregnancy test. I was homeless, in $100,000 of debt, and uncertain if I could raise a child alone. Yet when my daughter, Serenity Rayne, was born, she became my ray of light in the rainstorm. Motherhood and caregiving not only reshaped my personal journey, but they clarified my professional calling: to dedicate my life to mental health, trauma-informed care, and advocacy for disenfranchised communities. My educational journey began in under-resourced schools where my ADHD went undiagnosed, I faced unfair treatment tied to my last name, and walked over an hour to high school daily. Writing became my refuge, helping me process trauma I endured at home. Eventually, I transferred into a college-bound track and went on to graduate from UCLA with honors. Now, as a Master of Social Work student at USC, I balance motherhood, internship, and advocacy while maintaining a 4.0 GPA. These experiences remind me that education can be both an escape and a tool for justice. As a single parent and trauma survivor, I know firsthand how inaccessible the mental health system is for low-income families, minorities, and parents who often face systemic barriers. My ultimate goal is to become a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW), open a sliding-scale practice for Medi-Cal patients, and eventually establish a nonprofit wellness retreat for women, mothers, and survivors of domestic violence and substance use recovery. My clinical work taught me the power of inclusive, culturally responsive care. At Garden Grove Unified School District, I supported Latino children navigating trauma and grief, often integrating art as expression. This year, I am privileged to work with older adults, where I incorporate culturally relevant activities such as Día de los Muertos ofrenda-making and painting, transforming grief into community remembrance and healing. By blending art therapy, narrative practices, and bilingual case management, I strive to meet people where they are and honor the full complexity of their identities. I also hope to contribute to mental health research that includes the voices of women, immigrants, and caregivers who are too often excluded from clinical trials, ensuring treatments reflect the realities of those most in need. Ultimately, my vision extends beyond traditional therapy. I hope to launch an internationally recognized women’s wellness retreat where diverse professionals provide culturally immersive therapeutic and holistic services: art therapy, process groups, dance workshops, reflective writing, cultural cleanses, sound baths, and mindful cooking. These retreats will emphasize joy, fun, and genuine connection, because safe relationships are key to recovery. To strengthen these bonds, I envision alumni gatherings where participants reunite and continue building community. Equitable access will be ensured through scholarships, particularly for women in recovery and single mothers. Being a parenting student has also made me an advocate. I spoke before the Orange County Board of Supervisors about the flaws in rapid rehousing programs for student parents. I authored an op-ed in Voice of OC calling for sanctuary policies to protect immigrant families. At USC, I advocate for stronger institutional support for parenting students, and I serve on the board of the Latinx Social Work Caucus to co-create community care spaces as Mentorship Co-Chair. I also joined Parent Voices California to engage in grassroots policy work around childcare and equity. What sustains me is the vision of the future: one where low-income families, women of color, and immigrant communities have access to mental health care that is inclusive, affordable, and affirming. With support from Joybridge Scholarship I can continue to utilize my lived experience to help others find hope and healing.

The Healing Art When motherhood arrived like heavy rain, I wrote a song— each lyric a raft to keep me afloat, each note a lullaby sewn from tired arms carrying a mother’s promise. And when my daughter was born, I named her Serenity Rayne— a ray of light in the rainstorm that was my life, a reminder that even in storm my sky is painted with brightness. At six years old, I carried canvases like secret confessions, knocking on strangers’ doors portraits still wet in my small hands. The paint— a child’s healing disguised as entrepreneurial play and brushstrokes like bandages over wounds too tender for words. In high school, grief placed clay in my palms, and I shaped sorrow into bowls made of earth. I learned that loss can solidify, yet still be held with loving care. In college, I turned doubt into dance, my body the stage where impostor syndrome unraveled. Each spin shook loose the whispers that said I didn’t belong, each leap a protest, each breath a victory. And in graduate school, I uncapped markers and drew my story— a parenting student fighting for resources that should have been mine, sketching resilience in bold colors against the gray walls of bureaucracy. Spanish is my second language and art my third, a mirror, weapon, safe haven, and prayer. It has carried me through every chapter, teaching me that brokenness can be sculpted, silence can be painted, and struggle can be rewritten as hope’s song. As a single mother, daughter of immigrants, and first-generation graduate student, I lived much of my life carrying both burden and beauty. There were nights when exhaustion and fear when balancing motherhood, studies, and survival almost enveloped me. Creativity became my lifeline and language of resilience. And I hope to help others become translators in their own stories. Art therapy is not bound to one medium—whether through drawing, painting, sculpting, collage, or photography, individuals can process emotions and improve their well-being in ways words often cannot. I am also drawn to weaving in other expressive arts such as music and dance, knowing that the body, voice, and rhythm are also instruments of healing. Narrative therapy, too, has been transformative in my own life, helping me to rewrite my story, to see myself not as defined by struggle but as an author of resilience and hope. During my clinical training internship with Garden Grove Unified School District, I integrated art therapy with children navigating grief, anxiety, and trauma. This year, I am privileged to work with older adults, where I continue to weave the arts into our programs in culturally relevant ways. For example, around Día de los Muertos, we will paint and create ofrendas, honoring loved ones who passed through a celebration of life. Art becomes remembrance and release. I dream of becoming an art therapist who cultivates healing spaces where trauma is acknowledged, but not stories ends. My vision is to offer survivors, especially women, children, and older adults from underserved communities, an opportunity to become artists of their own futures. Utilizing creativity as a bridge back to themselves. Like Marsha Cottrell, I believe art carries the power to take what is broken and reimagine it into something whole. Receiving this scholarship would not simply fund my Master of Social Work education at the University of Southern California; it would carry Marsha’s vision forward, honoring her belief that healing can be found in the quiet work of creating. This scholarship would allow me to help people remember that their lives, no matter how marked by pain, are masterpieces of their own design.

I am the sole caregiver for my 19-month-old daughter who I have raised entirely on my own since the moment she was born. My days revolve around ensuring her needs are met; from breastfeeding and preparing healthy meals, to comforting her during night wakings, managing developmental milestones, coordinating medical appointments, and creating a safe, loving environment where she can thrive. All while balancing graduate-level coursework, internships, and advocacy work. But caregiving didn’t begin when I became a mother. I grew up witnessing domestic violence, substance use, and intergenerational trauma, circumstances that forced me into a caregiver role far too early. I learned to emotionally support my family members, clean, cook, and translate legal and medical documents in a bilingual household. I helped with my great grandmother when she was bed ridden in our living room and I helped with my grandmother who did not speak English. I never had the chance to just “be a kid,” and by the time I reached adulthood, I was burnt out and unsure of how to care for myself. That early caregiving role laid the foundation for the kind of mother, and social worker, I am becoming. Being a caregiver has completely reshaped my life goals. I am currently pursuing my Master of Social Work (MSW) at the University of Southern California, specializing in Adult Mental Health and Wellness. I’ve realized that my experiences as a single parent and trauma survivor uniquely position me to serve other caregivers, mothers, and individuals navigating complex trauma. My goal is to become a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW), open a private practice that serves Medi-Cal patients, and eventually establish a nonprofit wellness retreat for women, mothers, and survivors of domestic violence and substance use recovery. Caregiving has also made me an advocate. I’ve spoken before the Orange County Board of Supervisors about the flaws in rapid rehousing programs for students and single mothers. I’ve published an article in Voice of OC calling for sanctuary policies for immigrant families. I am also calling for better institutional support for parenting students at the University of Southern California. I currently serve on the board of the Latinx Social Work Caucus, mentoring first-gen students and co-creating community care spaces. These efforts are not in spite of my caregiving. Rather, they are because of it. But being a full-time caregiver and student without a financial safety net is incredibly difficult. My subsidized housing program ended after one year, and because I’m a full-time student and not working traditional hours, I no longer qualify for many programs. Despite getting accepted into one of the top MSW programs in the country, and earning multiple scholarships, I still face gaps in funding due to denied supplemental student loans. Receiving this scholarship would not only alleviate some financial pressure, but it would also allow me to focus on my studies and internship, where I provide bilingual therapy and case management to older adults. It would mean fewer nights choosing between sleep and scholarship applications. It would mean more time spent bonding with my daughter in the park instead of worrying about how to cover our basic needs. And most importantly, it would be a reminder that caregiving is not a weakness, but a powerful, transformative act of love. Caregiving made me who I am. It taught me patience, resilience, advocacy, and empathy. With your support, I can continue turning my personal experiences into professional purpose. I thank you in advance for your support of caregivers and considering my application and for supporting those who, like me, have given so much without always being seen.

Pursuing a Master of Social Work (MSW) is my mission, grounded in lived experience, resilience, and a commitment to serving society’s most vulnerable communities. As a first-generation college student and a single mother, continuing my education is a crucial step in creating a stable, empowered future for my daughter and for the communities I aim to serve. Thus far, I have faced several hardships and barriers, primarily financial, that have almost led to me dropping out of school due to inability to cover tuition costs or childcare. Receiving this scholarship would significantly alleviate these monetary burdens and allow me to stay focused on what matters most: becoming an agent of change for those most often left behind while caring for my daughter. I am currently enrolled full-time in a graduate program at the University of Southern California while balancing parenthood, internship responsibilities, and part-time work. Despite these challenges, I maintain a 4.0 GPA and am involved in both academic and community advocacy efforts. I currently work with Latino and immigrant families impacted by trauma, grief, and systemic barriers. Through my previous internship, I provided school-based mental health services to children navigating complex emotional and environmental stressors. Experiences that have not only deepened my clinical skills but reaffirmed my commitment to culturally responsive, trauma-informed care. Further, I have advocated for equitable access to housing for low income families and single parents by sharing my own experiences with Rapid Rehousing to the Orange County Board of Directors and engaging in policy discussions with my local representatives. Lastly, I am committed to sparking thought provoking conversations with my community as exemplified by my recent article published in the Voice of OC where I advocate for sanctuary policies for immigrant families and children. Overall, I show through action my commitment to my community and education is the means to advance my mission. However, navigating graduate school as a low-income student and single parent has presented significant financial stress. After experiencing housing instability due to the expiration of a rental subsidy program, I had to make difficult choices between affording child care, gas for my internship commute, and basic living expenses. This scholarship would help bridge that gap. It would allow me to pay for essentials like diapers, food, and transportation while continuing to show up for my clients, professors, and daughter. With this support, I could more fully dedicate myself to my training without constantly worrying about making ends meet. Beyond meeting immediate needs, this scholarship would be a long-term investment in the future I am building. My ultimate goal is to become a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) and open a sliding-scale mental health practice that centers the needs of low-income women, immigrant families, those in substance use recovery, and survivors of trauma. I also hope to launch a culturally grounded wellness retreat space that integrates evidence-based mental health services with community care, rest, and healing. This scholarship would bring me one step closer to realizing these goals, which are grounded in years of lived experience and fieldwork. Education has always been the pathway through which I’ve found strength, stability, and purpose. But I haven’t gotten here alone. It’s been through scholarships, mentorship, and collective care that I’ve been able to persist. That’s why receiving the OMC scholarship is more than financial support; it is a powerful affirmation that I, and students like me, belong in these spaces of leadership, healing, and impact. With your support, I can continue building a career that gives back to the very communities that raised and shaped me.

Repay the master, T-swift, by listening to her iconic 80’s inspired musical track. I am a strong proponent of supporting artists and for that reason I listen to the remastered soundtrack of 1989. In my streaming of her music, I found one song which resonantes with me and how my year has progressed: Wildest Dreams. The lyrics meanings can be deduced to one of two scenarios: that Taylor’s short lived relationship was with a cheater or that she had a lover who was already with someone (making her the other woman). Like my own life, I became a single mom this year. I was never in a relationship with my daughter’s father and during my entire pregnancy he dated numerous other women and took them on lavish vacations. He said he would support me through the pregnancy and I simultaneously felt cheated on and like the other woman, even though we were not together. Thus, the lyric “no one has to know what we do” reminds me of how I felt when I asked him to go to doctors appointments or to visit our daughter after she was born. My hope is that my daughter’s father will be there for her which is why the lyric “my last request is say you’ll remember me” because I hope our baby is remembered in all her beauty. That she will forever hold a place in his heart. Lastly, the lyric “even if it’s just in your wildest dreams” connects with my experience this year because I have come to terms with the fact that he has made a choice not to be in our daughters life. It has taken so much inner work to heal my inner child, to hold the moments we shared as positive, and to be grateful for the lessons he taught me. “Nothing lasts forever” including my hope that he will come around and my daughters hope that he will love her in the way she needs. He will “see me in hindsight” and the memories of the time we shared have already become so distant as he has moved on and found a girlfriend and refused to celebrate my daughter on her milestones but celebrated his girlfriend on National Girlfriends day. I too have moved on and found a boyfriend who accepts my daughter as his own. Even though he is the one who approached me intimately, like in Taylor’s case with the lyric “let’s get out of this town,” he is also the one who ended and severed the connection with both me and my daughter. What’s most devastating is his refusal to be in her life and his efforts towards relinquishment of his rights over our daughter. Therefore, I hope the memories haunt him with beautiful pictures of the relationship he could have had with our daughter. That love will only be possible in his “wildest dreams.”

I most identify with “The Office” character Oscar Martínez. A fellow Latina, I understand what it feels like to be the person on a team who is in the “coalition for reason” alongside with other colleagues. I, though extroverted and creative, like to choose practicality in workplace situations to ensure logical solutions that are effective and respectful for all parties involved. For this reason, I am pursuing a career in social work. Furthermore, there are times in the show when Oscar can be condescending and out of touch with how his intelligence can be construed as rude. I myself am very cautious to avoid being a know it all and this character was a pivotal way, through humor, for me to identify this flawed characteristic in myself. The humor has allowed me to better grasp that I do not always know what is best and all perspectives are equally valuable. Thus, I am not better able to focus on the inquisitive and constructive aspects of my personality rather than the critical. The show overall helps me identify that, while I am generally uninterested in developing close relationships with my coworkers, it is important to build connection with others; at the end of the day we are all doing the best we can with the skills we have and there is value in building positive rapport with others seeing that we will be working together daily. Through humor, I’ve been able to be more engaged with my coworkers, patient and understanding of diverse perspectives, and positively contribute to workplace culture.

Sabrina has helped me feel empowered because her slow rise to fame has not come without immense diligence and dedication to her craft. As her career began to skyrocket, fans and observers attempted to bring her down with scandal, gossip, and drama about her prior relationship and another celebrity who wrote a song that was speculated to be about her. Despite the controversy, she did not engage in nastiness. Rather, she expressed herself through her creative medium; music. One of her song states “I wish you knew that even you can’t get under my skin if I don’t let you in” which simply sets a boundary while highlighting her self love. She is unapologetically herself and embodies an independent woman who stands up for herself and her boundaries. Her aura, music, and energy are characteristics of a compassionate, loving, and powerful woman; characteristics I want to embody in my career as a social worker. Sabrina is popularly known for her quote which states: “confidence is the most beautiful thing you can possess.” Sabrina Carpenter truly knows who she is, what she stands for, and she maintains her confidence - qualities and skills I hope to empower my future clients to obtain.

In March 2023 I found myself trembling in a dingy Walgreens bathroom with a positive pregnancy in hand - I was homeless, in $100,000 in debt, and had an inkling the father would want no part. Coming from an impoverished community, I knew the implications of raising my child in similar living conditions as I did would leave them at high risk of developing adverse childhood experiences. Navigating the financial, custodial, and emotional responsibilities of parenthood alone coupled with attending college presents numerous challenges. I struggle being able to afford quality childcare for my 7 month old daughter who cannot yet articulate her experiences in daycare. Therefore, I do my best to complete academic assignments while she is in my care by, for instance, breastfeeding my daughter and utilizing voice to text functions on my cell phone; having a computer in front of her causes distractions during feeds and her attraction to the screen hinders my ability to type. Furthermore, there are times where deadlines are close and I have to prioritize feeding her, changing her diaper, soothing her, providing stimulating pay based learning activities, and putting her to sleep over spending time to craft quality assignments. I often find myself completing school work while my daughter is asleep and juggling daily responsibilities with 6 hours or less of sleep. As a single parent with absolutely no financial, emotional, or custodial support from my daughter's father, I have no choice but to ensure the lethargy that looms over me does not impede on my ability to provide care or complete rigorous academic tasks. Another hardship is commuting over 3-4 hours daily to my in campus program because the affordable childcare options I have assistance for are all located in the county where I live and not where I attend school. At this time we cannot afford to move or we risk becoming homelessness again. Despite these challenges, I wake up every morning with a smile on my face and sing to my daughter - “Goodmorning sleeping beauty.” I want her to remember our struggle as a story of resilience; as the foundations of our prosperous future. Every day, despite my stress and tiredness, I make an active decision to choose love, kindness, and grit; my daughter is watching my every move and I will ensure my actions today will positively influence the individual she chooses to become. Because of my tenacity and unashamed disposition regarding single parenthood, this past year I successfully eliminated all debts, paid a car in full, began drafting a book, secured an apartment, and enrolled in graduate school at the University of Southern California. Of all my accomplishments, I am most proud of having saved enough money to care for my daughter as a stay at home mother for the first 6 months of her life. Developmentally, before 6 months a child cannot distinguish themselves as a separate entity from their mother. Thus it was my honor and privilege to exclusively breastfeed and care for my daughter through her initial milestones. Despite these accomplishments, I am faced with a moral dilemma that only single parents who are in college can understand. Now that I am in school I do not have the luxury of spending as much quality time with her as she or I would prefer. As a single parent, I face scrutiny and stigma for my choice to pursue upward mobility through higher education. For example, I have been recommended by well meaning loved ones to quit school to care for my daughter full time. Consequently, I am burdened with guilt that I may be potentially hindering her ability to make secure attachments with trusted adults. I must channel through the negativity and judgemental voices to obtain my degree not just for myself, but for my daughter who will inevitably model her behaviors after mine. My hope is she learns to lead with her heart, become a lifelong learner, be unapologetic about herself and her roots, and remain responsible to see out her personal and professional endeavors. As the sole physical, financial, and emotional provider for my daughter, every moment of my day is thoughtfully and meticulously planned out; my days are centered around caring for her, finding a sitter, studying for school, and funding my education. Navigating higher education as a single mom and first generation college student from a low income background is challenging in ways that only those who have been there are able to truly fathom and understand its realities. Therefore, I humbly request financial support from the single parent scholarship. Your support will help alleviate some of my stress as I will better be able to afford reliable and safe childcare without having to place such a heavy load on my friends and family. Moreover, this scholarship will relieve some of the debt I will have to take on to fund my education. The financial assistance from this scholarship will further ignite the fuel inside me towards securing financial stability for my daughter through pursuing a career in Social Work. This scholarship will serve as evidence - for myself, my daughter, and my future clients - that hard work does equal success. This aid will propel towards my mission of serving historically disenfranchised communities including single parents, women of color, low income populations, homeless, and individuals recovering from addiction.