Our front door has never opened freely. Not because it was broken, but because behind it stood a wall of things. Towers of boxes, books, and rusted gadgets with forgotten purposes blocked the way. The house was a maze of my father’s hoard, where paths were narrow, counters were buried, and silence was the loudest sound. From the outside, I made sure you would never know. I kept my life pristine on the surface. Straight A’s, polished shoes, schoolwork tucked neatly into color-coded binders. I laughed at the right times, turned in assignments early, and always carried a quiet, practiced story for why no one could come over. “We’re having repairs done on the house,” I would say. The truth was far heavier. In the middle of that chaos, I also carried another responsibility. My mother has cerebral palsy, and from a young age I helped her with meals, lifted her into bed, and made sure her medications were on time. It became second nature, stitched into my days between homework, frisbee practice, and my part-time job. Cooking at home was less a recipe and more a puzzle. The stovetop was buried beneath a mountain of junk, and the refrigerator hid ingredients so old I sometimes couldn’t tell what they were. I learned to work around it. Couponing became my survival skill, letting me stock up on dry goods or stretch a few dollars into multiple meals. I collected sauce packets from fast food restaurants, bought chicken from KFC right before closing, and picked up vegetables on clearance from the Asian market down the road. Over time, I found a strange pride in this kind of resourcefulness, turning mismatched ingredients into something worth sharing. Oddly, the hoard also gave me my greatest escape: books. Among the stacks were teetering piles of novels, manuals, and encyclopedias that I would sift through like a miner searching for gold. Reading became my refuge and writing became my rebellion. For the last two years, I have been drafting my first novel, born from scraps of ideas scribbled on old receipts and homework margins. At night, when the air was still and the house seemed to press in on me, I would climb out the attic window and onto the roof. With a flashlight clenched between my teeth, I wrote beneath the stars, glancing up at the sky as if it held the promise of another life. Those moments were the purest freedom I knew. Up there, the weight of the house could not reach me. My family lives on Social Security disability, and every step toward higher education requires deliberate planning and sacrifice. Two years ago, I used what resources I could to launch ClearThePath.org, a nonprofit that offered free and discreet tutoring to teenagers who, like me, came from cluttered and chaotic homes. I wanted to give them a safe academic lifeline, a place where they could succeed without fear of being judged for their circumstances. The website grew quickly, but the costs of maintaining it eventually forced me to take it offline. Part of this scholarship would go toward reviving that mission, securing the domain again, and rebuilding the project into something sustainable. It is a vision I believe Kalia would understand completely—lifting others up while pursuing excellence yourself. The rest would allow me to focus on my studies in mechanical engineering at Clarkson University and on finishing my novel, without the constant strain of juggling multiple jobs to make ends meet.

Not all battlegrounds have cheering crowds or stadium lights. Some are found between leaning towers of cardboard boxes, wedged in hallways narrowed by the weight of things no one can throw away. That’s where I’ve lived—inside a house more maze than home, more storage unit than sanctuary. But even in the clutter, I’ve found purpose. And strangely enough, some of my greatest victories have come not from scoring goals, but from showing up—in small, consistent ways—for my family, my community, and my team. My mom lives upstairs. She has cerebral palsy and a liver condition that makes daily life a constant challenge. The stairs, steep and half-blocked by years of my dad’s “soon-to-be-used” collections, don’t make it any easier. So, I help—carrying groceries, cleaning, organizing, and climbing over the odds and ends of a hoarder’s legacy to make sure she has what she needs. It’s not glamorous. Sometimes it’s just getting a glass of water to her in the middle of the night without waking the entire house. Other times, it’s fighting to clear just a few more square feet of space so we can breathe a little easier. Service, I’ve learned, isn’t about being seen. It’s about being steady. On the soccer field, that steadiness turned into strength. With no room to play inside, the cracked pavement outside became my first coach. I learned to dribble past squirrels, dance around potholes, and make curbs my defenders. Those quiet solo practices, filled with scraped knees and stubborn determination, eventually earned me a spot on JV freshman year. By sophomore year, I was captain. That meant leading warm-ups, rallying teammates, and keeping morale high—even when our record wasn’t. But my biggest challenge came junior year, when I didn’t make varsity. I could’ve quit. I didn’t. Instead, I showed up to every game, cheered louder than anyone, and trained like someone who still had something to prove. I carry that same energy into the classroom. During lunch breaks and weekends, I offer tutoring sessions to students across my district. As the lead communication coordinator for our tutoring platform, I’ve helped guide over 300 hours of academic support—everything from biology to calculus, grammar to college essays. There’s something powerful about watching someone’s face light up when a concept finally clicks. I’ve found that giving time—especially when you don’t have much to spare—is one of the most meaningful ways to serve. And each summer, I reconnect with that same spirit at Camp Hunt. Whether I’m sweeping out cabins, mentoring younger campers, or inventing new games on the fly, I give my time with joy—because I know what it means to need a place that feels like home. Service doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it hides behind bookshelves, crouches beside the goalpost, or sits quietly at a cafeteria table explaining long division. But I’ve learned that in those quiet moments, between the clutter and the cleats, real leadership begins.

Knocks on the door used to terrify me. Growing up as the child of a hoarder, those sounds weren’t just knocks—they were potential revelations of my family’s secret life. I’ll never forget my 10th birthday, a day that changed everything. A few classmates, trying to be thoughtful, dropped off presents at my house after school. I must have accidentally mentioned my address during lunch one day, thinking nothing of it. My dad, not one for subtlety, opened the door wide, and with it, revealed the truth: piles of things, stacked from floor to ceiling. Word spread, as it always does, and soon the whispers began. Instead of confiding in my mother, who has cerebral palsy and was often upstairs in her small corner of the house, I told her we needed to leave. I blamed the city environment and my “desire for quieter schools.” By fourth grade, she and I moved into a modest one-bedroom apartment, and I’ve been navigating this double life ever since—part caretaker for my mom, part high-achieving student, and full-time scholarship hunter. We have the lowest FAFSA rating possible, which means every penny for college will have to be earned through hard work and determination. Despite these challenges, my life isn’t just about survival; it’s about giving back. I’m the Communications Coordinator of ARC, my high school’s student-run tutoring program. With nearly 100 tutors and growing, we’re like a one-stop shop for academic support. Need help with math? Got it. Struggling in French? Voilà. I love being part of a team that uplifts others. On top of that, I’m the First Officer of my Trail Life Troop, which is like Boy Scouts but with more flannel and fewer merit badges. I plan service projects, camping trips, and community events. Every winter, I lead our troop to sing at local children’s hospitals, and seeing those kids smile makes braving the bitter Adirondack cold totally worth it. Safety, both online and offline, is something I’ve been passionate about since my early years on Xbox Live. Minecraft was my escape, the only game I had on our ancient Xbox 360. I’d spend hours building intricate cities, only to have them griefed by online trolls. Those experiences taught me about resilience—and also the importance of creating safe, welcoming spaces for others. Now, I channel those lessons into real life. I’ve helped organize events like nature hikes at local conservation centers and craft fairs for kids in my community. My mom, a wizard at finding free events when I was younger, used to whisk me away from the chaos at home to explore the best of the Capital Region. I want to pay that forward by giving kids opportunities to explore, connect, and grow in safe, supportive environments. As I prepare for college, my financial need is significant, but so is my determination. Between caring for my mom, excelling in school, and serving my community, I’ve learned that challenges can be opportunities in disguise. Nuclear engineering may seem like a far cry from Minecraft, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that building something meaningful—whether it’s a city, a community, or a career—takes vision, hard work, and a willingness to start with whatever resources you have. P.S. In July of 2024, I received a scholarship to join a Salvation Army-sponsored discipleship program in Iceland, aiding Ukrainian refugee families. Being Ukrainian on both sides of my family, I even practiced my Ukrainian with children at the day camp. It was an unforgettable experience, and below is a photo of me as a team photographer.

Chaos and clutter have been my uninvited roommates for as long as I can remember. Growing up in a hoarded home is like living in a game of Tetris—except the pieces never stop falling, and they’re all covered in dust. On top of that, I help care for my mom, who lives in a one-bedroom apartment due to her disability. While life hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park, it’s taught me the importance of creating space—not just physical space, but emotional space—for others to breathe, grow, and find hope. My church youth group has been one of those spaces for me. It’s more than just a weekly gathering; it’s where we open up about everything from life’s hardships to the joy of small victories. It’s also where I’ve discovered the power of vulnerability—and how it’s okay to laugh and cry over bad karaoke attempts on the same night. At school, I serve as the communications coordinator for our tutoring program, the ARC. With my phone number available to students, I’ve become the go-to person for classmates who feel like they’re drowning in work or stress. Some just need to vent; others have ended up joining our ultimate frisbee team (we may not always win, but we excel at throwing snacks during practice). To help them reconnect with life outside the grind, I’ve organized hikes, group picnics, and even a movie night under the stars. It’s amazing how a little fresh air—or a cheesy rom-com—can work wonders for someone’s mood. Looking ahead, I hope to major in economics to study the decisions people make to improve their lives while minoring in psychology to better understand the battles we don’t always see. I want to create programs and initiatives that combine practical solutions with emotional support, proving that mental health and personal growth go hand in hand. Life has shown me that everyone needs someone in their corner—a friend, a mentor, or even just a listening ear. Whether I’m handing out frisbees, snacks, or advice, I want to be that person for others. And if I’ve learned one thing from my journey, it’s this: even in the messiest of lives, there’s always room for connection and hope.

I lived in a desert, a house of condiments but never any food. Our kitchen told the story—expired sauces and mysterious jars from years past lined the shelves like artifacts in a forgotten museum. My father, our family's dedicated collector, could recite the origin story of every broken toaster and defunct computer from the late 90's. But ask him where to find dinner... You'd better be ready for a philosophical discussion about the untapped potential of expired soup. Upstairs lived my mother, her world confined to a small clearing I carved through the chaos. Her cerebral palsy had already made her body a prison and my father's endless collection of "future treasures" made our home another one. I became her lifeline, performing a daily dance through the maze of our house. The stairs protested beneath towers of yellowing newspapers—history stacked so high we could barely see tomorrow. My bedroom held my pride and joy: the "sanity square." Just a few feet of clear space, but I guarded it like a dragon's lair. While other kids collected trading cards, I had an impressive array of McDonald's sauce packets. Each one is carefully cataloged—because when your house is a labyrinth, you learn to create your own maps. Nighttime brought escape. Bible in hand, I'd climb through the attic window to my rooftop sanctuary. The stars became my closest confidants. I'm sure they heard some unique prayers: "Dear God, please don't let Dad bring home another 'perfectly good' computer from the last century." Sometimes I think God just laughed along with me. How else could I explain winning the church's "Chopped" competition using only ingredients that would make Gordon Ramsay run for the hills? Camp Hunt showed me what normal felt like. There, between turning bunks into pirate ships and mastering the art of campfire cooking, I discovered parts of myself I never knew existed. Though I had to fight the urge to organize every cabin's clutter—old habits die hard. Now I hope to study nuclear engineering. The irony isn't lost on me. I grew up in chaos, yet here I am, analyzing the perfect order of atoms. My father sought meaning in piles of possessions. God showed me life's real treasures don't need backup power supplies or come with expiration dates. Through it all, God remains my constant guide. He's taught me that even in life's most cluttered moments, there's always a way forward. Sometimes you just have to climb to the roof to find it. And maybe pack a few snacks for the journey. In this house of everything and nothing, I learned to feast on faith. It's the one thing that never expires, never clutters, and always fills the empty spaces.

Growing up in a hoarded home meant living two distinct lives - one visible to the world and another hidden behind closed doors. Depression wasn't just an emotion; it was woven into the fabric of my daily existence, manifesting in the endless maze of clutter that defined my home life. While friends talked about movie nights and sleepovers, I mastered the art of deflection, making excuses for why no one could visit. The weight of this secret life was heavy, but it also forged in me a resilience I never knew I possessed. My sanctuary became the small corner of my room that I fought to keep clear, a space where I could breathe and dream. There, surrounded by carefully curated books salvaged from my father's countless dumpster diving expeditions, I found my escape. Without access to working technology - though ironically surrounded by dozens of non-functioning computers from the 90s and 2000s - books became my window to the world. They offered not just knowledge, but hope that life could be different. Each page turned was a step away from the chaos, a moment of clarity in the confusion. The outdoors became my refuge, particularly the neighborhood streets where I would spend hours playing soccer. Our lawn, if you could call it that, was unusable - buried under years of accumulated "treasures." So I learned to adapt, turning cracked sidewalks into training grounds and empty streets into my personal pitch. Soccer wasn't just a sport; it became my meditation, each dribble and turn a moment of freedom from the suffocating reality at home. Depression manifested not in obvious ways, but in the quiet moments when I would climb onto the roof, looking at the sky for answers. The stars became my confidants, silent witnesses to the dreams I dared not speak aloud. I didn't turn to drugs - perhaps because I had seen enough chaos in my life - instead, I channeled my energy into survival, into maintaining the precarious balance between my public and private worlds. The greatest hurdle wasn't just the physical clutter, but the emotional toll of living a double life. At church, I was the good kid who always helped out. At school, I was the student who stayed late "studying" - though often it was because home felt too overwhelming. With friends, I became an expert at changing subjects when conversations turned to family life or home situations. Each role was a mask I wore, a performance I had perfected. Now, as I stand ready to pursue my passions through education, I carry with me the lessons learned from this journey. My experiences haven't just shaped me; they've fueled my determination to create change. The rational thinking I developed as a survival mechanism has become my greatest strength, allowing me to approach challenges with both empathy and pragmatism. My past doesn't define my future, but it has given me the tools to build it - resilience, adaptability, and an unwavering drive to transform struggle into success. Through it all, I've learned that healing isn't about erasing the past, but about using it as a foundation for growth. Every challenge I've faced has become a stepping stone toward my goals, every moment of darkness a lesson in finding light.

My childhood home was a testament to the power of vertical storage—a hoarder’s paradise (or, more accurately, a hoarder’s predicament). Imagine a real-life game of Tetris, but instead of neatly stacking blocks, the pieces were mismatched furniture, stacks of newspapers dating back to the moon landing (I half-expected Armstrong to pop out and ask for his newspaper back), and enough vintage Tupperware to supply a small army. Navigating this “organized chaos” (a generous term) in a single-parent household demanded resourcefulness and adaptability. Like a well-coordinated team, when one sense faltered amidst the clutter—perhaps the sense of smell (you can only imagine) or simply a clear walking path—the others compensated, sharpening my observation and problem-solving skills. Let’s just say I became intimately acquainted with the phrase “where there’s a will, there’s a way,” even if “the way” often involved scaling precarious stacks of…well, everything. This experience instilled in me a deep appreciation for maximizing limited resources, a principle I carry with me today. This experience directly informs my vision for giving back to the community through "The Sprout," a social enterprise designed to revitalize neglected urban spaces. Just as I learned to navigate the chaos of my home, The Sprout will navigate the complexities of urban neglect, transforming forgotten parks—think overgrown weeds, broken swing sets, and the occasional rogue shopping cart—into thriving community farms. These farms will not only provide fresh, healthy food—a welcome change from my microwave-dependent childhood (my culinary repertoire peaked with “mystery cheese” fajitas, a dish best left undocumented)—but also offer employment, training, and a supportive community for individuals facing similar adversities—including those from challenging home environments. The Sprout's model emphasizes sustainability, both environmental and economic. We will partner with cities to lease underutilized land, turning liabilities into assets—or, as I like to think of it, turning “brownfields” into “greenfields.” We will create vibrant farm-to-table cafes and markets showcasing local artisans and businesses. Revenue will be reinvested into community programs like free gardening workshops, healthy cooking classes, and even financial literacy programs—because let’s face it, navigating a budget can feel just as chaotic as navigating a hoarder’s home. Beyond the practical benefits, The Sprout aims to cultivate something more profound: a sense of belonging. Just as I found solace in the fleeting green spaces of my youth—a small park that sadly succumbed to urban development, replaced by yet another soulless apartment building—The Sprout aims to create lasting oases of opportunity and growth. I remember spending countless hours in that park, swinging on the rusty swings, imagining a world beyond the confines of my home. It was a place of escape, a place of possibility. The loss of that park instilled in me a deep understanding of the importance of accessible green spaces, especially for those facing difficult circumstances. This venture isn't just about cultivating plants; it's about cultivating hope and empowering individuals to thrive, transforming forgotten corners of the city into vibrant hubs of community and resilience. It's about creating a space where everyone, regardless of their background, can find a place to grow, both literally and figuratively. It’s about building a community that offers not just a meal, but the tools and support to build a better future—a future free from the constraints of limited resources and challenging circumstances.

Growing up as the child of a hoarder, I learned early on to see value where others saw waste. My father and I would often scout dumpsters and clearance aisles, not just collecting items, but envisioning their potential for transformation. These experiences, though challenging, instilled in me a unique perspective on resource utilization and opportunity – skills that now form the foundation of my entrepreneurial vision, The Sprout. The Sprout isn't just another urban farming initiative; it's a deeply personal mission that emerges from my own journey of finding order amid chaos. As someone who learned to think rationally as a survival mechanism, I understand intimately how environmental circumstances can shape one's life trajectory. This understanding drives my passion to transform neglected urban spaces into thriving community farms that provide employment opportunities for individuals who face similar barriers to stability – whether they're coming from backgrounds of hoarding, homelessness, or addiction recovery. My entrepreneurial spirit was cultivated in those early treasure hunts with my father. While others might have seen our activities as mere scavenging, we were practicing the fundamental principles of business: identifying undervalued resources, imagining their potential, and creating value through transformation. These lessons align perfectly with The Sprout's mission to convert forgotten urban parks into productive spaces that nourish both body and soul. Just as I learned to find possibility in discarded items, I now see the potential in neglected urban spaces to become catalysts for community transformation. Through my personal experiences, I've learned that entrepreneurship isn't just about making money – it's about solving problems creatively and creating sustainable solutions that benefit everyone involved. The Sprout's business model reflects this philosophy by combining a farm-to-table café, community market, and educational programming into a cooperative structure that gives stakeholders a voice in its operation. This approach ensures that our success is measured not just in profits, but in the positive impact we create for our community members. My journey has taught me several crucial lessons about entrepreneurship. First, that the most sustainable businesses are built on genuine needs and authentic experiences. Second, that success often comes from transforming perceived liabilities into assets – much like how The Sprout will turn neglected urban spaces into community treasures. And finally, that rational thinking and emotional intelligence must work in tandem to create meaningful change. As a child of a hoarder, I developed both the analytical skills to organize chaos and the empathy to understand how environmental circumstances affect personal development. The impact of The Sprout will extend far beyond its physical boundaries. By providing meaningful employment opportunities, fostering community connections, and demonstrating sustainable urban development, we're creating a replicable model for social enterprise. Our success will show that it's possible to build profitable businesses that address social challenges while creating environmental benefits. Just as importantly, we'll prove that backgrounds often seen as disadvantages can become powerful sources of innovation and positive change. Through The Sprout, I'm not just building a business – I'm creating the kind of supportive environment I wish had existed for families like mine. This venture represents my commitment to transforming personal challenges into community solutions, proving that with vision, determination, and rational thinking, we can turn society's forgotten spaces and overlooked individuals into sources of hope, growth, and sustainable change.

My childhood home was a labyrinth of forgotten dreams, where the air was thick with the scent of dust and the faint hum of forgotten memories. It was a world of towering barricades, a monument of accumulated things – a testament to my father's struggle with hoarding. Growing up, my home wasn't a place of comfort, but a battleground against the encroaching tide of possessions. Navigating this chaotic landscape, I learned to navigate not just physical obstacles, but also the emotional currents that swirled beneath the surface. Amidst the towering stacks of forgotten treasures, I discovered an unexpected sanctuary: my father's workbench in the basement. Here, amidst discarded electronics, we embarked on our own peculiar brand of alchemy. We transformed discarded computers into something useful, or at least, something amusing. Soldering mismatched wires and extracting gold from processors? These were our rituals, a strange blend of science and salvage. It was in this environment of creative constraint, where limitations forced innovation, that I first glimpsed the magic of engineering. This experience, born from the chaos of my childhood, instilled in me a deep-seated appreciation for order and a profound curiosity about how things work. I began to view the world as a complex puzzle, a series of interconnected systems waiting to be understood and optimized. This curiosity led me to delve into the intricacies of nuclear science, a field that fascinated and terrified me in equal measure. My fascination with radiation safety grew from a personal need for control in a chaotic world. I began to question the prevailing Linear No-Threshold (LNT) model, intrigued by the concept of radiation hormesis – the idea that low doses of radiation have beneficial effects. This challenge to conventional wisdom ignited a spark within me, a desire to explore the unknown and challenge the status quo. To test my theories, I embarked on a personal project: building a fully functional Geiger counter. The initial prototypes were, to put it mildly, less than impressive. They resembled Rube Goldberg contraptions, prone to erratic readings and emitting an unnerving buzzing sound. But with each iteration, I refined my design, driven by a stubborn determination to create something truly useful. I envisioned linking this Geiger counter to Google Maps via API software, creating a real-time map of radiation zones. This could revolutionize transportation safety, providing alternate routes for drivers and minimizing exposure. While still a work in progress, this project has become a testament to my ability to transform a personal challenge into a potential solution, a testament to the power of ingenuity born from adversity. This scholarship would be instrumental in allowing me to pursue my academic goals. I plan to earn a degree in Nuclear Engineering, with a minor in Energy and Mechanical Systems. I intend to continue my research on radiation hormesis, exploring its potential implications for public health and environmental safety. I believe that a deeper understanding of these complex phenomena is crucial for developing more nuanced and effective radiation safety protocols. My journey has been a testament to the power of resilience and the unexpected opportunities that arise from adversity. I am eager to embrace the challenges that lie ahead, to contribute to the field of nuclear engineering, and to continue pushing the boundaries of what's possible.

The Worst Time: Benched and Bitter My worst soccer experience wasn't a crushing defeat or a gruesome injury, but rather the day I was benched. I, the captain, relegated to the sidelines while my teammates battled it out on the field. It felt like being grounded at recess, forced to watch my friends have all the fun. After countless hours of practice, of honing my skills, of sacrificing social events for extra drills, it felt like a slap in the face. This was particularly difficult because, up until that point, my father had consistently dismissed my soccer career as a "waste of time." He'd never attended a single game, whether it was for my high school team or my club. His absence wasn't malicious, just a genuine lack of interest. So, being benched, feeling like I'd let myself down, felt amplified by the knowledge that no one, not even my own father, was there to witness my struggles. However, life, much like a soccer game, rarely goes according to plan. There will always be unexpected detours, unexpected setbacks. And instead of sulking on the sidelines, I learned to use that frustration as fuel. I doubled down on my training, pushing myself harder than ever before. I analyzed my game, identifying areas for improvement. And most importantly, I learned to control my emotions, to channel that initial anger into a productive force. The Best Time: A Father's Nod of Approval The best moment in my soccer career wasn't a championship victory or a spectacular goal. It was a simple moment, a fleeting gesture, that meant the world to me. It was during my sophomore year, a season where I captained the JV team and, dare I say, led them to a rather impressive run. But the highlight wasn't the winning streak or the celebratory team dinner. It was seeing my father in the stands, watching me play. Now, my dad and I, let's just say, we have a…unique relationship. He's more of a "words of wisdom" kind of guy, usually delivered with a healthy dose of sarcasm. And given his past indifference towards my soccer career, to see him at the game, actually paying attention, was a monumental surprise. It wasn't just any game, either. It was senior night, a momentous occasion for the entire team. And as I weaved through the opposing defense, scoring a goal that sparked a wave of cheers, I caught his eye. He wasn't shouting or jumping up and down like my mom. He simply nodded his head, a small, almost imperceptible gesture of approval. That nod, that silent acknowledgment of my effort, meant more to me than any trophy ever could. It was a validation, a recognition of my hard work and dedication, coming from the one person whose opinion mattered most. It was a moment of pure joy, a reminder that the true rewards often lie beyond the scoreboard. This scholarship would be instrumental in helping me achieve my academic and athletic goals. I plan to pursue a Bachelor's degree in Nuclear Engineering, with a focus on research that could influence radiation policies. I am particularly interested in exploring the LNT (Linear No-Threshold) and hormesis models of radiation exposure to better understand their implications for public health. This scholarship would significantly alleviate the financial burden of college, allowing me to focus on my studies and research without the need for extensive work-study commitments. Furthermore, it would enable me to continue playing soccer at the club level, providing a valuable outlet for stress relief and maintaining a healthy balance in my life.

Keep the Peace, Avoid the Police (and File a Claim): Home Alone Insurance Lessons The iconic image of the McCallister household descending into chaos, courtesy of the mischievous Kevin and his elaborate booby traps, serves as a potent reminder that life rarely follows a predictable script. Just like a rogue snowball can quickly snowball into an avalanche, unexpected events can disrupt even the most meticulously planned lives. And that, my friends, is where our unsung hero, insurance, steps onto the stage. Insurance, in its essence, is a bit like Noah building his ark before the deluge. It's about foresight, about recognizing that life throws curveballs – some as minor as a leaky faucet, and others as catastrophic as, well, a global flood. While Noah relied on divine intervention and a whole lot of carpentry, we rely on insurance companies and their intricate web of policies to navigate the stormy seas of life. Think of it this way: insurance is your very own Moses, parting the financial waters when disaster strikes. A car accident? Insurance steps in, preventing you from drowning in repair bills. A medical emergency? Insurance provides a lifeline, allowing you to focus on recovery instead of the terrifying abyss of medical debt. It's like having a personal financial superhero, always ready to swoop in and save the day, even if they sometimes arrive a little late and grumbling about paperwork. Of course, our superhero isn't without its flaws. Sometimes, it can be a bit bureaucratic, a bit slow to respond, and occasionally, it might even try to wiggle out of its responsibilities. It's like dealing with a particularly stubborn vending machine – you know it should dispense your soda, but it insists on spitting out a handful of change and a condescending "try again later" message. But despite these minor frustrations, insurance remains an essential component of modern life. It provides a safety net, allowing us to leap into the unknown without the constant fear of falling flat on our faces. It empowers us to take risks, to pursue our dreams, knowing that if things go south, we won't be completely wiped out. Imagine starting a business without the security of liability insurance. It would be like sailing a ship without a compass, constantly teetering on the brink of disaster. However, as with any powerful tool, insurance can be misused. The sheer volume of policies and jargon can be overwhelming, leaving consumers feeling lost in a sea of legalese. It's like trying to decipher a pirate treasure map while simultaneously fending off a swarm of angry seagulls. And let's not forget the exorbitant premiums that can sometimes feel like they're sinking your financial ship before any actual disaster strikes. Despite these challenges, the importance of insurance in our everyday lives cannot be overstated. It's the invisible shield that protects us from life's inevitable curveballs, the safety net that catches us when we stumble. So, the next time you pay your insurance premiums, remember the McCallisters, the ark, and the parting of the Red Sea. Remember that insurance, while not perfect, is a valuable tool that can help us navigate the stormy seas of life with a bit more confidence and a whole lot less worry.

The labyrinth of my home is unlike most. Living as a child of a hoarder has its peculiarities—stepping around heaps of forgotten things, the walls closing in with every passing day. Yet, amidst the chaos, I discovered treasures far more valuable than what most could imagine: books. Sorting through the mountains of clutter became an unexpected education. While others saw a fool's errand, I saw the promise of wisdom, sifting through everything from Medieval history to French grammar. It was as though my father’s stockpile of forgotten paperbacks became my secret weapon, a key to unlocking academic achievement while leading what felt like a double life. Every night, as the world quieted down, I’d sneak out onto the roof, where the stars whispered stories of their own. From up there, I could see the city skyline of Albany, lights twinkling like constellations of another kind. That’s where I spent hours diving into personal novels, dystopian tales, and far-out science fiction. There was something about the solitude of the rooftop and the endlessness of space that sharpened my perspective on society, culture, and even my place in the world. Books like The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury helped me contemplate humanity’s future while The Chronicles of Narnia showed me the importance of courage and imagination. Narnia, a place hidden behind a door, felt a lot like my own life, navigating between the entanglement of my home and the escape of my mind. My mother, born with cerebral palsy, has been another pivotal character in this unfolding story. From an upstairs bedroom, I’ve spent much of my life caring for her—one hand managing our unpredictable household, the other holding open a novel. Her strength is a constant reminder that while our circumstances may be difficult, they’re never insurmountable. I often think of the Pevensie children from Narnia, who faced their own set of trials but always pushed forward with hope and resilience. My mother’s perseverance inspires me daily, reminding me that even amidst disorder, there is always room for love, learning, and growth. The clutter that filled our home wasn’t just a physical weight; it also sparked my curiosity in science, leading me to gather not just books, but stacks of articles on nuclear engineering. This path, born from the chaos, carried me to an internship at RPI, a top research university. There, I’m working on groundbreaking research in radiation hormesis and nuclear policy—a topic that once felt as out of reach as the stars but now seems closer every day. The journey hasn’t been easy, but it has been worth it. Soon, I hope to publish my findings, contributing to a field that feels as complex and important as the books that first fueled my imagination. Beyond the technical jargon of nuclear physics, I’ve also developed a passion for helping others, whether that’s through tutoring at our school's Academic Resource Center, or by volunteering at the local library. Sharing the knowledge I’ve accumulated—whether it’s through science articles or my love for novels—has given me the chance to show the bright side of my humanity. After all, what’s the point of wisdom if it’s not shared? So, while some might see my upbringing as a setback, I see it as the reason for my academic and personal growth. Each book, each scientific article, and each novel in hand has not only shaped my worldview but also propelled me toward a future I once only dreamed of. And I’ve learned, amidst the clutter and stars, that sometimes the messiest lives create the most extraordinary paths.

Each morning, I woke to the hum of an old box fan, the only sound that broke through the stillness of my home. Our house was a maze of forgotten objects and clutter, a collection of years and memories piled into every corner. My room, filled with worn-out books and trinkets, was my refuge, but my true escape lay further in, past the obstacle course of boxes and random odds and ends. I carefully navigated the narrow hallway, mindful of the creaky floorboards that might wake my parents, who slept lightly just down the hall. Like stepping through a minefield in Minecraft, I knew exactly where to place my feet to avoid setting off any unintended noise. The living room had long since surrendered to an avalanche of old newspapers and VHS tapes, but amidst the chaos, I found my sanctuary: a second-hand gaming chair buried beneath a stack of forgotten things. I would free the chair carefully and set it in front of our old Xbox 360, a castoff we had found on the side of the road. The console groaned to life, its broken disk tray hesitating before finally giving way, revealing the well-worn Minecraft disk inside. Those moments of waiting, watching the screen load felt like the beginning of something important—an escape into a world where I had control. Survival mode was my haven. I had watched YouTubers like Stampy build empires from nothing, and it inspired me to do the same. The beauty of starting with nothing but the clothes on your back and a few blocks in your hand felt like freedom. In Minecraft, I could create grand castles, sprawling villages, and towering spires, places where every block had a purpose. It was everything my real world wasn’t—tidy, structured, and full of possibilities. I often built medieval structures, inspired by the books scattered across my bedroom floor. History fascinated me—stories of knights, castles, and chivalry. I would spend hours crafting intricate battlements and arches, losing myself in the details. Minecraft allowed me to transform the cluttered, unpredictable world around me into something organized and beautiful. But survival mode was also about perseverance. One wrong step or a creeper explosion could undo hours of work, but I would rebuild. The satisfaction wasn’t just in the finished product—it was in the grit, the ability to keep going after every setback. My controller, worn from years of play, often betrayed me with its drifting stick, but I adapted as the music played. Minecraft wasn’t just a solo escape. It also became a way for me to connect with my father. On rare occasions, I’d invite him to play with me. He never really understood the game, but the joy on his face as I explained it to him was worth every moment. In those brief times, the tension in our home seemed to ease, and we found a shared peace. Though my Xbox 360 is on its last legs, it holds a world of memories. My longest-running survival world began on my seventh birthday when my friends and I built our first village together. Today, that village stands as a monument to friendships that have drifted apart, but I continue to add to it, crafting new buildings as a tribute to those connections. If given this scholarship, I would put it toward my dream of becoming a nuclear engineer. Minecraft has taught me patience and problem-solving, both of which I’ll need in that field. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll also upgrade my console, to continue building and reconnecting with the friends who helped shape my Minecraft world.

What follows is a true story, a rare experience few have lived. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from playing soccer, it’s that life—much like a ball—rarely rolls in a straight line. I’ve spent countless hours on the streets outside my home, dribbling past imaginary defenders because, well, there was no space inside. My house has always been more of a storage unit than a home, with my dad’s collection of “future treasures” leaving little room for anything else. So, the streets became my playground. And while most kids practiced on lush fields or had friends over to kick the ball around, I was out there, learning to play against cracks in the pavement and the occasional squirrel. Soccer has always been more than just a sport for me—it’s been an escape. Freshman year, I made the JV team, and it felt like breaking through walls that had always surrounded me. On the field, there was no clutter, no weight, just me and the ball. By sophomore year, I found myself leading the team as captain, juggling not just a soccer ball, but also the challenges of home. My mom’s cerebral palsy meant that when I wasn’t at school or practice, I was helping her. And when I wasn’t helping her, I was buried in advanced classes or my nuclear engineering internship. I didn’t exactly have free time to worry about losing a game—but soccer gave me a break from that reality, even if just for an hour or two. Of course, it wasn’t all smooth sailing. Junior year, I hit a wall when I wasn’t selected for varsity. Now, I’d like to think it wasn’t about my skill but more about the political side of things. That’s what we athletes tell ourselves to keep our pride intact, right? But honestly, it stung. After all those late-night runs and hours dribbling on the pavement, it felt like a loss. It wasn’t the game that let me down, but the system. And while I couldn’t control how coaches saw me, I learned to control how I responded. I could either hang up my cleats or keep moving forward. Naturally, I chose the latter—because if there’s one thing soccer taught me, it’s resilience. Now, as a varsity player, I’ve got my mom in the stands, cheering me on. It’s funny how she’s always the loudest, even though her voice isn’t the strongest. But there’s something about seeing her there that makes every sprint, every dive, and every bead of sweat worth it. Soccer, for me, isn’t about winning or losing. It’s about navigating the game—just like navigating life at home. And sometimes, when things get overwhelming, I climb up to the roof, stretch my legs, and look at the Albany skyline. It’s a strange habit, I know, but it’s peaceful. Up there, it’s just me, the stars, and a few distant skyscrapers. It’s my version of decompressing after a tough practice or a long day of juggling responsibilities. As I head off to college, I plan to take these lessons with me. Soccer has taught me to weather the storm, even when the ball takes an unexpected bounce or the game doesn’t go my way. I’m hoping to keep playing in college, knowing full well that new challenges await—on and off the field. And when I pursue my dream of becoming a nuclear engineer (because who doesn’t want to handle radioactive materials for a living?), I know soccer will still be there, teaching me patience, determination, and the importance of never backing down. Max Ferran

There’s one question I wish I had been asked more often growing up: “Are you okay?” Not the casual, “How are you?” you hear in passing, but a deeper, more genuine inquiry. The question that feels like someone’s reached out their hand, pulled you to the surface, and let you breathe. For much of my childhood, living with a hoarder and caring for my disabled mother with cerebral palsy felt like I was trapped under layers of clutter and responsibility, suffocating silently. And yet, no one asked. I don’t blame my parents, my teachers, or the adults in my life. They saw what they saw: a kid who managed, who smiled, who seemed “fine” on the surface. But they didn’t see the stacks of newspapers blocking the windows or how my father wrapped the house in bubble wrap and tarps from the dumpster, “insulating” us from the world outside. They didn’t see me sneaking upstairs at night, past sleeping bodies, to tend to my mother, making sure she was comfortable. They didn’t see me on the roof, my secret refuge from the chaos below. Up there, under the stars, I could breathe. Had someone asked me, “Are you okay?”—the real question, not the polite one—I might have cracked open. Maybe I would’ve said, “No, I’m not okay. I’m ten years old and just had a near-death experience with a distracted driver while my mom was sitting beside me in the car. I’m not okay because I can’t invite anyone over without giving the excuse of "We are out of town" or "We are renovating our house". I’m not okay because I'm constantly chasing freedom while balancing a double life and pretending to be like everyone else. But no one asked, so I stayed silent and wandered into the kitchen. I dug through a crumpled bag of dumpster food—junk no one else would touch—and pulled out an expired egg sandwich. I placed it in the microwave, the last surviving appliance amidst the hoard, and watched as the plate turned at a snail’s pace, the smell of something far from fresh filling the room. In a weird, roundabout way, the absence of that question fueled my aspirations today. I became someone who asked questions—genuine ones. It’s why I tutor free of charge and spend my time mentoring young men who are always yearning for wisdom. I know how much it means to have someone see you and wonder if you’re doing okay beneath the surface. And it’s why I’ve set my sights on a field buried in misperception: nuclear engineering. The world is full of problems that people don’t always ask the right questions about, and I want to dig through the layers, finding solutions to things people prefer to ignore. I've spent my childhood building digital worlds on an ancient Xbox 360, creating the life I couldn’t have in real life. This gave me some breathing room but I knew from my heart that I was destined for more. A part of me will always be that kid on the roof, looking at the stars, asking the universe questions no one else thought to ask. So, no—I wasn’t okay. But in some strange way, the silence shaped me. I’m chasing dreams that are bigger than the mess I came from, dreams that involve clearing away the clutter—whether that’s nuclear waste or the weight of the past—to make room for something better. And along the way, I’ll keep asking others the questions I wish someone had asked me. You never know who might be waiting to answer.