I used to believe that nothing could bloom from ashen soil. For a long time, I thought pain teaches faster than praise. But it wasn’t until I was left behind by both encouragement and cruelty alike that I understood what it means to build something from the ache. I grew up on Saipan, where the wind remembers every story and childhood is shaped by the hush of the jungle and the salt of the sea. My father died on active duty before I spoke my first word. Sadness in my family was never loud; it was woven into our days, an unspoken ache beneath laughter and daily routines. Though my home was full, with a stepfather, siblings, constant noise, I learned early that needing too much could exhaust the people you loved. So I became careful. I listened more than I spoke. I stayed quiet about my fears, carrying burdens by myself because it felt safer to be strong than to risk being a problem. I didn’t know the name for it then, “trauma”—but my body did. It felt it in the way my legs shook before school, in the pleading I did with my mother not to leave me behind, in the deep discomfort that never left my chest. I could see it, too, in how other children stared, how teachers brushed off my panic, how every hallway felt unfamiliar and unwelcoming. People tolerated my presence, but didn’t really see me. When someone reached for my hand, they did so hesitantly, like I might fall apart if they touched me or like something was wrong with me they couldn’t fix. Adults told me I needed help, but what I wanted most was someone to look me in the eyes and make me feel real, not fragile or broken. When I moved to Boise, I thought it might be different. To my dismay, it wasn’t. The boys who once harassed me were now students in my new school, brushing shoulders with me in crowded hallways like ghosts I hadn’t buried. When I reported them, the system responded with a police escort. When I had a PTSD episode, I was told I had ten minutes to collect myself or be marked absent. When I said I was being followed, they told me to block them, as if the tides would pull back simply because I refused to acknowledge them. So I did what I always did, I found another way. I transferred to Boise Online School, seeking safety in distance. Two weeks later, an investigation was launched. There were findings. There were restraining orders. But safety on paper didn’t make me feel any less exposed. Healing didn’t arrive in a courtroom; it arrived quietly, like dawn breaking after a sleepless night. It was slow and woven from struggle, from pages and pages of textbooks, from lonely evenings where I studied because I couldn’t risk losing myself to despair again. My recovery was less a verdict and more the steady work of mending, threading hope back into my days, one sunrise at a time. I finished school a year early, slipping through the calendar while others were still counting the days. I took summer classes, turning quiet months into stepping stones. I built a 3.5 GPA from the ruins of a 1.5 because I needed a sign that I was still meant for something more. I wanted proof that I wasn’t beyond help or purpose, that I wouldn’t be trapped in the same rooms my parents expected, that my big dreams didn’t have to wait. That I was still worth something. So I kept going. Neuroscience began to offer me answers to questions I thought were unanswerable. It allowed me to peel back the layers of myself and of others and look someone in the eyes and say, I hear you, without hesitation. I felt a quiet resolve deepen within me: if I could help people understand the stories their brains were telling, maybe they wouldn’t have to surrender to the silence that the world so often demands. If I could show them how even the most protective parts of the mind can sometimes hold us captive, perhaps they wouldn’t have to carry their pain alone. I wanted to cultivate hope where fear once grew, and to witness how, even in the ashes, something beautiful might begin to bloom. Throughout this journey, I’ve had many mentors—voices that steadied me when I couldn’t find my footing. But the truth that guides me now is quieter, rooted in gentle perseverance and the slow turning of seasons. I have learned that what matters most is not how loudly you proclaim survival, but how gently you grow from what once hurt you. In the coming years, my work will center on trauma-informed cognitive neuroscience, tracing how early memories shape identity for those on the margins. There is so much possibility in exploring how communities might unite traditional ways of healing with what science now understands about the mind. My hope is to one day open a clinic where no one must trade their dignity for care, where mental health is met with reverence and a gentle kindness and never the ache of having your heart squeezed by fear or shame. Education didn’t leave me empty-handed. It gave me the tools to name what nearly destroyed me. And once something has a name, it loses the power to stay hidden. What was once a looming shadow moves to the forefront, seen for what it truly is a version of self that promised protection, even while it hurt. That is the gift I hope to pass forward: to help others name their pain, understand it, and face it with compassion, so that what feels like an ending might quietly become a beginning. As a Chamorro woman, I move through the world with quiet conviction. In Saipan, strength is inherited, but not always softened. I have learned that the finest souls are those who carry their pain quietly, refusing to let it spill over and wound others. My hope is to move through the world with that kind of gentleness to bear what is mine, and offer comfort instead of bitterness. Leadership, to me, isn’t about titles. It’s about truth. It’s choosing to stand firm in a storm, not because you’re unshaken, but because you’ve learned how to bend without breaking. It’s listening when others speak their pain and offering more than pity. It’s offering a mirror, a language, a way out—a panacea to the wounds carved deep within the confines of our minds. This scholarship would allow me to rest without guilt, to grow without fear, and to offer others the understanding I once longed for. At the end of the day, I believe what we all need most is someone to believe we can do it. I hope to win, but even if I don’t, I know we will all succeed—every person who writes an essay feels the impact, just as I do. To have someone believe in us is enough; to breathe without financial burden is a luxury not easily earned. My hope is that one day, I can give back to my community as organizations like this one have given to me. My life is proof that the quietest determination can outlast the harshest storm. I hope to become a steady presence for those who follow. I know change takes time, but with each small act, I hope to lessen the suffering of others, and to recognize someone like myself so I can help nurture hope where fear once grew, a reminder that even from ashes, something beautiful can bloom.

My father was a soldier. I only know that because he never came home. He died in the line of duty when I was just a year old, too young to remember him, too old now to forget what his absence has shaped in me. Every year since, I’ve left flowers at his memorial. I’d stand there quietly, not really sure what to say. I think part of me hoped I'd feel him if I stood still enough. Some years, I brought wildflowers from the side of the road. Other years, I spent an hour picking the perfect bouquet. It never felt like enough. I didn’t know what his favorite color was or what kind of flowers he would have liked. But I brought them anyway. That was the only kind of conversation we had: me placing something beautiful on stone, hoping it said what I couldn’t. I asked his friends what he was like. One told me he drank Pepsi religiously. I pretended to like it for years. Someone mentioned that he liked spicy food, so I added hot pepper to my meals, which did not last long. Another said he was calm under pressure, so I tried to be that too. Measured, quiet, steady. I didn’t just want to know him. I wanted to resemble him. Even now, my first question to anyone in uniform is always the same: Did you know my dad? It doesn’t matter if they are Army, Navy, or Marines. I always ask. Most of the time, they don’t. But every now and then, someone pauses. Someone squints at my last name or says they were deployed around the same time. My heart starts racing, hoping they’ll say something. Anything that brings me closer to him. Sometimes people talk about their military parents, the stories they’ve heard, and the lessons they were taught. I go home and open the drawer where we keep his medals and pendants, and I look at them like proof he was real. Sometimes I wonder what he would think of me now. Would we have the same sense of humor? Would he have taught me how to drive or walked me to school on the first day? It’s strange to miss someone you don’t remember. Stranger, maybe, to feel shaped by them anyway. I’ve spent my whole life trying to get to know someone I never got the chance to meet. And no matter how many questions I ask, it never feels like enough. I never got a first memory of him. Just a flag, and a lot of questions no one could answer. His service gave others freedom. It left me with stories, medals, and a thousand things I’ll never get to ask. I’m proud of his service. But some days, I’d trade every medal just to have known him.