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.

I was fifteen the first time I realized that if I didn’t protect myself, no one else would. My name is Maxine Julianne Torres, and I’m a neuroscience major starting at Gonzaga University this fall. I was born and raised in the Northern Mariana Islands, where resources were limited and expectations were high. Growing up, I didn’t always feel seen—at school, at home, or even in my own community. I had to figure out a lot on my own. But I’ve always been someone who keeps going, no matter what gets thrown at me. I come from a family where emotions weren’t always welcomed. When I tried to express myself, I was often dismissed or told I was overreacting. I learned early on to stay quiet, to observe, to think before I spoke. But that silence built up. I went through school trying to hold everything together while feeling like no one really understood what I was carrying. I was stalked and harassed at school, and when I tried to speak up, the adults in charge did nothing. That taught me a hard lesson. If I wanted to be safe, I’d have to protect myself. It got harder in high school. At one point, my GPA dropped to a 1.5. I was working part-time, balancing family responsibilities, and trying to manage my mental health with little support. I didn’t have tutors, mentors, or extra help—I had deadlines and bills. There were days when I came home from a shift and still had hours of assignments to finish. I slept less. I pushed myself more. And I brought my GPA up to a 3.5 in one year. I didn’t get there by luck. I got there by grinding, by organizing my time, cutting distractions, and taking control of my life. I became a straight-A student, and I did it without anyone handing me anything. That moment changed everything for me. It reminded me that I wasn’t powerless, even when things felt overwhelming. It proved that I could adapt and climb, even from the bottom. More importantly, it taught me to take my future seriously. I started dreaming bigger, and I started believing that those dreams were actually possible. Neuroscience became important to me when I realized how much our lives are shaped by the things we can’t always see. Our thoughts, our emotions, our past experiences. I wanted to understand why trauma affects people so differently, how memory works, and how healing happens. I chose neuroscience because I want to help people like me. People who felt unheard, unseen, and misunderstood finally have the words and tools to take their lives back. When I found out that trauma can actually change brain structure and function, something clicked. I had spent years trying to make sense of what I went through—why I couldn’t always explain my reactions, why some things triggered anxiety out of nowhere, why I sometimes shut down emotionally even though I wanted to be present. Neuroscience gave me answers I never knew I needed. It felt like opening a door to both science and self-awareness. I knew I had found the field I wanted to spend my life in. I don’t have family members in medicine or science. I’m the first in my family to walk this path. That means I’ve had to figure out everything on my own. Financial aid, applications, even what courses to take. I’m also paying for college mostly by myself. I’ve worked jobs while going to school, and I’ve had to say no to a lot of things just to keep moving forward. Being financially disadvantaged isn’t just about money. It’s about time, energy, and the mental weight of knowing there’s no backup plan. Things got even more complicated after my dad passed away while still on active duty. For a long time, I didn’t even know we had Tricare benefits. There was a miscommunication somewhere, and no one told me. So I’ve been paying out of pocket for my mental health medication, something I haven’t fully paid off. Even now, I’m navigating how to access help that should have been available years ago. It’s frustrating, but I’m used to figuring things out the hard way. I want to use this education to do something real. Whether it’s research, advocacy, or work in clinical settings, I plan to focus on trauma, memory, and mental health, especially in underserved communities. A lot of people where I come from don’t have access to proper mental health care. They suffer in silence. They blame themselves. They normalize pain. I want to change that. I want to bring science and empathy together and use what I’ve learned to help people understand themselves better. I want to make mental health care more accessible, especially in places like the islands, where therapy is often stigmatized and resources are limited. After graduation, I plan to pursue further research in cognitive neuroscience, with a focus on how trauma affects working memory and long-term decision-making. I want to work with at-risk youth, veterans, and people who’ve been systemically neglected. Eventually, I hope to contribute to programs that bring neuroscience-informed care into public health and education systems. But no matter where I go, I’ll carry my roots with me. I’ll never forget where I started, or the people I want to serve. This scholarship matters to me because it’s about more than just funding. It’s about being seen and supported for the exact reasons I’ve often felt left out. Eric W. Larson stood for equality, education, and helping women in STEM break through barriers. That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. I don’t just want to be one of the few, I want to be someone who opens the door for others. I’ve had to push through a lot. Family tension, financial stress, emotional setbacks. But I’m still here, and I’m not stopping. I’m not perfect, but I’m determined. And with this opportunity, I know I can go even further. I’m ready for it.

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.