Success has never looked like prestige to me. It’s never worn a title or lived on a résumé. I’ve always known it as something scrappier—held together by instinct, vulnerability, and the discipline of showing up. It’s a student choosing to speak instead of disappear. It’s a family, worn down by systems that have long stopped listening, finally feeling heard. It’s my sister, who has Down syndrome, being seen not as a responsibility to carry, but as a full human being—with a heartbeat and humor and history, like anyone else. I didn’t grow up with much, but I grew up learning how to care. My parents were separated, each navigating their own challenges—my father with addiction, my mother with her mental health. My sister needed someone to walk alongside her in a world that rarely made space for difference. That someone became me. Ours was a household shaped by adaptation and effort. From that space, I came to understand that care is powerful. That showing up, especially when things are messy or uncertain, builds strength and trust. Those early lessons formed the foundation of what I now know to be my work: honoring people’s stories, creating safety, and keeping dignity at the center. Now, at 37, I’m pursuing my Master of Social Work at Smith College. Getting here took years—working full-time while studying part-time, bridging theory and lived experience one job, one class, one challenge at a time. I’ve taught trauma-responsive yoga to children impacted by ACES, supported first-generation immigrant youth in school and after-school settings, and designed programs for students navigating grief, instability, and systemic harm. With each experience, I’ve returned to the same question: What helps someone feel safe enough to be fully themselves? For me, success is relational. It lives in presence, in attunement—in knowing how to meet someone where they are. It’s the student who begins to trust their voice. The child who settles into their body again. The systems worker who finally listens with care. These are the moments that shape the kind of change I’m committed to. And this degree is a step toward deepening that work—sharpening my clinical skills, strengthening my ability to lead from lived experience, and helping build care systems that actually reflect the communities they’re meant to serve. Graduate funding is often directed toward fields that align with traditional ideas of success—science, technology, finance—while social work, mental health, and education are routinely undervalued. I’ve had moments where I’ve compared myself to those models, wondered if I’ve fallen behind, or missed something by choosing a different path. But when I reflect on what I’ve seen in quiet rooms, in moments of trust and transformation, I know this path is not lesser. It’s essential. This work—creating safety, building connection, restoring agency—is foundational. It’s what makes all other progress possible. It may be slower, less visible, but it is life-changing. This scholarship would allow me to continue that work without sacrificing my stability. I don’t have a financial safety net, but I do have something else: clarity of purpose, and a long-standing commitment to healing work that begins in relationship and ripples outward. Supporting my education is not just about funding a degree—it’s about resourcing a future clinician, advocate, and systems thinker who has already been doing the work and is ready to do more. I don’t want success to mean erasing where I’ve come from. I want it to mean transforming it into something that serves. I want to walk into rooms where decisions are made, where healing begins, where someone like my sister is not reduced to paperwork or prognosis—but honored, fully and truly. This is the kind of success I’ve been building toward—not for recognition, but because lives depend on it. With your support, I won’t just keep going—I’ll help others do the same.

I didn’t always know I wanted to become a social worker. For a long time, I just knew I wanted to help girls feel less alone than I did growing up. I wanted them to have something solid-something I didn’t have. That desire led me to Girls Inc., where I ended up leading programming for young girls navigating everything from generational poverty to body shame to abusive home environments. At first, I wasn’t sure if I was reaching them. I was running groups in dusty gymnasiums and echoey classrooms, trying to get girls to talk about self-worth and boundaries while school bells rang and kids wandered in late from lunch. But they kept showing up. And then one day, they asked if we could keep the groups going over the summer-at the local McDonald’s. I laughed, but I was also deeply moved. That’s when I realized: they weren’t just showing up for the curriculum. They were showing up for connection, for safety, for something that made them feel like they mattered. It was there, in the chaos and closeness of that work, that I realized: this is what it means to uplift other women-starting early, starting with the girls who are already learning to shrink themselves before they even hit middle school. At Girls Inc., I designed curriculum around self-esteem, emotional regulation, and healthy relationships. But most of the time, what the girls needed wasn’t structure-they needed presence. They needed someone who would listen without fixing, who modeled what it looked like to speak your truth without apology. I was proud of the programs I ran-but even prouder that the girls trusted me enough to want more time together. That trust was hard-won. I built it intentionally, because I knew what it felt like to grow up without adults who made space for emotional truth. I grew up in an environment where being a woman often meant absorbing pain quietly. At Girls Inc., I was working to change that. That work was what ultimately led me to graduate school. I applied to Smith School of Social Work because I needed better tools. I had seen firsthand how deeply systems fail our girls: school counselors spread too thin, families in crisis, mental health services that are underfunded or completely unavailable. I knew I needed to do more. I wanted to be part of the solution, not just someone who cared. That’s why I’m pursuing my Master of Social Work. I want to help girls and women navigate systems that were never designed with our well-being in mind. I want to help build something new-places where mental health is supported, not stigmatized. Where girls aren’t just taught to be resilient, but are actually cared for. As a woman, I’ve experienced how easily we are dismissed, interrupted, or told to tone it down. I’ve also experienced the power of being truly heard. Every woman deserves that. I want to uplift women by helping them find their voice and trust it: whether they’re nine years old and sitting in a school gym, or thirty-seven and trying to heal old wounds for the first time. At Girls Inc., I saw what’s possible when girls are given the right support at the right time. In graduate school, I hope to become the kind of woman who can widen that impact by continuing to grow and redefine what leadership, healing, and care can look like when they’re led by women, for women.

I come from an old-school Italian family where emotions were loud, but pain was quiet. We didn’t talk about mental health. We didn’t name depression, anxiety, or trauma-we yelled through it, drank through it, or pretended it was something else entirely. My mother inherited her own grief from a long line of women who never had the tools to hold it. She carried it in her body, in her temper, in her silences. And she passed it down. When I was still a child, she tried to take her own life. No one explained it. But I knew. I felt it in the air, in the tension that never really left. Something had cracked, and even though we moved on like nothing happened, everything had shifted. In our family, pain didn’t get named-it got passed around. It lived in slammed doors, sharp tones, long silences. For me, the oldest daughter, it meant learning to read a room like it was survival. I got good at sensing what version of me might make things feel safer, or at least quieter. Sometimes that meant being invisible. Sometimes it meant making noise no one could ignore. I wasn’t the peacekeeper-II was the disruptor. I acted out. I tested boundaries. I became the kid who made adults nervous and occasionally impressed. I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I just wanted someone to see that I was carrying more than I knew how to hold. The first person who really saw me was my best friend’s mom. I’d known her since I was five. She was the kind of adult who never spoke down to kids. She was sunshiney in the truest way-steady, warm, easy to be around. When I cried on her doorstep one Christmas, she greeted me like it made perfect sense I was there. No questions, no spotlight-just a quiet welcome and a seat at the table, like I belonged. She was also my first yoga teacher, and the first person who showed me that my body didn’t have to stay frozen in defense mode. I didn’t know it then, but she was modeling something radical: calm, safety, presence. I wanted to be like her-to carry that same grounded steadiness. So when she introduced me to yoga, I followed her lead. I found breath. I found stability. I found something that felt like it belonged to me. I later became a certified teacher because I wanted to keep learning how to live in my body-and maybe help others do the same. Then came my dog. A little anxious, very sweet, and somehow always in tune with me. I was still in college: young, overwhelmed, barely holding it together—and suddenly I was responsible for this sensitive creature who needed calm and consistency. So I tried. He pulled me outside, into the rhythm of nature. Our walks became anchors. The trees, the shifting light, the way the seasons moved around us-it all helped settle the noise. We became more mindful, more present. I didn’t know what co-regulation was, but I felt it every time he laid on my chest: his breath syncing with mine, his weight grounding me in my body when I didn’t know how to get there on my own. We learned safety together. Eventually, I chose therapy. I wanted to change. I needed language, perspective, and support. It was a relief to show up without performing. To say what I was feeling, what I was thinking. To name the parts of my family that had always felt unspeakable. It was liberating to be fully myself in a space where the truth didn’t scare anyone-it created possibility. Yoga, nature, my dog, and therapy shaped the foundation of my healing. They gave me rhythm, presence, and a way to live that felt connected and real. And they changed everything: how I build relationships, how I set boundaries, how I ask for help, how I show up for others. My experience with mental health has given me more than a sense of purpose-it’s given me a framework for empathy, a deep respect for people’s stories, and the ability to sit with what’s complicated instead of needing to fix it. It’s what led me to graduate school for social work. I’ve worked with at-risk youth in public schools-kids navigating trauma, instability, and systems that don’t always know what to do with them. I see them because I’ve been them. I know what it’s like to carry too much and get labeled the problem. To feel boxed in when what you really need is to be understood. My journey with mental health has taught me that healing isn’t about erasing the past-it’s about having the tools, support, and space to imagine something different. It’s about relationships that make room for the full version of a person. And it’s about building systems that don’t just treat pain, but understand where it comes from. Reading about Ethel Hayes, I felt a deep connection. Her story echoed my mother’s-women who loved deeply but were overwhelmed by what life handed them. And like her son, I’ve spent my adult life trying to bring light to places where pain lived unspoken for too long. I am a cycle breaker. The first to go to college. The first to seek therapy. The first to say: this ends here. And I want to help others break their cycles too-not through force, but through presence. I want to walk beside people as they begin again: gently, bravely, and without apology for where they’re starting from. We don’t get to choose the families we’re born into. But we can choose what we do with what we’ve been handed. I’m choosing to keep going. To keep telling the truth. And to build something better for the next person who thinks they’re too far gone to try.

Service is not just something I do—it is the rhythm of my life. It is in the conversations I have with young people who feel unseen, in the spaces I create for healing, in the work I do that ensures no one is left to navigate hardship alone. It is active, ongoing, and woven into everything I touch. At Girls Inc. of Santa Fe, I was more than a Community-Based Coordinator and Program Facilitator—I was a bridge between young people and the resources they didn’t always know existed. I designed programs for over 150 youth, most of whom were navigating systemic challenges like poverty, family instability, and generational trauma. When I took over Teen Night, attendance increased by 500%—not because I reinvented the wheel, but because I listened. I made space for young women to tell their stories, to name their fears, to dream without limits. I collaborated with school counselors, principals, and local organizations across 18 schools, ensuring that programming was not just meaningful but culturally responsive—because service without understanding is just performance. I have spent years in direct service, whether mediating conflicts with nonviolent communication techniques, sitting with a teenager on the worst day of her life, or providing mental health first aid when a crisis unfolded. I know that real service is not grand gestures—it is showing up, over and over again, even when no one is watching. Service also looks like adaptation. When the COVID-19 pandemic forced isolation, I founded Yoga with Friends, a donation-based virtual yoga program designed to create community at a time when connection felt impossible. I led weekly trauma-sensitive yoga and meditation sessions, raising money for mutual aid initiatives supporting marginalized communities. It was never about the yoga; it was about giving people something to hold onto in a time of uncertainty. Harriett Russell Carr believed in excellence in service—not just in the work, but in the intention behind it. I carry that same belief. As I pursue my Master of Social Work, this scholarship would allow me to continue this lifelong work with a stronger foundation, equipping me with the skills to not only serve but transform the systems that have failed so many. Service is not a moment. It is not an obligation. It is a verb, a choice, a way of being in the world. It is the decision to step forward when others step back. It is the knowledge that we do not rise alone, but together. It is how I have lived, and it is how I will continue to build a future where no one is left behind.

My mother tried to leave this world. The grown-ups do not explain it, but I understand enough. I understand that everything is fragile, and that love and pain can exist in the same space. My father does not live with us anymore, but I still see him, still hear his voice slurred at the edges. I make my own peanut butter sandwiches, cutting them into perfect squares. The squares mean control. The squares mean I am okay. I am sixteen, and my mother is somewhere between better and worse. My father is still drinking, still struggling. My sister, who has Down syndrome, laughs like she invented joy, but she also gets scared, and when she does, she looks for me. I hold her hand and pretend that I am not scared, too. Pretending is something I have mastered. I am twenty, and I am working and going to college and trying to be a person who is not shaped by the things that happened to me. I have learned how to survive—how to balance full-time work and school, how to soothe my sister when things become too loud, how to keep moving forward despite a foundation built on instability. I practice yoga, eat green things, study late into the night. I tell myself I am healing. I almost believe it. Then, my senior year, the system takes my sister away. Someone, somewhere, with a clipboard and a rulebook, decides that my family is not fit to care for her. They do not see her curled up next to me on the couch, or how she dances in the kitchen when she thinks no one is watching. They do not see the loss, the grief, the way I crumble inside. But I do not collapse. Somehow, I keep moving. Resilient women do not get the luxury of stopping. We are the ones who keep going, who pick up the pieces, who turn pain into something useful. So, I go to therapy. I teach yoga. I work with young people who remind me of myself—kids who have carried too much, who need someone to tell them it is okay to be tired, to be angry, to be soft. I build programs for at-risk youth, advocate for students who are failed by broken systems, and stand beside those who have been told they are too broken to succeed. Now, as I pursue my Master of Social Work, I do so for every woman who has had to fight to be heard. I want to work within the very systems that failed my sister, ensuring that resilience is not the only option for survival but a bridge toward real healing. I want to advocate for those whose struggles have been overlooked, making sure that no one is left to navigate hardship alone. Ella’s story is one I know well. She, too, was a woman who kept going. A woman who fought for a future she never got to see. In her memory, this scholarship would allow me to continue that fight—not just for myself, but for every woman who has had to turn survival into strength.

Madison and I grew up side by side. She is my sister, and she has Down syndrome, but more than anything, she is a person with a sharp sense of humor, a deep love of music, and a quiet resilience. For years, she thrived in a structured, supportive environment—until a crisis in our family changed everything. In the aftermath, she was placed under state-appointed guardianship. Since then, she has regressed severely. Skills she once mastered have slipped away. Her independence has been stripped. The system designed to protect her has instead isolated and diminished her, reducing her autonomy rather than supporting her growth. Watching this unfold was a devastating lesson in how disability care too often fails those it is meant to serve. But it was Madison herself who first made me aware of the importance of advocacy. Growing up, I learned about her rights, her inclusion, and her dignity—not just through what she deserved but through the ways the world often fell short. I saw how people underestimated her, how decisions were made for her without considering her voice. This awareness shaped me, leading me to educate others, challenge assumptions, and push for more inclusive opportunities. Madison made me see the world differently, and she made me realize that silence in the face of injustice is never an option. Because of her, I am here to fight for what is right. This is why I am pursuing my Master of Social Work at Smith College. I want to ensure that no other family experiences what mine has—that individuals with disabilities receive the advocacy, autonomy, and dignity they deserve. With an MSW, I will be equipped to navigate the policies, legal frameworks, and systemic barriers that stand in the way of meaningful support for people like Madison. I refuse to accept that isolation is the best we can offer individuals with disabilities. My commitment to this work extends beyond my personal experience. I have worked extensively with children with disabilities, providing adaptive movement therapy, designing trauma-informed programs, and collaborating with educators in underfunded schools. In every setting, I have seen the same issues—limited resources, overwhelmed families, and a system that prioritizes efficiency over individualized care. These experiences have reinforced my determination to advocate for systemic reform while also providing direct support to families navigating complex care systems. An MSW will allow me to bridge these two efforts. I want to fight for policies that center the needs of individuals with disabilities, ensuring that support systems prioritize dignity, independence, and long-term well-being rather than convenience or cost-saving measures. I want to assist families in securing the services their loved ones deserve while also working toward broader structural change. This scholarship would provide me with the opportunity to focus on these goals without the burden of financial insecurity. The system took my sister from my family, but I refuse to let it take her future—or the future of others like her. Madison made me aware of the power of advocacy, and now, I will dedicate my life to ensuring that people like her are not just protected, but truly empowered.