Sophomore year of high school, sitting in my everyday American History class, yet, this one would change my life. We were discussing women’s fashion and how it has come to be less conservative than in previous decades. One of my classmates brought up how this could be linked to the increase of rape and assault cases, a topic that I have a dark connection to from my early childhood. All of a sudden, my vision blurred, my hands shook, the voices from around the room became background noise that I couldn’t make words out of. I felt like I was trapped in a tornado, with no exit in sight. I couldn’t stand being in that classroom one second longer, I felt sick to my stomach. I didn’t know what was happening, this has never occurred before. I was freaking out, and I couldn’t control myself. My breathing became labored, and I was able to gather myself just enough to ask to go to the bathroom. By the time I made it out to the hallway, my whole body was shaking uncontrollably, I couldn’t see straight, basically running into the girl’s bathroom door. Thankfully, the bathroom was empty, but I still locked myself into the stall. My thoughts were scattered, all I could see were random memories and flashes of different feelings that I couldn’t name bobbing in and out of my frame of mind. For a second, I thought I was dying, and the worst part was, I was alone. No one to turn to, no one who would understand and tell me what’s happening to my body. During this whirlwind of uncertainty that was seeming to consume me, something snapped me out of it. A small trickle of blood, coming from the palm of my hands. I had been digging my nails so deep into my skin that I had drew blood. The pain managed to bring me to some sort of normalcy and I finished the rest of the school day as I believed myself to be fine, I had to be. There was nothing physically wrong with me, so I should just carry on. It wasn’t until my mom noticed by the bags under my eyes and my sluggish motions from my lack of sleep that I was taken to the doctor. In the room with my mom and the doctor, I did the one thing I promised myself I would never do. I cried, basically sobbed, in front of a stranger and my own mother who has given everything to me. I didn’t want to be a burden, somebody who they had to make sure to keep an extra eye on. But that breakdown in the doctors’ office is initially what saved me. I got diagnosed with severe anxiety, perfectionism, and PTSD from events from my childhood. I was sent to therapy for a year and a half which contained grueling EDMR sessions which is a sort of treatment that tricks the brain into letting some memories go and not thinking of them as much. However, this therapy truly saved my life. Yes, I still have an overwhelming desire to try and be the best at everything and I still deal with severe anxiety, but I haven’t had a panic attack in a long time. Dealing with these mental illnesses has changed the way I think of the world. That when you’re struggling mentally, it’s okay to reach out and seek help. Plus, I always try to be the kindest person I can be, as I never truly know what’s going on in others’ minds.

Not a single person would expect the shy, quiet girl from the small town of Milan, Ohio to not only go to college, but to pursue her dream of becoming a pharmacist. I was never a standout kid in my early school years, never participating in class, barely talking to anyone, and basically acting like a ghost among the crowd. I was always the last one to finish tests and would easily get distracted in the classroom. From early on, even back to kindergarten, teachers and other administrative staff believed I had some form of autism and believed that I was what most would consider “slow.” I was treated differently by all the teachers, with them implementing what they called a corrective method by placing a timer in front of my face and requiring me to finish assignments, tests, and even my own lunch in a certain amount of time. They also pulled me out of classes to talk with the school’s therapist and work on focusing on tasks at hand. I quickly fell behind in classes, not being able to read a single sentence by first grade when most of my classmates could already read short stories. I had to be tutored by my first grade english teacher so that I could hopefully catch up with my peers. However, after long hours with my teacher and my mom constantly pushing me, I became one of the best readers in my class, one of the most focused, determined, motivated to be the best. Nobody would’ve expected me to be intelligent, in fact, I didn’t believe myself to be smart until about late middle school. I know I still have things to prove educationally, as I am the first ever Martin to attend college, and will be the first ever person in my family to earn a doctorate. When I enter my college classrooms, I understand just how lucky I am to even be standing there. I have to prove to my community, to my family, to my parents who have supported me through everything, that I am worth of their support. That I will make them proud. That I will be able to repay the favor to my community for helping me get to where I am later in life. As a first-generation student, being directly accepted into the University of Findlay’s pharmacy program was a huge accomplishment, but the drive doesn’t stop anytime soon. This past first semester, it took me weeks to get into a rhythm and truly understand how to “survive” college. The worst part is that I had no one to seek advice from, no one to turn to that would understand the late night studying, and no one that would understand the overwhelming feeling of tens of assignments to do and feeling like you don’t have enough time to do it. But just because something is hard, I will carry on through thick and thin to prove that their support did not go to waste.

My Papa Martin was one of the silliest, outgoing, and loving man I've ever met. He's my dad's dad, who fought in the Vietnam War as a part of the Navy. He was always so proud of the service he did for his country, wearing his "Vietnam War Vet" hat everyday until he passed. However, Papa Martin was much, much more than a war veteran. He was my grandpa. I was the first-born daughter in my family, Papa Martin's first granddaughter. Everybody expected me to love princesses and dolls, but I was much more of a patient, fishing type of girl which added to the deep bond that my grandpa and I shared. I was his carbon copy, our baby photos are identical, both of us with blonde, curly hair and piercing blue-green eyes with our chunky glasses to accommodate our terrible vision. My grandpa and I were similar in the fact that we both believed that we were meant to be on this Earth to have fun and make people smile. Papa Martin, every second he got, would spend hours at our house, talking to my dad, watching me and my sister spend the afternoon away swinging, playing tag, flying a kite, chasing after butterflies, etc. Perhaps one of my favorite memories of Papa Martin was when he came to our house from our local ice cream shop, and brought us pumpkin and vanilla twist ice cream with crunchies. At the time, I had never had pumpkin ice cream, and its creamy, delicious spiced flavor pleased my taste buds and every time I have pumpkin ice cream to this day, all I can think of is his wrinkled forehead, with his gold-rimmed glasses, and gray, curly hair that would always look upon me and my sister with such awe and love. We were his world, and he was mine. Even as a kid, I have always been active. From soccer, to softball, to cheer, to dance, I've explored a lot. But there was always one constant. Papa Martin came to it all. If I got one kick at the soccer ball, I got ice cream and dinner on him. If I hit the ball in softball or struck someone out, I got new clothes and ice cream. The thing is, he wasn't rich. He didn't have a lot to spend, he worked at Castaway Bay part-time as a ticket checker at the doors to make a little extra cash, and of course, to socialize with all the young workers and he even ended up going to one of their weddings. But the little money he did have, he spent it on me and my sister. He gave everything to us, and I would give everything to get one last hug from the man who gave me the best first 11 years of my life.

Starting from a young age, I've never been the person to speak up or the first person to make friends. In fact, I was completely without friends in first grade and spent my time walking aimlessly around the playground just enjoying the nature around my small town. As a girl who's lived in Milan, Ohio her whole life, I've learned that there's more you can always do for your community even if you're not the talkative type. This year, I decided to join TLC, or Teen Leadership Corps. to make a lasting impact in community service my senior year. For this class, we have to choose one large leadership project to create, plan, organize, and complete to better our community and school environment. I was stuck for weeks trying to decide the best project for me to do that I would be passionate about and put in the work ethic to get done with speaking to the least amount of people possible. I eventually came up with the idea to introduce Letters to the Troops to both Edison Middle School and Edison High School. My determination to take on this project was because my uncle Talmadge Harder is currently stationed in Iraq overseas and always tells me that when there is no war in America, citizens tend to forget about the active troops that are overseas which creates a low morale throughout the ranks. I wanted to change this and bring awareness to my community. So I pitched it to my principal, which he enthusiastically agreed and even offered his services if I needed them. I created a letter template out of simple paper as my school is low on funds, and had my technology teacher print out hundreds of them for me to disperse. I then emailed the middle school principal to get his approval and the list of homeroom numbers so that I could separate the letters into the number of students per homeroom to place in the teacher's mailboxes for them to give out in the morning. It took me days to get it all set up, but once it was done, there was a sense of pride in myself that I can't even begin to explain, that I did this. I gave the students two weeks to turn in the completed letters, in which I was worried during this whole time if I would even get enough students who cared to even draw a simple picture for these soldiers. However, they pulled through. At the end of the two weeks, I went through and checked every letter, and with the ones that I self-approved, I had a total of 425 letters, enough for each soldier in a whole platoon overseas. I sent them over on December 26th, 2024 and am still waiting to hear word that my uncle has received them, but they should take a couple weeks to make it over there. But just knowing that I collected 425 letters, out of a small Division V school who doesn't even have 250 students in homerooms at the high school, it leaves me with the notion that I can bring change. No, I don't have to be the loudest person in a room, I can just be a girl with a passion and a drive. One girl, one mission to make a change. That's all it took, and that's all it will ever take. As I head off to college next year, I want to make more of these changes that bring awareness and change that our sometimes broken world needs.

"You have anxiety." The words spoken from my family doctor that I'll never forget. The fact that I, the girl that cheered. screamed into crowds, danced on stage in front of hundreds, could possibly have a mental illness such as anxiety. Tears start to stream down my face leaving puddles on the white tiles. The scene that even brought me to the doctors office rings through my head. It's 10:58 a.m. as I sit in my sophomore history class. We were talking about the fashion of the older days and how revealing they could be. One of my more bold and expressive classmates starts a discussion wondering if that is what resulted in higher sexual assault and rape crimes. That it was their fault they wore those clothes, so therefore, the consequence was an unforgivable action. After her statement, the class kept rambling on around this idea. However, as I was sitting there, it felt like the world was spinning. "It was their fault." Little did anyone know in that room, I was a victim of the exact thing they were talking about. All of a sudden, it felt like I couldn't get a breath in, like I was drowning in a pool with no water. This had happened before, but never so violent. I stuttered as I asked to go to the bathroom, as I believed no one could see my reaction, not even my best friend. I ran to the bathroom, sat in a stall, room still spinning, vision blurred, nails digging deeper and deeper into my skin, as if pain was the only thing keeping me connected to this world. I staggered to the sink, splashed water in my face trying to stop this seemingly never-ending trance. "What was happening to me? You're supposed to be smart, not affected by comments." The demons inside my head get interrupted by the bell signaling to change classes. I quickly rush out of the bathroom to go to class, still in a trance, but knowing I have to act normal. So I keep going. I text my mom to try to have someone to talk to about this, and she was so worried she immediately set up a doctor's appointment. Now I was being sent back to therapy for the third time in only 16 years, each time at least lasting a year and a half until I was dispatched. I was given anxiety pills, but I was determined to make it through these attacks without them. However, ever so often, I have to take them to help calm myself down so I am able to carry on through the day. Having anxiety can take so much happiness and light from one's life, and I didn't want that to happen to me or anybody else. After having multiple experiences like these, I have found that pursuing a college degree in pharmacy can help others make it through their everyday struggles just like I have and will keep doing. By making medication and dispensing it for others, it can help lessen the stress and anxiety that people like me have to deal with. Therefore, getting this degree is extremely important to me so that I can help others just like other healthcare officials and pharmacists helped me.

A little girl covered in dirt from head to toe runs across the track to make it to the concession stands before they close for the night. The desire for a refreshing Gatorade was the only thing on her mind. This is exactly how I grew up after playing a hard game or even during a family member's game in which I just wanted something special to eat. Many of these moments are etched into youth sports players' memories. Even though I have long outgrown playing on a diamond-shaped dirt field, my goal is to still be a part of the next generation's sports teams. Therefore, over my high school years and continuing into my senior year, I have taken up running my local small town's concession stand. Our concessions are run on pure parent volunteers, which means there have been many times when our concessions have had to be closed during games because no one volunteered. So starting freshmen year, I contacted the director of the concession stands to see if I could volunteer to run them at my age. She gladly accepted my help, I could hear the relief in her voice and choice of words. Ever since then, even after long days at work in the summer heat waves, I would work at least 2 hours worth of concessions. It brought me joy to see boys and girls of all ages smile at the new little treat they get to enjoy while watching our teams of tomorrow begin to compete in some of their first games. Adding to my community involvement, I am a varsity senior cheerleader at Edison High School. We cheer at every basketball and football game, leading the crowd in chants, making signs for our school, and holding pep rallies during the weeks of homecoming and playoffs. I also hold the title of captain of my competitive national dance team for Iconic Dance Company. I've settled nerves in the wings, caught others in hugs after they run off stage from forgetting their solo, ran between team members trying to calm them while we sit anxiously waiting for our overalls to be announced. There have been times when the adult instructors failed to support us, and all of their eyes fell on me to be a leader and despite every emotion I'm feeling, including crying myself, I persevere because I have to stay strong for them. I've seen many of my fellow dancers go through tribulations that a young child should never have to go through. I've seen kids go through divorces, unwanted weddings, abuse, a parent commit suicide, grief, being cheated on, etc. These experiences make me choose to put other's needs in front of my own as I want to help others find ways to be happy and healthy in this short life. These values and teachings that I've learned from over the years I plan on transferring to my future career of becoming a pharmacist. Through many of my deceased family members, I have seen the way that medicine can help ease the pain and enjoy the last moments of their lives with the ones they love. After watching one too many of these circumstances in my own family, I knew I wanted to be the person to deliver that type of help to other families to ease their pain. This scholarship would help me reach my personal goal and to give back to the community that has already given so much to me. The money will be an investment in my future as well as my future patients.