I chose this path because I’ve lived it. I’ve seen what happens when people fall through the cracks, when help doesn’t come, and when no one has the tools to fix what’s broken. That’s why I study psychology and nursing. It’s not an abstract choice. It’s the work I know will matter. I’ve spent my life asking how things could be better. I’ve asked it while holding a crying child. I’ve asked it standing in alleyways where needles litter the ground. I’ve asked it watching people lose battles they didn’t have the resources to fight. The answers are rarely simple, but they exist. They live in action, in showing up, in choosing to try. I’ve chosen to try. I want to, and I am, building a place where care is real. Not the kind of care that asks for insurance cards before compassion, but care that sees people first. A clinic or a practice where someone listens, where treatments coincide with understanding and dignity. I want to hire from the communities I serve, bringing the kind of equity that lasts. It’s a big vision, but the only way to make big things happen is to start somewhere. For me, that start is education. I am pursuing degrees in psychology and nursing. Psychology teaches me how the mind bends under pressure and heals when it’s supported. Nursing shows me how to make that support real. Together, they’re the tools I need to help people rebuild their lives. None of this is easy. I’ve worked through long nights, raised a child alone, and balanced survival with learning. I’ve pushed forward when it seemed impossible. I’ve failed, stood back up, and tried again, and done better. People say success takes grit. I say it takes remembering why you started in the first place. My motivation is simple: I want the world to be better than I found it. I want my son to see that effort matters and that change isn’t just something you wait for-it’s something you make. I want to honor the people I’ve seen struggle, the ones who didn’t have what they needed. They deserve better, and I’ll spend my life working toward it. I don’t dream of easy things. I dream of impact. I dream of lives improved, communities strengthened, and care that doesn’t ask for permission. That’s the difference I am making. It’s the life I’m building, one step at a time. And I won’t stop until I get there.

Growing up with a father who was in the army wasn’t like the movies-there wasn’t honor or medals gleaming under bright lights. My dad served in the Korean War, but his battle didn’t end when he came home. He fought ghosts. They lived inside his head, buried deep under layers of PTSD and the kind of rage that sticks to you when you’ve faced death, racism, and war. He was a Black man in the military, so you can imagine how much of that was already stacked against him. But he didn’t just fight in Korea. He fought us, fought himself, and fought a world that never really wanted him in the first place. He taught us how to make S.O.S.-shit on a shingle, they called it. Just some chipped beef on toast. Taught us how to fry up potatoes until they were crispy enough to fill the emptiness in our stomachs. We learned to live off rations, like he did. He showed us how to stretch nothing into something because nothing is all you’ve got sometimes. And then there was the street medic training. Most kids get taught how to ride a bike or throw a ball. Us? We got trained in how to patch up wounds, clean cuts, and keep each other alive. It wasn’t out of love, though. It was because he knew the world was out to break us. He figured we better know how to fix ourselves when no one else would. The thing is, he was right. No one came to help. We were left bouncing from place to place, dodging rent, slipping through the cracks. His PTSD-it wasn’t just a term I learned in textbooks later-it was our everyday life. His violence was like a shadow. And you couldn’t shake it. Maybe it came from years of war, maybe it came from the years of being treated like less than human, both in the military and out. I’ll never really know, and I’m not sure I want to. The VA didn’t do a damn thing for him. The pain in his body? Ignored. The screams in his head? Unheard. And where does that leave a man? It leaves him broken. It leaves him with kids he can’t love because he can’t even look himself in the mirror. So, we went homeless, again and again, finding shelter in places where survival was our only language. But here’s the thing: my dad, for all the wrong he did, he taught me how to survive. How to navigate a world that doesn’t care about people like us. He taught me how to eat when there’s nothing, how to stay alive when everyone expects you to disappear. The system failed him. Failed us. The VA couldn’t put him back together, so he crumbled in front of us, taking pieces of us with him. There was no cavalry coming to save him. He had fought for a country that never fought for him. All we could do was keep moving, keep making meals from nothing, keep surviving.

I’m a patchwork quilt of all the places I’ve been and all the things I’ve survived. Multiracial, multicultural, Black, single mom, survivor- these aren’t just labels; they’re the architecture of a life built on the edge of survival and the pursuit of something bigger. I’ve been a mother longer than I’ve been anything else, raising my child alone in a world that never seemed ready for either of us. Life has been an uphill sprint: homelessness, working endless hours, and studying late into the night, chasing degrees in psychology and nursing like they’re a ticket to freedom. The only constant has been the need to create space for people like me, those who’ve been told they don’t belong but keep showing up anyway. Scholarships are more than just financial aid; they are a lifeline. It’s a moment to exhale, to breathe in the possibility of focus. With it, I can let go of some of the worry and dig into what really matters: my studies and my dreams of becoming a nurse practitioner. I want to build something that never existed for me, a place of healing that blends the science of medicine with the humanity of care. A place where people like me, outsiders in every sense, can come to feel seen, heard, and whole. My goals aren’t just about me: they’re about the community I’ve always been a part of and the one I dream of serving. I’ve spent years giving back in the ways I could. During the pandemic, I took neighborhood kids to the park and cooked meals when their parents couldn’t. I’ve worked alongside unhoused people, talking with them, helping them find resources, and treating them like human beings when the world only saw shadows. I started my own peer support service, The Ethereal Well, to bring culturally informed care to those who fall through the cracks of traditional systems. I’ve learned that showing up, really showing up, means meeting people where they are, no matter how messy or raw that place might be. Failure? I have known it like an old friend. There was a time I thought I could carry everything: my son’s trauma, my own, the weight of school and work. But I burned out. I lost myself for a while. My grades slipped, my confidence wavered, and I thought maybe that this path wasn’t for me. But failure is a mirror-it shows you who you really are. I picked up the pieces, set goals, tried harder, got tougher, did better. I passed the tests, made long term plans with steps to achieve my goals, and started believing in my own resilience. If I have a greatest strength, it’s that resilience. It’s the ability to look at the chaos and say, “I’m still here.” It’s being resourceful when there’s nothing to work with. It’s finding the humanity in everyone, even when they’ve forgotten it in themselves. I’m not afraid to start over, to dig deeper, to rewrite the script. Because the only way out of this life is through it, and I’ve learned how to walk through fire without letting it consume me.

My educational journey’s been anything but straightforward, more like a series of starts and stops, each chapter marked by the realities of life: raising my son alone, pushing through poverty, and grinding to keep hope alive for us both. For a long time, I couldn’t take the traditional route. Survival came first, and every day was a careful balance between making ends meet and finding a way forward. But I think that struggle taught me resilience, sharpened a vision I didn’t even know I was shaping. Originally, I considered the path of psychology. I wanted to understand the human mind, to make sense of the pain and challenges I saw everywhere around me. I wanted to learn why so many people in my community struggled, why some people survive while others get pulled under. But there was this feeling that I was meant to do something even more hands-on, something that could meet people where they were, body and mind. I’d been involved in mutual aid for years, doing peer support work, especially after my child’s father died from a fentanyl overdose two years ago. The overdose crisis also tore through my community. I saw firsthand how quickly lives can unravel, and I want to do more than patchwork relief: I want to be part of the solution. I’ve helped organize community support, finding resources for people in crisis, doing what I could on the front lines. But it hit me that I was capable of more than mutual aid alone. I could take these experiences and knowledge and turn them into something lasting. I could go into mental health and addiction medicine as a nurse, bring a grounded understanding of trauma to the role, and serve people struggling with the same battles I’d seen up close. Nursing offered the chance to be there in moments of intense need, to bring both science and empathy to people’s hardest moments, to help them not just survive but find their footing again. So here I am, partway through the journey, combining psychology with nursing to meet the full scope of what I want to do. I’ve had the aha moments, those flashes where it all comes together and reminds me why I’m on this path. Nursing is more than a job to me; it’s a calling, a way to transform loss into healing, for my community and for myself. Addiction medicine is where I’m headed, and each class, every step, feels like building blocks toward this vision; of a nurse who gets it, who understands the edges people live on and can help them find a way back. It’s a long road, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Every experience brought me here, and every step ahead feels like it’s moving me closer to making a real difference. I’m here, ready to see it through.

I came up in a world where survival for me wasn't assumed, where every day I dug in and held on for another round. Growing up in poverty, holding down jobs that barely kept the lights on, raising my kid alone while trying to hold my head above water, it sometimes felt like a tightrope walk. The journey’s been bruising and relentless, but each setback taught me something valuable, chiseled something resilient into me. I didn’t have the luxury to coast or to wonder idly about my future. I had to be all in, even when “all in” was survival mode. In those long stretches, I realized I was fighting for something bigger than just getting by. My values took shape, hard-edged and clear, around the idea that no one should have to walk their path alone. I saw my struggles mirrored in my community, families without support, people with dreams and burdens, neighbors drowning in the unseen tides of addiction and trauma. These weren’t strangers; they were reflections of the same grit, the same resilience I saw in myself. So, I committed to being the person I wish I’d had in my corner: a bridge, a lifeline, someone who understood not just the need for survival but the yearning for something more. My life experiences have brought me here, to the doors of higher education, driven by the belief that knowledge is a weapon against despair and poverty. Psychology and nursing are my chosen fields not just because they offer me a career, but because they allow me to get to the root of what people in my community need. I will be on the frontlines of mental health, addiction treatment, trauma-informed care; fields that don’t just help people survive but give them a chance to reclaim their lives. My education is a toolkit, and each class, every piece of knowledge, is another tool I can bring back to my community. I’m ready for this, for more, because my journey has taught me that change comes from the ground up, from the people like me who know what it’s like to live on the edge and refuse to let themselves or others fall. I’ll take this education, I AM taking this education, and every lesson and every skill, and turning it into something powerful. I’m building something from the ashes of what I survived: a path for others to follow. That’s my goal, my mission.

There’s something electric about the sidewalks I walk every day, a buzzing energy pulsing beneath my feet, whispering to me about what needs to be done and where I’m headed. I grew up seeing the sharp edges of the world a little closer than most, life showed me early that survival was anything but a given. Poverty, instability, and the quiet resilience of a multiracial, single mom’s life taught me that everything is earned, every breath, every meal, every safe corner you can find to rest. But it also showed me that there’s strength and a strange beauty in this chaos, a sort of redemption in using these experiences to lift up others. In my community, I’m known as someone who’s there. I show up, whether it’s for kids who need a hand during tough times, for neighbors who’ve been handed raw deals, or for the kind of community organizing that puts resources into real people’s hands. The Ethereal Well, my peer support project, is my vision of a world where healing and dignity are within reach for those often shut out by traditional systems. It’s a place where people can come as they are and be met without judgment, because I know what it’s like to have nowhere to go. I’m studying psychology and nursing not just for the degrees, but because I want to dig deeper into the science of resilience, into the way the brain can cling to life despite trauma and hardship. I’ve got this image in my head of a place where medicine, community care, and cultural support meet. In the future, I see myself opening a clinic, one that combines the formalities of medical care with the heart of grassroots work. I want to be there for the people who fall through the cracks, the ones who are always seen as statistics, as numbers that don’t quite make the cut. There’s a particular way that people look at you when they think you’ve made it through unscathed, as though hardship glides right off you. They don’t see the bruises you’ve got on the inside, the quiet corners of yourself that have never stopped aching. But I wear those invisible scars with pride because I know they give me an edge. I can walk into a room with people who are struggling and connect with them, not because I read about it, but because I’ve been there, and I know the way out. I’m doing this for my community and for my son, who watches me fight every day, and for everyone who feels like they’re up against something so big it feels impossible to beat. I’m taking these steps because I want to create a ripple effect. When I do succeed, others will see it’s possible for them also. I will carve out a path so that anyone who feels lost or left behind can follow it and use it as their path, too. My goal isn’t just to impact a single community but to help foster a culture that values people over profit, that heals rather than discards or monetize. And as long as there’s work to do, I’ll be out there, carving that path.

It's four in the morning, and the world is silent, at least from where I sit. My child, curled in the corner of his bed, is deep in sleep while I’m wide awake, books scattered around me like bricks, each one a weight and a building block, reminders of the strange duality I live. Being a single parent and a student; it’s like dancing on a razor, a rhythm that never lets up. But it’s a dance I’m determined to master because giving up isn't in my vocabulary. The hardest part? It’s the constant push and pull. The tug of books, assignments, clinical hours, and exams on one side; the pull of parent-teacher conferences, scraped knees, late-night talks, and endless “Mom, can you help me with this?” on the other. It’s a life of unspoken compromises: of wanting to give my child the moon, but realizing that some nights, all I can give him is a sliver of my attention, a half-smile over an open textbook. There’s a brutal honesty in this life. You learn quickly what you're made of. I’ve found that the drive to be better is carved from late nights and early mornings, from stretching every dollar and hour like it’s elastic, hoping it won’t snap. It's a tightrope walk without a net, a balancing act between wanting to do well in school and also being present for my child. I worry I might fail at both sometimes. That emotion, however, is what keeps me going; it's the whisper that urges, "Keep going, do better" so I can BE better and not fail myself or my child. This scholarship is more than just financial help. It’s validation. It’s a hand on my shoulder in this marathon, reminding me that someone out there sees the sacrifices, the silent battles, the endless stretch of responsibility. With it, I could afford to breathe, maybe even to rest once in a while. I could afford to study without calculating how much time I’m stealing from my son. I could afford to buy him something small, a symbol that I haven’t lost sight of him in this relentless pursuit of a better future. My ambition isn’t just about a degree or a title. It’s about creating a life that says to my child, “Look, we don’t have to be bound by where we started.” I want to show him that no matter where life begins, no matter how many times it throws you down, there’s always a way forward if you’re willing to claw your way through. I want him to see a world where education opens doors and where hard work isn’t just something people talk about. It’s lived. It’s worn. It’s something you carry with you, like scars that make you beautiful in a way only the broken understand. People talk about ambition like it’s a glossy thing. But ambition is messy. It’s tired bones, ramen dinners, and hand-me-down textbooks. It’s the way you learn to fight through the fog, pulling yourself along by the sheer force of will. Being a single parent has taught me to make miracles out of scraps, to find joy in the smallest victories, to believe that every single effort will add up one day. So yes, it’s a challenge. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and some days it feels like it might break me. But every ounce of struggle, every moment of doubt, is worth it. It’s worth it to show my child that their parent can rise. That they don’t have to choose between dreams and responsibility. That they can be someone who fights for the life they want, no matter how long it takes, no matter how hard it gets. This scholarship is a means to having the chance to finish what I started with a little less weight on my shoulders. And with that freedom, I could show my child that life isn’t always about ease or certainty; it’s about the willingness to keep moving, no matter how steep the climb. And maybe, just maybe, one day he’ll look at his tired, determined parent and say, “If they could do it, so can I.”

Growing up I learned inventiveness was survival. My dad survived on disability, so we didn’t have a lot, but we made things work with what we had. We rigged solutions out of secondhand parts, saw potential in things most people threw away, and kept pushing no matter what happened. Being raised this way, I learned that life will sometimes leave you standing at a dead end, waiting for you to either give up or carve a new path out of sheer will. Resilience wasn’t optional, either—it became a muscle I worked every day. Challenges came in many forms. Yet each challenge built me up, made me more creative in finding solutions, showing me that if I keep going, keep adapting, I’ll always find ways forward. This resilience gave me strength, not just to survive but to believe in a future where I can be the one building bridges for others, making the journey a little less uphill. I’m using my background to push toward my goals, step by step. I’m working my way through college, studying psychology and nursing, focused on building a career where I can address the gaps in mental health and addiction support. My life experiences have shown me the cracks where people fall through, and I want to fill them. I volunteer, mentor others, and study hard, committed to creating change from the ground up. The plan is simple: keep pushing forward, keep learning, and keep reaching back to help others. My dad taught me that sometimes you have to be the one to make something out of nothing; and that’s exactly what I’m doing.

In my life balancing education with family responsibilities is an intricate rhythm of resilience, focus, and a lot of early mornings and late nights. Life as a single parent means that nothing comes without careful planning, with days that are split between lectures, parenting, and homework, and it all operates around the one commitment that never wavers: providing for my child. Each hour I have is accounted for, whether I’m preparing meals, helping with school assignments, or getting in an extra hour of studying, even shaving my legs. Sometimes, that can mean hitting the books after bedtime stories or squeezing in reading sessions while riding the bus to appointments. But for me, it’s worth every juggling act, every single sleepless night. This scholarship would make an immense difference in my delicate balancing act. It’s not just financial aid for me; it’s a shot at stability, and also at knowing that bills are paid, that I can take on my studies without constantly worrying about making ends meet. With that security, I can give my son the stable life I want for him and make real progress toward my degree. He wouldn’t have to see the exhaustion in my eyes or hear the worry in my voice because I’d have the freedom to focus on what matters, my education and our future. My goals are tied to something so much larger than myself. I am pursuing a dual track in pre-nursing and psychology; and it isn’t just about a degree on the wall; it’s about transforming the lives of those around me. As a future Nurse Practitioner, I will bring care to the people who often slip through the cracks, BIPOC, low-income, marginalized communities. I’ve seen the impact of health disparities and substance abuse in my own neighborhood. And having lived through those challenges myself, I know I can make a difference. But doing this work demands undivided focus, which is hard to give when you’re splitting yourself between work, parenting, and school. This scholarship wouldn’t just support my dreams; it would support my community. It would give me the chance to finish my degree, open a practice, and bring support and empathy to those who need it most. For every step I take forward, I’m setting an example for my son and creating a life that shows him education and hard work matter, even if the path isn’t easy. By investing in me, this scholarship would be investing in the future of my family and the future of my community.

I’ve been juggling for years now, work, motherhood, and a thousand things in between. Not the kind of juggling with a safety net, either. Mine’s been a balancing act on a tightrope, with no room for a wrong step. My son came first, always. He had to. There were nights I worked until my body ached, then came home to a boy who needed more than just a meal and a roof over his head. He needed a mother who could be both protector and guide. I had to hold everything together when it felt like the world was unraveling around me. But that’s what shaped me—the challenge of caregiving while working, the pressure, and the weight of it all. It didn’t break me; it sharpened me. Motherhood isn’t just an identity I carry; it has been a battlefield. I’ve learned to fight for every inch of ground, from securing food and shelter to advocating for my son’s mental health and social and emotional wellness when the world didn’t want to hear us. My son lost his father, and the trauma left deep scars. I couldn’t just hand him over to a system that wasn’t built to care for kids like him, kids who carry grief and anger that runs deep. So, I became his advocate, his therapist, his everything. I learned psychological first aid, became a certified peer counselor, and took on the role of not just a mother, but a healer. That struggle, raising my son while balancing work and life, has been the most significant challenge I’ve faced, but also the most rewarding. It’s given me the clarity to see what really matters: care, compassion, and resilience. I want to take what I’ve learned and build a career where I can be there for people the way I’ve been there for my son. Psychology and nursing call to me because they offer paths to healing, both mentally and physically. I’ve seen what happens when people slip through the cracks—when systems fail them. I want to be someone who can catch them before they fall too far. This balancing act, this endless hustle of caregiving and working, hasn’t just shaped me—it’s fueled me. It’s made my drive to become a Nurse Practitioner personal. I want to merge psychology with medicine because I know how much we need care that doesn’t separate the mind from the body. I’ve been fighting for every piece of stability for my family. And through that fight, I’ve discovered my passion for helping others heal, not just in the conventional sense but in ways that reach deeper, into the heart of trauma. My experiences as a mother have given me a sense of urgency. This isn’t just about a career. It’s about giving back what I’ve gained through years of hardship and struggle. It’s about being the person I needed when I was struggling alone, and the person my son needed when the world felt too heavy for him to carry. I’m driven by the need to make sure others don’t have to fight the same battles alone. Motherhood taught me resilience, but more than that has taught me healing isn’t just possible, it’s essential. I want to and can be part of that healing, to take my experiences and turn them into something that makes a difference. And I won’t stop until I get there.

What inspired me to continue my education? Maybe it’s a need to carve out a space that wasn’t already stacked against me. Maybe it's the years spent on the margins, scraping by, navigating a system that didn’t see me or people like me—multiracial, from poverty, someone who’s been homeless, who has seen the rougher sides of life. There was a point where I realized that if I didn’t pursue something more, something beyond survival, I’d be swallowed up by it. Education became that ladder, one rung at a time, leading out of the fog, giving me something to reach for that wasn’t always there before. But there’s no easy path. The obstacles were there long before I even considered stepping back into a classroom. You don’t come from years of instability and just click into "student" mode. Homelessness isn’t a chapter that ends when you find shelter; it lingers, sets a rhythm in your body and your mind. You’re always looking over your shoulder, always waiting for the ground to fall away again. There’s a fear of being seen as less-than, as incapable, of standing out for the wrong reasons. Add to that raising a child alone, balancing bills and groceries and school fees. There were days when it felt like the entire world was working against me, like the weight of it all might be too much. But I kept going. You find a way. I had to. My son depended on it. When you're a mother, that changes everything. You're no longer just doing it for yourself. You're modeling something—resilience, maybe, or just plain survival. Managing school and motherhood? It’s like trying to juggle with one hand tied behind your back, but you figure out the rhythm. It’s late nights, textbooks open while your kid sleeps beside you. It’s doing math equations between making dinner and breaking up fights over toys. It’s taking tests in the early morning before the house wakes up, your mind split between what’s on the screen and what’s waiting for you in the kitchen. But it’s also a fight against time. Time that pulls at you, takes you away from one responsibility and slams you into another. There’s guilt in that. Missing moments because you’re chasing this degree, this thing that feels out of reach, but that you know you need. The obstacles don’t go away, but you learn to move through them. You lean on the few people who understand, who are there to catch you when you feel like you might fall. I push forward because I need to show my son that you can rise up, even when the world keeps trying to knock you down. It’s not easy. The roles I juggle, the sacrifices I make—they’re all part of it. But the inspiration to keep going is right there in front of me, every time I look at my son. He’s my reason. And maybe one day, when he’s old enough to understand, he’ll see that his mother fought for something better. He’ll see that education wasn’t just a choice, it was survival, and it was for him just as much as it was for me.

Being a parent and being part of the LGBTQIA+ community? It’s like living in two different worlds —like I’m juggling two different parts of myself, trying to make them fit in a world that doesn’t want either. But both identities are what fuel me, drive me forward, even when things get messy. Being a parent is raw. It’s waking up at 2 a.m. because your kid had a nightmare, or your alarm going off at 5:30 a.m. because you’ve got schoolwork to finish before getting breakfast ready. It’s showing up to class after having been up all night with a sick kid, and still trying to make sense of the lecture while your brains between exhaustion and survival mode. But the truth is, my child is my fire. I look at him and think, "I will do this. I will push forward." The stakes are too high for me to fail. I’ve already walked through too many broken doors in life; I’m not letting him walk through them too. I didn’t expect to find myself here—queer, parent, a student. There’s this constant whisper in my head, saying, "You don’t belong." But that voice? It’s been there my whole life, and it’s done nothing but sharpen my ambition. As a queer person, the world expects you to struggle, expects you to fall through the cracks. And as a parent—especially a queer parent—they expect you to be too tired, too distracted, too overwhelmed to succeed. But here I am, juggling my mom duties and identity. Here I am, managing a double major in psychology and pre-nursing, chasing a career that people in my position aren’t supposed to reach for. I’m not just here to get by—I’m here to break ceilings, knock down walls, show that people like me, people who don’t fit the mold, belong in these spaces as much as anyone else. Being part of the LGBTQIA+ community has shaped my education in ways I didn’t expect. I’ve spent too many hours sitting in classrooms where people toss around words like “inclusion” and “diversity,” but they don’t look at you when they say it. They don’t mean you. They mean the acceptable kind of different. The kind that fits within a neat little box. But me? I’m the messy kind of different. The kind that doesn’t sit still, that doesn’t fit into any binary or category they try to label me with. And it’s that exact messiness that has given me my drive. I’m not here to just be a student. I’m here to make an impact. The system wasn’t built for people like me—queer, nonconforming, a parent with barely enough time to breathe. So, I’m building my own system. I’m not afraid to shake things up, to push boundaries, because I know what’s at stake. My ambition isn’t just personal. It’s bigger than me. I want to create a world where LGBTQIA+ parents don’t have to choose between caring for their kids and pursuing their dreams. I want to build bridges for queer students who feel like they’re drowning in a sea of expectations. And I want to show my son that his parent can succeed, not in spite of who I am, but because of it.

Being gender nonconforming feels like walking through a crowded street where everyone’s staring, but they don’t know what they’re looking at. Some days, I’m all in with the masculine—button-ups and boots, maybe a little swagger just to keep it together. Other days, I slide into something softer, a brush of femme that catches people off guard, like I’m breaking some unspoken rule. But the real weight? The real weight comes when you walk into a classroom, or into an institution, and sometimes there’s no place for you. No easy category, no box to check, so you just fill out the forms, navigate the maze, and you’re always the exception, always the "other." It chips away at you, slowly. Shared spaces can be battlegrounds. Simple things—like, "Can I just exist in this space, just be here, without being questioned?" But then there’s the deeper stuff: the lack of support for people like me in these sterile academic halls. I’ve sat through sessions where educators try to tell me what resources are available, but nothing’s built for someone who doesn’t fit the binary. You’re left to fend for yourself in a system that’s supposed to guide you. Still, I’m here, and I’m majoring in psychology. Why? Because I want to understand what happens in the brain when society tells you you don’t fit. The trauma. The anxiety. The addictions. I’ve seen what it does to people, and not just from a distance—it’s ravaged my own community. My people. I’ve spent too much time trying to unravel my own mind to sit by and watch others go through it alone. But this isn’t just about me. My goal? I’m gunning for that Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner title. Not to slap a label on myself but to be in a position where I can help others—especially those like me—make sense of their minds when the world’s spinning too fast, or when the walls are closing in. I want to dig deep into the science—biopsychology, neuropsychology—and find out what makes us tick, what makes us break, and how we can rebuild, better than before. I’ve walked this road with a double burden: being gender nonconforming and part of the LGBTQ+ community, knowing that mental health issues hit us harder, deeper. The world likes to pretend that struggles are just part of the deal for underserved communities. "Oh, you're different, of course you're sad." But it's more than that, it’s systemic. It’s trauma wrapped in a rainbow and marketed as "progress," when really, we’re still out here fighting for basic understanding, regardless of what is sold back to us. When I finish my degree, I want to flip the script. I’m not just studying this stuff to have a career—I’m studying it because the system needs a shake-up. I’ll create spaces for LGBTQ+ folks, especially the ones out on the fringes, the ones no one sees, who need help but don’t trust the system to give it. I’ve got plans to work with local orgs, build out mental health and addiction services that actually speak to our lived experiences, where no one has to hide or pretend just to get care. I’ll leave a mark on this community by showing that there’s a different way to heal. I’ll be that voice for those who’ve been pushed aside. I know what it feels like to be on the edge, and I’m not afraid to dive into that space for others, with them, to pull us all out.

I’ve always lived on the edge of things, a little out of sync with the world’s rhythm. Being gender-nonconforming and queer, it’s like walking through life in a skin that doesn’t quite fit the way people expect. Back when I was homeless, that difference made things harder. The care I needed wasn’t always there for me. Being queer meant getting overlooked or mistreated. But those experiences didn’t crush me. They gave me an armor of resilience, a deep well of compassion. They shape how I see the world and how I move through it, and how I show up for my community. Community is my heart, my pulse. It’s what drives me forward, even on the days when everything can sometimes feel like an uphill climb. Volunteering became a way to channel that. At 7 Cups, I’ve been a listener for people in crisis, hearing their pain, letting them know someone cares. At St. Leo’s Food Connection, I helped make sure people had something to eat. It’s always been about giving back, making sure no one gets left behind. That’s why I started The Ethereal Well—a way to offer healing on a barter, trade, or sliding scale. Because not everyone can afford the kind of care they deserve, and that’s wrong. It’s about equity, about making sure people like me, who’ve been on the fringes, have access to what they need. I’m chasing two paths right now: pre-nursing and psychology. Nursing is direct and it’s hands-on, immediate. It’s being there in someone’s moment of need and making sure they’re cared for. Psychology, though, digs deeper: It’s about understanding the mind, the trauma people carry, and how to help them heal from the inside out. Both paths are fueled by my own experiences, by the ways I’ve been shut out, ignored, and misunderstood. Being queer and gender-nonconforming, I know what it’s like to be invisible in a world that’s not built for you. And I’m making sure that the people I work with never feel that way. This scholarship? It’s more than just a way to pay the bills. It’s a chance to keep going, to carry on Coco’s legacy of compassion and community. I’m not just asking for a handout; I’m asking for a chance to build something bigger than myself. With this, I can focus more on my studies without the constant fear of how to make ends meet. I could keep pushing forward, both for me and for the community that’s always been there when the world wasn’t. As a lgbtqq icon, Coco’s legacy is about showing up for people, about building a space where everyone has a shot, where everyone has value, no matter who they are or what they’ve been through. And that is what I’m working toward, too. I’ve spent my life surviving, and now I’m ready to thrive—and to make sure the people can do the same, to the best of my abilities. This scholarship will help me carry that vision forward, using every bit of my resilience, compassion, and hard-earned grit to keep continuing to show up for the ones who need it most.

To the future me, standing somewhere further down the road, I want to make three promises. First, I promise to keep chasing what I don’t know yet, especially in biopsychology and neuropsychology. There’s a whole world inside the brain that controls addiction, and I need to crack it open. Addiction’s been more than a distant issue for me—it’s ripped through the people I care about, cut deep into my community. I’ve seen how it devours, how it leaves nothing but ghosts behind. My promise is to dig into the science of it, to understand why addiction gets such a tight grip on people and how we can tear it loose. Majoring in psychology, diving into this STEM field, isn’t just a career move for me, it is also survival and answering the questions that have haunted me and my community. Second, I promise to keep pushing through the grind of life, no matter how heavy it might get. I’m already used to living on the edge—single mom, low income, every bill hanging over my head like a reminder that nothing comes easy. We scrape by, making it from month to month, paycheck to paycheck. But that’s nothing new. I know how to hustle, how to keep things moving forward, even when everything feels stacked against me. This promise is to fight for those like me who can’t afford to give up. My research into addiction isn’t just a job—it’s personal. It’s for the people still stuck in those cycles of destruction, the ones the system forgot. I’m going to break that cycle, and I’m doing it through science. Third, I promise to hold on to my own mental health while I’m working to help others. Because addiction doesn’t just mess with the person who’s hooked—it ripples out, tears through families, leaves whole communities wrecked. I’ve seen it firsthand. But if we understand the biology behind it, the psychology that drives it, maybe we can stop it. My research will explore those pathways in the brain, the places where trauma hooks in and opens people up to addiction. That’s the promise I’m making I’ll find those answers and give people the tools they need to heal. This scholarship? It’s more than just money to me. It’s a way out of the financial struggle that’s always there, dragging at me. I’m a single mom, doing everything I can to give my child a better life, but every month feels like walking a tightrope, trying not to fall off. Rent, food, utilities—it’s all hanging in the balance. Getting this scholarship means I can breathe a little easier, focus more on my studies and less on just making it through the day. It means I can keep running towards a future where we’re not just surviving but thriving. My plan is to dive into research in biopsychology and neuropsychology, to crack open the science of addiction, and figure out how we can break its hold. This scholarship would give me the time and space to do that without the constant weight of financial stress. With every year that passes, I’ll pass the baton to a new version of me—a stronger, smarter, more capable version, ready to take on the world and win. And this is where it starts.

Growing up with a father who was in the army wasn’t like the movies—there wasn’t honor or medals gleaming under bright lights. My dad served in the Korean War, but his battle didn’t end when he came home. He fought ghosts. They lived inside his head, buried deep under layers of PTSD and the kind of rage that sticks to you when you’ve faced death, racism, and war. He was a Black man in the military, so you can imagine how much of that was already stacked against him. But he didn’t just fight in Korea. He fought us, fought himself, and fought a world that never really wanted him in the first place. He taught us how to make S.O.S.—shit on a shingle, they called it. Just some chipped beef on toast. Taught us how to fry up potatoes until they were crispy enough to fill the emptiness in our stomachs. We learned to live off rations, like he did. He showed us how to stretch nothing into something because nothing is all you’ve got sometimes. And then there was the street medic training. Most kids get taught how to ride a bike or throw a ball. Us? We got trained in how to patch up wounds, clean cuts, and keep each other alive. It wasn’t out of love, though. It was because he knew the world was out to break us. He figured we better know how to fix ourselves when no one else would. The thing is, he was right. No one came to help. We were left bouncing from place to place, dodging rent, slipping through the cracks. His PTSD—it wasn’t just a term I learned in textbooks later—it was our everyday life. His violence was like a shadow. And you couldn’t shake it. Maybe it came from years of war, maybe it came from the years of being treated like less than human, both in the military and out. I’ll never really know, and I’m not sure I want to. The VA didn’t do a damn thing for him. The pain in his body? Ignored. The screams in his head? Unheard. And where does that leave a man? It leaves him broken. It leaves him with kids he can’t love because he can’t even look himself in the mirror. So, we went homeless, again and again, finding shelter in places where survival was our only language. But here’s the thing: my dad, for all the wrong he did, he taught me how to survive. How to navigate a world that doesn’t care about people like us. He taught me how to eat when there’s nothing, how to stay alive when everyone expects you to disappear. The system failed him. Failed us. The VA couldn’t put him back together, so he crumbled in front of us, taking pieces of us with him. There was no cavalry coming to save him. He had fought for a country that never fought for him. All we could do was keep moving, keep making meals from nothing, keep surviving.

You know, there’s something about this year, 2024, that feels like a bridge. A strange place where everything that "was" comes crashing into everything that could be. And if I had to put a soundtrack to it, if I had to name the song that feels like it’s been pulling me through, it’d have to be “Out of the Woods (Taylor’s Version).” The whole idea of teetering on the edge, of not knowing if you’re going to make it or break—that hits hard when you’ve been fighting your way through life, through addiction, through the highs and lows of bipolar disorder, and still somehow, you’re here, pushing forward. The way Taylor sings, “Are we out of the woods yet? Are we in the clear yet? In the clear yet?”—it’s like she’s asking every question that’s been rattling around in my head all year. There’s this constant anxiety, this undercurrent of feeling like you’ve just survived something but you’re not sure if it’s over. That’s the soundtrack of my year, no doubt about it. 2024’s been a battle between old demons and new ambitions. I’ve spent 14 years sober, but the truth is, the fight never really ends. It just changes shape. This year’s been all about pushing through the fog of uncertainty, balancing my roles as a mother, a student, someone building a life that feels bigger than all the chaos that came before. I’m studying psychology and nursing, working on understanding not just my own mind but how I can help others who are dealing with the same messy cocktail of addiction and mental illness. I’ve been where they are, stuck in that in-between, wondering if they’re out of the woods yet. My drive is rooted in knowing what it feels like to not be in the clear, but still refusing to let that stop me. And “Clean” from 1989? That one hits like a gut punch. There’s this line: “You’re still all over me like a wine-stained dress I can’t wear anymore.” Addiction is like that, you know? You scrub and scrub, but the stains remain, the memories, the cravings—they don’t just disappear. But the song isn’t about giving up, it’s about redemption. It’s about that moment when you realize you’ve survived. You’ve walked through the storm and somehow, despite it all, you’re clean. I feel that in my bones. After years of addiction, after managing bipolar disorder like a tightrope walk, I’m still standing, still clean. It’s not perfect. It’s not neat. But it’s real. This year’s been about ambition. It’s been about using everything I’ve lived through to fuel something bigger than myself. I’ve started my own business, The Ethereal Well, where I’m working with people who, like me, have seen the dark side and are fighting their way back. And I’m pushing through school, balancing my roles, and trying to carve out a space where I can make an impact on people’s lives, where I can be the person who helps them see that they’re not alone in the woods. If 2024 has taught me anything, it’s that ambition and drive aren’t just about wanting more—they’re about survival. They’re about refusing to let your past define your future. 1989 (Taylor’s Version)? That’s my anthem this year. It’s a reminder that, yeah, we’re all still clawing our way out of something, but the fight itself is what keeps us alive, what keeps us moving forward. Taylor sings it like she’s lived it, and I feel every word.

It’s strange when I think about the timeline—14 years sober, and somehow it feels like both a lifetime and no time at all. I spent so many years spinning out, losing myself in the mess of addiction and mental chaos, that I didn’t think I’d ever see the other side. Bipolar disorder was like gasoline on the fire, setting everything ablaze when I thought I had things under control. It wasn’t just the highs that made me reckless; it was the lows that made me numb, drowning me in substances to silence the chaos. But here I am, 14 years later, clean, still breathing, and walking the line. When you live with bipolar disorder, everything is heightened, every emotion turned up to eleven. For years, I tried to quiet that, to make the world a little softer, but all I found was more noise. It took hitting rock bottom—and I mean the real bottom, where everything you thought defined you is just ash—that I realized there was something more to fight for. That’s when the path to sobriety really began for me. It wasn’t a single moment of clarity, but a series of small, hard-earned victories. The kind you don’t notice until you look back and realize you’re standing somewhere entirely different than where you started. Addiction doesn’t just go away because you decide you’re done with it. Recovery is a constant negotiation, an understanding that this is part of who you are, but it doesn’t define you. Managing bipolar disorder and addiction is like walking a tightrope every day—balancing the chemicals in your brain with sheer willpower and hoping the wind doesn’t blow too hard. That fight, that relentless fight, taught me about resilience. It taught me that the only way out was through, and that there’s strength in choosing to live every day without falling back into old patterns. That’s why I chose to major in both psychology and nursing. I wanted to understand my own mind, yes, but more than that, I wanted to help people who were stuck in the same spiral I’d been caught in. People who didn’t know there was a way out. CBT and peer support has been a key part of managing my bipolar disorder. Working with professionals who can guide me through rough patches and help me untangle my mind. Medication has also played a role by keeping my moods from veering too far. But it's not just the formal avenues that have kept me grounded. Local community groups where we share experience strength and hope, and informal supports, like my close-knit circle of friends, the daily rituals I’ve developed, have been just as important. I see addiction and mental illness as two sides of the same coin, and dual diagnosis—those dealing with both at the same time—is where I want to make my impact. My lived experience, that’s the kind of empathy you can’t learn from a textbook. It’s real, it’s raw, and it’s messy, but it’s also powerful. People need someone who understands their struggle, who knows that recovery is more than just abstinence; it’s a rebuilding of self. I’ve learned over the past 14 years that recovery isn’t about one moment of decision—it’s a series of daily choices. Every day I wake up and choose sobriety. And that's a good thing, that is autonomy, shedding learned victimhood. In that clarity and ownership of self, I find strength. My plan for managing my recovery moving forward is simple and essential: CBT, remain connected to my support network, and practice mindfulness, maintain medical treatment. I won’t say it’s easy—it’s not. But for me it’s necessary, and worth it. Education is a big part of that. Studying psychology and nursing isn’t just an academic pursuit for me. It is giving me a way to channel my experiences into something meaningful. It’s also a reminder that I’m still growing, still learning, and still fighting for a future that doesn’t just include sobriety but thriving within it. I want to help others who are dealing with dual diagnosis, to be a voice that tells them, “You’re not broken. You can make it through.” So here I am—14 years sober, majoring in psychology, and standing at the edge of something bigger than myself. My journey with mental health and addiction has shaped me, but it hasn’t defined me. It’s given me purpose, resilience, and a desire to use my experiences to help others find their own path to recovery. I’ve survived, I’ve grown, and I’m still moving forward, one step at a time. That’s my plan. Keep walking, keep pushing, keep helping others do the same.

When I think about mental health, it’s like walking through a minefield where every step can trigger something explosive, a hidden pitfall just waiting to drag you under. That’s how it felt growing up in a house with faith layered over faith—both Christian and Jewish. Two different worlds that were meant to converge in harmony, but in reality, they collided inside me, creating this internal conflict that no number of prayers or Shabbat candles could reconcile. Mental health wasn’t something we talked about in church or synagogue; it wasn’t even language we knew how to speak. You didn’t say “I’m anxious” or “I’m depressed.” You said, “I’m blessed,” or “God will provide.” And yet, there was always this undercurrent of something, something gnawing that I couldn't place. As I got older, the fractures became more pronounced. There’s something about having bipolar disorder that makes the world feel alternately like a gospel choir and a funeral dirge, sometimes in the same day. For me, religion was a framework that alternated between salvation and guilt, joy and despair, and it mirrored the mental turmoil I often felt. The highs were sacred to me, this euphoria where the world shone, and I was walking in the light of God. Then, the lows came like a plague. These experiences have influenced how I view not only myself but my relationships with others. In Christianity, you have the crucifixion and resurrection—suffering followed by salvation. The eternal forgiveness of a loving God. Judaism, too, has its own narratives of struggle and redemption. It’s the Passover story, it’s exile and return, or Yom Kippur, seeking forgiveness and atonement. But what those traditions didn’t prepare me for was the in-between, the day-to-day grind of living with a mental illness that doesn't have a clear end, a neat resolution. Where is the roadmap when you’re not yet at resurrection, and your exodus seems never-ending? This liminal space of suffering shaped how I relate to others, especially those who find themselves caught in the web of mental illness and addiction. The ones who are stuck between their own personal crucifixion and resurrection. Wandering through an emotional desert with no promised land in sight. I see them, I know them, because I have been them. I have lived among them, struggled with them. In some ways, I am still one of them. I think back to the friends and loved ones I’ve known who battled with addiction and mental illness. There was Danny, who couldn’t shake his demons. Despite or in spite of the love and support that surrounded him. He always seemed like he was teetering on the edge of salvation. His dual diagnosis, depression and opioid addiction; it was like watching someone play Russian roulette with their life. His moments of sobriety were celebrated like holidays. But then his final relapse came. It was like a dark storm that washed everything away. That’s when I realized that mental health and addiction are linked, each feeding off the other in this vicious cycle. Both needed to be treated to ensure better outcomes. It’s not only about the substances; it’s about the emotional pain, the lack of coping mechanisms, the desperation for something—anything—that feels like relief. It’s the same longing for redemption that religion talks about, except the fix, the drug, becomes the false god. For so many people like Danny, that’s their salvation, however fleeting. But Danny wasn’t just one story. He was the first of many I encountered personally and also professionally as I started working with unhoused people and those struggling with addiction in mutual aid settings. It became clear to me that my career needed to be in this space, working with people who were not only battling addiction but also mental health disorders. The intersection of mental health and addiction, the dual diagnosis, is where I want to work. I want to be there in the trenches, helping people find some semblance of stability in their lives, to offer something more than just a Bible verse or a prayer. It’s about showing up with tools, resources, and a deep understanding that this fight is as spiritual as it is medical, as emotional as it is practical. And this brings me to the path I am walking in my career: I am going to become a psychiatric nurse practitioner specializing in addiction medicine. I am someone who understands that mental health is not just a footnote in someone’s medical chart, through my own lived experience. I am that person who can look at someone and see the layers of their struggle—the mental illness, the trauma, the addiction—and once my education is attained, work with them holistically. In many ways, my Christian and Jewish upbringing has shaped how I want to approach this work. The core teachings of both faiths—compassion, forgiveness, the idea of redemption—are central to how I view my role in helping others. But at the same time, I understand that it’s not enough to just pray for someone’s healing. You have to be willing to walk with them through the mess, to get your hands dirty, to acknowledge that sometimes salvation comes in the form of harm reduction, medication, or even just a safe place to rest. I know what it’s like to feel torn between two worlds, both spiritually and mentally. I know what it’s like from bipolar disorder to feel like I'm fighting a war inside my own head. While everyone else just wants you to "snap out of it." But I also know the power of support, the feeling of being seen and heard, the grace of knowing that someone is walking beside you. That’s what I can offer the people I will work with. I will be that person who can say, “I see you, I’ve been there, and we can figure this out together.” Whether it’s through harm reduction strategies, therapy, medication, or just listening when no one else will, I can be a part of someone’s journey toward healing. Because at the end of the day, we’re all just trying in some way to find our way back to ourselves, and sometimes, we can need a little help getting there. My mental health struggles have not only shaped my beliefs but have also clarified my career path, and my gifts. I’m not just looking for a job; I’m seeking my calling. I want to stand at the crossroads of mental health and addiction, and help others navigate a path toward healing, wholeness, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of salvation along the way.

I’ve been to places most people never have to see—the alleys, the broken-down houses, the backlots of forgotten neighborhoods. I’ve sat with people who are waiting on a last breath or hoping for one more. Life has taught me in ways that no textbook ever could. When I think about where I come from, growing up in poverty, being a single mom, homeless more times than I can count, and still, every time, getting up and fighting—I realize that survival has been my education, but I’m not done learning. As an entrepreneur, my work with The Ethereal Well is rooted in this survival. It’s not just a business; it’s the lifeline I’ve built from the pieces I’ve collected through years of volunteering, engaging with communities that others overlook. It’s about using trauma-informed care, peer support, and alternative healing methods to give people something to hold onto when they feel like there’s nothing left. But the world doesn’t move for people like me unless I make it move. I can see the next step, feel the potential for growth, but I need help crossing that divide—this scholarship is that bridge. Education is my weapon now, the way out and the way forward. I’m studying psychology and pre-nursing, blending the science of the mind and body with the raw reality of lived experience. Long term, I’m working toward becoming a nurse practitioner, specializing in addiction medicine and community care. The systems in place—mental health, addiction, physical healthcare—aren’t set up for people like me, people who’ve lived through all of it and still have the nerve to want to heal. I’ve been at the margins, and I know that the people who need the most help often don’t trust the systems that are supposed to offer it. This scholarship will give me the space to breathe—space to focus on studying without juggling three jobs, space to keep building my business, space to become the kind of practitioner who sees the person, not just the problem. And it will ripple outwards, to every person I support and treat, every life I touch through my work. As for weakness—physical, emotional, I’ve known it in spades. When I was homeless, raising a child on my own, dealing with my son’s trauma from domestic violence, it felt like the weight of the world was on my back. There were days I had nothing left to give, where my body, my spirit, and my mind felt stretched to the breaking point. But weakness doesn’t have to be a dead end; it’s the point where you realize what you’re made of. I learned how to fight back from exhaustion, to put one foot in front of the other, even when it felt like there was no path left to walk. I built myself back up with whatever I had—skills, determination, even bartering for basics. Overcoming weakness is less about some grand gesture and more about refusing to quit. I had no choice but to keep going, and in doing so, I found strength I didn’t know I had. I used it to lift others, and that’s what I’m going to keep doing, by opening my own addiction medicine business once I am a Nurse Practitioner. With this scholarship, I’ll go further, do more, and help create a world where more people can find their own strength.

Billie Eilish has this way of pulling you into her world. It’s haunting, intimate, like she’s singing right from the parts of yourself you don’t talk about out loud. She doesn’t gloss over the pain; she lets it breathe, lets it wrap itself around her voice until you feel it deep in your bones. That’s probably why her music resonates with me so much. It’s raw. It’s honest. It doesn’t flinch. The first song that really cuts deep is “Everything I Wanted.” That one hits like a punch to the gut because it’s about dreams slipping through your fingers and the weight of trying to carry everything alone. When I was with my partner—someone I loved deeply but who was swallowed by addiction—I felt like I had everything and nothing at the same time. I wanted so badly to save him, to make life work, but addiction has its own language, its own logic, and it pulls people under before you even realize they’re drowning. I was fighting battles in the dark, with no one else around who could really see what was going on. That song, the line about “if they knew what they said would go straight to my head,” makes me think about all the judgments people had—about him, about me—and how none of them knew what we were really going through. They just saw the surface. The second song that stays with me is “When the Party’s Over.” It’s like a soundtrack to the feeling of letting go, of knowing that the person you love is hurting you, and you still want to hold on. It’s what happens when love doesn’t look like it’s supposed to, when it’s messy and full of mistakes, but you can’t walk away. When I finally had to leave my partner, I felt like I was abandoning him. Like I was walking away from someone who needed me. But at the same time, I had my son, and I couldn’t keep dragging us through the chaos. I had to choose between the person I loved and the life I needed to build for my child and me. That song—Billie’s voice, the heartbreak in every note—it reminds me of that impossible choice. Letting go, even when you’re still holding on inside. The last one is “Bury a Friend.” It’s that gnawing feeling of being trapped inside your own head, dealing with darkness that never seems to go away. Bipolar disorder does that. It’s a fight inside your own skin, and some days, you wonder who’s really in control. “Bury a Friend” feels like the chaos in my mind—the questions, the doubts, the way everything spirals out when you’re in a low. But there’s also defiance in it. Like yeah, the darkness is here, but I’m still standing. I’m still here. That’s how I’ve felt most of my life—surviving in the mess, clawing my way through whatever hits me next. Billie’s music doesn’t pretend things are going to be okay. It sits with the pain and the mess of it all, the confusion, and just lets it be what it is. That’s why her songs resonate so deeply with me—they’re a mirror to my own struggles, but they also remind me that I’m still standing, still pushing forward.

Bipolar disorder isn’t something you just have. It’s something you live with, something that pulls you under and spits you out, and sometimes you’re left wondering how you made it through. It’s wild how much you can learn about yourself when you’re teetering on the edge between highs and lows. The world looks different when you’re always trying to balance. You start seeing everything in sharp, brutal clarity—your goals, your relationships, the way people look at you when they think you’re too much to handle. When I was younger, I didn’t understand what was happening. The highs were like flying, but I’d crash so hard it felt like my bones would break. It was like living two lives in one body, and I didn’t know which one was real. But after a while, you get tired of pretending everything’s fine. So I stopped pretending. That’s when I started to really see things for what they are. I realized that mental health isn’t something you can ignore, not in yourself, not in others. You can’t just gloss over it and hope it’ll go away. You have to face it, even when it hurts. Bipolar disorder has shaped my goals more than anything else. It’s why I’m driven to work in addiction medicine and community support. I’ve seen how people fall through the cracks because their minds don’t fit into neat little categories. I’ve been there—misunderstood, dismissed, told to just calm down or tough it out. I know what it’s like to struggle with something invisible, something that doesn’t show up on an X-ray but feels like it’s crushing you just the same. That’s why I want to be a nurse practitioner. I want to help people who are in that same fight, who need someone to stand by them when they’re at their lowest. I want to be the person I needed all those years ago. As for relationships, it’s been a mixed bag. Some people get it, most don’t. Bipolar disorder pushes people away, and you learn to live with the solitude. But it’s also taught me that the people who stay, the ones who see you for who you are—those are the people worth holding on to. They understand that life isn’t always steady, that sometimes you fall apart, but that doesn’t make you less valuable. I’ve built deep, meaningful relationships with people who see my struggle and respect it, who don’t flinch when the lows hit or get swept up in the highs. Those connections are real. They’re the only ones that matter. My understanding of the world is shaped by this constant balancing act. I see the cracks in the system, the ways people are left behind because their minds work differently. It’s why I’m so driven to make a difference, to create something that offers real support, not just a band-aid fix. I’ve lived through the chaos, the isolation, the feeling that you’re too much for the world to handle. But I’ve also learned that being too much is sometimes exactly what’s needed. It’s what makes me who I am. It’s why I keep moving forward.

It’s funny how the hardest things in life shape you into someone who can’t stop moving. I’ve lived a lot of lives—single mom, student, hustler, survivor. But somewhere along the way, something clicked. It wasn’t just about surviving anymore. I needed to build something that meant something, something bigger than me. That’s where my business, The Ethereal Well, comes in. It’s not just a business—it’s the thing I’ve been moving toward my whole life. I’ve spent years working with people who’ve been written off. The ones struggling with addiction, the ones wandering the streets looking for something to make them feel human again. I know what that feels like. I was raised in the cracks, where people fall and sometimes never get back up. But I did. And I’ve seen how even a little bit of care, of real understanding, can change someone’s life. That’s what The Ethereal Well is about. It’s a place for healing, but it’s not just traditional medicine. It’s peer support, trauma-informed care, reiki, somatic healing—all the things that Western medicine overlooks. I’ve spent a lot of time volunteering, learning from people on the front lines of survival, and figuring out what works when everything else fails. I started this business to combine all of that—my training, my life experience, and my belief that people deserve more than the cold shoulder of a system that doesn’t see them. I want to help people who don’t fit into neat boxes, who fall through the cracks because they don’t have Medicaid or they’re too “complicated” for the usual care. Entrepreneurship wasn’t something I was chasing, but when you live on the edge for so long, you realize that no one’s going to hand you anything. I didn’t want to just get by. I wanted to build something that matters. So, I took everything I’ve learned—about addiction, mental health, trauma—and put it into this idea. I wanted to create a business where people could feel seen, heard, and helped, no matter where they come from or what they’re dealing with. What do I hope to achieve? I want to expand The Ethereal Well into something that reaches people who’ve been left out of the conversation. People who’ve been told they’re too broken to fix. I want to give them a place where they can heal, on their own terms, with support that understands where they’ve been. I’m talking about real care, not the kind that checks a box and sends you on your way. I want to change the way people see healing, combining what I know about trauma and mental health with the alternative practices that have helped me and so many others. I got interested in entrepreneurship because there was no other option. The system wasn’t going to give me space to do what I knew needed to be done. So I made my own space. I want The Ethereal Well to be a place where people find more than just treatment—they find community, support, and a way to rebuild their lives. That’s the goal. To give people a chance when no one else will.

I want to make a change in my life because I’ve seen what it means to have nothing and to struggle for every scrap of hope. I’ve lived through the cold nights and the empty days, faced the harsh reality of homelessness with nothing but the will to survive. My years on the streets of San Francisco and Portland taught me a great deal about resilience, about the depths of human strength, particularly my own and about the hunger for a better life. When you have nothing, every small victory feels like a triumph. I’ve spent years working towards something more. I started by finding stable ground, holding onto any job that came my way, and making sure my child had a better chance than I did. I pursued education with a fierce determination. I studied hard, learned everything I could, and focused on my goal of becoming a nurse practitioner and clinical psychologist. I’ve worked as a peer counselor and launched The Ethereal Well, where I combine my experiences with trauma-informed care and alternative healing practices to support those in need. It is a business born out of my desire to help others who are struggling. Helping others is like helping myself, rewriting the past. The scholarship is a chance to move forward with the full force of my ambition, and a form of recognition for something in my life that is often hidden. It will allow me to dedicate more of myself to my studies by reducing financial strain. I can focus on becoming the healthcare professional I aspire to be, someone who understands the deep scars that life can leave and who can offer genuine help and healing, and lived experience. It’s an opportunity to advance my education and refine my skills, to bridge the gap between the science of mental health and the real-world struggles of those affected. With this scholarship, I can invest more time and effort into my studies and into my business. I plan to use the knowledge and resources gained to expand The Ethereal Well, reaching more people who need support. I aim to create programs that not only provide immediate aid but also offer long-term solutions for those facing mental health challenges, while eventually incorporating what I am learning in my studies. It’s about giving people the tools they need to rebuild their lives, just as I’ve worked to rebuild mine. Paying it forward is a commitment I hold deeply. I know the value of support and understanding from those who have walked the same path. I plan to mentor others who find themselves where I once was, to offer guidance and hope to those struggling with their own battles. I’ll share what I’ve learned, both through The Ethereal Well and in my professional work. It’s about giving back to the community that helped me find my way and ensuring that others have the chance to overcome their own hardships. Making a change in my life is not just about my personal advancement. It’s about transforming my experiences into something that can help others. My struggle can be another's tool for advancement. This scholarship is a step in that journey. It’s a tool for reaching my goals and for extending a hand to those who need it. Through my work and my dedication, I hope to make a lasting impact, showing others that change is possible and that with determination and support, they too can find their way to a better future.

Mental health is to me crucial because it is the core from which many other things spring. Without a steady mind, nothing else can hold firm. As a student juggling coursework, work, and raising my child alone, I have come to understand the delicate balance that must be maintained. Life’s pressures can wear you down, and if your mind is not in order, everything else can suffer. I have seen the heavy toll that stress and mental strain can take. It can creep in slowly, a silent burden that becomes harder to bear over time. I’ve felt it myself, and it’s why I’ve committed to studying psychology. I want to understand the inner workings of the mind—not just to help myself, but to aid others who are grappling with their own battles. It’s about finding clarity in the fog, about making sure you’re not overwhelmed by the weight of life’s demands. In my community and culture, mental health often remains unspoken. People often suffer quietly, shouldering their struggles alone. That is one of the reasons why I started The Ethereal Well. It’s a small business dedicated to peer support for those wrestling with mental health issues. It combines trauma-informed care with alternative healing practices, offering a place where people can find understanding and help from those who’ve faced similar trials. It’s not just a business; it’s a lifeline for those who need it. At school, I speak about mental health openly. I encourage my classmates to recognize their own struggles and to seek help when necessary. There can be a tendency to push ourselves until we break, especially in "grind culture" thinking we’re alone in our difficulties. I share my own experiences to show that it’s acceptable to reach out, to rely on others. At home, I’ve taught my son about the importance of mental health. He’s seen the balancing act I perform, and I ensure he understands that it’s okay to talk about feelings and to ask for help. We both know that maintaining mental well-being is an ongoing effort, not a one-time fix. Mental health is the foundation of everything we do. Without it, we drift aimlessly. I advocate for it because I’ve seen its importance firsthand. Through The Ethereal Well and in my daily life, I strive to ensure that others have the support they need to maintain their mental health. It’s the key to facing life’s challenges and achieving our true potential.

Recovery means waking up and facing the day without looking for an escape. It’s about taking each moment as it comes, steady and sure, without the haze that used to hang over everything. I’ve been clean from opiates for eight years now. That’s a long time, but it doesn’t always feel like it. Some days, the pull is still there, quiet but persistent, like an old friend you don’t need in your life anymore. Recovery isn’t a straight line. It’s not something you accomplish and then forget about. It can be an every day conscious decision. It is when I stand firm when the world is pressing down hard and whispering that maybe one more time won’t hurt. But I know better. I’ve already seen the damage using can do. Recovery is more than just stopping. It is also rebuilding. It’s finding yourself in the wreckage, piece by piece. You dig through it, hold up what’s still good, and build a new life from the pieces. It’s not the same as before, but maybe that’s the point. I am different now, stronger in ways I couldn’t have been without the struggle of addiction and recovery. Eight years clean means I’ve kept this promise to myself, of myself. I have chosen life, again and again, and I’ll keep choosing it.

I chose to pursue STEM because it’s the path that leads to answers. Life’s not always kind, and I’ve seen the hard parts. I’ve seen addiction take hold of people, rip families apart, and leave nothing but wreckage behind. When my son’s father died from a drug overdose, I realized the only way forward was through understanding. And that’s what science is—understanding. It doesn’t hide from the truth, no matter how harsh. It digs in, finds the facts, and holds them up to the light. Psychology may seem like a softer science to some, but it’s as much a part of STEM as physics or biology. The human mind is complex, full of unknowns, and I’ve set my sights on unraveling the connection between addiction and mental health. It’s not just about theories. It’s about data, research, and measurable outcomes that can save lives. I chose to pursue STEM because it’s the path to understanding, to finding answers when life doesn’t offer any easy ones. I’ve seen the hard parts of life up close—addiction, trauma, the slow unraveling of families. When my son’s father died from a drug overdose, I was left with more questions than I had answers. The pain was there, heavy and constant, but the need to understand what had happened, to find some reason or explanation, was even stronger. I realized then that the only way forward was through knowledge. And that’s what science offers—knowledge. It doesn’t shy away from the tough questions, it digs in, searches for the truth, and shines a light on it. Addiction isn’t a weakness; it’s a disease. It affects the brain, rewires it. There’s a science to that, and in understanding it, we can begin to heal. As a woman in this field, I know the road’s not easy. STEM has been a man’s world for a long time. But I’ve been through harder things. I’ve worked jobs that barely paid enough to survive. I’ve raised my child on my own, struggled through poverty, and built a life out of sheer will. I’ve faced doubt and dismissal, but I keep going. The world needs more women in STEM, especially those who’ve lived the experiences they study. I don’t just want to contribute to the field—I want to change it. I want to bridge the gap between the science of addiction and the lived reality of it. Too often, these fields are disconnected. There’s research, and there’s real life, and the two don’t always meet. I want to change that. I want to use the knowledge I gain to create real, tangible solutions. Science is about truth, and the truth is, the world is ready for more women in STEM. Women bring different perspectives, different experiences. We see things in ways that others may overlook. I’ve lived on both sides of the story—studying the science and living the reality. That’s why I chose this path, and that’s how I hope to make a difference.

I was raised by a single black father, a man of unwavering principles and a heart full of resilience. He taught me the value of standing up for what you believe in, a lesson that has shaped my path and my future goals. My father, a man of few words but profound actions, instilled in me the importance of integrity and the courage to face life's adversities head-on. Growing up in a single-parent household, I learned early on the significance of hard work and determination. My father worked tirelessly to provide for us, often sacrificing his own needs to ensure I had every opportunity to succeed. His dedication and perseverance became the bedrock of my own aspirations. I saw in him a reflection of strength and compassion, qualities that I strive to embody in my own life. This upbringing has profoundly influenced my decision to study nursing and psychology. I chose these fields because they align with my desire to help others and make a tangible difference in their lives. Nursing, with its emphasis on care and empathy, allows me to provide physical healing, while psychology enables me to address the mental and emotional struggles that many face. Together, these disciplines equip me with the tools to offer holistic support to those in need. Inspired by my father's example, I have also opened my own peer support service for individuals struggling with dual diagnosis. This initiative is a testament to my commitment to stand up for those who often feel voiceless and marginalized. Through this service, I aim to create a safe space where people can find understanding, support, and the strength to overcome their challenges. It is a small way of giving back, of honoring the lessons my father taught me. Looking to the future, I envision a world where my talents can be used to do good and help people, even if I am still uncertain about the specific career path I will take. I see myself continuing to advocate for mental health awareness and support, perhaps expanding my peer support service to reach more individuals. I dream of a future where I can combine my nursing and psychology expertise to develop comprehensive care programs that address both the physical and mental health needs of my community. In this future, I am guided by the principles my father instilled in me: integrity, compassion, and the courage to stand up for what is right. Whether through direct patient care, community outreach, or advocacy work, I am committed to using my talents to make a positive impact. My father's legacy lives on in my actions, driving me to create a better, more compassionate world for those who need it most.

The problem I faced was poverty. I raised my son alone, working multiple jobs that barely paid enough to keep us afloat. There were days when the weight of it felt unbearable, when exhaustion and worry settled deep into my bones. But I had no choice but to keep going because my son depended on me. He needed stability, and I needed to make sure he had it, no matter how hard it was. Our lives were shaped by survival, but I wanted more for him. When trauma hit our family—when his father died from a drug overdose—it became clear that I had to do more than just get by. I took him to therapy and got involved in his healing, even when I didn’t always have the emotional or financial resources. I studied psychological first aid and became a Registered Behavior Technician, learning everything I could to support him. It wasn’t easy, but we made it through. This scholarship will help me go even further. I’m currently pursuing a degree in psychology, with a pre-nursing track, working toward becoming a nurse practitioner and a clinical psychologist. My goal is to help other families who are struggling, especially those impacted by addiction. Addiction tore my family apart, but I want to use what I’ve learned to help others heal. With this support, I can focus fully on my studies and take one step closer to opening a practice that combines addiction medicine, mental health, and community support. As for philately, it may seem like a hobby from another era, but I believe it has much to offer young people today. It’s more than just collecting stamps; it’s about seeing the world through a different lens, about history, culture, and human connection. Each stamp tells a story—it could be from a time long past or from a country you’ve never visited. There’s something magical about holding a piece of history in your hands. To encourage young people to take up philately, I’d start by showing them the stories behind the stamps. Pick one from a place they’ve never been or a moment in history that resonates with them. Let that small piece of paper spark their curiosity. It’s a hobby that teaches patience, appreciation for detail, and a deep understanding of the world around us. In a time when everything is fast and digital, philately offers a way to slow down and connect with the past.

My goals for the future are deeply rooted in healing—both on an individual and community level. I’m studying to become a nurse practitioner and pursuing clinical psychology, with a focus on addiction medicine and its connection to mental health. Ultimately, I aim to open a practice that combines these areas with community support, offering a space where individuals and families affected by addiction can heal and rebuild their lives. I’ve already taken significant steps toward these goals. I’m majoring in psychology and have maintained a high GPA, earning a spot on the dean’s list and being inducted into Phi Theta Kappa. My experience working with unhoused and at-risk individuals, combined with my certification as a peer counselor, has given me firsthand experience in supporting people through their toughest moments. I’ve also launched a small business, The Ethereal Well, which merges my training in trauma-informed care, peer support, and alternative healing practices. This project allows me to apply my knowledge in real-time, working with clients who need both practical and emotional support. The path has not been easy. As a multiracial single mother, I’ve had to balance raising my child, working multiple jobs, and pursuing my education. Financial hardship is a constant challenge, and at times, it feels like I’m juggling more than one person can manage. The weight of being the sole provider for my family while also trying to stay on top of my academic responsibilities has been immense. Beyond the personal hardships, there’s also the emotional toll of studying addiction. The death of my son’s father due to a drug overdose deeply affected me, and confronting these themes in my studies brings those emotions to the surface. However, this personal connection is also my motivation. I’ve learned that resilience isn’t about avoiding hardship but about moving forward despite it. Looking ahead, I know there will be more obstacles—financial pressures, emotional exhaustion, the demands of balancing work, school, and parenting—but these challenges have shaped my resolve. Each hardship has strengthened my commitment to helping others find their way through their own struggles. I’m not just working toward a degree; I’m building a future where I can use my experiences and education to heal communities that have been overlooked. In the end, my goals are not just about professional success; they are about giving back, creating change, and ensuring that others have the support they need to heal and thrive.