Motherhood didn't come easy to me. From a long and arduous pregnancy, to an abusive relationship with my child's father, to being left to figure it all out by myself at 22, I wasn't able to take the time to grow before I found myself a single parent—I had to learn the tools as I went. And those tools, those little ways to cope that weren't bred into me but found along the way—they weren't discovered overnight. Five years into my life as a single parent, after living a life of trauma, mental illness, and bouts of substance abuse that almost tried to take me from this world, the worst imaginable occurred: my body had betrayed me, taking what little control I had left. In 2018, less than two years into my undergraduate education, with a small child who had barely started school herself, I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, leaving me permanently disabled. From fatigue, to balance issues, to nerve pain, my life had changed, and it felt like I was no longer able to be a person, let alone a single parent. My days after diagnosis were spent in bed—fighting fatigue, a body that wouldn't cooperate, but most of all grieving a part of myself that felt like it was lost. School became impossible, not only because of my disabilities, but because my child only had one parent—only had one person to take her to school on time, pick her up on time, take her to activities, friends' houses, and birthday parties. She only had one person who could be there when she needed someone, and with school, work, and a disease that stole my energy, it felt like I'd never be able to keep up. I was set to graduate from my undergraduate program in four years. And although I started a little later than most, at 26, I was excited to learn, excited to have the opportunity to turn my past into something I could be proud of. But single parenthood, especially when that single parent is disabled, doesn't always allow for things to go according to plan. Undergrad had to drastically change. I started going half-time, taking only two courses at a time, which meant it would take a lot longer to complete. Beyond the smaller course load, I also wasn't able to attend every semester, pushing my graduation date even further. And when my daughter developed her own disabilities, making her unable to attend school in person anymore, finishing my degree felt like it would never happen. But through determination, a newfound voice that allowed me to advocate for myself in classes and in life, and a slow but steady progression, I was able to finish school with my bachelor's degree in 2025, after almost nine years. And now, I am about to begin my journey in graduate school to work toward my MFA, taking my education a step further, which will allow me to provide for my daughter with less stress, exhaustion, and mental anguish. My program at Northwestern School of Professional Studies will provide an environment for my art to grow, in a way that works for my schedule as both a single parent and a disabled student. This scholarship would not only help me be able to complete my education, but it would mean helping a disabled single parent survive in a world that wasn't built for them. It will ensure that I can succeed in life, even if only to be a little bit more comfortable.

Recovery to me means making my life my own. Taking the control back where it was once lost. Not having to live by the terms set by the addictions that haunted my every waking moment. The alcohol that burned in my stomach, the drugs that took me to places I never asked to be, the loss of myself, my personality, my every being—it wasn't going to end until I put an end to it, but saying I was done was the easy part. Actually being done, that's a completely different story. It didn't happen overnight. It happened through a change of scenery, a poem written at 3AM, a drink with one less ingredient. Eventually, after years of just trying to be better, one step at a time, one less drink at a time ... and I'm here. Clear headed, awake, and ready to pursue my dreams.

In 2018 my life changed. My body took over complete control, leaving me with nothing but questions and a fear of losing everything. After many doctors' appointments where I felt dismissed, unheard, and abandoned, I finally found the answers I was seeking after months of suffering—I had Multiple Sclerosis. I had already lived a life in pain and fatigue, but assumed it was because I wasn't athletic, I didn't work out, I didn't stretch enough, or I didn't go outside enough. I blamed myself for things that I now know I had zero control over. But losing complete and absolute control over my body—after my brain was riddled with lesions and my nerves damaged for good—left me feeling even more abandoned. Two years into undergrad with a long list of medical leaves, I had a diagnosis, but that wasn't the end. I didn't know how to manage something that could creep into my life at any moment, causing the scariest events I've ever been through. I didn't know when it was going to come back, if it was going to come back, or if I was just left with the aftermath: fatigue even with sleep, balance problems that left me unable to walk, neuropathy, dizziness, pins and needles, numbness, or complete lack of use of my limbs, whether due to heat, exhaustion, stress, illness, or just because. School, which was once a full-time commitment, turned on its head, and I was no longer able to do it at the pace I had anticipated completing it in. I had to change my regular four courses into only two, making my graduation date further and further into the future. I couldn't attend every semester, because sometimes the flares were just too unpredictable, too harsh on my body. I fought with administrators for online options, but it was looking like I was going to have to keep pushing at my pace, no matter how long it took. I ended up taking 8.5 years—just over twice as long—to complete my undergraduate program, and my diseases and diagnoses were only piling up and progressing. But when I finally graduated, I didn't feel like I was done. I wanted to keep learning, keep growing as an artist, and maybe one day be able to teach young artists in the ways that I was able to learn in. I decided that I wanted to go to graduate school, but it was going to be on my terms. Luckily, I found the perfect program for me at my dream school: Northwestern University School of Professional Studies—which will allow me to work toward my MFA through online synchronous classes, providing both the community aspect of graduate school, as well as the convenience and accessibility of an online, part-time structure. When I was accepted to Northwestern SPS, I felt like my dreams had come true. But when I saw the tuition, I felt like another wall had been put up. I am unable to work a steady job. I don't have savings. And with how long it took me to finish my bachelor's, I didn't have any more money from the government coming in. This scholarship will not only help me finish my schooling, but will allow me to create a stable life for myself. It would mean that I could succeed on my own terms, without all the stress, fatigue, or overworking that comes with fitting into a world not meant for disabled people. Most of all, it would mean that I could be the writer I've always wanted to be, and I plan to do just that.

Motherhood didn't come easy to me. From a long and arduous pregnancy, to an abusive relationship with my child's father, to being left to figure it all out by myself at 22, I wasn't able to take the time necessary to grow before I found myself a single parent—I had to learn the tools as I went. And those tools, those little ways to cope that weren't bred into me but found along the way—they weren't discovered overnight. Five years into my life as a single parent, after already living a life of trauma, mental illness, and bouts of substance abuse that almost tried to take me from this world completely, the worst imaginable occurred: my body had betrayed me, taking what little control I had left. In 2018, less than two years into my undergraduate education, and with a small child who had barely started school herself, I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, leaving me permanently disabled. From major fatigue, to balance issues, to nerve pain that wouldn't go away, my life had changed overnight, and it felt like I was no longer able to be a person, let alone a single parent. My days after diagnosis were spent in bed—fighting fatigue, a body that wouldn't cooperate, but most of all, grieving a part of myself that felt like it was lost. School became nearly impossible, not only because of my disabilities, but because my child only had one parent—only had one person to take her to school on time, pick her up on time, take her to activities, friends' houses, and birthday parties. She only had one person who could be there when she needed someone, and with school, work, and a disease that stole my energy, it felt like I'd never be able to keep up. I was set to graduate from my undergraduate program in four years, just like everyone else. And although I started a little later than most, at 26, and would graduate a little later than most, at 30, I was excited to learn, excited to have the opportunity to turn my past into something I could be proud of. But single parenthood, especially when that single parent is disabled, doesn't always allow for things to go according to plan. Undergrad, having once been a full-time commitment for me, had to drastically change. I started going half-time, taking only two courses at a time, which meant my education would take a lot longer to complete. Beyond the smaller course load, I also wasn't able to attend every semester, pushing my graduation date even further. And when my daughter developed her own disabilities, making her unable to attend school in person anymore, finishing my degree felt like it would never happen. But through determination, a newfound voice that allowed me to advocate for myself in classes and in life, and a slow but steady progression, I was able to finish school with my bachelor's degree in 2025, after almost nine years of pushing through. And now, I am about to begin my journey in graduate school to work toward my MFA, taking my education a step further, which will allow me to provide for my daughter with less stress, exhaustion, and mental anguish. My program at Northwestern School of Professional Studies will provide an environment for my art to grow, in a way that works for my schedule as both a single parent and a disabled student. However, with tuition costs on the rise, continuing my education has once again become a looming figure in the shadows—a sense of impending doom that eats away at the excitement of being accepted into the school of my dreams. The fear of not being able to finish, or even start, the program, lingers in the back of my mind every moment that I think, dream, or plan for my future at Northwestern. This scholarship would not only help me be able to complete my education, but it would mean helping a disabled single parent survive in a world that wasn't built for them. It will ensure that I can succeed in life, even if only to be a little bit more comfortable, which will provide my daughter with the better life she has always deserved. If chosen to receive this scholarship, it will be used toward securing a future for myself and my child, and in turn, providing endless possibilities for the both of us to grow: as people, as students, and as creatives.

I’ve always felt forgotten. The youngest of four—one having died before I was born—I knew death’s constant presence. But when the living vanished too, when siblings, friends, and family became memories, the responsibility fell on me to break the cycle. For years I thrived on never-ending change, but the one constant was story. Books to escape, writing to pour it out onto the page. In that pouring, I found storytelling wasn’t just to navigate my world or escape into another, but the reason I’m still alive. With story, I could change the ending, I could process truth. I could create understanding, reflection, words that helped me connect—and the connection, I found, was the reason. When I was diagnosed with M.S. during undergrad, that need deepened. Disability reshaped me: I couldn’t work, create, or relate to my peers in the same way. Undergrad stretched to eight years because of modifications, accommodations, and listening to my body. But connection remained the reason—writers I’d met, stories we’d shared, words that helped us understand each other—writing was the place where disability and grief didn’t diminish my words but strengthened them. My work grows directly from those experiences. In my horror novella, Feeding Lucy, I wove Polish folklore into a story about tradition, control, and the weight of family cycles. As a younger writer, authors like Hunter S. Thompson and Dean Koontz taught me how to melt reality into obscurity. Now I’m drawn to indie authors such as Jo Salazar, who uses experiences as a social worker to craft stories about the zombie apocalypse. Building upon real life to create something unimaginable fuels my writing. My short fiction often follows Queer and Disabled characters navigating landscapes that mirror the challenges of the body, mind, and memory. I’m drawn to horror because it gives language to things we often misunderstand in loss: whether reflective of real life or something more fantastical, stories connect us through human experiences. Receiving a scholorship like this will help me to be able to complete my writing program at Northwestern, which will not only offer me a chance to grow my skills in ways that works for my disabilities, but will also help guide me to those connections: to new stories, to writers who use the page as understanding, as healing, and, eventually, to young writers looking to find their own ways to pour onto the page. In short, my work is about pushing through—turning loss, disability, and insecurity into something I can hold, reshape, and share. Writing has always been the place to make sense of the world, where I could build bridges to others who might otherwise feel forgotten, too. Pursuing an MFA at Northwestern is not just about honing my craft, but about carrying that weight forward: writing stories that actually matter, learning from a community of writers who challenge me, and offering back to the next generation what stories have always offered me.

As someone who deals with multiple mental health conditions—adhd, c-ptsd, ocd, depression, etc, I am quick to recognize when someone else is struggling. It isn't always an obvious change in them, but rather a quiet type of suffering—a look at the floor, a disinterest in things they love, a sense of something bigger than what they're showing the world. In my writing and art, I try to use my own experiences as someone who has struggled, and often is still struggling, to relate to others who may have gone through something similar. Whether it's a story I'm writing, a book I'm crafting by hand, or a song I'm singing, mental health is always at the forefront. I aim to use my art to continue relating to folks who feel nobody else understands, because I do. Nobody has to be completely alone in their suffering, and I think art—story or otherwise—is the way to connect us all.

As a disabled single parent, going back to school was never going to be easy, but it almost felt necessary. Undergrad took almost nine years, with chronic illness, death, and disability trying their best to stop me, but I didn't let them. I chose to take my time, allowing my body to rest and my mind to reset. It wasn't about how long it took me or how hard it became—it was about doing what I set out to do—making something out of the art I create, making something of myself. I always knew I wanted to go to graduate school after receiving my bachelor's degree, whether to continue my creative writing journey or to further my education in print media and book arts, but I just didn't know how or when. I didn't know if I was good enough to get in to any fine arts programs, especially with how long it took me to complete my undergraduate degree. However, I applied to the MFA program at my dream school—Northwestern University—anyway, and to my surprise, I was accepted into the program, which will start in March of 2026. My art—my writing, stories, and the books I create with my hands—are all personal. Using lived experience mixed with something darker, something creepier, something that lives somewhere between truth and fiction—blending horror with reality—I strive to keep creating, and not only will my MFA at Northwestern help me continue creating those stories and learning, but it will help push me on the path to teaching my knowledge to a younger generation as well. Earning my MFA will mean that I can teach creative writing at a college level, allowing my personal creative approach to guide students to their own artistic dreams. I couldn't imagine a more exciting scenario—watching aspiring writers tell their own stories, use their own words, and create their own art. It would mean the world to me to be able to put those younger writers on the path to becoming authors, working in publishing, or beyond. I think, at the end of it all, the art, the creating, the making ... that's where the courage comes from. I don't know if I'd want to continue school after so long in undergraduate school if it weren't for that very same art, those same stories, that same voice that keeps pushing me on this creative path. I want to create, and I want to help others create, too. I want to read the stories, hear their voice, watch as the page transforms in front of our eyes. The courage, always in me but hiding behind insecurity, is fueled by the art, the art fueled by lived experience, and what keeps it going for all this time is the knowing that I can be the reason someone finds the courage in themselves to continue making their own art.

Sabrina Carpenter has never been afraid of the truth. Her tenacity is galvanizing, having worked for over a decade to become the superstar she is now. But what makes her most inspiring to me is something a little more personal. Sabrina Carpenter's music, style, and career have excited me as a writer and artist since the moment I started listening to her and watching her perform. Her willingness to bare her insecurities in a witty, playful way is exciting to watch as a woman nearly ten years her senior, who didn't always know how to put into words why something made me angry, confused, or hurt. Her affinity for old glamour ignites my sense of style and love of design, reminding me of that younger part of myself that gushed over the creativity of fashion and art and all that it entailed. But most of all, her comical and intelligent lyrics remind me that it's okay to embrace vulnerability, whether it's revealed through witty remarks or baring it all for the world to see. As a writer and artist, I aspire to use those same attributes in the art and stories I create, blending real-life experience with the fantastical, using a combination of satire and truth to build the message piece by piece. Like Sabrina, I'm not afraid to bare it all, nor am I afraid to push back on people's expectations of what I should be, or how my art should look. Sabrina doesn't just show the world that hard work will pay off eventually—that your art will make a difference as long as you keep making it—she shows us that our art, while allowed to be fun and whimsical, has to be infused with truth.