I am a transgender, first-generation college student, and I’ll be the first in my family to serve in the military when policy allows it. What makes me different isn’t only who I am, but also where I carry that truth. I am still stealth in most parts of my life. Some of the guys who call me “their brother,” who hype me up before a jiu-jitsu round, or encourage me to speak my mind and promise to always have my back, say things about “people like me” that make my stomach drop. They don’t know, and most days I decide it’s safer that way. I walk into male-dominated spaces every day, loving the camaraderie and bracing for the moment it might turn on me. Living with that tension has shaped not only my identity but also my determination to change the environments I move through. That determination began the year my childhood home burned down, when I was twelve. Picking through ash felt like paging through a book with no table of contents, memories scattered, chapters missing. A year later, I came out as trans, hoping honesty would make the world simpler. It didn’t. I live in a conservative, small town, and assumptions accompanied by silence from the adults who were supposed to help me left me learning how to navigate alone. So I taught myself to do what the engineers, pilots, officers, and lawyers I look up to do: take fear apart, name each piece, and arrange it into tangible steps. That approach reshaped my academics. I went from failing middle school classes to earning a 3.8 unweighted GPA in high school. Math and studying as a whole have really never come easy to me, so AP coursework, computer science, and physics courses all felt impossible at first, but slowly, discipline replaced doubt. The first time I saw my persistence validated was when I was awarded a $2,000 scholarship to attend NASA’s Advanced Space Academy. That moment was proof that I actually belonged in STEM, and that my methodical way of confronting fear could propel me into spaces I once thought unreachable for someone like me. But I’ve never wanted to stop at building a path for myself. In a statewide cyber school, where it’s easy to disappear into a grid of boxes, I share what I learn. As Student Council Vice President, I organized a virtual talent show fundraiser for pediatric cancer, in collaboration with Penn State. In Science Club, I drafted a step-by-step proposal for a student-led statewide trash cleanup and presented it to administration, which turned just a good idea into a real plan. Even on the jiu-jitsu mats, as a blue belt, I coach the kids’ class by breaking down techniques and encouraging them to keep trying. To me, a blueprint only matters if it helps someone else find their way, too. My goals extend that same impulse. I’m advancing through flight training now and plan to earn my Private Pilot License and advanced ratings while majoring in political science (with an engineering minor), then pursue law school and serve, hopefully in the USAF Guard reserves when policy allows it. I want to help write rules that make training safer, access fairer, and STEM pathways clearer for first-gen and LGBTQ+ students who weren’t handed a roadmap, like myself. If I received this scholarship, it would fund the unglamorous but essential steps: exam fees, textbooks, and flight hours, that convert my raw ambition into real qualifications. More than that, it would affirm that the path I am building is worth continuing.

Ever since I can remember, two forces have shaped my life: a deep fascination with flight and an unshakable sense that the body I was living in did not match the person I truly was. Growing up in a small, conservative community meant that being transgender was both unfamiliar to many people, and often outright rejected. From an early age, I tried to hide who I was, burying my real self beneath layers of fear and expectation. But no matter how I tried, the call to be authentic never went away. By the time I turned twelve, I was already dealing with more than most kids my age could imagine. My family home burned to the ground, and in an instant, we lost not only our belongings but the tangible pieces of a lifetime of memories. In many ways, the ashes left behind mirrored the sense of loss I felt each day by not living as the real me. A year after that fire, I finally found the courage to come out as transgender, hoping for a fresh start in a life that had already been stripped down to its foundation. Yet starting over didn’t bring the acceptance I longed for. Instead, I faced hurtful misunderstandings, bullying, and the devastating realization that many of the adults I looked to for protection simply did not and perhaps could not accept me. Even so, I had dreams that refused to fade. I fell even more in love with the idea of aviation, not just because I wanted to fly, but because I yearned for the discipline, structure, and greater purpose that came with a career as a pilot in the Air Force. I longed for a strong culture of camaraderie, a place where everyone looked out for each other—an ideal that mirrored what my younger self needed so desperately. That dream was, and still is, fraught with obstacles. Beyond the usual rigors of high school, I found myself fighting with constant reminders that living authentically set me apart from my peers. My challenges are especially apparent in sports. I train in MMA, a sport that prides itself on unity and toughness, but I often hear my teammates or even coaches casually toss out negative remarks about “those transgender people.” It burns, especially when those same people have cheered me on during practice, calling me a friend, completely unaware of who I am. It’s a constant reminder that, for my safety, I sometimes have to hide my truth. And yet, paradoxically, that heartbreak also fuels me: every bloodied nose, grueling hour of training, and bruised rib is a way to prove that I'm not weak and that I belong. What hurts the most, though, is confronting how eager I am to serve my country while a large number of people in that very country would rather pretend I don’t exist. My desire to serve in the Air Force stems from genuine patriotism, an urge to protect and uplift others—but it’s disheartening to realize that many who share my flag see me as someone unworthy of basic respect. Still, I refuse to let that kill my hope. If I have to wait for policies to change, I will. If I must speak up to fight for my and other transgender folks' right to serve, I’ll raise my voice as loud as necessary. I’m convinced that the Air Force’s ideals of discipline, teamwork, and integrity are fully compatible with my identity, and I’m ready to work twice as hard to prove it. In walking this path, I’ve also learned how closely discrimination can affect mental health. Like Cesar, I’ve felt isolated at times, dealing not just with external bias but with the internal toll of feeling constantly on guard. The knowledge that someone as imaginative and kind as Cesar lost his battle shows the urgency of building supportive communities and resources for young transgender people. Whenever I feel my own mental health is poor, I remind myself that I’m not alone and that there are people and organizations out there who are working to uplift trans youth. At the heart of this journey is a desire to show my younger self, and every other trans kid in a small town, that our dreams are not out of reach. My role models in aviation, from pioneering engineers to trailblazing military pilots, never let barriers stand in their way. Their achievements remind me that my barrier, while unique, can be broken with the same dedication and perseverance they displayed. My next steps include applying to a university with a robust ROTC program or seeking admission to the Air Force Academy, and I plan to pursue a degree that complements a future in flight—possibly aeronautical engineering or aerospace engineering. Of course, training to become a pilot requires substantial resources, everything from educational costs to flight hours. That’s why scholarships like this are so crucial. Working hard in school while juggling part-time jobs and sports can only cover so much. This scholarship would help lift part of that burden, allowing me to focus on excelling in my program and logging the flight hours necessary for an aviation career. It would also represent a vote of confidence, not just in my abilities as a student, but in who I am as a person. In every obstacle I overcome, I hope to prove that living authentically does not have to mean giving up on our greatest ambitions. If I become an Air Force pilot, I want to stand as living proof that transgender people can too serve at the highest levels—ready to protect, lead, and uplift others just like anyone else in uniform. My deepest hope is that resilience, hard work, and the support of those who believe in me will see me through to the skies, where I can proudly serve my country as my authentic self. Thank you for reading my story and for considering me for this scholarship.