Some of my strongest memories of my grandmother are simple ones. I remember her standing outside her home in Trinidad and Tobago, washing clothes by hand in a basin, even after my aunt bought her a washing machine. She preferred it that way, steady and deliberate. There was something comforting about watching her work, the rhythm of her hands moving through the water, as if even the simplest tasks carried care. She always said how you handle the small things is how you will handle the big things. Now, sometimes, I find myself washing some of my clothes by hand as my own way of honoring her. When my grandmother passed away, I was in New York, unable to return home. For years, I had lived in the United States without legal status, and by the time she was diagnosed with dementia, I already understood that I might not be able to see her again. Still, understanding something and living it are two very different things. She was the one who raised me. She was home. As her dementia progressed, I began losing her in pieces. The woman who once knew me so completely, slowly became someone I could no longer fully reach. When she passed, I was not there to say goodbye. I was not there to hold her hand, to sit beside her, or to be part of her final moments. That absence is a different kind of grief. It lingers in the questions you cannot ask, and the moments you did not get to have. It is an indescribable, gutted feeling, one that does not announce itself loudly but stays with you in subtle ways. This loss broke me and made me value presence, stability, and purpose in ways I did not before. Growing up without legal status taught me how to survive uncertainty, but losing my grandmother gave that experience meaning. It made me realize how fragile stability can be, especially for families facing immigration, financial hardship, and limited access to resources. It showed me how quickly life can change and how important it is to build something stronger for yourself and those you love. Eventually, I was granted permanent residency, and what once felt out of reach became possible. I carry that moment with a sense of responsibility. I'm not just moving forward for myself. I am moving forward for my family and for the life my grandmother worked so hard to give me. The loss of my grandmother directly influenced my goals. As I pursue a career in Speech-Language Pathology, I am intentional about the work I choose to do. I want to serve communities like mine, people who are often overlooked, misunderstood, or dismissed because of how they speak, where they come from, or the barriers they face. I understand what it feels like to be unheard. More personally, her passing shifted my understanding of success and the way I live my life. It is no longer just about achievement. It is about stability, security, and breaking cycles. I am determined to create a future where my family no longer has to live with the same uncertainty I once did. Generational instability ends with me. I could not be there when my grandmother passed, but she's present in everything I do. In the way I keep going, and in the life I am building. Even in the moments I choose to be deliberate, like washing clothes by hand, she continues to shape who I am becoming. In the small and big things, I carry her with me, just as she always taught me.

There were moments in my life when the only place I felt heard was in prayer. I grew up in a home where I learned to stay quiet, hold things in, and make myself smaller. Although I was raised around faith and prayer, I did not fully understand it for myself. At times, I struggled to reconcile what I saw, especially during my parents' divorce. For a long time, faith felt like something I observed rather than something I truly held onto. As I got older, that distance from faith only grew. As a teenager, I was angry at everything that had transpired in my life and at the weight of things I did not yet know how to process. I pulled away from church and convinced myself I did not need faith. Even in that distance, something in me never fully let go. One night, I found myself alone in my living room watching a sermon. I do not remember what led me to turn it on, but I remember what happened next. I broke down. I cried and prayed right there, not in a rehearsed or perfect way, but honestly. In that moment, it felt like I was being called back, not to who I was before, but to who I was meant to become. Proverbs 3:5–6 reminds us to "trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding," and that night, I began to understand what that meant. I was born in Trinidad and Tobago and immigrated to the United States at a young age. My path to higher education was not traditional. After leaving high school, my future felt uncertain. Choosing to earn my GED was one of the first decisions I made with intention and faith. From there, I committed myself fully to my education. Today, I attend Brooklyn College, maintain a 4.0 GPA, and I am working toward becoming a Speech-Language Pathologist. My faith deepened when my mother was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Watching her face that reality forced me to confront fear in a new way. Instead of allowing those feelings to overwhelm me, I leaned into my faith. I remember one moment that solidified this for me. When my mother lost vision in one eye, the doctor told her she would never see out of it again. Without hesitation, she said, "By the grace of God, I will." The doctor looked stunned, and I remember feeling uncomfortable, unsure of what to make of it. Over time, she regained vision in that eye, even as she continues to live with Multiple Sclerosis. That moment showed me what it looks like to stand in faith, even when the outcome feels impossible. That lesson continues to guide me. As someone who once struggled to feel heard, I am committed to helping others find their voice. Through my future work as a Speech-Language Pathologist, I hope to serve individuals from underserved and culturally diverse communities and ensure that their voices are not overlooked. This scholarship is meaningful to me because it reflects the values that have carried me through every stage of my journey: faith, perseverance, and service. As I continue pursuing my goals, I will use my faith as a guiding force. It will ground me in uncertainty, strengthen me in difficulty, and remind me of my responsibility to uplift others. There was a time when I struggled to feel heard. Today, I move forward with faith and purpose, finding my voice and helping others find theirs.

I remember the first time I tried to use my voice, I didn’t use it out loud. I screamed into a laundry hamper, my voice muffled by a heap of dirty clothes. I was a child, left behind when my mother migrated to the United States, living in a home where speaking up had physical consequences. In that environment, silence was expected. It became a way to protect myself. I learned quickly that asking questions, defending myself, or even expressing how I felt could make things worse. So I adapted. I stayed quiet. I made myself smaller. That day, I buried my face into a pile of clothes and said a word I was never allowed to say before, one I had always been told was inappropriate. I let it out where no one was supposed to hear me. It was the only place I felt safe enough to release everything I had been holding in. Except someone did hear me. My stepmother’s friend saw me. She heard me. She said nothing. At the time, I did not fully understand what that meant, but looking back, that moment stayed with me. To my surprise, the fear of getting in trouble was not what lingered. What lingered was the realization that silence can surround pain and hold it in, like a letter sealed in an envelope. For years, that became my normal. I carried that silence with me, even as my life changed. Even after I reunited with my mother, even as I grew older, even as I entered spaces where I was safe, I still struggled to use my voice. Silence had become a habit, but more than that, it had become a form of protection. Speaking up felt unfamiliar. It felt risky. It was not until years later, through counseling and therapy, that I began to understand how deeply that silence had shaped me. I had spent so much of my life learning how not to speak that I did not know how to start. Finding my voice was not immediate or easy. It was uncomfortable. It required me to sit with things I had avoided for years and to say them out loud. At 22 years old, I finally did something I had never done before. I spoke up for myself. I confronted my stepmother and told her that what I had experienced was wrong. There was no script and no perfect wording, just honesty. My voice shook, but I did not stop. In that moment, something shifted. For the first time, I felt both afraid and relieved at the same time. I felt a release I had never experienced before. Speaking up felt like finally opening that letter. The silence that I once thought protected me no longer defined me. That moment gave me relief and changed how I understood myself and my voice. That experience taught me that communication is not about speaking perfectly or with complete confidence. It means having the courage to say what has been buried, even when your voice is unsteady. It is about reclaiming something that you were once taught to suppress. As I grew, I began to see that my experience with silence was not just mine. It reflected something many people go through. Many people, especially within marginalized communities, are unheard, misinterpreted, and dismissed. I have seen this in my own field of study, where individuals are misjudged and even misdiagnosed because of the way they speak, their accents, or the environments they come from. That realization changed the way I view communication. Voice is more than expression. It is access. It determines who is understood, who is believed, and who is given opportunity. I have chosen to pursue a career as a Speech-Language Pathologist. I want to work with individuals whose voices are often overlooked, particularly those from culturally and linguistically diverse backgrounds. I want to ensure that differences in speech are not treated as deficiencies, and that no one is made to feel that their voice needs to be hidden or corrected to be accepted. I hope to use my voice to advocate for individuals who have been misunderstood, overlooked, and silenced, just as I once was. My goal is to help people communicate more effectively while also advocating for a broader understanding of what communication looks like. I want to contribute to a field that recognizes the value of diverse voices rather than silencing them. Looking back, I think about that younger version of myself, the one who felt she had to scream into a laundry hamper just to be heard, even if only to herself. I did not have the language, the confidence, or the support to speak up then. That experience stayed with me. It taught me the weight of silence and the power of breaking it. Today, I use my voice differently. Not perfectly, and not without fear, but with intention. I speak not only for myself, but for those who are still learning how to be heard. I know what it feels like to have a voice and not feel allowed to use it. I also know what it feels like to finally speak and be free.

Faith is what keeps me moving forward, even when everything else feels fragile. I grew up in an environment where stability was never guaranteed. Silence often felt safer than speaking up, and survival took priority over dreams. As a result, my education was interrupted, and I became a high school dropout. For a long time, I carried shame about that chapter of my life. I questioned my worth, my future, and whether I had already fallen too far behind to recover. What I did not yet understand was that God was still working, even when my life felt completely off course. During that period, my faith became a source of strength and endurance when answers felt out of reach. I prayed when I felt lost and asked God for direction when I could not see the path ahead. I leaned into the principle found in Matthew 6:33, choosing to seek God first even when my future felt uncertain, trusting that what I needed would be provided in time. I did not suddenly feel confident or fearless, but I felt held. Scripture reminded me that my past did not disqualify me from a future, and that God often works through detours to build purpose. Slowly, that belief gave me the courage to try again. I earned my GED and enrolled in community college, unsure if I truly belonged there. Balancing school, financial hardship, and personal healing was overwhelming at times. There were moments when quitting felt easier than continuing. In those moments, I deliberately leaned into my faith. I prayed before exams, during moments of self-doubt, and whenever fear told me I was not enough. Faith became the foundation that allowed me to persist when motivation faded. As my education continued, my faith deepened. I began to see how God was shaping my experiences into preparation, not setbacks. When my mother was later diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, my faith was tested again. Watching someone I love face uncertainty forced me to confront fear and helplessness in a new way. Prayer became a source of peace because it reminded me that I was not carrying everything on my own. Through that experience, my faith grew more mature, grounded in trust and reliance on God. Today, I am an undergraduate student at Brooklyn College pursuing dual degrees with the goal of entering a profession dedicated to serving vulnerable and underrepresented communities. I am also a first-generation college student, something I once believed would always place limits on what I could achieve. By God’s grace, I now maintain a 4.0 GPA and have been recognized on the Dean’s List multiple times, milestones I never imagined reaching when I was earning my GED. My ambition is inseparable from my faith. I believe God carried me through my lowest moments not only to restore me, but to equip me to support others with compassion and understanding. Financial need has been a constant challenge throughout my academic journey, but faith has taught me stewardship and perseverance, even when resources are limited. Relying on my faith has transformed my obstacles into purpose. It has taught me that success is not defined by a flawless path, but by obedience and service. Like Nabi Nicole, whose life reflected faith in action, I strive to use my education and experiences to uplift others. My testimony is proof that faith can sustain ambition and restore direction. God turned my adversity into my calling, reminding me that as long as I cling to Him, nothing in my journey was wasted, and my life is meant to glorify Him.

I am an undergraduate student pursuing dual degrees in Communication Sciences and Disorders and Psychology, with the goal of becoming a Speech-Language Pathologist serving individuals with special needs in underresourced and linguistically diverse communities. My commitment to this work is grounded in lived experience, academic preparation, and a clear understanding of how inaccessible systems continue to fail people with disabilities and their families. I immigrated to the United States from Trinidad and Tobago as a child and grew up navigating cultural displacement, financial hardship, and limited access to support. As a first-generation college student, I learned early that systems are not built equally for everyone. Over time, I saw how these same inequities are magnified for individuals with disabilities, particularly those from low-income, immigrant, and multilingual households. My interest in special needs advocacy became personal when my mother was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Witnessing how a neurological condition affected her communication and independence showed me how quickly access, dignity, and autonomy can be compromised. It also revealed how critical knowledgeable, compassionate professionals are in helping individuals and families access care, education, and daily resources. That experience solidified my decision to pursue a career centered on communication access and functional independence. Through my academic training, clinical observations, and work in childcare, I have seen how individuals with special needs are often misunderstood, underestimated, or misdiagnosed, especially when language differences, accents, or non-speaking communication styles are involved. I am particularly interested in supporting individuals who rely on alternative and augmentative communication, as well as those whose speech differences are mistaken for cognitive or behavioral deficits. Communication is not limited to spoken language, and advocacy means ensuring every individual has access to being understood in the way that works best for them. My long-term goal is to work as a Speech-Language Pathologist in a non-profit setting that serves children and families with limited access to specialized services. I plan to advocate for culturally responsive assessment practices, collaborate with families and educators, and help reduce barriers to early identification and intervention. Beyond direct clinical work, I want to contribute to outreach efforts that educate families about their rights, available services, and the importance of communication access across settings. Advocacy, to me, extends beyond individual therapy sessions. It means challenging systems that overlook non-speaking individuals, pushing for equitable resource distribution, and ensuring families are not excluded due to language or socioeconomic status. By combining my academic training, cultural awareness, and commitment to service, I aim to help create environments where individuals with special needs are supported, respected, and included. I work and attend school full-time to pursue these goals, and I remain committed to this path despite financial and structural challenges. This scholarship would support my continued education and strengthen my ability to serve individuals with disabilities with competence and compassion. I am driven by the belief that access to communication is a fundamental right. Through my career as a Speech-Language Pathologist, I intend to make a lasting social impact by helping individuals with diverse communication needs communicate and thrive in a world that too often overlooks them.

In my dream, my mother does not wake up before sunrise anymore. There is no rush, no weight pressing into her shoulders, no quiet worry about what comes next. Her hands rest on the kitchen counter instead of pushing through nerve pain and the financial worries she has learned to live with. She moves through her morning slowly, unburdened. I tell her she does not have to work anymore. At first, she laughs, like it is impossible. Then she understands. That is the moment it settles in. I built a life that finally gives her rest. I try to hold onto that moment, the way you pause before closing a door you are not ready to shut. Then reality returns. I am still an undergraduate student. I am still building my future as a first-generation Caribbean immigrant woman. That future, one where I retire my mother and serve communities like my own as a culturally responsive Speech-Language Pathologist, still feels out of reach. That is my “Pie in the Sky.” What makes this dream feel distant is not the work itself, but the circumstances surrounding it. I grew up in an environment where survival came before long-term planning. As a woman who experienced abuse, financial instability, and early educational disruption, dreaming boldly was never encouraged. Stability was uncertain and higher education was something I had to discover on my own, without generational guidance or a safety net. For a long time, my goal was not success. It was simply getting through the next day. The spark for my dream came from lived experience. As an immigrant, I became immensely aware of how language, accent, and culture shape how individuals are judged. In academic and clinical spaces, I have seen people from minority backgrounds misunderstood and misdiagnosed. This is not because something is wrong, but because systems were not designed with us in mind. Through those encounters, I recognized parts of myself. I knew what it felt like to be evaluated through a narrow lens rather than understood fully. My dream is personal and driven by impact. I want to become a Speech-Language Pathologist serving immigrant and historically underserved communities, advocating for culturally and linguistically responsive care. I also want to retire my mother. For some, that may sound like an eventual milestone. For me, it represents repair. It means rest after years of sacrifice, stability after survival, and the chance to give back to the woman who carried me before I understood the weight of her labor. I am already taking steps toward this future. I am pursuing dual undergraduate degrees in Communication Sciences and Disorders and Psychology, with minors in Neuroscience and Philosophy. I’ve earned a 4.0 GPA and remained on the Dean’s List. Although the path has not been easy, I am committed to building something lasting. Each class, research paper, and clinical exposure brings my dream closer to fruition. Community has sustained my courage. I have learned that big dreams do not grow in isolation. Mentors, peers, and shared stories with other underrepresented women have reminded me that ambition is not arrogance, and that naming your goals out loud is an act of courage. As a woman, learning to claim space for my dreams has been transformative. My “Pie in the Sky” dream has not arrived yet. However, it is no longer hidden or quiet. It lives in my discipline, my choices, and my belief that growth is possible even when the odds are not in my favor. One day, I will wake up inside that dream again, and this time, it will be my reality.

Access to education has never been guaranteed for me. I grew up in circumstances shaped by instability at home and limited financial resources, where getting through each day often mattered more than planning for the future. Eventually, those conditions pulled me out of school altogether. I became a high school dropout not because I lacked ability or motivation, but because I lacked safety and support. Choosing to return to education forced me to confront shame and self-doubt. Earning my GED became a personal turning point in my life. It taught me resilience in a way no classroom lesson could. I learned that progress does not follow a single timeline and that setbacks do not erase potential. When I returned to school, I approached learning with intention, knowing firsthand how fragile access to education can be. As I continued my academic path, I became involved in non-profit and volunteer work, including tutoring children in reading and participating in food and clothing drives. These experiences reinforced what my own story had already shown me. Talent exists everywhere, but access does not. Many of the children and families I worked with were bright and eager to learn, yet faced barriers that had nothing to do with effort or intelligence. Adversity shaped how I view education and my responsibility to others. I do not see learning as an entitlement, but as something worth protecting and extending. This perspective has guided my commitment to service and equity and continues to inform my goal of working in healthcare and education with underserved communities. I understand what it means to need opportunity before you can prove yourself. For someone facing the same circumstances, my advice is to stop measuring your progress against timelines that were never built for you. There will be moments when asking for help feels uncomfortable. Keep asking. There will be moments when slow progress feels discouraging. Keep pushing forward. These moments are not indicators of failure. Focus on consistency rather than speed and keep choosing education, even when the path feels uncertain. Your path does not need to resemble anyone else’s to be valid. What matters most is continuing to show up and refusing to give up on your goals. Today, I carry my experiences with intention. They remind me why access matters and why support changes outcomes. To me, this scholarship represents belief in students like me, whose potential was present despite limited opportunity. That belief carries responsibility, and I take it seriously. If awarded the Simon Strong Scholarship, I will continue to honor that responsibility through service and advocacy for underserved communities that are often overlooked. Education changed the direction of my life, and I am committed to using it to help others change theirs.