To walk in beauty—hózhó—is to carry yourself through good deeds and represent yourself in everything you do for others and yourself, because beauty comes in all forms, even in acts of kindness. Growing up Diné, my dad used to tell me that helping others comes back in return and people remember you for it. I saw it in the way he would go out of his way to lend a hand to elders in my community. Those moments stayed with me. I learned about the traditional Diné values of our people and heard stories of the old days, about assimilation and everything our people went through. It always saddened me, especially realizing it wasn’t that long ago—our elders still talk about it like it was yesterday. Growing up around them showed me the importance of showing up and listening. As I got older, I began helping my dad without expecting anything in return. One elderly woman told me that the youth don’t show up for their community unless they are told to, and that stayed with me because respecting your elders helps keep tradition living on. At the same time, I began to notice how our culture seems to be dying out. Even in Navajo-based schools, we are mostly taught about genocide or assimilation, not the strength of who we are. Families don’t always speak the language anymore, sometimes because English became the norm or because of the pain tied to speaking it. When younger generations don’t know their own culture, we are blamed instead of being taught. That is something I had to understand—that generational trauma still exists and holds many people back from wanting more. It reminds me of the saying, “don’t be a crab in a bucket,” because my people tend to pull others down for wanting more, and I started to fall into that trap. When youth try to leave the reservation or pursue something different, it’s seen as thinking we are better than everyone else. I’ve been told that my dreams were unrealistic, that I would end up addicted to drugs or alcohol, or start a family early like many others. Hearing that made me feel like my future was already decided for me, like I was expected to fail just because I am Native. I always felt like I was never meant to belong, trying to balance my identity as a full-blooded Navajo in such a modernized world. At one point, I was embarrassed of my own culture. I regret that now. I used to think it was “cringey,” but I’ve come to realize how important it is to know where you come from. I now see that as something to carry with pride, not something to hide. I encourage others to embrace their culture too, because so many kids start to look outside of themselves, thinking other cultures are better, when ours is just as sacred and worth being proud of. I grew up hearing that “it’s a white man’s world” and that we were never supposed to fit in, and that mindset sticks with you. Those experiences shaped me into the person I am today. Even if my environment has not always been the most supportive, I’ve learned that learned traits can be unlearned and cycles can be broken. That’s why I choose to be that support for others. I continue to walk in beauty—hózhó—and represent myself as a naat’áanii, a leader, not just for myself, but for my people.

Coming from a single parent and low-income household has led me to persevere through challenges by remembering where I come from. Because community and those you surround yourself with will influence how you care and interpret the world. Growing up on the Navajo Reservation, I was surrounded by hardships, loss, and blame for the way we as a Diné community were. Told we’re “statistics” set up for failure. I was blamed for the way I carried myself when others told me I was “acting better” than them. I don’t blame them, because within generations of trauma, the loss of our culture, native tongue, and forced removal from our Indigenous lands causes us to forget who we were and are. Navajos are leaders, yet we’re in denial because that’s what we’ve been told for ages, you’re not good enough. I started to think my future had been planned before I even made a choice. I do my best to notice the unnoticed, because how will we know concerns, opinions, and input when we ignore them? In my Diné community, I visit elders and help them with simple tasks alongside my dad, like cutting and delivering firewood, cleaning, repairing vehicles, and cooking. Listening to their stories has given me insight in helping others, even when they oppose. I’m actively working toward this goal as Vice President of Student Council, where I make sure inclusivity is met and students feel heard. I speak on substance abuse and cultural preservation because I’ve seen their impact on Native communities. I plan to major in computer forensics and criminal justice to give back to my Navajo people and be a familiar face in the looks of justice.

On the Navajo reservation, the value of k’é—which means kinship in my native language—is praised within my community. Relatives, neighbors, and even foes are seen as family despite our differences. Either way, we are all connected. I was taught from a young age to look out for others. In my community, I have helped spread awareness about the ongoing struggles of alcohol use and addiction. As a minority, we are often subjected to the disapproval of ourselves, to the point of suicide, as Native Americans have a higher rate of self-infliction. Statistics are what haunt my people. I attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in support of those in recovery, and I also speak at local chapter house meetings to raise awareness among the youth. The genocide, stripping of our culture and language, boarding schools, sexual violence against our women, and the “hush-hush” of history still run deep through generations, and often we blame ourselves. I also spread awareness about bullying among youth and children, as many mirror what is happening at home, which connects back to addiction because many children fall under these conditions. When we think of bullying, it can mean many things. Bullying can come from disapproval within families. Among Native kids, we are told that as Natives we do not belong in the “white man’s world” and that we are expected to fail. Families and communities need to break this cycle of generational trauma. Online cyberbullying in my community often forms from stolen children falling under a predator’s manipulation. Bullying may sound off-topic here, but it relates to the intention of perceived power used to cause harm, attacks, exploitation, and control. As a rural Indigenous woman, financial need is pressing. My family comes from a poverty-stricken home, relying on EBT food assistance and local food banks that often give out expired food. In my efforts, I have educated children on the dangers of the internet because in today’s society, more and more of our lives revolve around technology. Especially with the rise of artificial intelligence, it has become harder to trust people, as crimes are easier to commit and bullying can be more hidden. People can blame AI, or AI can be used to blackmail or pretend to be someone else. Protecting children and youth, both in person and online, is a responsibility I take seriously as part of my community involvement and as I enter higher education.

I grew up learning that silence is common in my community—not because people do not feel pain, but because speaking up often leads nowhere. As a young Indigenous woman from the Navajo Nation, I have seen how domestic violence, substance abuse, and neglect affect families around me. These struggles are not isolated; they are the long echoes of genocide, forced assimilation, and the loss of language and culture. Those wounds did not stay in the past. They live on in our homes, our relationships, and our fears. Alcohol abuse is often tied to the violence I have witnessed and heard about, not as the root cause, but as a symptom of trauma left unaddressed. What stays with me most is the feeling that many victims do not feel protected by the systems meant to serve them. Law enforcement is supposed to represent safety, yet for many Indigenous people, it feels distant or unresponsive. Growing up with that reality made me question who justice truly reaches, and who it leaves behind. As I got older, I realized that change does not arrive on its own; it is created by people willing to face uncomfortable truths. That realization pushed me toward criminal justice. Late nights researching cases pulled me into understanding how crime has evolved. Sitting alone in front of my laptop, the glow of the screen felt taunting as I learned about international cybercrime cases involving online child exploitation. One case in particular made me realize that technology, something we trust every day, can be used to hide the most serious crimes. What disturbed me most was not only what happened, but how easily offenders used anonymity to avoid accountability, while victims were left with lifelong trauma. In that moment, justice no longer felt abstract. It felt urgent. On the Navajo Nation, more cases of missing and exploited Indigenous women and children are coming to light, yet many still go unnoticed outside our communities. These are not headlines to me, they are people who could have been protected. As technology advances, especially with artificial intelligence, the line between reality and manipulation continues to blur, making exploitation easier and detection harder. That is why I plan to pursue a degree in criminal justice with a focus on computer forensics. I want to become a cybercrime detective who works where crimes are hidden mainly online, behind screens, and often ignored. I want to bring accountability to those who believe they cannot be caught, and reassurance to victims who feel invisible. I cannot accept a world that looks away from violence because it is uncomfortable to confront. I want to help restore trust between Indigenous communities and the justice system and protect those who are too often left vulnerable. By choosing this field, I hope to turn awareness into action and ensure that the stories of my people are no longer met with silence, but with justice.

The rhythmic beat of the drums echoed through the dry hills of Steamboat, Arizona, dipping upon the gold glow of the evening sun. Juniper trees dotted the land like old storytellers, and the burnt orange roads twisted through the quietness like ribbons of connection. The smell of cedar, mutton, and moist dirt filled the air, bringing me a sense of belonging. This is where I sat, feet in the dirt, hair swept by the whisper of the wind. Together with my elders, we sang traditional songs around a fire pit. “Aoo’ shiyazhi, nizhoni”—good job daughter, my father mouthed at me from across the Chaha'oh - Dzil bichaha’oh keyah bik’est’i’. In Navajo tradition, it refers to a gathering space built from tree trunks and layered with leafy branches, rising from the land as if it has grown from it. That summer evening in 2025, my grandma opened her home to host the Nidaa- Healing Ceremony. I helped whenever I could. I cooked outside under the chaha’oh, standing beside my aunties, flipping frybread and preparing food for visitors. Smoke drifted into the blue sky while songs bounced off the sage hills. I don’t speak much Navajo, but I listen to the language all around me. I watched, learned, and absorbed all I could. For the first time, I was not standing outside my culture—I was inside of it, fully present. But I did not always feel that way; I felt caught between two worlds, disconnected from my culture. I hid my identity as I was embarrassed of being Indigenous. From a young age, I was brainwashed with the idea that being Native would get me nowhere, that the real world is a “white man’s world.” Often, I was afraid of change, afraid of my biggest fear. My family didn’t teach me the language or many traditional ways, not because they didn’t care, but because detachment is something many Native families carry after generations of boarding schools, trauma, and survival. For a long time, I thought that part of me might stay lost. Moments like that ceremony—being with my people, helping, and learning—helped me realize that I can still reclaim it. Although, while I tried to reconnect, I was met with judgment. My own people told me I was trying too hard or “pretending” to be someone I wasn’t. I was not pretending. I was searching. Even with my identity struggle, I was pushed into a corner of self-doubt. I’ve always wanted to learn who I am and who I originated with. The hard part was doing it alone. Still, I won’t give up. I started learning Navajo in school and from elders. I’ve urged my family to teach me the Diné ways. As an 18-year-old Indigenous woman, I feel pride in how I represent myself. Each conversation, each phrase, each story is a piece I’m putting back together. At my school, I found strength in my Native American Club. It’s one of the first places where I felt truly welcomed. We sing, practice our language, and celebrate our culture without shame. My school’s sewing club has also brought me closer to my culture, where I began designing and creating modern Navajo skirts and dresses. Each piece I sew is rooted in tradition, with fabric that tells stories through color, pattern, and shape. Behind each stitch is a message of taking back what I once lost. These clothes are not just for style-they’re statements of who I am and who I am becoming. Though I didn’t grow up with every tradition, it drives me to grow as a leader and honor my people.

In today's world, technology has become a central part of our lives. Children and vulnerable individuals are increasingly exposed to risks online, where predators draw on trust and manipulate emotions. My goal is to become a cybercrime detective, specializing in online exploitation and task force investigations focused on crimes against minors. I want to help victims who are often blamed for what happens to them and make sure that society takes digital harm seriously. Online harm is often avoided because it’s “disturbing” to talk about, but that’s exactly why it’s ignored. Blaming allows society to avoid confronting the reality of how broken the system truly is. I’ve spent time learning about these issues on my own. I’ve followed investigations on child exploitation and human trafficking, studied digital crimes such as sextortion, and looked at case files to learn patterns of abuse. Growing up in an underserved Indigenous community showed me how often vulnerable people are ignored once attention fades, just like the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women Crisis. Hearing families’ and survivors’ stories hit me hard. It made me feel sad, angry, and frustrated that people can be hurt and ignored just like that. In my own efforts, I’ve spread awareness about digital crimes by listening, sharing what I’ve learned, and remembering that each victim was someone’s daughter, sister, or mother. These are not just statistics to me. Service has always been important to me; I have seen firsthand how overlooked people in my community have shown me how quickly society can forget those in need. With my dad, we’ve delivered firewood to elders, painted and cleaned homes, and prepared meals for families in need. My mom and I make “baskets of love” for homeless individuals, filled with hygiene supplies, snacks, clothes, blankets, and dog food if they have a pet. We also attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings to support those in recovery. These experiences taught me that helping others, even in small ways, can make a real difference. As my dad says, “When you help others out, people remember you, and that’s what matters.” With a degree in criminal justice and a focus on cybercrime, I plan to continue this work professionally by investigating online exploitation, advocating for victims, and raising awareness in my community about digital crimes. I want to ensure that vulnerable people, especially youth in Indigenous communities, have the protection, support, and justice they deserve. I’m willing to face uncomfortable realities. The Operation 11 Tyler Schaeffer Memorial Scholarship would help me pursue this path and give a voice to those who have been unheard, so I can make a real and digital difference.