I returned to school because I had to. Not for a title or to prove something, but because I needed to finish what I started. I enrolled in college four times across two decades. Each time, I came with hope. Each time, life stepped in. And still, each time, I came back. I raised three children through years most people would call impossible. During the Great Recession, I was laid off and struggled to feed my kids. I was attending the Fashion Institute of Technology then and had to drop out. A few years later, Hurricane Sandy flooded our apartment. We lost nearly everything. I packed up my children and moved to the country, the only place I could afford housing. And once more, I enrolled. Then my brother died, and I fell into a long depression. There were days when I did not recognize myself. Weeks when I did not get out of bed. But eventually, I got up, I kept going, not because I felt strong, but because there were children to raise. By the time I was back in school, and taking classes between my work shifts, the pandemic hit. All of a sudden classes became remote, my kids were back home. And I had to leave school, once again. These are the facts. They don’t need decoration. What I know now is this: each time I was knocked down, I got up and moved forward. Not quickly, not easily, but forward. That rhythm became my way through. Eventually, I earned my associate degree in communications from FIT. Then, against all odds, I completed my bachelor’s degree in creative writing at Columbia University. No one in my family had gone to college before me. That mattered. Now, I am enrolled in a graduate program at Hunter College in creative writing (the most competitive MFA program in NYC with an acceptance rate of 1.9%). I return not as someone starting fresh but as someone bringing her whole life into the room. I write in the early mornings, work during the day, and raise my kids in between. They see me doing this: reading, working, sometimes tired, but never turning away. We share our time differently. They have learned to wait when I write. I have learned to stop when they need me. I write to make space for women like my mother, my grandmothers, and now myself. Women who held everything together but yet were rarely seen. I write so that my children understand what it means to begin again. And I write because the stories I carry deserve a place in this world. This scholarship would ease the pressure. It would free up hours spent working, help me stay in school, and allow me to keep showing up, for my kids, for the page, and for the future I am still building. I am not starting over. I am continuing something that has long been interrupted. And this time, I intend to finish.

I returned to higher education not in search of reinvention but in search of continuity. My early life was marked by urgency. I worked through college, sent money home, built a career, and later helped run a small business. I did what I needed to do to stay afloat and help others do the same. But in doing so, I set aside the one thing that made me feel most like myself: writing. It was always there, kept alive in notebooks and late nights, waiting for the conditions to change. Eventually, I realized they never would unless I changed them myself. Now in my forties, I have returned to the classroom. I am pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing because I know my voice is clearer than it was at twenty. I have lived through disappointment and recovery, through ambition and disillusionment. I have seen what it means to carry responsibility for others. Writing at this point in my life is not a wish—it is a decision. I no longer seek permission. Experience has taught me patience and attention. I know that most lives are not linear. People do not move cleanly from one role to another. They remain daughters while becoming mothers. They are both leaders and caretakers, both strong and unsure. These contradictions do not cancel each other out. They create tension, which is also a kind of truth. I am interested in telling stories that reflect that. Not to resolve them, but to record them with honesty. My goal is not only to complete a novel and a collection of essays, but also to teach. I want to create a space where working people, especially women of color and adult learners, feel their stories matter. I want to help others enter the conversation who were told they had missed their chance. I know now that the idea of “too late” is a fiction. This scholarship would make a substantial difference. As someone who works while attending graduate school, I carry obligations beyond the classroom. The scholarship would allow me to reduce my workload and give more time to reading, writing, and providing mentorship. It would also serve as a reminder and affirmation that my return holds meaning and worth—that beginning again is not a step backward but a step toward a different kind of contribution. I am not starting over. I am continuing something I began long ago.